#like it could have just been a teams meeting

[kiwriteswords]

congrats on your 2k 🎉

for missing scene Monday, could we get bearded Hotch's new gf he met on his secret assignment in Pakistan?? I'll leave it to you if you want to extend it back to the US and the BAU team!!

Just begging for anything with bearded Hotch and yes this was inspired by your 2k celebration gif choices ❤️ love ya!

Let It Be [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||Main Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 8k|| AN: Thank you so much for sending this request so early for day one! I was able to get a head start on this last week, and I really love how it turned out!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, canon-divergent, beard!hotch, canon-typical themes, hurt/comfort, banter, Hotch in Pakistan, non!BAU reader, kinda left tbc?

Summary: Hotch meets you on assignment in Pakistan, and you're exactly what he was looking for...someone who's just there without pushing.

The sun was relentless, bearing down on the barren expanse surrounding the base. Sweat collected under your tactical gear, but you barely noticed. It was the kind of heat that stripped away all distractions, leaving you focused on the mission ahead--or at least trying to be.

You adjusted the strap of your duffel bag and glanced around the bustling camp. This wasn’t your first special operations assignment, but the tension in the air felt different here. Heavier. 

It could have just been you dragging the weight of unresolved emotions halfway across the world, or it could have been the stakes of the mission--a dangerous operation involving an international terrorist cell that required precision, discretion, and teamwork between agencies not known for always getting along.

“Agent Y/L/N?”

The voice was deep, cutting through the camp noise. You turned and found yourself face to face with a tall man, his sharp features etched into a permanent state of seriousness. His gaze was steady, and his presence commanded attention without effort.

“That’s me,” you replied, clipped but polite.

He stepped closer, extending a hand. “Aaron Hotchner, unit chief for the BAU.”

The name was familiar. You had read the reports and heard the stories--his work on high-profile cases, his leadership, and his reputation for being unflinchingly methodical. You shook his hand, noting the firm grip and how it matched the intensity in his dark eyes.

“Special Agent Y/L/N, CIA Directorate of Operations,” you said, introducing yourself with the same straightforward efficiency. “Behavioral analyst and covert operations specialist.”

His brow shifted slightly, just enough for you to notice. He nodded, acknowledging your credentials with a quiet respect.

“Briefing starts in five,” he said, his tone all business. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you with the distinct impression that there was more to him than the stoic exterior he projected. You had worked with people like him before--people who carried their burdens in silence--but something about the weight in his eyes made you wonder if he had brought his own ghosts to this mission, much like you had.

….

The first few days were a blur of briefings, strategy sessions, and late nights poring over intel. You didn’t interact much with Hotch beyond the occasional exchange of information, but you caught yourself noticing him. The way he carried himself--calm and composed, but with an edge of tension that never seemed to leave him. You recognized it because you felt it, too.

As you reviewed reports in the command tent one night, he walked in, filling the space. He set a folder on the table and glanced at you.

“You’ve been here for hours,” he said, not a question but an observation.

You shrugged, keeping your focus on the documents in front of you. “So have you.”

“I’m used to it,” he replied, his tone neutral.

“So am I.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, he pulled out a chair and sat across from you, his gaze steady.

“It’s easier to keep busy,” he said quietly as if he was sharing a truth he rarely voiced.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. There was something there--something raw and unspoken. You wanted to ask what he was running from, but you didn’t. You weren’t ready to share your own truths, so you didn’t ask for his.

….

The nights were the hardest. The quiet gave your mind too much room to wander, dredging up memories you’d rather forget. One evening, you found yourself outside, staring at the vast expanse of desert under a blanket of stars. You didn’t expect company, but the sound of footsteps behind you made you turn.

It was Hotch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

He shook his head, stepping closer until he was standing beside you.

“Me neither,” you admitted.

For a while, you just stood there, the silence between you feeling strangely comfortable.

“I read your file,” he said eventually, his tone careful.

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Did you now?”

“You’ve handled some difficult assignments. Made a name for yourself.”

There was no arrogance in his words; it was just observation.

“Guess you could say I have a knack for throwing myself into the fire,” you replied. Something flashed across his face like he was going to respond with something, but he didn’t.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but his presence was steady, almost calming.

“Why are you really here?” you asked, breaking the quiet. Nobody in their right mind would have volunteered for this unless they either A) had nobody to go home to at night, or B) were trying to forget about something else. You could tell by the small photo Hotch carried around of, presumably, his son it wasn’t option A.

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost reluctant. “Because it’s easier than being back home.”

You nodded, understanding more than you cared to admit. “Yeah. Same.”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “What are you running from?”

You hesitated, the question hitting too close to home. “A mistake. One I don’t want to repeat.”

He didn’t press for details, and you were grateful. Instead, he said, “Sometimes running is the only way to keep moving.”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure if you agreed.

……

As the mission dragged on, the weight of it started to press down on both of you. You began to notice how Hotch avoided certain topics, not that personal topics frequently came up. You noticed how his eyes darkened when the name "Prentiss" came up from the communication specialist on the special ops team.

You didn’t ask--he didn’t offer--but the pieces slowly started to come together. You had to be living under a rock in this field not to have heard about the major loss the BAU took this past year.

One night, after another tense meeting, you found yourselves in the makeshift kitchen, both reaching for the last cup of coffee.

“You take it,” you said, stepping back.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“I insist. I’ve had worse days.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of understanding. “I doubt that.”

You smirked, the slightest crack in your guarded exterior. “Careful, Hotchner. That almost sounded like empathy.”

His lips twitched--the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. “Don’t get used to it.”

….

A sudden sandstorm sent the entire team scrambling for cover. The wind howled outside the command tent, shaking the canvas walls as you huddled with Hotch and two other agents.

“Typical,” you muttered, brushing sand off your gear. “Mission’s hard enough without Mother Nature making it worse.”

Hotch sat across from you, his expression unreadable as he tightened the straps on his vest. He was scruffier than he was when you first arrived. It wasn’t a bad look, but you brushed down that thought.

“You’ve been through worse,” he said matter-of-factly, not a question but a statement.

You let out a short laugh. “Don’t give me too much credit, Hotchner. I’m not invincible.”

“No one is,” he replied, his tone softer than you expected. “But you’re resilient. I can see that.”

The compliment, if you could call it that, caught you off guard. You didn’t reply, unsure how to. Instead, you focused on the storm outside, the roar of the wind drowning out everything else.

But later, when the storm passed, and you stepped out into the eerily quiet desert, you found yourself glancing at Hotch. He met your gaze for a moment, and something unspoken passed between you--a mutual respect, a shared understanding.

….

It was late, and the compound was finally quiet. You were seated at a makeshift table, cleaning your sidearm, when Hotch approached with two cups of coffee.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you said as he set one down in front of you.

“I doubt that,” he replied, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

You took a sip, wincing at the bitter taste. “God, this is terrible.”

“It’s coffee,” he said with a small shrug as if that explained everything.

You glanced at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Do you ever lighten up, Hotchner?”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “On occasion.”

“Define ‘occasion.’”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the weapon in your hands. “When it’s earned,” he said finally.

It was a cryptic response, but it made you smile anyway. “Well, I’ll consider this progress.”

He sat with you in silence, but it was comfortable. The company was more needed than either of you realized.

….

The day had been relentless, the kind that left your muscles aching and your mind frayed at the edges. You had lost count of how many hours you’d been awake--thirty, maybe forty. Every bone in your body screamed for rest, but the tension from the mission had settled into your chest, making sleep impossible.

You found yourself outside the command tent, slumping onto an old crate with a half-empty water bottle in your hand. The distant hum of generators buzzed like a white noise machine, masking the desert’s eerie quiet.

Hotch appeared a few minutes later, wordlessly lowering himself onto the crate beside you. His presence, steady as always, should have been comforting, but tonight it only made the lump in your throat harder to ignore.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You told yourself you liked the silence, but the truth was, it gave your thoughts too much room to spiral. Your chest felt tight, and despite the coolness of the night, your face burned with exhaustion-fueled frustration.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you blurted out, the words tumbling from your mouth before you could stop them.

Hotch turned his head toward you, his face unreadable but his attention sharp. “Why do you say that?”

You let out a shaky breath, staring out into the endless darkness of the desert. “Because I’m running. I didn’t know what else to do.” You hesitated, feeling the weight of your own admission. “I thought putting space between me and...everything would help, but maybe it just makes it worse.”

The words sat heavy in the air, and you instantly regretted saying them. You felt exposed, as though admitting it aloud would make it all the more real. Your hands fidgeted with the bottle, and you kept your gaze fixed ahead, unwilling to meet his.

You thought about the way your life had pretty much unraveled around you back at home. If it wasn’t for work, you’re not sure you’d still be standing on your two feet. Here you could be the strong, independent person you aspired to be. At home, you were heartbroken without an end in sight. 

The silence stretched long enough that you thought he wouldn’t respond. But then, in that low, even voice of his, he said, “It doesn’t make it worse. It just makes it...quieter. And sometimes quiet is all you can handle.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the quiet vulnerability in his tone. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, distant and heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Is that why you’re here?” you asked softly, the rawness in your voice betraying how fragile you felt.

He nodded, barely perceptible, his gaze never leaving the horizon. “I thought being here might help me make sense of things. But some things…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Some things don’t have answers.”

There was something about the way he said it--not defensive, not self-pitying, just honest. It broke through the dam inside you, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you might cry.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening. The weight of his answer settled between you, tangible and heavy, yet somehow reassuring.

For the first time, the silence felt like a shared space rather than an empty one. You didn’t push for more. You couldn’t, not with your emotions already threatening to overflow. But as the desert night pressed in around you, you realized you didn’t need to.

Whatever walls you both had built were starting to crumble, and neither of you seemed inclined to stop it.

…..

The air in the abandoned warehouse was stifling, thick with the smell of rust and dust. You moved carefully, your weapon drawn and your eyes scanning every shadow. Hotch was just behind you, silent but steady, his presence grounding you in the tense atmosphere.

The intel had been solid: a potential threat against the local embassy was being planned here, and your team had been tasked with gathering evidence. But now, as you crept deeper into the maze of crates and machinery, something felt off. The place was too quiet.

A faint creak made you freeze. You glanced back at Hotch, and he gave a subtle nod, his dark eyes sharp with focus. He gestured for you to take the left while he veered right. You obeyed without question, trusting his instincts as much as your own.

You edged around a stack of crates, your pulse quickening. The sound came again--a faint shuffle, followed by a whisper of movement. You tightened your grip on your weapon, adrenaline flooding your system.

Then everything exploded at once.

A figure lunged from the shadows, slamming into you with enough force to knock you off balance. Your weapon clattered to the floor as you struggled against the assailant, their grip bruising as they tried to pin you down.

“Agent Y/L/N!” Hotch’s voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline.

You twisted, freeing one arm, and drove your elbow into the attacker’s side. They grunted, loosening their grip just enough for you to push them off. But before you could retrieve your weapon, another figure appeared, this one heading straight for Hotch.

“Behind you!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet.

Hotch spun just in time, deflecting the attacker’s blow and delivering a calculated strike that sent them stumbling. But the odds were quickly stacking against you--more figures emerged from the shadows, their movements coordinated and purposeful.

“Fall back!” Hotch ordered, his voice calm but commanding.

You grabbed your weapon and fell into step beside him as the two of you retreated toward the exit. The sound of footsteps echoed behind you, growing louder with each passing second.

“We’re not going to make it out clean,” you said, your voice tight as you scanned for cover.

Hotch’s jaw clenched. “We don’t have to. We just need to slow them down.”

He pointed to a stack of crates near the exit, and you understood immediately. You fired a few shots, not aiming to hit but to force your pursuers to take cover. Then, together, you pushed the nearest crate, toppling it over and creating a barricade that bought you a few precious seconds.

“Go!” Hotch barked, motioning for you to move ahead.

“No way,” you snapped, falling into position beside him. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

His gaze flicked to you, something unspoken passing between you. It wasn’t the time for arguments, so he didn’t push it.

The two of you moved as one, covering each other as you navigated the narrow corridors toward the exit. Your heart pounded in your ears, but you didn’t let it distract you. Hotch’s steady presence was all you focused on, his calm precision a stark contrast to the chaos around you.

Finally, you burst into the open air, the sounds of shouting and gunfire fading behind you. You didn’t stop running until you reached the safety of the extraction point, where reinforcements were waiting.

You doubled over, hands on your knees as you caught your breath. Hotch was beside you, his breathing heavy but controlled.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, straightening up. “Yeah. You?”

“I’ve been worse,” he replied, a faint flicker of dry humor in his tone.

You couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. “That’s one way to bond, I guess.”

Hotch glanced at you, and for the first time since the mission began, you saw something close to a smile on his face. It was brief, but it was real.

“Good work out there,” he said simply.

“Right back at you,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

In that moment, you realized just how much you trusted him--not just as a colleague, but as someone who had your back, no matter what. And from the way he looked at you, you had the feeling he felt the same.

….

The day had been unusually quiet. The base hummed with its usual activity, but the weight in the air seemed heavier that day. You had noticed it the moment you walked into the briefing room. Hotch had been there, as he always was, but there was something off.

His usual sharp focus felt dulled, his replies curt even for his standards. He spent more time staring at his tablet than actually reading it, and the lines etched into his face seemed deeper somehow.

You weren’t a profiler, but you didn’t need to be to know something was wrong.

Now, hours later, you found him alone in the makeshift command tent, the harsh glow of a desk lamp illuminating the strain on his features. He was seated, elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of him, staring at a map as if willing it to make sense.

“You’re still at it?” you asked gently, stepping inside.

His head lifted slightly, but he didn’t look at you. “There’s a lot to prepare for.”

“There always is,” you replied, pulling up a chair across from him. “But it’s late. You should take a break.”

“I can’t afford to.”

The edge in his voice wasn’t aimed at you, but it still made you hesitate. You considered leaving him to his work, but something kept you there.

“Hotch,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tense quiet. “What’s going on?”

He finally looked up, his dark eyes shadowed by something heavy. For a moment, you thought he might tell you, but then his expression hardened, his walls slamming back into place.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said, his tone measured but distant.

You didn’t believe him, not for a second. But you also knew better than to push.

Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “You’re allowed to have off days, you know. Even you.”

His lips twitched, almost a humorless smile. “I don’t have the time for that.”

“You’re human,” you countered, your tone steady but not pressing. “It’s not a luxury. It’s just...life.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze dropping back to the table. But his hands, usually so still, were fidgeting now--his fingers twisting the edge of the map absentmindedly.

You let the silence settle between you, giving him space. After a few minutes, you stood and moved toward the coffee pot in the corner of the tent. You poured two cups, setting one down in front of him without a word before returning to your seat.

Hotch stared at the cup for a moment before picking it up, cradling it in his hands like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“It’s fine,” he said abruptly, almost as if he was telling it to himself, though his tone betrayed him. “I just--” He stopped, shaking his head as if to dismiss whatever he’d been about to say.

“You don’t have to explain,” you said quietly, your voice steady. “We all have those days.”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “This one feels heavier.”

You didn’t know what he was carrying--something about him always felt impenetrable, as though he kept the world at arm’s length. But you didn’t need to know the specifics to recognize the weight he was under.

“You’re allowed to let it feel heavy,” you said after a moment, watching his reaction carefully.

Hotch’s hand tightened around the coffee cup, the faintest flicker of vulnerability flashing across his face before his walls went back up. “I shouldn’t let it distract me,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your arms on the table. “Maybe letting yourself feel it for five minutes wouldn’t be a distraction. Maybe it’d just be human.”

He didn’t respond, but his jaw shifted as though he was grinding his teeth. His silence didn’t bother you--it was enough to just sit there, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

After a while, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not digging,” he said, finally looking at you. His gaze softened just enough to make your chest ache. “For just...being here.”

You offered a small smile, reaching across the table and resting your hand lightly over his. It wasn’t much, but the way his shoulders relaxed told you it was enough.

“I’ve got your back,” you said simply. “Whatever it is, you’re not alone.”

Hotch nodded, his grip tightening briefly on the cup before setting it down. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in the room felt lighter somehow.

The two of you sat there in silence, the night pressing in around you. And while the weight of whatever he was carrying didn’t disappear, you could tell it didn’t feel quite so unbearable anymore.

…

The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, reflecting off the shallow, winding river that cut through the barren terrain. You adjusted your gear, sweat dripping down your temple as you followed Hotch’s lead. The mission had gone sideways--nothing catastrophic, but the extraction point was now miles further than planned, and the only route was straight through the rocky riverbed.

“Watch your step,” Hotch warned as he leaped from one jagged boulder to another. His movements were precise, practiced, but you could tell the exhaustion of the day was catching up with him.

“I was planning to fall flat on my face,” you replied, the edge of sarcasm in your voice lighthearted enough to soften the tension.

His lips twitched, that almost-smile you’d grown accustomed to. “Let’s avoid that.”

The river wasn’t deep, but the current was deceptively strong. The rocks were uneven; some were slick with moss, and others were barely stable. The whole setup was a sprained ankle--or worse--waiting to happen.

You made it halfway across before your boot slipped on a loose stone, your footing completely giving out beneath you. You stumbled, and the weight of your gear made it impossible to regain your balance.

Before you could hit the water, a substantial hand shot out, grabbing your arm and pulling you upright. The force of it brought you chest-to-chest with Hotch, his grip firm and steady.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low and close, his breath warm against your temple.

“Yeah,” you managed, your own breath catching as you looked up at him. His face was inches from yours, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you.

His dark eyes searched yours, something unreadable flickering in them--concern, maybe, or something deeper. He didn’t let go right away, his hand lingering on your arm as though he needed to make sure you were truly steady.

“I told you to watch your step,” he said finally, his tone softer than usual. His words did not match the gentleness in his tone.

“And I told you I was planning to fall,” you shot back, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a wry smile.

His lips twitched again, but this time, it felt closer to a real smile. His hand slipped away reluctantly, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he stepped back.

“Let’s keep moving,” he said, his voice all business again, though you caught the slight shift in his expression--something unguarded, fleeting, but unmistakably there.

…

The day’s trek had left you both bone-weary, but the setting sun brought with it a chill that seeped into your skin. The fire crackled low between you as you sat on overturned crates, the glow casting flickering shadows over the rocky outcrop that served as your makeshift camp for the night.

You had stripped down to your undershirt, your jacket drying on a nearby rock after the river crossing. Hotch sat across from you, rolling his stiff shoulders and rubbing his neck, his usual stoicism slightly cracked by the day’s exhaustion.

“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” you commented, watching him massage the tension from his muscles.

“So will you,” he replied, his eyes flicking to your bruised forearm from the earlier stumble.

“I bounce back quickly,” you said lightly. “You, on the other hand, might want to consider a hot bath.”

His lips quirked, and he shook his head. “I’ll add that to the list of luxuries I’m missing out on.”

“Right after edible food,” you added, holding up the protein bar you’d been gnawing on. “This is basically punishment.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, and it made your chest tighten unexpectedly. You leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the fire and the rare ease of the moment settle over you.

“You’re not always so serious, are you?” you asked, half-teasing but genuinely curious.

Hotch glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Depends on the company.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion and something deeper--something you couldn’t quite name but felt pulled toward.

“Well,” you said finally, breaking the tension with a small smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you before he nodded slightly. “You should.”

The fire had long since burned down to embers, but neither of you had moved. The quiet was comfortable now, a shared understanding that didn’t need words.

“You’re different,” Hotch said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. His tone was thoughtful, not heavy, but it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t expect.

“Different how?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t push,” he said simply. “Most people do. They want something, even if they don’t say it.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening at the vulnerability in his words. “Maybe I just know what it’s like to need space.”

Hotch nodded, his gaze dropping to the glowing embers. “It’s rare,” he said quietly. “And...appreciated.”

The weight of his words settled over you, and you realized with a startling clarity that you didn’t want this moment to end. The mission, the chaos, the fleeting moments of quiet connection--they’d all built to this, and you weren’t ready to let it go.

You didn’t say anything, but you shifted closer, just enough that your knee brushed against his. He didn’t move away, and the warmth of his presence felt like an anchor in the cool desert night.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. But when he finally looked at you, the guarded distance in his eyes had softened, replaced by something you couldn’t name but felt deeply.

“Get some rest,” he said eventually, his voice low but gentle. “Tomorrow will come too soon.”

You nodded, standing and brushing the dust from your pants. But as you turned to leave, you paused, glancing back at him. “Good night, Hotch.”

“Good night,” he replied, his gaze following you as you walked away.

And for the first time since this mission began, you felt a flicker of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time--something you weren’t sure you could name but couldn’t deny was there.

…..

The air in the base felt heavier than usual. The usual hum of activity buzzed in the background, but your focus was locked on the figure in front of you--Aaron Hotchner, standing by the transport vehicle, his duffel slung over his shoulder. A stark contrast to how he had shown up so long ago. Now, slimmer and with a face full of facial hair.

You hadn’t expected the mission to end like this--not with him leaving before it was over. The news had come down hours ago: he had been called back stateside. No explanation, no warning. Just orders.

“Something urgent?” you asked, keeping your tone steady even as you struggled to meet his eyes.

He nodded, his expression unreadable but his jaw tight, a tell you’d come to recognize. “I have to return to Quantico. The team needs me.”

Of course, they do, you thought. You had known from the beginning that this wasn’t his world. His world was back home, leading the BAU, carrying burdens most people couldn’t fathom. Still, the abruptness of his departure left a hollow ache in your chest that you hadn’t prepared for.

You stepped closer, your arms crossed, not out of defiance but to keep yourself grounded. “We’ll manage here,” you said, the words feeling both true and hollow.

Hotch’s gaze flicked to you, his dark eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “You will,” he said, his voice low. “You’re good at this.”

A faint, humorless laugh escaped you. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It was,” he replied, a faint ghost of a smile on his lips before it disappeared.

The silence between you was heavy, filled with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. You weren’t naive. Whatever had brought him here was bigger than the mission, bigger than you. But that didn’t make it any easier to watch him leave.

“Will you be back?” you asked finally, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Hotch hesitated, his gaze shifting to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I don’t know.”

The honesty in his answer hit harder than you expected.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nodded. “Well, in case you don’t…you know, good luck, Hotch.”

He studied you for a moment, as if committing your face to memory. Then, to your surprise, he stepped closer. His hand reached out, resting lightly on your arm.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you, but you didn’t pull away. “For what?”

“For being here. For making this easier,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You searched his eyes, the words catching in your throat. Instead of speaking, you reached up and squeezed his hand where it rested on your arm, the small gesture saying more than words could.

His hand lingered for a moment before he pulled back, his professional mask sliding into place once more.

“They’re waiting for me,” he said, his voice steady but distant.

You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Go. They need you more than we do.”

He hesitated again, his eyes flicking to yours one last time. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

And then he turned and climbed into the vehicle. You stood there, watching as it pulled away, the ache in your chest growing heavier with each passing second.

When the dust finally settled, and the vehicle disappeared from sight, you let out a shaky breath, the reality of his absence sinking in.

You hadn’t expected this assignment to change anything. But now, as you stood alone under the relentless desert sun, you realized just how much it had--and how much he had.

You weren’t sure how you’d get over missing him the way you felt the minute he left your side. 

…

The harsh glow of the tent's fluorescent light was a poor substitute for the sun. You rubbed your temples, trying to chase away the dull ache that had settled behind your eyes after hours of pouring over intel. The mission dragged on, one step forward and two steps back, and you were beginning to feel the weight of it pressing down on you.

The faint crackle of the comm system startled you, drawing your attention to the communications officer stationed at the other end of the tent. His head tilted, listening intently before he turned and called out, “Y/L/N, secure line for you. Priority channel.”

You blinked, confusion flashing across your face. Secure lines weren’t uncommon, but they were usually pre-arranged. Rising from your chair, you crossed the tent, curiosity buzzing in the back of your mind.

When you picked up the headset, the officer handed you a notepad with a string of verification codes scrawled across it. “Verify the code,” he instructed.

You input the code into the secure terminal, and after a moment, the line cleared. “This is Y/L/N,” you said cautiously.

There was a beat of silence, then a familiar voice. “It’s Hotch.”

Back in Quantico, Hotch leaned back in his chair, his fingers gripping the phone tighter than necessary. The bullpen below his office was dim and quiet--most of the team had left for the night, but the stillness did little to ease the weight pressing on him.

The fallout from the Ian Doyle case was still reverberating through the BAU. Emily’s return had blindsided the team, and though he had tried to justify the deception, the cracks in their trust were impossible to ignore. Strauss’s scrutiny had sharpened, and his every decision seemed to be under a magnifying glass.

He hadn’t called to talk about any of that. He couldn’t.

But the familiar tension in his chest--the suffocating combination of guilt, stress, and isolation--had driven him to dial the secure line. He wasn’t even sure you’d pick up, but when your voice filtered through the line, steady and sure, it was like a knot in his chest loosened.

You straightened instinctively, surprise rippling through you. “Hotch,” you repeated, unable to keep the astonishment from your tone. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he replied, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“You’re not…no,” you assured him, leaning against the edge of the table. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough for you to sense the weight behind it. “I just wanted to check-in. See how things are going on your end.”

You frowned slightly, his words not matching the tension you could hear in his voice. “Things are...as expected. Slow, frustrating, and complicated. But manageable.”

“Good,” he said, the word clipped, almost distracted.

You weren’t a profiler, but the exhaustion in his tone was unmistakable. He sounded like a man carrying too many burdens, with no room to set them down.

“You sound tired,” you said gently, knowing better than to pry.

He let out a soft exhale, the kind that felt heavier than it should. “It’s been a long few weeks,” he admitted, though his words felt like an understatement.

Hotch closed his eyes for a moment, your voice cutting through the static in his mind. He could still see the look on Morgan’s face when Emily had walked into the room, the betrayal simmering under the surface. He could hear the edge in Strauss’s tone as she grilled him about his decision to keep the team in the dark.

But here, with you, there was no judgment. No interrogation.

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?” you asked, keeping your tone light but genuine.

A soft scoff met your ears. “I’m trying,” he replied, the words carrying a note of dry humor.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the table. “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

His silence stretched again, but this time it felt less heavy. You knew he wasn’t the type to reach out without a reason, but you also knew he wouldn’t say more than he wanted to. And you weren’t going to push.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For picking up,” he said simply. “For not asking.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the honesty in his tone. “Of course,” you replied softly. “You don’t have to explain anything, Hotch. You know that.”

For a fleeting moment, Hotch considered telling you. About Emily. About the team’s trust--or lack of it. But the words felt too heavy…too complicated to put into the space between you. He didn’t want to drag you into the mess, especially not when you had your own mission to worry about.

And yet, knowing you were there, steady and unwavering, brought him a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in weeks.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the faint hum of the secure line filling the silence. Despite the distance between you, the connection felt tangible--grounding.

“I should let you get back to work,” he said finally, although his voice sounded reluctant.

“Yeah,” you agreed, even though you didn’t want the call to end. “But Hotch...don’t wait so long to call next time, okay?”

There was a pause, then a quiet, almost imperceptible, “Okay.”

And then the line disconnected, leaving you standing there with the headset in hand and a heaviness in your chest you hadn’t felt in weeks.

Across the ocean, Hotch set the phone down, his hand lingering on the receiver. For the first time in days, the storm inside him felt a little less suffocating. And though he couldn’t explain why, he knew that calling you had been the right choice.

….

Throughout the remainder of your mission in Pakistan, Hotch’s calls came sporadically, never announced, and always brief. Each time the secure line connected, his voice carried a steadiness that seemed to ease the tension that surrounded you. The conversations were simple--updates on the mission, quiet exchanges about the weather, or mutual remarks about the relentless grind of your respective work.

Yet, beneath the surface, those calls meant more. 

They weren’t about the words exchanged but the connection that had grown between you. Somehow, through the static of secure lines and the distance of continents, you felt you knew him intimately. 

Not in the way of shared stories or confessions, but in the quiet understanding of someone who had seen the same kind of pain.

Hotch never spoke about what weighed on him, and you never pressed. He didn’t need to. The heaviness in his tone, the pauses that lingered too long--they told you everything you needed to know. And you, in turn, found comfort in the silence he offered, in the unspoken acknowledgment of your own burdens.

It was a strange closeness, one that felt both fragile and unbreakable. You knew so much about each other, and yet nothing at all. He never asked about what had driven you to this mission, and you never asked about the strain you could hear in his voice. Yet, you understood each other in a way that words couldn’t capture.

In those stolen moments on the phone, it didn’t matter that the world outside was relentless. It didn’t matter that neither of you could put your pain into words. What mattered was that, for a few fleeting minutes, you weren’t alone. And somehow, that was enough.

It was those moments that patched up the pain in your chest, almost making you forget about the heartbreak you left at home. The failed relationships, the loneliness…you wondered how it would continue on--or if it would continue on once you were back home. You hoped. 

…..

The bullpen at the BAU was its usual hive of activity, with agents moving between desks, typing up reports, and chatting quietly between tasks. But today, there was an undercurrent of curiosity rippling through the team--one that centered on Hotch.

Seated at her desk, Garcia spun her chair toward Morgan, a playful smirk on her lips. “Alright, Derek, spill. What’s with the boss man and those secretive phone calls he’s been making?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “What makes you think I know anything, Baby Girl?”

Garcia raised a skeptical brow, gesturing dramatically toward Hotch’s office. “Because every time he steps in there and picks up that phone, he looks...different. Like, not his usual stressed-out-because-the-world-is-burning look. It’s something else.”

JJ, passing by with a file, paused to join the conversation. “You’re not wrong,” she said thoughtfully. “I noticed it, too. He’s been...quieter lately. More introspective. Not that Hotch is ever exactly chatty, but it’s different.”

Rossi appeared from behind them, holding his ever-present coffee mug. “And you’re all assuming that a few phone calls mean he’s seeing someone?” His tone was teasing, but there was genuine curiosity behind it.

“I mean, it wouldn’t be the craziest thing,” Morgan replied with a shrug. “The man deserves a little happiness. Maybe he finally found someone who gets him.”

Reid, seated nearby with his tablet, looked up. “It could be related to the fallout from the Doyle case. He might be reaching out to someone for professional advice or support.”

Garcia shook her head dramatically. “Oh, boy-wonder, that’s far too clinical. This is Hotch we’re talking about. If he’s calling someone regularly, it’s personal.”

JJ frowned slightly, leaning against her desk. “Whoever it is, I just hope they’re good for him. After everything with Haley, and now the strain with the team...he needs someone who can be there for him.”

Rossi took a sip of his coffee, his gaze flicking toward Hotch’s closed office door. “Maybe it’s not about what they say. Sometimes, it’s just about having someone who listens. God knows that man doesn’t let anyone in easily.”

The group fell into a contemplative silence, their gazes drifting toward the office where Hotch was currently on a call. Inside, his expression was characteristically composed, but the slight relaxation of his shoulders and the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed something softer.

Morgan broke the silence first, smirking. “Well, whoever this mystery caller is, they’ve got our fearless leader smiling. I say we let him have this one.”

Garcia gasped dramatically, clasping her hands together. “Smiling? You saw him smile? Oh, this is bigger than I thought.”

JJ and Rossi exchanged amused glances, and even Reid couldn’t suppress a small smile at Garcia’s theatrics. But beneath the playful banter, the team shared a collective hope--that whoever was on the other end of those calls was helping their stoic leader carry at least some of the weight on his shoulders.

….

Hotch sat in his office, the low hum of activity in the bullpen barely reaching his ears. His personal phone buzzed on the desk beside him, an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. He frowned, picking it up cautiously. It wasn’t often he got calls from unlisted numbers on this line.

“Aaron Hotchner,” he answered, his tone brisk.

“Well, that’s formal. Do you always answer like you’re being interrogated?”

His breath caught, the familiar voice pulling a genuine, if fleeting, smile to his face. “Agent Y/L/N. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” you teased. “Just because I’m not in Pakistan doesn’t mean I’ve vanished. I still exist, contrary to popular belief.”

“Good to know,” he replied, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I heard you finished the mission. Back stateside?”

“For now,” you said, your tone carrying the same measured ease he remembered. “It’s just a pit stop, though. The CIA doesn’t let its covert operatives sit idle for too long.”

“Sounds familiar,” he said, the faintest trace of humor in his voice. “How’s it feel to be back?”

“Strange,” you admitted. “Like I’m not entirely here, you know? You get that, don’t you?”

He did. More than he cared to admit. 

“I do,” he said simply, his voice low.

“And you?” you asked, your voice softening. “How’s the BAU treating you?”

He hesitated, the weight of recent weeks pressing heavily on his chest. The fallout from the Doyle case, Emily’s return, the team’s shaken trust--it all simmered just beneath the surface. But he wasn’t ready to unpack that. Not now.

“Still busy,” he said instead, his voice even. “But you know how it is. Work doesn’t stop.”

“I do,” you replied, a knowing edge to your tone. “Sounds like you’re carrying more than just case files, though.”

He stayed silent for a moment, his grip tightening slightly on the phone. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he said finally.

“You always say that,” you said, a note of fond exasperation in your voice. “I’m starting to think it’s your catchphrase.”

“I don’t have catchphrases,” he replied, his lips twitching in the faintest of smiles.

“Sure you don’t,” you shot back. “Next, you’ll tell me you don’t ever crack a smile.”

“That’s a rare occurrence,” he said, his tone lighter.

“Well, I must be one of the lucky few then because I swear I’ve seen it.”

The warmth in your voice caught him off guard, but he didn’t mind it. Not one bit. “You’re in a unique position.”

“Unique, huh?” you teased. “You make it sound so exclusive.”

“It is,” he admitted, his voice softening. “Not many people see past the job.”

Your tone matched his now, the playfulness giving way to something more sincere. “That’s because the job is easier to focus on. It’s harder to look past it.”

He let out a quiet sigh, nodding even though you couldn’t see him. “You’re not wrong.”

The call buzzed with a quiet warmth neither of you acknowledged outright, but both felt. Hotch leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a moment before letting out a breath. He stared at the phone in his hand, debating whether to say what had been sitting in the back of his mind.

"So, this call," he said, his voice measured but holding a thread of something lighter. "Official business, or are you just checking up on me?"

"Can't it be both?" you asked, your teasing tone doing exactly what you intended--it made him relax, even if just a little.

He let out a soft laugh, surprising himself. "I suppose it can."

"I don’t know," you said, your voice playful. "Can it?"

He hesitated just a moment before admitting, “I actually thought about calling you too; I wanted to see how you were doing. And…I guess I needed to hear a familiar voice.”

The silence between you settled softly, comfortable, and filled with an understanding neither of you needed to articulate.

“Well, I’m doing okay,” you said finally, your tone calm. “Work’s the same. Chaos, classified details, long hours. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” he replied, the weight of shared experience clear in his voice. “Too familiar.”

“And you?” you asked gently, your tone softening. “How are you, Hotch? Really?”

He hesitated again, the instinct to protect himself battling against the trust he felt when speaking to you. “I’m…I’m managing,” he said at last, quieter than before. “But it’s...been a lot.”

You didn’t push. You never did. That was one of the things he appreciated most. 

“Well,” you said, the warmth returning to your voice, “if you ever feel like you need to step away from saving the world, give me a call. I’ve got plenty of experience in chaos management.”

He let out another rare, quiet laugh. “I might take you up on that.”

“Good,” you said lightly. “Don’t be a stranger, Hotch.”

He let the words settle, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t sure what prompted him, but before the conversation could end, he spoke again.

“Actually,” he started, his voice betraying a hint of nerves that even he couldn’t suppress, “have you ever thought about meeting up?” The question lingered, and he immediately wondered if he had overstepped. “I mean, if your schedule allows it,” he added, his tone faltering slightly. “I know how demanding your work is.”

You paused, clearly caught off guard. “Meeting up?” you repeated, a smile audible in your tone. “You mean in person?”

“Yes,” he said quickly before he could second-guess himself. “I just thought…you’ve been a consistent voice through everything, and…” He trailed off, realizing he didn’t know how to explain it without giving too much away. “It would be nice to catch up.”

“I think that sounds...great,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “Though I should warn you, Hotchner, I’m still terrible at small talk.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he replied, his lips twitching into a smile.

“Well,” you teased, “I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried.”

“Flattered,” he said, surprising himself again with the sincerity in his tone.

The brief pause that followed carried an unspoken weight, a quiet understanding of the connection that had been building between you since the mission in Pakistan. Neither of you said it outright, but it was there, tangible in the way you lingered on the call longer than necessary.

“I’ll check my schedule,” you said lightly, breaking the silence. “But don’t think I won’t hold you to this.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he replied, his voice steadier now.

When the call ended, Hotch sat back, his thoughts circling the conversation. He realized that while he still didn’t know the full scope of your personal life or if there was someone waiting for you back home, he felt compelled to try--to find out, to see where this connection might lead. For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself the thought of something beyond the weight he carried every day.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @superlegend216

[sunswish]

☆, — 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 | 𝐍𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐟𝐟

✧.* 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; Natasha couldn’t sleep after her last mission.

✧.* 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠; sad nat, comforting, fluff, mentions of death.

✧.* 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 998.

✧.* 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬; just something small I wrote because I wish I could give nat all the love she deserves. English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes I might have made.

✧.* a special spot for my lovely @notanactressyayy! This profile exists thanks to her encouragement. ♡

“Nat,” your voice was soft when it reached Natasha’s ears and her tired eyes found yours. With a gentle smile forming on her lips, she closed her laptop, the graphic pictures from her last mission disappearing as the screen turned off.

“Why did you wake up, my love?” She asked calmly, her arms wrapping around your waist. Your hands found her hair, your fingers massaging her scalp, and the air inside her lungs seemed fresher now.

“You left,” you answered in a sleepy tone that made her heart swell. She buried her face on your stomach when you sat on her desk, your scent flooding her senses.

“I thought you wouldn’t notice,” she lied against your shirt, her green eyes avoiding yours. “You should go back to bed, I will be there soon,” another lie.

You sighed softly, tilting her head up to meet your eyes, and Natasha feared she would find deception in them — but, as if to shake away the insecurities of her past, she found love. A warmth spread through her chest, and she swore it was something sent directly from heaven.

It was divine.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” you whispered, giving her forehead a gentle kiss. Your fingers traced their way down her cheeks and her skin tingled under your digits. She thought about your words for a moment before speaking.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said — confessed. Her hands tightened on your waist in an attempt to keep her emotions in check, to keep them bottled up. Her shoulders got tense, and she frowned a little, hesitant. “Today’s mission was… rough.”

There was something about the way she pronounced the word, something in the weight of it on her tongue — it wasn't just an usual mission. Your gaze held hers, trying to read her eyes. What happened out there? How much pain was she hiding from you? How restless was her soul?

“We walked into an ambush,” she explained quietly, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she looked away. “Things got difficult in the open field and we went to a safe house nearby, but there were more of them waiting for us. I should have considered this possibility, I should have been more cautious.”

Natasha’s hand let go of your waist to run through her hair, and the lights casted a soft, yellow glow on her skin. The dark circles under her eyes became more pronounced, and she rubbed them.

“If I had checked everything before letting my team go inside,” she said regretfully. “Maybe they would still be here. Maybe they would have returned to their families. But they aren’t, and their families won’t ever see them again.”

She looked down at her lap, a lonely tear streaming down her face. “And it’s my fault,” she whispered, shaking her head slightly, and all you wanted was to take that weight off her shoulders, to give her some peace.

“No,” you uttered in a quiet voice, cupping her cheeks with tenderness. You wiped the single tear that rolled down her face, your touch fond and careful. “It’s not your fault. The evil of others and their cruelty are not your fault.”

Natasha looked at you in confusion; how could you show such compassion for someone like her, flawed and undeserving of redemption? The warmth of your palms against her face spread through her skin, your love seeping inside her veins and flowing through her body, nurturing her broken soul.

“I don’t deserve it,” she whispered, closing her eyes and nuzzling into your touch, her silent tears lingering on your fingers. Your lips found her face, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead and cheeks.

“Yes, you do. You're proof that people can be good, that there is still humanity inside people’s hearts. You dedicate your life to save, to heal the world we live in,” you tilted her head to look into her eyes, and deep inside, you saw it — the flicker of belief. Everything that came out of your mouth, Natasha took it like an ultimate truth.

“If there’s someone who truly deserves love in this world, Natasha, that person is you,” the words left your mouth like a silent vow, meant only for her. They were a promise she would carry with her forever.

She melted into your embrace, letting herself be held, letting the weight on her chest dissolve. Her fingers traced absent patterns on your back, the silent language of gratitude. Her breath steadied against your neck, and peace finally found its way to her heart.

Natasha sought your warmth, her fingers grazing yours before intertwining them. Foreheads pressed together, she breathed you in.

“Thank you, milaya,” she whispered, sincerity dripping from her lips. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She held you tighter, leaning in and kissing you with reverence, savoring your taste, the warmth you sparkled inside her. In your arms, she was safe, sheltered from the storm. Breaking apart, you brushed a hair strand behind her ear, eager to see every part of her, and she smiled.

“I think I’m ready to sleep now,” she murmured, both of you glancing at the clock on the wall. A soft chuckle left your throat and her chest flooded with serenity.

“That’s good, because I can barely keep my eyes open,” you teased and a smirk formed on her face. You guided her back to the bedroom, the dark room bathing you two in shadows.

When you both crawled under the covers, the soft mattress dipped under the weight, and Natasha quickly found her way into your arms. Your hands stroked her hair, fingers gently caressing her scalp, and you could feel the way her body relaxed against yours.

“I love you, Natalia,” you whispered to her and she hummed against your neck, the low sound reverberating through your body.

“I love you too, milaya.”

For the first time in years, Natasha slept until sunlight, no nightmares or doubts creeping into her rest.

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 10

Added dividers because I felt like the time skip/scene change would become confusing without any indication of it.

I really need an answer on how y'all feel about Immortal x Dupli-kate cuz depending on the popular opinion stuff will change 🤐 I'm willing to split a lot of people up for the drama and/or miscommunication nonsense

Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 10 >>next

Some place where the supernatural meets the normal, a little place called The Oblivion Bar, John Constantine simply sat shocked at the words he managed to hear and process through his mushed brain. Bobo closes his hung jaw, drinks his whiskey, and pats his friend’s shoulder as the man mumbles a sobering spell, cringing at the effects. “I should go. Good luck, John.” And so, the chimpanzee quickly makes his exit, leaving the Laughing Magician and Death of the Endless to their business.

“I need you to walk me through this again, luv- wasn’t quite paying attention.” Constantine shook his head as he fully turned to face the smiling entity. “You and who did what?!” He hissed, voice barely above a whisper as he tried not to bring attention to what they were saying. This was bad. Really bad.

“Lady Gotham and I took a liking to Batman’s youngest daughter and-“ John quickly interrupted her. “And gave her magical powers beyond my comprehension and immortality- yes, I heard that, did you?!” The man rubbed his face, the thought was making him want to get drunk until he dropped. ”Have you gone mad? Giving a mortal immortality is more of Dream’s style you should know better-“

Death only smiled at him, amusement filling her eyes as she gently laid a hand on his shoulder making him tense up. “She was lonely, she deserves every happiness those powers and eternity are bound to give her. You’ll understand once you see her.” And boy, did John laugh his gut out at that as he shook his finger. “No- no, no, no- there’s no way I insert myself into that mess- Bat’s family is already a mess and reeks of you without magic- No- There’s no way- that’s bonkers-“

Death gets up with a bright smile. “Thank you, John.” Her words make him stutter almost choking on his breath at the audacity. “Don’t thank me ya loon! I’m not going to help her, I’m not even going to see the moppet!” He can only yell and cuss as she leaves.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

 “Alright, Cecil-“ The old man immediately interrupted you, the little communication device in your ear buzzing with life as he told you to not use names. “… Dude… I’m miles in the air, first of all! Second, that was like a really common name once. it’ll take a while to find you specifically, and I doubt anyone could anyway- you seem like the type that would erase himself from the gov’s documents.”

“Anyway-“ You didn’t give him time to say anything else. “What house am I supposed to go to again? And why?”

The old man sighs at your antics, rubbing the side of his forehead as he feels the headache coming while he gives the address once more. “Your brother’s teacher, Mr. Hiles, has been the mall bomber. It took us a while, he was smart about it, kept his search into biological bomb-making off the internet but he wasn’t that thorough about his paper trail.”

“Be prepared for anything and a confrontation.” The older man cleared his throat. You always made him nervous; you were an unexpected equation in everything, something he couldn’t control without risking Earth. Donald and everyone else just took his weariness and suspicion as him being overly cautious, but Cecil could tell something was clinging to you that just gave him nightmares.

“And thank you- usually I would have sent someone from the Teen Team but…uh-“ His eyes followed the action on another screen. “They’re busy. Your brother and father are helping them.”

“You’re nervous. Yapping again. Chill, I’ll take care of it. Just because I don’t want to be your little puppet doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep people safe.” You found the man irritating, but for now, he was being sane, actually doing his job, so you couldn’t complain. “Getting closer to the target. Going dark.”  Was the only warning the man got before the com was powered off.

Finally ready to land you politely greeted the man, walking through the training both Cecil and Nolan provided at the start of your vigilantism. “I didn’t expect to get caught quite this early, and I certainly expected… more conventional authorities when the time did come.” Professor Hiles just sighs and welcomes you in by your birth name. “How did you-“

“Are you kidding me? Mark is unable to shut up about you. And you forget to wear your hood more times than you do wear it.” The man said as he took off his sweater. “Follow me, I’ll show you to the fourth missing student. I assure you, I have no intention of resisting.” Well… This was easier than expected.

As he started to confess about how he started doing this, he led you to his basement. “Mr. Hiles, while I understand the loss of a child to suicide, a divorce, and the loss of a job ruined you until you hit rock bottom, avenging your son like this-“

“I’m not avenging the death of my son. That would be far too cliché.” Your eyes landed on the teen strapped to the table once he turned on the light, breath hitching as you saw the skin of his arms merging sloppily with the metallic torso the professor modified. “It’s the destruction of my life that has me seeking revenge.”

“The domino effect of pain and sorrow that these monsters create. Children who spend too much time at the mall, attend parties, consume alcohol, and play sports when they should be studying and doing homework.”

“I understand your ire, I’m not one for parties or drunks, but not all kids who do that stuff go to extremes, that’s a flawed logic- it does not give you the right to play god and do-“ You tried to placate him, keeping your tone soft and even, to try and make him see reason. “What I did to all of them, turning them into living bombs, an instrument with which to exact my revenge… my crusade to end the pain and sorrow by these- ‘popular’ kids… I feel no guilt for.”

“I can’t think of a more appropriate end to my crusade-” Mr. Hiles ripped open the shirt he was wearing, revealing the same mechanism the unconscious teen had. “-than the death of a superhero!” You quickly acted, not letting him talk more beyond that as the timer set to 50 seconds started trickling down while you grabbed him, breaking through his ceilings and roof and flying high in the air.

“Is this really how you want to die? Suicide bomb? You still can make this right- you don’t have to die like this just tell me how to deactivate it!“ Your eyes remained on the clock. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. The man just chuckled a dry, humorless laugh. “Do it. There is nothing for me anymore.” Five, four, three.

You couldn’t tell if what you felt was sorrow or shame, but you knew you were defeated. The man was going to get one final death, but it won’t be yours. As your flight came to a stop well above the clouds, you threw the man higher in front of you as the clock struck one second, and as it hit zero, the bomb detonated, the range and heat of the explosion destroying any remains while pushing you back a bit.

Your eyes remained on the cloud of smoke it created. If the cops found him before you did, the bomb would have wiped out the neighbors, too. That’s what hero life was, what it is. Sacrifices left and right that only made you feel more at odds with this job than before.

As you went back to the house, you activated the com, putting it back into your ear. Cecil immediately informs you that the police are en route as well as his clean-up team. “Get an explosive ordnance disposal technician, too. There is a teen in the basement, the bomb doesn’t seem active yet, but I’d rather be safe than sorry. I’ll send a report of what happened soon.” You stayed until Cecil’s people showed up, just to be sure the boy was still breathing and that the bomb wouldn’t activate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Helping Brit and the other heroes clean up the rubble from the alien attack helped keep your mind off things. The Brit enjoyed talking about his kid and wife, yapping until he needed to take a breath and then starting again keeping a smile on your face.

You enjoyed helping clean up, especially when there were no casualties, today wasn't that type of day. But it had become the easy, relaxing part of the job, pick big rubble up, place it into the waste trucks, pick another piece up, make sure to not hit the man in the trench coat, put it in the waste- wait…

Your head snaps back to the man, squinting as your eyes meet. You each take a second to take each other in before your eyes widen in surprise. “Hello, luv. I’m-“ You couldn’t help your excitement as recognition finally settled into your brain. “I know you-“ Your words made John cringe and tense up. When others said that it never ended well for him. “You’re Johnny Con-Job, the lead singer for Mucous Membrane, dude, your band got me into the punk culture.”

That… wasn’t what he expected. He wasn’t sure if he should be proud of that or fight back the mental breakdown that was creeping up his spine. “You’re a bit young for that slop, no?” You just shrug. “Your songs got me to finally put myself first, to get the courage to sneak out, see other stuff beyond the walls of my first house, help others, and leave my neglectful family before they could seriously hurt me.” Her words worried him. John never took Bruce as the “lock his kids up” type, but the man was as paranoid as they came, he wouldn’t put that above him.

“It may be slop and shitty vocals, but it’s what I needed to hear.” You teased him while putting the rubble in the waste collector. He watched as you approached him with a soft smile and sparkling eyes. He could see what Death meant. “I need to talk to you. I’m not quite sure about what luv, but I think it’s about Batman-“ He didn’t get to finish, as soon as the name left his mouth, he was grabbed by the throat and lifted well above the clouds, way too close to the ozone layer. “Did he send you?” you hissed, giving his neck a warning squeeze.

Yup. He definitely saw what Death meant as your eyes glowed a Lazarus green. “Nno-“ He choked out. “Did Bruce Wayne send you?” her question was met with the same answer. Your grip softened, grabbing him by his coat instead of his neck as you brought him closer. “Then why are you here?”

“We need to talk in private…” He whispered as he realized the situation.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

This was a whole mess that John Constantine knew he should have stayed out of- he knew! From Bruce to the whole family basically ignoring the kid, not even telling her about the vigilantism, to the rogues taking her in and doing a better job of raising her to her running away and getting adopted by another hero- a hero that John knew wanted to conquer the world, the whole fucking race wanted to, the fucking demons had a problem with that and wouldn’t stop complaining to him like he can fix it- he takes a deep breath in. “Why are you telling me all of this?” He whined, rubbing his face as he sat on the edge of some skyscraper with you.

“I’m not hiding my past, I’ll happily snitch and tell a reporter that Bruce Wayne is a shit father, they all just assume I’m Nolan’s actual kid that was in the hospital for a deadly something or whatever.” You shrug. “Please don’t- not because I care about the bellend- I just don’t want to deal with… Huh. Now that I’m thinking about it, that may be great blackmail.” His words only made you snicker.

He didn’t know where to begin. Did she know about the Viltrumite? Was she in cahoots with him? Should he tell her any of that? Would she even believe his ass? Maybe he should get the JL involved...

The scruffy man shook his head. “Not why I’m here. You said your hero name is Sorceress? Great, so you know you have magic powers, that makes it easy-“ John took in your shocked expression. Of course, it wasn’t that easy, it never could be. “If this was another world, I’d call you crazy.” You told him simply. “But Midnight City is cursed, and I guess that makes sense… Is that why I can hear the shadows speak?”

John nodded before doing a double take, asking you to elaborate on the shadows speaking part.  “They just speak, whisper, giggle the whole thing. They can also emit what they feel. They’ve always been present, they’re not as strong here, but I think that’s because they’re more tied to Gotham and Midnight City… or just- where there is more darkness.”

“Well, you’re not far off there, love.” The man nodded in agreement as his eyes drifted to the dark dome around the cursed city. He knew where to start. “This is going to be a long explanation, you better strap in, hen, and let me finish before you ask questions.”

“You remember the painting and murals you made of gods and other entities, demons, angels, the whole sort, in Gotham and here? Yeah, they brought the attention to you from the entities you drew. Some of the moppets took them as a higher form of offering than others, a few of them decided to stick around you.”

“Those have also decided to- ‘bless’ you with a few gifts, I’m not sure of all of them, but I know specifically that Lady Gotham offered the shadows as a companion and protector, and I know that Death of the Endless has blessed you with… well, immortality.” There was no way of walking around that fact. “I don’t remember if any of these two also gave you your powers, I was quite sloshed, but someone did.” John looked at the kit, taking in her shocked expression before he nudged you a bit. “Come on, kid, say something. You got me all worried here.”

“It’s all just- a bit much.” You mumble. “Yeah, I get it. A lot for you to shoulder, but I’m sure you’ll power through- oh, thanks love… Wha- How-“ John’s eyes moved from the beer in his hands to the energy can you were looking at. You just shrug. "I wanted to know if I could, thought…” You narrow your eyes at the can in your hands. “I’m not sure if this is made out of thin air or just- teleported or something.”

Constantine just slowly looks back at his beer mug… She was taking this better than most. He hoped it was because the shock hadn’t worn off yet. Well, he’s had worse things in his mouth, he's sure, so with a shrug, he takes a sip, humming with delight at the taste, muttering something about this being real beer. “You’re here to help me, right? Like- with my powers… I- I think I need help with this whole worshipping gods and demons- entities- thing, too.”

He knew the easy way out would be to say no, to just leave, she had done just fine without him… But that isn’t what came out of his mouth. “Sure, poppet. Just keep on giving me this fine beer.” Given his track record with people and magic, he shouldn’t feel this accomplished at your happiness, but he was always quite selfish, so he returned your hug, even if he was a bit stiff.

“Now- usually the normal thing is to go from small stuff to big, teach the basics, but I’m not one for rules. Have you ever wanted to teleport via portals?” The big mischievous smile you gave him was all the answer he needed.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You came home at the same time as Nolan and Mark, everyone’s first stop after greeting Debbie was their bedrooms to refresh themselves before going back to the dining area. “I’m going to be honest, Nolan, the longer hair and full beard fit you better than the silly mustache. Right, mom?” You couldn’t help the teasing as the whole family ate. Debbie looked at Nolan with a scrutinizing eye, before sighing and giving an amused smile. “I’ll definitely miss the beard.”

Mark snorted at the teasing as Nolan pouted, brows furrowing. “It’s not silly- it’s a rite of passage into manhood by the Viltrumite culture-“ you couldn’t help but interrupt. “It’s still a silly-looking mustache. What does the Viltrumite rite of passage for women look like?”

Nolan’s momentary displeasure at the mustache comment was overlooked as the inquiry about the Viltrumite women was brought forth. “Huh… I’m not sure, I never really paid attention to that. I think some cut their hair.” A puff of air escaped you in amusement before deciding to tease him some more. “Well, you clearly weren’t planning for a daughter that’s sure.”

Debbie just took in the chatter. She enjoyed the easy atmosphere, the laughter of her kids. “So, how was everyone’s day?” She asks once the chatter stops. “Oh, I met the Teen Team and helped them with the Flaxan attack, dad got kidnapped by them while I was trying to gather up survivors, made friends with Atom Eve, and met an alien called Allen who apparently got the wrong planet.” Mark shrugged.

“I spent the last eight months enslaved by an army from an alternative dimension, although it seems much less time has passed here. About a week ago, I led a revolt against my captors and regained control of my powers. Today, a team of scientists from the rebellion found a way to get me home.” Nolan lied as easily as he breathed.

“One of Mark’s teachers was turning his classmates into organic bombs in order to take revenge on kids he felt were like the ones who led his son to commit suicide. He turned himself into a bomb also and tried to take me out with him but clearly, it didn’t work in his favor. Helped clean up after the Flaxan mess, and met the lead singer of Mucous Membrane who apparently is a mage. He was here on behalf of Death herself to help me and tell me that my powers aren’t because I’m a meta, they’re magic. Oh, and also, I’m allegedly immortal.” You took a sip of water. “Lex also wants to know if anyone would be interested in attending one of his rich folk parties.”

At the quietness of the room, you lifted your eyes from your plate to look at everyone’s shocked glance. “What?” you ask with a mouth full of food.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

That night, the teens wanted to sleep with their parents, both needing reassurance. Debbie and Mark were already gone, sleeping deep and peacefully. “Dad… You awake?” your question was whispered as your head lay on Deborah's shoulder. He answered with a warm hand squeezing your shoulder and a quiet hum. “...How do you move past people you can’t save or the people we have to sacrifice?”

Nolan wasn’t sure how to answer that, he’d never felt anything for the people he couldn’t save. He knew that if he had to save earth’s people or his kids and wife… Well… Earth can be populated again. “You look at the people who you did save. We can’t always save everyone, that’s the sad reality. It’s… painful. But it’s a truth all heroes have to come to terms with. Even I can’t save everyone.” Nolan wrapped his arms around his girls and son tighter, pulling everyone closer. “If all you could save was a person, you still did everything you could. If you couldn’t save anyone, you just have to keep your head high and try again.”

You snuggled closer into your mom, feeling her arm instinctively wrap around you as you draped yours over her and Nolan’s stomach, your fingers laying on Mark’s wrist. The sad reality of being a hero...

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26 @persephone-kore-law @bluevenus19 @ryuushou

I'M REALLY SORRY IF I FORGOT SOMEBODY- MY DOC SOMETIMES FORGETS TO SAVE AND I HAD TO READD PPL

[littelovelunette]

Hii sevika x coworker reader with a hand kink pls where she catches u staring at her hands in a meeting and it leads to reader being fingered in like a supply closet

Bonus points for reader being forced to be quiet and sevika mocking/ humiliating u about it

Tyty 💋

Pretty Fingers

Modern AU

Manager!Sevika x Assistant Manager!Reader

Smut, fingering, biting, humiliating, praising, hand kink

Sevika was giving a presentation, looking oh-so hot while doing it. The sleeves of her blazer bulging with her juicy biceps.

Beautiful veiny hands putting the pendrive in the laptop, oh goodness. Panties drenched, pen twirling in your hand mindlessly as you watched Sevika presenting in front of the whole team.

Sevika's arms were so veiny, from her workouts and constant weight lifting, it was so hot and made you feel all tingly inside. You could only imagine those rough, thick fingers inches deep in your sopping wet cunt.

Sevika, notices your stare on her, and sends you a little smirk while she continues her presentation. It makes you sit upright, swallowing as you realised she saw you staring at her.

The meeting ended and you got up to leave but then Sevika gestured at you to stay back, so you did. The others left.

"Let's walk and talk," Sevika said, gesturing you to follow her.

"Uh- okay," your face flushes a little as you follow the tall woman around the office building, thighs trying to rub against one another without the other woman noticing.

But oh, does Sevika notice. She sees everything due to her high senses. Sevika can't help internally smirk at herself, aware of the effect she's having on you. You're just so vulnerable, aren't you?

"So, what did you wanna talk to me about?" You asked Sevika who simply shrugged, puzzling you.

Then suddenly the moment you both reached the supply closet, she suddenly shoved you inside, slamming the door open with your body.

"S-sevi-" you begun.

"Shhh," she shushed you, one hand on the wall and the other shushing you with a finger to your lips, "I know what you want, princess. Just stay quiet, mhm?"

Sevika's hand ripped off your panties from under your skirt, smirking at your little gasp. She traced the slick folds, feeling the wetness.

"Doll," her tone was mocking, "You got this wet for me? Hm?"

You felt so embarrassed you didn't know what to say, "Stop teasing me... Please," you managed a whisper.

Sevika raised a brow before rubbing a finger on your clit, "I guess it can't be helped then," she shoved in two thick fingers in your pussy making you almost yelp in surprise.

"N-no, not so much, S-Sevika, I can't," you gasped and stuttered but Sevika didn't let her hand stop, starting to move her fingers.

"Take it, you've been fantasizing about this for far too long and not concentrating on your work, been a bad girl, huh?" Sevika rubbed your clit with her thumb while her two fingers continued their relentless assault on your hole.

"C-can't," you whispered but Sevika's glare told you to shut up despite how non-verbal her command was.

Your legs shook, knees buckling a little as you tried to steady yourself. Sevika's right hand held your waist, easing you against her figure, her very broad musuclar figure. Your arms found their way around her neck, burying your face in her neck.

It was oddly romantic and a bit humiliating too, Sevika held you tighter, fingers starting to get faster, she paused to add a third finger.

"Sevika...!" You gasped against her skin.

"Bite me," Sevika said, "It'll muffle your pathetic pleas. I'm not stopping."

You sunk your teeth into the skin of her neck making her smirk slightly, clearly enjoying the burning sensation as your cunt clenched on her fingers desperately trying to keep her deep inside your passage.

"C-C-cumming," you stuttered and sniffled against her skin, biting her again to muffle a loud moan.

Your liquids gushed down onto her fingers making her smirk widen, Sevika raised her fingers and licked your juices off while maintaining unfaltering eye contact.

That was so hot.

"You're so cute, dolly," Sevika chuckled faintly before forcing you to suck on the fingers that were once drilling inside your pussy.

"Mmph..." You hesitated but then wrapped your lips around her fingers sucking them for a while before she pulled them out, kissing your lips briefly.

"Continue this later? My place," she laughed, patted your head before leaving.

[777bae]

WITH YOU JACK HUGHES

Summary :: After a brutal injury, you’re left to navigate recovery on your own. But Jack, despite the distance, becomes your lifeline—calling every day, offering comfort, and doing everything he can to be there. When he finally returns, his unwavering love and support help you heal, proving that together, you can overcome anything.

Warnings :: description of injury

Word count :: 5.6k

It all started at an NHL-run community skate event. You’d been invited along with a few other women’s league players to skate alongside the NHL stars, giving young fans a chance to meet their idols in a laid-back, personal setting. You didn’t expect much from the event—just another community outreach, another day to interact with fans and grow the game you loved. But that was before you met him.

Jack Hughes had been one of the NHL’s rising stars for a while, and despite the buzz around him, he was surprisingly down-to-earth. Tall, with his bright blue eyes and easy smile, he was exactly as you’d imagined him—charismatic, charming, and somehow completely approachable.

As you laced up your skates, adjusting the blades on your boots, you’d heard his laugh first, a genuine, warm sound that made it hard not to smile. You hadn’t even looked up when you realized he was skating toward you until you felt the brush of a glove on your shoulder.

“You here to show us how it’s done?” Jack’s voice was playful, but there was a hint of curiosity behind his words. You glanced up, met his gaze, and for a moment, both of you seemed to just… stop. He wasn’t towering over you, but there was a light in his eyes that made you feel like you were suddenly the center of attention.

“Me?” You raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You’re the one who’s been stealing all the spotlight. I just came to get some practice in. You know, to make sure I don’t show you up.”

He laughed again, this time shaking his head as he lowered himself into a comfortable skating stance. “I’m not worried. I’ve seen how fast some of the girls on your team can skate.” He leaned in a little, his voice a touch quieter. “But I have to admit, I’m hoping I’ll learn something today.”

It was all playful banter, but somehow, there was a connection that flickered between you in that brief exchange. Something about his easy confidence mixed with a genuine curiosity about the women’s game. It wasn’t like the typical interactions you had with male players; there was no condescension, no weird power dynamic. Just a guy who appreciated the game and the players—regardless of their gender.

The rest of the skate went by in a blur of friendly competition and shared laughter, with Jack occasionally pulling you into a race around the rink. You couldn’t deny that his speed on the ice matched his charm off it. It was fun—refreshing, really—especially since you were used to competing against men who sometimes didn’t seem to understand the level of skill and commitment women brought to the game. But Jack, he didn’t seem like that at all. If anything, he seemed eager to learn, to listen.

Afterward, while most of the other players were heading off to grab something to eat, Jack caught up to you again as you were packing your gear away.

“Hey, you wanna grab some dinner?” he asked, his voice casual but with that little spark of hopefulness. “I promise I won’t make it weird—just thought it’d be nice to hang out, talk about the game… maybe see if you’re as competitive off the ice as you are on it.”

It was a little unexpected, but something about the offer felt right. You’d spent so many years in a world of competition, sometimes too focused on the next game, the next practice. The thought of having a simple, easy evening, talking about something other than hockey, sounded like a refreshing change.

“Sure,” you agreed, trying to hide the small smile creeping onto your face. “I could use the company.”

That first dinner was nothing extraordinary—just a low-key meal at a local diner, where you both dug into greasy comfort food and swapped stories about your respective teams. But the conversation never lagged. Jack talked about his early days in hockey, his family, his goals, and somehow, you found yourself opening up in ways you hadn’t expected, sharing things you usually kept locked behind a barrier of professionalism. It felt natural, easy, like you’d known him much longer than just a few hours.

By the time you were leaving the diner, you felt something click. It wasn’t just the conversation. It was the way Jack made you feel seen, valued. He didn’t view you as just a player; he saw you as someone who belonged in the same conversation as the men he idolized.

That night, as he walked you to your car, he hesitated before speaking.

“Do you think we could do this again?” His tone was soft, uncertain—nothing like the cocky attitude you sometimes saw from athletes. There was a real vulnerability in his question, an openness that you hadn’t expected from someone with so much attention on him.

You smiled, already knowing the answer before you even said it. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

The following months passed in a whirlwind. The connection you’d felt that night only deepened as you found yourselves spending more time together, whether it was over quick dinners after games or stolen moments between practices. The distance between your homes had been a challenge at first, but Jack made it work. His busy NHL schedule and your packed NWHL calendar had their limitations, but you made it a priority. Phone calls, FaceTime, and text messages became lifelines, bridging the gap when you couldn’t be in the same place.

And then came the moment when it all felt a little more real. One night, after a game where you’d scored the game-winning goal, Jack called you to congratulate you. As you chatted about the game, the conversation shifted.

“So, I was thinking…” Jack’s voice dropped a little, a teasing edge creeping in. “What if we make this official? You know, like, ‘dating’ officially. I mean, we’ve spent enough time together at this point, and I’m kind of starting to like you.”

You’d laughed at first, but when you heard the sincerity in his voice, you felt that flutter in your chest.

“I think I could be okay with that,” you’d said softly, feeling something in your heart shift.

And just like that, what had started as a casual meeting at a community skate turned into something real, something deep. The spark between you two grew into a full-blown flame, one that, despite the distance and the challenges ahead, seemed unstoppable.

That was how it all began. From a community skate to something much bigger. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t just fighting for your place in the game—you were fighting for something real, with someone who understood and shared your passion for both hockey and life.

It had been a few months since you and Jack had officially started dating, and even though the connection between you two had only deepened over time, the long-distance nature of your relationship had taken its toll. Jack was a rising star in the NHL, and your team’s season in the Women’s Hockey League was just as intense, if not more so. So, when Jack had to leave for a week-long stretch of West Coast games, the distance felt particularly harsh. But you both had your routines, and you had become experts at making the most of what time you had together.

The first night Jack was gone, you walked through your shared apartment, the silence of the space more apparent than usual. You had been here before, used to being away from each other for stretches of time, but it didn’t make the loneliness any easier. Still, you had your own games to focus on, so you pushed aside the feeling and settled into your familiar routine of stretching, preparing, and strategizing for your upcoming match.

That week, your team was on a roll. You managed to secure comfortable victories in your first two games, and no matter the late hours or time zone difference, you made sure to FaceTime Jack after each of your games. His voice was always a small anchor that pulled you back into a sense of normalcy. His tired face would appear on the screen, grinning with excitement or offering words of encouragement as you recapped your performances. The calls were a lifeline, a reminder that even though the miles between you stretched across the country, you weren’t alone in this. You’d FaceTime on his days off, too, taking solace in the familiarity of his presence, even if it was only a screen away.

But it was that third game that shook everything.

You had been feeling sharp and focused, your team’s momentum riding high. You were confident going into the match, your movements on the ice instinctively flowing with each pass and play. The puck was on your stick as you skated into the offensive zone, eyes locked on the net ahead, the crowd’s roars swelling around you. But just as you prepared to make your move, you felt a brutal shove from your side. The force was unanticipated, and before you could brace yourself, you were sent spiraling off balance.

The hit slammed into your leg, pain shooting through your entire body like a bolt of electricity. Your vision flashed white for a moment, the rink around you spinning as you crumpled to the ice, unable to register anything other than the excruciating ache in your lower body. You could hear voices, distant and muffled, but you couldn’t focus on anything but the raw agony. Your leg felt like it was on fire, every inch of it screaming at you in ways you didn’t think possible.

The next few moments were a blur. You were helped off the ice, each movement sending shocks of pain through your leg as your teammates rushed to your side. You were placed in an ice bath to try to numb the swelling, but it was clear from the first glance—the leg wasn’t just bruised. It was broken.

At the hospital, the diagnosis hit like a hammer to the chest. You had multiple fractures in your leg—some clean breaks, some more complicated. Surgery was the only option, and it needed to be done as soon as possible. You were too overwhelmed to process anything. The pain was all-consuming, and the physical shock of it was enough to dull your thoughts. The one thing that kept repeating in your mind, though, was that you hadn’t messaged Jack. You had forgotten. You had promised him you’d let him know if anything happened, but now, you couldn’t even remember if you had the energy to tell him.

You were rushed into surgery, the doctors prepping you quickly for the procedure, but you couldn’t shake the guilt of not reaching out to him. When you fell unconscious from the anesthesia, your thoughts faded, but that nagging feeling remained.

Meanwhile, in California, Jack had just finished his game. He had played well—scoring a goal and getting an assist—but his mind was elsewhere. His phone buzzed as he walked into the locker room to cool down. As he picked it up, his heart stopped for a second. It was a video message from one of his friends, a clip from the game he had just missed. It was you.

The footage was grainy, taken from the stands. He saw the hit happen in real-time, the moment when your body was slammed to the ice. And then, the terrible sight of you crumpling, unable to move as pain clearly overtook you. His breath caught in his throat, and panic surged through his chest.

Without thinking, he immediately called your number, but it went straight to voicemail. His hands were shaking now, his mind racing with worry. Why hasn’t she answered? He called again, and again, his anxiety growing with each unanswered ring.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself, growing frantic. He tried texting you, then calling your teammates and coaches, but no one picked up. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours as he dialed number after number, panic creeping up his spine.

Finally, one of your coaches picked up. The calm, steady voice on the other end didn’t help to alleviate Jack’s mounting panic.

“Coach, what happened to her?” Jack’s voice was tight, strained. “Is she okay? Why isn’t she answering? What happened? I saw the hit—she looked… she looked like she was in so much pain!”

Your coach’s voice was reassuring but firm. “Jack, calm down. She’s in surgery right now. She fractured her leg pretty badly. The doctors are taking care of her. They’re going to monitor her recovery closely. But she’s going to be okay.”

He froze, his heart still pounding. “Surgery? Is she awake? Can I talk to her? I need to talk to her.”

“She’s still under, Jack. They’re finishing up. She’ll be okay. You can’t be here right now, and I know that’s hard. But she’s in good hands.”

Jack closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. “How long is she going to be in the hospital?”

“At least a couple weeks. They’ll want to monitor her closely to make sure everything heals properly.”

The words barely registered at first, but Jack’s mind finally began to slow, even as frustration and helplessness gnawed at him. He had a whole week of games ahead. There was no way he could be by her side—he would have to wait. And the thought of being this far away from her, with nothing but the distance and his uncertainty, felt unbearable.

After the call ended, Jack sat in silence for a long moment, trying to collect himself. He wasn’t sure how he would make it through the next few days, but he knew one thing for sure—he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. He would call her every day. He would check in, even if it was through a screen, and he would make sure she knew he was there for her, even if he couldn’t be there physically.

Hours after the surgery, you began to stir, the soft beeping of machines pulling you from the thick haze of anesthesia. Your body felt heavy, your head foggy, and the ache in your leg was muted but persistent, a constant reminder of what had happened. Blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights, you slowly registered your surroundings—the sterile white hospital room, the IV taped to your arm, and the faint murmur of voices outside the door. Everything felt surreal, like you were caught between waking and dreaming.

The door creaked open, and your coach stepped inside. She offered a soft smile, her familiar presence grounding you amidst the disorientation. “Welcome back, kid,” she said gently, pulling up a chair beside your bed. “How are you feeling?”

You managed a weak laugh, though it sounded more like a croak. “Like I got hit by a truck,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s about right,” your coach replied, crossing her arms. “But the surgery went well. They said you’ll be back on your feet eventually—it’s just going to take some time.”

You nodded slowly, letting the information sink in. The details of the injury and the hit felt blurry, distant, as if they belonged to someone else. What you did remember, however, was the pressing need to call Jack. You opened your mouth to ask about him, but your coach beat you to it.

“Your boyfriend,” she said with a knowing smirk, “has been losing his mind. He’s been calling non-stop since he found out. I had to take one of his calls during your surgery just to calm him down. I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone freak out that much in my life.”

Despite the lingering grogginess, you chuckled softly, though the motion tugged at your sore muscles. “Did I… Did I at least tell him I’m okay before I went under?” you asked, your voice cracking slightly.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head. “You were out cold before you could even grab your phone. But don’t worry—he knows you made it through the surgery. Barely, though. The poor guy sounded like he was about to hop on a plane mid-road trip.”

You smiled faintly at the image of Jack pacing in some hotel room, his phone glued to his ear as he pestered anyone who would answer. Your heart ached at the thought of how worried he must have been. You motioned weakly toward the bedside table, where your phone sat, its screen dark but promising missed calls and messages. “Can you hand me that?” you asked.

Your coach retrieved the phone and placed it in your trembling hands. As you fumbled with the screen, your fingers clumsy and unsteady, you saw the barrage of missed calls and texts from Jack. Over a dozen calls, countless messages—all timestamped from the moment he must have seen the hit. Swallowing hard, you tapped his name and brought the phone to your ear.

It barely rang once before his voice burst through the line. “Hey!” Jack’s tone was frantic, a mix of relief and worry. “Are you okay? Are you in pain? Is there someone there with you? Do you need something? God, I should’ve been there—I should’ve been with you—”

“Jack,” you interrupted softly, but he didn’t stop.

“I saw the clip. I saw it. That hit—it looked so bad. You just went down, and I—God, I felt like my heart stopped. I’ve been calling everyone, and no one was picking up, and then your coach finally called me back and said you were in surgery. Surgery! I should’ve been there—”

“Jack,” you said again, more firmly this time, though your voice was still weak. His words slowed, but the panic in his tone was still evident. “I’m okay,” you assured him, even as your own voice wavered. “The surgery went well. I’m sore, but I’ll be alright. I promise.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the silence filled with his uneven breathing. “You’re sure?” he asked finally, his voice quieter but still laced with worry. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m sure,” you said, your lips curling into a faint smile. “They said I’ll make a full recovery. It’s going to take a while, but I’m okay, Jack. You don’t have to worry.”

His sigh of relief was audible, but it was short-lived. “How could I not worry?” he said, his voice rising again. “I saw the hit, and then I didn’t hear from you, and I was stuck here, a thousand miles away, with no idea if you were okay or if you were—” He stopped himself, his voice breaking. “I hate this. I hate that I’m not there with you.”

The raw frustration in his voice was enough to bring tears to your eyes. “It’s just hockey,” you said softly, trying to reassure him. “Stuff like this happens. It’s part of the game.”

“Not to you,” he snapped, the sharpness of his words catching you off guard. “It can happen to anyone else, but not you. You’re the last person I want to see getting hurt, and now you’re stuck in a hospital bed, and I can’t even be there to hold your hand.”

“Jack,” you whispered, but he was on a roll now, his frustration spilling over.

“I can’t believe this stupid schedule,” he muttered. “I should be on the next flight home. Screw the games. They can deal without me for one night—”

“You can’t do that,” you said quickly, your voice firmer this time. “Jack, I need you to focus on your games. I’ll be fine. You’ll see me soon enough.”

He sighed again, the sound heavy with reluctance. “I just… I feel so helpless,” he admitted. “You’re hurt, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“You’re doing plenty,” you told him gently. “Just hearing your voice right now is enough.”

The conversation eventually calmed, though Jack’s worry never fully faded. He promised to call every day—and he did. Over the next week, he became your lifeline.

The first night after your surgery, Jack called you just as he promised he would. The moment your phone buzzed with his name on the screen, a sense of comfort washed over you. You answered immediately, his face appearing on the screen before you could even get out a greeting.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but still edged with worry. His hair was damp from a post-game shower, and you could see the dark circles under his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you admitted, shifting slightly against the pillows propping you up. Your leg throbbed dully beneath the cast, but seeing Jack’s face helped dull the ache. “Sore, but okay.”

“You look pale,” he noted, his brows furrowing as his eyes scanned the screen, like he could physically assess you through it. “Are you sure you’re okay? Have you been eating? What about water—have you been drinking enough?”

“Jack,” you interrupted gently, your lips quirking into a faint smile. “I’m fine. They’ve been taking care of me here, and the doctors said the surgery went well. You don’t have to worry so much.”

His sigh was audible even through the small speaker of your phone. “How can I not worry? I hate that I’m stuck here while you’re dealing with all of this alone.”

“You’re not stuck. You’re doing your job,” you reminded him. “And I’m not alone. My team’s been in and out, and the nurses here are great.”

“It’s not the same,” he muttered, his tone low. “I should be there.”

You reached up and adjusted the angle of your phone, so he could see your reassuring smile. “You’re here, Jack. Maybe not physically, but this? These calls? They help more than you know.”

His face softened slightly, though the worry in his eyes didn’t entirely disappear. “I just wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing plenty,” you said firmly. “Now, tell me about your game. How’d it go?”

Jack hesitated for a moment, but when you raised an expectant eyebrow, he relented. “It went alright. We won, but it was closer than it should’ve been. I missed an open net in the second period, and the guys gave me hell for it.”

“Missed an open net?” you teased, your tone light. “Wow, Jack Hughes is human after all.”

He groaned, though you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I’ll make up for it next game.”

“I’m sure you will,” you said with a grin. “You always do.”

The conversation shifted after that, Jack asking about your day in the hospital. He wanted to know everything—what you ate, what the doctors said, how much pain you were in. His questions were relentless, but you didn’t mind. If anything, it warmed your heart to know how much he cared. By the time the call ended, your eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, but the lingering sound of Jack’s voice in your mind made falling asleep a little easier.

The calls became your anchor over the next week. Every night, without fail, Jack would call you after his game, no matter how late it was. Some nights, he’d FaceTime you, propping his phone up on a stack of pillows in his hotel room while he lounged on the bed in sweats and a hoodie. Other nights, he’d call you during his downtime at the rink, his voice echoing faintly in the empty locker room as he checked in on you.

On the third night, after another win for his team, Jack’s call came through just after midnight. You answered groggily, your phone resting on your chest as you blinked sleepily at his face.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he asked, his voice soft with concern.

“No, it’s okay,” you murmured, shifting slightly to prop yourself up against the pillows. “How was the game?”

“Good,” he said, though his expression was a little sheepish. “I scored a goal, but I got into it with a guy on the other team. He cross-checked me, and I might’ve, uh, shoved him a little.”

“Jack,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “You can’t get yourself hurt. One of us in the hospital is enough.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “Don’t worry, I can take a hit. But seriously, how are you feeling? Is the pain manageable? Do you need me to call someone for you?”

You shook your head, smiling at his endless concern. “I’m fine, Jack. They’ve got me on some good meds, so I’m not feeling much pain right now.”

“Good,” he said, though his gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if trying to detect any hidden discomfort. “Tell me if that changes, okay? If you need anything—anything at all—you call me.”

“Jack, you’re on the other side of the country,” you pointed out, your tone teasing. “What could you possibly do from there?”

“Plenty,” he said stubbornly. “I could call your coach. Or your doctor. Or the president, if I have to.”

You laughed, the sound soft but genuine. “I don’t think the president can help with a broken leg, Jack.”

“Then I’ll find someone who can,” he shot back, grinning. “I’m serious, though. Just tell me if you need anything.”

“All I need is for you to win some games,” you teased, your voice light. “That’s all the help I need.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but you could see the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling back. “But you love me anyway.”

By the end of the week, the calls felt like second nature. Jack would update you on his games, sharing every detail with the enthusiasm of someone desperate to distract himself from his own worries. In turn, you’d tell him about the progress you were making in the hospital, even if it was slow. You joked about how the nurses were starting to recognize him just from the sound of his voice, and he teased you about how bossy you were getting with your requests for snacks and drinks.

Through it all, Jack’s constant presence—whether through a screen or a phone call—was what kept you going. And even though he couldn’t be there in person, he made you feel as though he was never truly far away.

Finally, after what felt like the longest week of your life, the day finally arrived when Jack’s West Coast road trip came to an end. He had called you every day, just like he’d promised, but it wasn’t the same as having him by your side. Through the screen, you could see the worry etched into his face and hear it in the tone of his voice. He hated being so far away from you, and every conversation ended with him muttering how much he wished he could teleport home.

The waiting had been agonizing for both of you. Jack barely slept, the guilt of not being able to be there gnawing at him, and you had spent your days in the hospital, frustrated by your immobility and longing for his comforting presence. So when you finally got the text that he had landed and was on his way, the anticipation became almost unbearable.

You sat up in the hospital bed, your leg propped up in a brace and wrapped in layers of bandages, staring at the door like a puppy waiting for its owner to return. You heard the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway, and then the door swung open.

“Jack,” you breathed, and there he was.

He looked exhausted. His hair was messy from the flight, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep, but the relief on his face was so palpable it nearly brought tears to your eyes. He crossed the room in three long strides, not even bothering to set his bag down before he wrapped you in the gentlest hug he could manage. His arms circled you carefully, mindful of your injuries, but the embrace was so full of love that it made your chest ache.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands. “God, I was so scared. Watching that hit… hearing you were in surgery… I didn’t know what to do. I felt so useless.”

You could see the guilt swimming in his eyes, and you shook your head, resting your hand on top of his. “Jack, you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“I should’ve been here sooner,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I hate that I wasn’t here when you needed me most.”

“Stop,” you said softly, your fingers brushing against his wrist. “You did everything you could. You called, you checked in—Jack, I knew you were with me, even if you weren’t here physically.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his emotions flickering across his face like a storm. Then he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’m here now,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud made it more real. “And I’m not leaving until you’re back on your feet.”

The first day of Jack’s visit was spent catching up—he pulled a chair close to your bed, his fingers intertwined with yours as he asked about every detail of the surgery and recovery process. He flinched when you described the pain of the initial hit and visibly winced when you told him about waking up after the surgery. His worry was written all over him, and it didn’t fade even when you assured him that you were healing.

But he didn’t just stop at sitting by your side. By the next day, Jack had transformed into a one-man care team. He brought you your favorite coffee every morning, carefully maneuvering around the hospital room as though he’d been doing it for years. He kept your water bottle full, adjusted your pillows to make sure you were comfortable, and even insisted on helping you wash your hair when you mentioned you felt gross from lying in bed for so long.

“Jack, you don’t have to do all this,” you said one evening as he helped you shift positions, your leg still immobilized in the brace. “You just got back from a road trip. You should be resting, not waiting on me hand and foot.”

He scoffed, his hands steady as he fluffed your pillows. “Resting? What kind of boyfriend would I be if I wasn’t here taking care of you?”

“A tired one?” you offered, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, but his expression softened as he leaned down to kiss your temple. “I’m exactly where I need to be. Don’t fight me on this—I’m taking care of you whether you like it or not.”

And he meant it. Jack spent every moment he wasn’t at practice by your side, helping you with the little things that had become impossible with your injury. When you were finally discharged and sent home, Jack took charge of setting up the apartment to accommodate your limited mobility. He rearranged furniture, set up a cozy corner on the couch where you could elevate your leg, and made sure your favorite snacks were within reach.

At night, when the pain was at its worst and sleep felt impossible, Jack was there. He’d sit beside you, his hand resting on your arm as he talked you through the discomfort. Sometimes he’d read to you, his voice low and soothing, and other times he’d just sit quietly, his presence enough to calm your racing thoughts.

One evening, as you lay curled up on the couch with your leg propped up on a stack of pillows, Jack sat beside you with a bag of takeout from your favorite restaurant. The smell of your favorite dish filled the room, and you smiled up at him, your heart swelling with gratitude.

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?” you said, watching as he carefully plated the food for you.

He looked up, his face flushing slightly. “I’m just doing what anyone would do.”

“Not everyone would fly across the country after an exhausting road trip and spend every waking moment taking care of their injured girlfriend,” you pointed out. “You’ve been… incredible, Jack. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through this without you.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you, his lips lingering against yours as though he was trying to convey everything he couldn’t say. “You don’t have to go through anything alone,” he murmured. “Not as long as I’m here.”

In the weeks that followed, Jack became your rock. He helped you through the frustration of physical therapy, cheered you on as you regained strength, and reminded you every day that you were stronger than you thought. And though the road to recovery was long and grueling, the love and support Jack gave you made it feel a little less daunting.

As you sat together one evening, your head resting on his shoulder and your cast resting across his lap, you realized something profound: this injury, as difficult as it had been, had only brought you closer. Jack’s unwavering dedication had proven, without a doubt, that he was in this for the long haul. And with him by your side, you knew you could face anything.

[mrspiastri]

I would like to request a desi girl x lewis fic

desi munda 🪅

pairing: lewis hamilton x desi!reader

cw: fluff, lewis being a bit negative etc etc

wc: 2k words

an: thanks anon, hope u like my first lewis fic!

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓇼 ｡𖦹° ｡. .° ｡𖦹˚ 𓇼 ｡𖦹° ｡. .° ｡𖦹˚ 𓇼 ｡𖦹° ｡. .° ｡

“The last time I felt like this before a race was probably in 2008. It’s madness,” Lewis lamented in his driver’s room as he put on his fireproofs, getting ready to review the final data before hopping into the car.

“Well, it probably has to do with the fact that you’re racing in India after more than a decade. Unfamiliar track and all that jazz,” Y/N responded from where she was seated on the couch, filing her nails and adding the final touches to her makeup.

“I think it might be more because my gorgeous girlfriend won’t even look at my face,” he commented with a slight grin as he shimmied into his race suit.

She playfully rolled her eyes, snapping her compact mirror shut and stuffing it into her purse before looking at him. “There, now I’m all yours.” She smiled up at him as he walked across the room, towering over her.

“I think you’ve got a lot of pressure on you today, and not just from Fred and the team,” Y/N stated, making Lewis groan before plopping down next to her on the couch in a less-than-graceful manner.

“If you’re talking about your family, then yes, it’s probably that. I think I saw all your cousins and your aunts in the first three rows of the grandstands,” he muttered pitifully, pushing his face into the crook of her neck. She took pity on him, wrapping her arms around him as he continued ranting.

“I know they’re excited to see their future son-in-law doing what he does best—” Y/N let out an incredulous grunt at this—“but this is INSANE! I might die of stress, honestly.”

She laughed at him before holding his chin and making him look up at her. “You’re going to do wonderful, Lew. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone. They all know you’re the best damn driver on the grid; they’re just excited to see you in your element.”

“But if I don’t win, they’re going to think I’m useless. A washed-up, no-good idiot who can’t even win a stupid race,” he sighed, slumping further down, letting his negative thoughts take over.

Y/N sat up straighter at this. “I know you’re not talking about yourself like that. Lewis, you are an amazing driver, and you know that very well,” she said firmly, leaving no room for hesitation.

“Besides, my whole family loves you! You could come dead fucking last, and they’d still cheer. Heck, you could DNF, and they’d cheer as you brought your car into the pits to retire from the race.”

Lewis let out a dry laugh at that. He couldn’t exactly deny it.

“I just... I don’t want them to think I’m a loser. I want them to see me as a part of their family—as your future husband. If they see me lose, they’ll think I’m not good enough for you,” he finally admitted, revealing what had been weighing on him ever since Y/N told him her family would be attending the race.

Y/N was silent, emotions warring inside her. On one hand, she was shocked he thought so lowly of himself and his reputation in front of her family. But on the other hand, the fact that he had thought so far ahead about their future made her want to grab his face and kiss him until he forgot every single doubt in his head.

“Lew, I promise you—whatever happens today won’t change their perception of you. To them, you are the coolest, most enigmatic person ever. And you’re *definitely* the best catch out of all the other partners my family members have brought home. I mean, come on, who can beat a seven-time Formula One World Champion?”

A knock at the door interrupted them, a staff member reminding Lewis that he had to check the final corrections made to the car after qualifying before the formation lap started in 15 minutes.

“I’ll meet my parents in the garage; you go on ahead,” she said, standing up and adjusting the red dress she wore, showing her full support for the Ferrari driver.

Lewis got into the car, checking if the throttle and steering were working fine. “Seems good. Wanna start the lap?” he asked his engineers, receiving an affirmative response.

Y/N leaned down and kissed his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark on his skin. “A kiss for good luck—and to remove the stupid thoughts in your head.”

“I was hoping for a proper one,” Lewis playfully pouted up at her.

“That’s for after the race. You gotta have something to look forward to, na?”

He simply laughed before putting on his helmet. The sound of his car revving up echoed in the garage as he exited. Y/N, meanwhile, made her way to the back where her parents waited for her, smiling at the conversation she had just had with Lewis.

“He seems stressed. Hope it doesn’t affect his performance,” her dad pointed out, making her sigh in worry.

“He is. Honestly, he’s more worried about disappointing the family than he is about losing,” she confided.

“I hope you told him he’s crazy for even thinkingthat,” her mother gasped.

Y/N winked while putting her headphones on. “You know it.”

🪺🪺🪺

It was the final lap of the race. Lewis had overtaken Max at the start of lap 37, after tailing him for more than half of the race. In the Ferrari garage, tensions were high, with both drivers in podium positions.

As the checkered flag waved, Lewis soared past it, clinching victory in front of his girlfriend’s home crowd and further cementing Ferrari’s Constructors’ Championship title contention.

The announcers’ voices boomed throughout the grandstands, the crowd erupting into cheers. Everyone at the Ferrari garage ran out to celebrate with Lewis and Charles in parc fermé, the latter having placed third. Y/N and her parents were escorted to where the podium finishers had gathered their cars.

Lewis stood on his car, bowing to the roaring fans with his palms pressed together in a namaste pose—just like she had taught him.

The team cheered him and Charles on, with pats on the back and massive hugs. Lewis was all smiles, scanning the crowd until his eyes found Y/N, waving at him from behind the barriers.

He ran up to her, lifting her off the ground in the biggest hug he could manage without hoisting her over the barrier. She hugged him tighter, his helmet getting in the way.

He pulled it off, handing it to a team member before pulling her in again. “Now, about that kiss you mentioned earlier...” he grinned.

“You are impossible!” Y/N laughed, playfully pushing his chest.

“Good thing you love it.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t let him suffer for long. She leaned in, closing the distance between them. Her lips met his in a kiss that was slow and lingering, as if they wanted to memorize the feel of each other. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, while his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

She melted into him, gripping the front of his race suit, anchoring herself in his warmth.

The crowds, the cheers, the cameras—it all faded into the background.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, their foreheads rested together, the air between them thick with unspoken words.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I forgot we were in public for a second.”

He chuckled, fingers tracing her back. “Me too. Hope your dad doesn’t beat the shit out of me.”

Her parents decided to turn a blind eye to the couple, instead focusing on congratulating Lewis on his win. However, he couldn’t help but notice her father slapping his back just a little harder than necessary, a certain look in his eye that made Lewis straighten up.

🪺🪺🪺

Later, in the Ferrari hospitality, Y/N groaned as Lewis reached for her.

“Please shower! The champagne and sweat combined make me want to puke.”

Lewis, of course, ignored this, chasing her around until he finally caught her in his grasp—sweat, champagne, and all.

“You’re so disgusting. I just washed my hair, yaar.”

Her smirk, however, gave her away.

“Well, Lewis,” her cousin quipped, “you’ve definitely earned your spot in the family now.”

Lewis grinned. “Well, I’d hope so. It was very nice of you all to come out today—really motivated me. And scared the living shit out of me.”

The whole room burst into laughter. Her father cleared his throat, eyeing the two of them. “You’ve done well today, beta. You’ve got speed, skill, and determination—but most importantly, you make my daughter happy.

Lewis straightened slightly, sensing the weight of the moment. “That means the world to me, sir.”

Her father studied him for a beat before nodding approvingly. “Good. Now go shower before you suffocate us with that champagne stench.”

The room erupted into laughter, and Y/N rolled her eyes fondly. “I told you.” Lewis laughed, pressing a quick kiss to Y/N’s temple before heading off. “I’ll be back—don’t have too much fun without me.”

🪺🪺🪺

The afterparty was in full swing by the time Lewis and Y/N arrived. The upscale venue was buzzing with energy—team members, rival drivers, and VIP guests mingled over glasses of champagne, the hum of conversations blending seamlessly with the music playing overhead.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, celebratory drinks, and the undeniable electricity of victory.

When the doors opened, all heads instinctively turned toward the couple making their entrance.

Lewis Hamilton, still glowing from his win, walked in with Y/N by his side, her right arm slotted in the crook oh his left one. They were well dressed as always — Lewis in a well-fitted, deep blue kurta, a nod to Y/N’s heritage, and Y/N in a breathtaking red saree that shimmered under the golden lights. The rich fabric draped over her in a way that left little to the imagination, her bangles softly jingling as she adjusted her hold on his arm.

“Well, don’t we look like a power couple?" Charles teased, raising his glass as they approached.

Y/N smirked. "You’re just jealous, Charlie."

“Of the matching outfits or the fact that you two have already stolen all the attention?" Carlos chimed in with a grin.

Lewis chuckled, placing a protective hand on the small of Y/N’s back. "Can’t blame them. My girl does clean up pretty damn well."

Y/N turned to him, eyes dancing with amusement. "Only fair, considering I dressed you."

Lewis leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. "And here I thought I was doing you a favor by looking this good." She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, she tugged him toward the bar.

"Come on, Mr. Race Winner, let’s get you a drink before you get too cocky." The bartender barely had a chance to ask before Charles called out, "A whiskey for the champion and—Y/N, what are you drinking?"

"White wine," she replied.

Lewis took the glass from the bartender and handed it to her before raising his own in a silent toast. "To surviving your family’s initiation," he joked.

She laughed softly, clinking her glass against his. "Oh, you’re not done yet. This is just the beginning. But let’s talk about that later, because the only thing I’m focusing on is how good you look in this kurta.”

He laughed, “Well you’re the one who said I should wear this instead of the red one I wanted to go with.”

“It’s called contrast, and we’re pulling it off well. Besides, you look much more handsome in this, like a proper desi munda.

Lewis narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "That sounds both adorable and terrifying. Should I be worried?"

Y/N smirked, "Don’t worry about it.”

Before he could question her, the music shifted to something slower, more sultry, and Lewis took that as his cue. Handing his glass to Carlos, he turned to Y/N with a familiar glint in his eye.

"May I have this dance?" Y/N raised an eyebrow. "You? Dancing at a public event?"

Lewis smirked, pulling her toward him without waiting for an answer. "For you? Always."

And just like that, in the middle of the celebration, the world shrank down to just the two of them—spinning, laughing, and getting lost in each other, a champion on the track and in love.

never written for lewis before so hope this is nice anon. honestly not very proud of this one but like fuck it we ball <4

[akawifeyy]

RISK! | smau & fic (FC43)

description: franco colapinto is a playboy — everyone knows that — but he does have some boundaries that he’s unwilling to cross. that is, until he meets you. the younger sister of oscar piastri. then he’s willing to risk it all.

tropes: forced proximity, mutual love, forbidden romance, age gap (18 and 21), op81 sister!reader!

face claim: gracie mckenna

trigger warnings: suggestive content, swearing

| note: this is a combination between a smau and a fic, meaning that some social media snippets are mixed throughout, along with blocks of prose. hope you enjoy!

tagged: @ williams, @ francolapinto, @ f1

comments (2718):

@ user1: this is so ridiculous, he's literally just being used to get girls to watch F1 🙄

-> @ user2: I agree, he can't even drive

@ user3: CONGRATS FRANCOOOO #argentina 🇦🇷

@ williams: We're so grateful to have Franco on our team, and can't wait to see what he will achieve in these upcoming races!

Melbourne, Australia (2025)

There was no way you could ever do this. Get in a tiny metal race car and go spinning around in circles against nineteen others for almost two hours? That was a tall order for anyone, yet your brother always exceeded expectations. You watched him glide through the track, his papaya car shedding sparks as he pushed the engine to the max. He was incredible, carefully looping around and setting records.

It was his home race; nothing lesser would have been expected. Oscar needed to excel, to survive against the pressure. Over the past few weeks, it was like he was glued to the sim, practicing this circuit repeatedly, making sure every movement was executed flawlessly. This was the final countdown: FP2, meaning that in less than a day, Oscar's skills would be put to the test.

Behind you, your best friend Georgia, wolf-whistled. Lando Norris, Oscar's teammate, had just entered the paddock. His curly hair was obscured by his classic neon-green helmet, his race suit hanging loose around his waist. "I'm so ready..." You heard him say to Zach, and then you turned your attention back on Oscar, who was on his final practice lap.

The car moved around as if it were a dagger, slicing through the track like the weapon it was. When he finally slowed to a halt, you rushed to meet him. He exited the car, removing his helmet, chest heaving with exertion. "Hey, Y/N," he said, smiling.

"Hi, Osc! You did amazing!"

He flushed, not one for compliments. "Sure. Where's Mom?"

"I think she went inside because it was too hot. I'll go get her," you said brightly, trailing after him.

Oscar shook his head. "It's OK, don't worry. Stay out here a bit, I think Lando's about to go on."

"I don't really care about him," you blurted. "I was waiting until you were done to go walk around the track."

Oscar raised one eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Even though you were younger than him by only five years, he acted like you were still a child. You were eighteen, and just one semester away from going to uni! You wouldn't have constant supervision there.

"Mom said I could," you pouted. "You're not in charge of me, I'm an adult now."

"Yeah, but you can't read a map, and you're naive," Oscar pointed out. "You trust everyone."

You gave him a look. "Like that's a bad thing. Anyways, I'll see you later!"

Oscar hugged you quickly, his eyes watching you concernedly, and you rushed off to explore the circuit.

Melbourne, Australia (2025 / continued)

You exited the McLaren paddock, tugging off your jacket and tying it around your waist securely. It had been a while since you'd been able to go to a Grand Prix; your parents hadn't let you because of all your studies. But this was Oscar's home race, and it was monumental. After months of arguing (and failed attempts at bribery), you'd finally convinced them to let you tag along.

The sun beat down on you, warming you from head to toe. It felt nice to finally feel a bit of a breeze, since you'd been cooped up in your room all week, prepping for your finals.

As you wandered through the grounds, you watched as fans cheered for their favorite drivers. You saw a few Australian flags here and there. One even had Oscar's face on it, next to a koala on a eucalyptus tree and a kangaroo, and you laughed.

You passed the Mercedes and Haas motor homes, where you saw Kimi Antonelli and Ollie Bearman talking. They were close to your age, and potential friends, but whenever you tried to talk to them, Oscar ushered you away.

"They're guys. And F1 drivers. They can't be trusted," he told you.

You rolled your eyes. "So that means I can't trust you."

Eventually, you found yourself in the Williams paddock, watching as they prepped the car for its final practice before the race. A man with the most attractive dimples you'd ever seen was talking animatedly with his race engineer, discussing potential strategies.

You were enthralled by his lilting accent, caught on every word and phrase. He finished with the race engineer and turned to his car, but then he stopped, noticing your presence.

You were wearing a bright orange blouse, and the jacket wrapped around your waist had Oscar's number on it, immediately incriminating you.

"Hello there," the man said, a grin dancing on his lips. "I'm Franco. And you are?"

Seven words, and you were hooked.

Text messages between Oscar and Y/N (2025):

@ yourusername: home is where the heart is 🩷

tagged: @ oscarpiastri, @ f1

comments (182):

@ yourbffusername: had sooo much fun w you!

-> @ yourusername: i love being with youu

@ oscarpiastri: I already miss it

-> @ yourusername: go kick ass in china 😼

@ user4: Just dropped to my knees in the middle of the grocery store. She's just that beautiful

Two weeks after the Melbourne Grand Prix

You flopped down on your bed, feet kicked up in the air as you texted none other than Franco, the same driver you'd met in the Williams paddock. He was funny and flirtatiously silly, but he was smart too. You had a lot of conversations about your upcoming university days, and he gave great advice on the topic.

"You don't always have to listen to your brother," he texted you a few nights after you'd met. "You're your own person, cielo."

You two had bonded over your mutual love of horse riding, a hobby of yours that you were trying to continue despite all the stress of the past year. Franco sent you a few photos of his horse, and one where he was shirtless. You spent more time ogling that picture than you'd care to admit.

Talking to Franco was therapeutic, and you didn't want to hide the blossoming friendship (or more?) that you two had. But you knew how overly protective Oscar was of you. You didn't want to spark a rivalry that could play out poorly on track. It wasn't worth the drama.

You weren't going to avoid telling your brother forever, but you wanted to wait a while to make sure that you didn't give him an aneurysm for nothing. Franco had a reputation as a playboy, like all other F1 drivers, but he was still young and a rising star. He could be using you — at least, that's what the little voice in the back of your mind warned. It spent too much time listening and believing everything Oscar had told you.

There was a knock on your door, and you jumped, turning the screen off so that no one could see the conversation you'd been having.

I've never met a girl like you before.

You're my princesa, you know that? All pure and perfect. I wonder how long it would take for me to absolutely ruin you.

"Dinner's ready," your mother called through the door.

"Thanks, I'll be there in a minute!" you responded. Once you heard her footsteps recede, you texted Franco that you had to leave, and hurried outside, your cheeks blushing red.

@ francolapinto: ¡P8 en el Gran Premio de China! Es muy emocionante ver todo el progreso que ha logrado Williams. Estoy agradecido de ser parte de este equipo. ¡Hasta la próxima carrera!

(P8 in the Chinese Grand Prix! Very exciting to see all the progress Williams has made, I'm grateful to be part of this team. Until next race!)

tagged: @ williams, @ f1

comments (489):

@ user11: Amazing work, Franco!

@ yourusername: podium coming when???

-> @ francolapinto: Soon 😏

Text messages between Franco and Y/N (2025):

The Confrontation:

You fidgeted under Oscar's heavy stare. Even through a phone screen, his brown eyes pierced you. "I need to tell you something, but you can't flip out, OK?" you said.

"Oh God, what did you do now?" Oscar responded, preparing for the worst.

You shook your head, putting your palms up in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing bad! I swear!" You hesitated. "Well...I've been talking to someone. A guy, for a bit now."

Oscar sucked in a breath. "Not Lando."

Your jaw dropped. "Absolutely not."

"Good. Who is it, then?"

You closed your eyes, praying to God that Oscar wouldn't explode from anger. "Um...Franco?" You waited for the name to register.

Oscar blinked. "The new Williams driver?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that's who it is."

"That's who you chose?"

"Yeah?" you questioned, cocking your head to the side in confusion. "Is there something I should know? I mean, other than the fact that he's a supposed playboy and —"

"— He's fine, I suppose," Oscar mused under his breath. "Just be careful, alright?"

You froze in shock. "Yeah, I will be. Thanks for not freaking out."

"You're eighteen, I can't stop you from being romantically interested in someone. All I ask is that you don't engage in activities that should be done after marriage." Oscar pursed his lips. "I love you, Y/N. I'm always looking out for you."

"I know, and I'm thankful. You're the best older brother in the world."

@ francolapinto: Felices tres meses para mi hermosa novia, Y/N. Gracias por escucharme hablar y estar siempre ahí, incluso en los momentos más difíciles. Hasta pronto, corazón mío.

(Happy three months to my beautiful girlfriend, Y/N. Thank you for listening to me speak and always being there, even in the most difficult moments. See you soon, my heart.)

tagged: @ yourusername

comments (5895):

@ user11: I KNEW IT 🥳🥳🥳

@ user12: we weren't delusional guys!!!!!

-> @ user7: I love clowning and then being right

@ yourusername: hard launchhhh ‼️

-> @ yourusername: love you so much franco, i don't know what i would do without you!

-> @ francolapinto: Muchos besos, mi amor 💋

─── ୨୧ ─── THE END ─── ୨୧ ───

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

I’ll be there||Lando Norris x Platonic!Fem!Reader

Summary- Lando your best friend,your brother, your platonic soulmate is struggling hard with his mental health and y/n promises to always be there for Lando

Word count -1267

Warnings - Lando being had on himself and self loathing, hints of depression

A/n-this is how I’ve been feeling lately also the is a scheduled post I’m not back!

Lando’s apartment was a disaster. The moment Y/N stepped inside, the weight of it hit her—not just the physical mess, but the emotional one. The air felt heavy, thick with something unspoken, like grief or exhaustion. Clothes were tossed haphazardly over the couch, half-empty water bottles littered the coffee table, and the dishes in the sink had long since been abandoned. The trash bin overflowed, wrappers and empty cans scattered around it.

But the worst part wasn’t the mess.

It was Lando.

He was curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, body turned toward the cushions like he could disappear into them. His phone lay facedown beside him—another red flag. If Lando wasn’t glued to it, checking team updates or talking to his friends, something was really wrong.

He heard Y/N come in. He just… couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it.

Because if he looked at her, she’d see.

She’d see how fucking tired he was.

Tired of waking up every morning and feeling like he was already losing. Tired of opening his phone to see strangers ripping him apart like he was nothing more than a punching bag. Tired of pretending it didn’t get to him. That it didn’t sink into his skin like ink, staining everything.

They were right.

He wasn’t good enough. He was arrogant and had a big ego. He wasn’t championship material and he sure as hell didn’t deserve his race wins.

He didn’t even know why she was here. She should just leave him be—leave him to rot in this mess because that’s what he deserved.

But Y/N didn’t leave.

She exhaled softly, pushing up her sleeves, and started cleaning.

Lando squeezed his eyes shut.

Stop. Just leave it. It’s pointless. I’m pointless.

But she didn’t stop.

She moved around quietly, gathering the trash first—wrappers, empty bottles, things he should’ve thrown away days ago. He heard the rustle of a trash bag being tied up and set by the door. Then came the sound of dishes clinking together, water running, the rhythmic scrape of a sponge against crusted plates.

Y/N was cleaning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Like it wasn’t fucking pathetic that she even had to. He was a grown man who was perfectly capable of doing his own dishes and his laundry but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be bothered to do anything.

Lando swallowed against the lump in his throat. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

She kept going.She wiped the counters, cleared the coffee table, picked up his clothes and folded them neatly. With every movement, the apartment became a little less suffocating, but Lando still felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to say something. To tell her to stop wasting her time.

But when he finally opened his eyes, Y/N was standing by the window, pushing it open. A fresh breeze filtered in, cool and salty from the ocean, clearing out the stale, heavy air.

That was the moment he broke a little.

Not when she cleaned.

Not when she folded his clothes or wiped down the counters.

But when she opened the window.

Because it wasn’t just about fresh air.

It was about letting him breathe again.

Y/N turned to him, finally meeting his gaze. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Lando shrugged, looking away. “Not hungry.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not an answer.”

He heard the quiet frustration in her voice, but she didn’t push. She just crouched down beside him, placing a hand on his knee.

“How about a shower first?” she suggested. “I’ll get you a clean hoodie, and when you’re done, I’ll make something for you.”

Lando hesitated. He didn’t want to be a burden. Didn’t want her to waste any more energy on him.

But Y/N wasn’t giving him a choice.

“Come on,” she said gently. “I’ll stay nearby, okay?”

Another beat of silence. Then, slowly, he nodded.

She led him to the bathroom and turned on the shower, testing the water until it was warm. Lando stood by the sink, staring at his reflection.

He hated what he saw.

Dull eyes, dark circles, skin pale from too many sleepless nights.

He didn’t even recognize himself anymore.

Y/N must’ve noticed because she helped him out of his hoodie, carefully, like he might shatter under her hands. He let her, too tired to protest.

Once he was in the shower, she stayed outside, handing him what he needed.

Lando let the water run over him, head bowed, steam curling around him. He wanted it to wash everything away—the exhaustion, the self-hatred, the voices in his head whispering that he wasn’t enough.

But it didn’t.

It never did.

When he finally stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, Y/N was there. She handed him clean clothes and turned away as he got dressed.

Once he was done, she helped pull his hoodie over his head, hands lingering just long enough to squeeze his shoulders.

“Better?” she asked softly.

Lando swallowed. He gave a small nod.

“Good. Now sit down—I’m making you something to eat.”

“But I don’t have anything here to make,” he mumbled, picking at the side of his thumb, ashamed.

Y/N just smiled. “I guess it’s a good thing I DoorDashed some groceries.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

No one had ever done that for him before.

He obeyed, sinking into one of the kitchen chairs as she unpacked the groceries and started cooking.

She knew exactly what to make—his favorite meal.

The scent of garlic and basil filled the kitchen as she minced, stirred, and grated. Every movement was purposeful, like she was pouring care into every bite.

Lando watched her, something twisting in his chest.

“What?” Y/N asked, catching his gaze.

He swallowed. “I don’t deserve this.”

Her expression softened, but her voice was firm. “Lando, where is this coming from?”

His throat tightened. He looked down at his hands, fingers trembling.

“The hate, the comments… I see them all. People saying I’m not good enough, that I should just quit. And I know I shouldn’t care, but—” His voice cracked. “I do. And I feel like maybe they’re right.”

Y/N inhaled sharply. Then she reached for his hands, squeezing them tightly.

“The people saying that? They don’t know you. They don’t see how hard you work. They’re just bitter, lonely people who tear others down because they have nothing else.”

Lando clenched his jaw, breath shaky. “It just… it gets so heavy sometimes.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She got up, wrapped her arms around him, and held him tight.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered as he finally broke, body trembling against her.

His hands gripped the back of her hoodie like a lifeline. “I’m so tired, Y/N.”

“I know,” she murmured, rubbing slow circles on his back. “But you’re not alone. I swear to you, no matter what, no matter where—I’m here. Always.”

His fingers tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away. “What if I can’t fix this? What if it never gets better?”

Y/N cupped his face, forcing him to look at her.

“Then I’ll sit in the dark with you until it does.”

Lando’s breath hitched.

She meant it.

They stayed like that until his breathing steadied, until the weight on his chest wasn’t quite so crushing.

Eventually, Y/N nudged his plate toward him. “Eat.”

And this time, he did.

Because maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

[cosmerelists]

I Assign Cosmere Characters A Random Animal As Their Pet

I'm using the random generator from this post. I've already created a list of Cosmere characters (it's just the main characters I always do, ha ha), and then I'll randomly assign them a pet and see how they fair! For the record, these results are not altered at all!

[For the purposes of this post, we're gonna pretend that any animal that comes up would make a good and ethical pet, okay? Please don't actually try to adopt a bear.]

1. Kaladin: A dromedary (a type of camel)

Kaladin: [stares at the camel] Camel: [stares at Kaladin] Kaladin: T-This is just a bigger, meaner horse! Kaladin: I can tell just from one glance into its eyes that that hump is full of SPITE Camel: [spits at Kaladin] Kaladin: I KNEW IT

2. Vin: A mustang (a type of horse)

Vin: Yes, yes, you think you're soooo pretty and fast, don't you? Vin: I'm faster, you know. Probably. With enough metal. Vin: So just don't you getting to big for your horse britches! Elend: Wow! What a beautiful horse! Vin: Don't you start!

3. Shallan: A monkey

Shallan: What a cute little monkey you are! Shallan: With the little outfit Adolin sewed for you, and the paintbrush I gave you! Shallan: A regular little monkey artist! Pattern: [buzzing] I keep telling you, Shallan, this creature wants to be like that one person I saw when you were looking for the herald! It wants to be paint with its p- Shallan (loudly): We'll just use regular paint, thank you!

4. Tress: A mandrill (largest monkey in the world)

Tress: Wow, you have such a pretty face, ma'am! Tress: And a large girl like you won't need to fear any mean ol' cat, will you! Charlie: I feel strangely inadequate. Tress: I-I didn't mean it that way!

5. Dalinar: A bear

Dalinar: You and I are a lot alike, bear. Dalinar: We are both large and intimidating, and we can hurt a lot of people if we get violent. Dalinar: ... Dalinar: Also, apparently Navani really likes to cuddle with both of us. Navani: He's soooo soft!

6. Painter: A bighorn (a type of sheep)

Painter: I like him. Painter: He's got a noble bearing. You can tell with those big horns and steely gaze, he's probably king of his herd or something. Painter: So please stop stacking chopsticks on his head. Yumi: Come on, he LOVES his chopstick-tower-hat! Bighorn: [making happy sheep noises] Painter: I-I just think his gravitas is taking a hit.

7. Leshwi: A burro (a type of donkey)

Lewshi: I'll admit, I was really hoping for an animal that could fly. Venli: Surely anything can fly if you lash it to the sky. Leshwi: I tried that. Leshwi: Apparently donkeys don't like to fly.

8. Adolin: A basilisk (a type of lizard)

Shallan: So...why the little cape on your lizard friend? Adolin: He runs across water! It's cool, but I thought it would look even cooler if he was wearing a cape while he did it! Shallan: Where do you find enough water for that? Adolin: Well...he's mostly been running across a bathtub. Shallan: Ah, so he REALLY needs the coolness factor of a cape... Adolin: Yeah, I think it'll really help his self-esteem.

9. Steris: A sheep

Wax: Hey Steris. Steris: Hello, Wax. Wax: I can't help but notice that where yesterday was one sheep, today there are fifteen sheep. Steris: I read that they feel better in herds! Wax: You always go all in--I love that about you. Wax: ... Steris: ... Wax: So we're sheep farmers now? Steris: A little bit, yeah.

10. Navani: A ferret

Sibling: NAVANI YOUR FERRET IS RUNNING THROUGH MY TUNNELS AGAIN Navani: It loves you! Sibling: IT'S LIKE THAT LIFT CHILD ALL OVER AGAIN

11. Siri: A budgerigar (bird)

Siri: This little guy is perfect for me! Siri: Colorful, small, sweet! Siri: I'm teaching it to talk! Budgie: Let's destroy evil! Siri: ... Siri: Uncle Vasher was here again, wasn't he?

12. Kelsier: A duckbill platypus (yes, really)

Kelsier: Everyone, meet the newest member of our team! Dockson: Uh...what is that? Vin: It looks like a bunch of different animals stuck together. Breeze: Rather unsightly, really. Ham: You, uh, doing okay, Kel? Kelsier: You're all such doubters. But watch what happens when I do THIS! [Puts a fedora on the platypus] Vin: ...Why do I suddenly feel like he's going to make a great spy? Kelsier: Trust me, this is gonna be great!

[misswhowrite]

a well keep secret

Summary: Spencer’ s girlfriend meets the team for the first time.

(English isn’t my first language!!)

The first time Spencer told the team about his girlfriend, nobody really paid attention. Well maybe they should have because when Spencer and her stood in Rossi’s living room, the team was shocked. Derek was literally gobsmacked, Garcia squealed, JJ’s jaws was on the floor, Hotch was shock and Rossi just brought them a glass of wine. 

“_Well I told you all, I have a girlfriend, her name is Y/N, she wanted to meet you so I though why not tonight.

_Hi, it’s nice to meet you!”

There was a long silence before Garcia started asking a million questions rapidly and brought Y/N into a hug. Then the rest of the team started the presentation one by one. Derek was teasing Spencer, telling him something like “how could you hide that beauty over there?!”. And for thirty minutes, the couple stayed by themselves, chatting quietly, Spencer hugging her and making her giggle. The team wanted to leave them be but they also wanted to know more about her so they send Penelope to steal her. 

“_So my lovely, tell us more about you and how you met our boy genius!

_Well I’m 25, I’m a nurse, Spencer and I have been together for 4 years…

_FOUR YEARS!!! Spencer Reid come here right now!

_oh, what happened Garcia?

_Don’t play innocent, you’ve been in a relationship for four years and you didn’t tell us. 

_I wanted to protect her, you know that job is dangerous and with what happened with Maeve, I thought I could keep her safe if you didn’t knew about her.

_We- I can understand but it would’ve been nice to know.

_I’m sorry, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

After resolving their problem, all of them went to the dinning room, trying to diffuse the tension and with the wine and pasta everyone began to relax. The conversations were flowing, they were laughing. The team was glad to know more about Y/N, even if Spencer kept her a secret for four years, but knowing that he’s happy made it a bit more understandable. 

(one day I’ll make long one-shot, but for no I like short one so enjoy them :) )

[hxrsheykisses]

It’s me again girl💔 could u do the eltingville boys with a reader that has a bf that mistreats them? I would like to see how they react ESPECIALLY if the bf is preventing her from hanging out with them (wink wink) - 💐 anon

THIS IS GOING TO BE SO GOOD!!! I love making drama with the boys cause I just know that they will be a hot disastrous mess💔 thank you so much for requesting 💐 anon!!♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

They gon run fades

Cause this whole thing will send them on a mission. They ALL will postpone the club meeting to have a discussion to lowkey lay hands on this lil boyfriend of yours. They may not be all that in physique wise but they aren’t gonna allow him to not only keep you away from them, but to also mistreat you.

They all had their own personal experiences with your boyfriend so they knew that he was just a bitch.

Bill, we all know that he is an asshole, it’s no secret. But before Bill could even give him shit, he beat him to it. Your boyfriend was talking some nonsense that hurt his ego—taking shit on his interests and his looks while he ain’t look nothing special himself. Bill’s ego is the most sensitive thing about him so anything and anyone can make it hurt bad. He was already tweaking out after that first encounter.

Pete automatically knew from the start when you brought your boyfriend around. He could also tell that you acted so differently when he was around and that set off some red flags. So Pete has been wary of him. He didn’t appreciate how your boyfriend would talk to you as if you were stupid and treated you like shit. Now, Pete ain’t just gonna sit around and listen to him bark and yap so of course he spoke out about it to him. Your boyfriend just said some snarky comments about how Pete was doing way too fucking much and that set him off.

Josh would be the butt of the joke whenever your boyfriend was around and it’ll all be about his weight and shit. Josh would say stuff back but he doesn’t go far enough. Your boyfriend seems be appear to be experienced in knowing how to make people shut the fuck up apparently so everytime Josh tries to shoot his shot with a insult or two, it all comes crashing down on him.

Jerry has said something one time to your boyfriend when he flat out called you out of your name, like he said how it wasn’t cool for him to call you that considering how you two are dating and stuff. Obviously that all went out. one ear and out the other and it had Jerry boiling on the inside because he just couldn’t stand watching your boyfriend treat you in such a fashion—with no shame too.

The point where it got serious was when your boyfriend prevented you from doing anything with the boys. This meant no club meetings, no hanging out outside the meetings, plans, or even simply making small talk if you were to cross paths—everything was a big no no. (And if I remember correctly…) You guys were 17 year olds—why was your boyfriend preventing you from hanging out outside? Why is he trying to take the ropes and keep you away from them when you are damn near grown?

The boys have planned a confrontation after sneaking and talking to you (wasn’t an easy thing to do…), they convinced you that your boyfriend wasn’t a good guy for you to be with and how they can tell that it’s taking a toll on you. It was a tough decision but it was the right one. So, they all planned on scheduling a confrontation with your boyfriend…the plan was to catch the two of you walking around the block, and all the boys basically team up against your boyfriend. You on the other hand, with some extra backup, you will make the official choice to break up with him.

The situation was terrible and resulted in a small physical fight between the boys but in the end it all worked out with some bruises and cuts in the end—you were finally free from the grasp of your shitty boyfriend at least’

On a real note, the boys were really worried about you and you were always on their mind when you and this bitch were dating. They didn’t want you to end up getting hurt more than you already did by this guy and they weren’t going to sit around and allow it to happen. Sure, they aren’t necessarily good people themselves but you are their friend and they can’t risk seeing you get hurt like that.

[iamquiantrelle]

THURAM'S NO. 1 ANGEL (chapter 1) ────iamquaintrelle

# pairing: marcus thuram x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# wc: 4.5k

# tags: @irishmanwhore @sucredreamer @coffeevacation @hopefulromantic1 @jessnotwiththemess

# summary: shanice carter-ricci didn't expect to become part-owner of inter milan at forty, but here she is - fresh off a divorce from her italian ex and ready to shake up serie a. she's got plans to bring some much-needed diversity and fresh energy to those stuffy executive boxes. what she doesn't plan on? getting tangled up with marcus thuram, the team's star striker who's fourteen years younger and infamous for his rotation of gorgeous girlfriends known as "thuram's angels." soon shanice is finding out that age ain't nothing but a number… and maybe it's time for this angel investor to shake up thuram's roster. masterlist.

# a/n: this will be a mini fic series with thirteen parts unless there's no engagement.

Shanice pulled her Hermes scarf tighter as she walked through the VIP entrance of San Siro. Even after six months, it still felt weird being part owner of Inter Milan. Like, how did her ex-husband's obsession become her fresh start at forty? The divorce from Alessandro had at least given her this, along with keeping her sanity intact.

The players' tunnel was empty and quiet since practice ended hours ago. As the new VP of Community Relations, she told herself she needed to know every inch of her investment. But honestly? She just loved how the place felt when no one was around.

That's when she heard it - deep laughter and rapid French echoing off the walls. Before she could place where it was coming from, she literally walked right into what felt like a wall of muscle in Inter training gear.

"Shit, I'm sorry!" Marcus Thuram's face broke into that infamous grin of his as his hands steadied her shoulders. Behind him, three gorgeous women watched the scene unfold, all gorgeous in that Instagram-ready way. So these were the famous "Angels" everyone gossiped about.

"Mrs. Ricci," he said, recognition lighting his eyes. "I didn't expect to meet our new owner like this." His English was good, touched with just enough French to be straight up dangerous.

"Just Shanice now," she corrected him. "The divorce was finalized in June." Why the hell did she share that? There was just something about his open, playful expression that made you want to spill your whole life story.

"Ah, fresh starts," he nodded sagely, though his eyes danced with mischief. "I'm somewhat of an expert in those. New club, new city…" He gestured at the women behind him. "New friends."

One of the Angels - this tall drink of water with honey-blonde weave - cleared her throat like she was tired of waiting.

"Speaking of friends," Marcus said with an apologetic grin, "we have dinner reservations. But maybe we could discuss community outreach programs sometime? I have some ideas."

Shanice found herself nodding before she could stop herself. This man's charm should be illegal for real. "My office is always open to players."

"Good!" He was already backing away, the Angels falling into formation around him like they'd rehearsed it. "Though fair warning - I might try to convince you to sponsor a sneaker design competition for local kids."

She watched him disappear down the corridor, her daughters' voices already playing in her head. Thirteen-year-old Dream would absolutely lose it if she knew mom had just met her favorite player. And nine-year-old Heaven would've been all over his shoes, trying to figure out if they were some limited drop.

Pulling out her phone, Shanice added "look into sneaker comps?" to her notes. She tried to ignore how her skin was still buzzing where his hands had been.

She had way too much on her plate to be thinking about a fine as hell 27-year-old footballer with a rotating cast of girlfriends. Even if his smile could probably power all of Milan.

Shaking her head, Shanice continued down the tunnel, her heels clicking against the concrete. Football had always been Alessandro's thing, not hers. Every weekend for years, he'd take Dream and Heaven to the matches while she built her empire hosting events and securing those luxury brand deals. Not that she minded - somebody had to be the practical one, the hustler making things happen while he played football owner with his rich friends.

But now? Now she owned a piece of one of the biggest clubs in Europe. The irony wasn't lost on her. She might not know every player's stats like Dream did, or care about formation tactics like Alessandro had, but she knew business. She knew how to make things grow. And honestly? Serie A could use some diversity in the owner's boxes - not just on the pitch.

"Time to make some noise," she muttered to herself, running her hand along the tunnel wall. Dream had screamed for ten minutes straight when Shanice told her about the divorce settlement. Not because of the divorce - they'd all seen that coming - but because her mom now owned part of her favorite team. Heaven had just rolled her eyes in that way only a nine-year-old could and asked if this meant she could players’ shoe collections.

Back in her modeling days, Shanice never imagined she'd end up here. But that hustle had never left her blood, even after she'd transitioned from walking runways to running events. Her network was crazy - fashion houses, celebrities, influencers, business moguls - all on speed dial because they knew she could make magic happen. Alessandro might've laughed at her "little parties" at first, but he shut up real quick when her connections started bringing serious money and clout to his business ventures.

She pulled out her phone again, scrolling through her contacts. Maybe it was time to bring that same energy to Inter. These stuffy old Italian football clubs needed to wake up and realize the game was changing. Social media, fashion collabs, global branding - that's where the real money was. And with her connections? She could open doors these men in their expensive suits hadn't even thought to look for.

The image of Marcus Thuram's smile flashed through her mind again. She had to admit - at least the view at work was going to be nice. Real nice. Even if he was young enough to make her feel like a whole cougar for even thinking about it.

Her phone lit up with a message from Dream: "MOMMM did you see any players today? 👀"

Shanice grinned, deciding to torture her daughter a little. "Maybe. Just walked around the tunnel a bit."

"OMG WHO???"

"Nobody special. Just some tall guy. French, I think? Had a few girlfriends with him..."

"MARCUS?!?! YOU MET MARCUS THURAM AND YOU'RE JUST NOW TELLING ME?! I'm literally dying. Did he do the smile? You know the one. Heaven says you better have checked his shoes!"

Shanice laughed out loud in the empty tunnel. Trust her kids to have their priorities straight - Dream thirsting over that smile and Heaven focused on the sneaker game. Like mother, like daughters - she hadn't missed those Jordan 1s he was wearing either.

"You're supposed to be doing homework," she texted back. "And yes, he smiled. No, I didn't catalog his shoe collection. I was kind of busy being professional."

The string of crying emojis that followed made her shake her head. She'd created a monster when she agreed to let Alessandro take Dream to that Inter Milan match three years ago. Now her daughter's room looked like a shrine to them - posters, jerseys, the works. Heaven wasn't much better, except her wall was covered in pictures of players' rare sneaker collections that she'd printed out.

Her phone buzzed again. This time it was her assistant reminding her about tomorrow's marketing meeting. Right. Back to reality. She had actual work to do, strategies to plan, a whole department to run. She couldn't be out here acting like her teenage daughter, getting flustered over a pretty smile and some designer kicks.

Even if that smile did make her forget she was supposed to be a whole grown woman with responsibilities.

"At least tell me if the Angels were as pretty in person as they look on Instagram!" Dream's next text popped up.

Shanice rolled her eyes. "Goodbye, Dream. Do your homework."

But as she headed toward her office, she couldn't help but wonder exactly how one got an invitation to join Thuram's Angels. Not that she was interested. At all.

She was way too old for that drama.

Probably.

*********************************************

Shanice's office was her sanctuary in the chaos of training days. Up here in the executive level, she could see the players running drills on the practice field below. Not that watching was doing her any good right now - she'd been staring at the same sponsorship proposal for twenty minutes straight.

Her phone buzzed. Dream again, probably spamming her with more TikToks of Marcus's training highlights. Her teenager had been insufferable since finding out mom was technically her idol's boss. Heaven was slightly more chill about it, but only because she was more interested in his sneaker collection than his football skills.

But it wasn't Dream. It was an Inter Milan internal number.

Marcus? Why is he calling her?

"Shouldn't you be training right now?" Shanice answered, trying to keep her voice professional despite the smile tugging at her lips.

"Water break," Marcus's voice was warm through the speaker. "And I hear you have an excellent coffee machine in your office. Much better than the one in players' lounge."

"Are you really trying to schmooze the boss for better coffee when you should be hydrating?"

"I would never," he gasped in mock offense. "I'm trying to schmooze the boss for both better coffee AND funding for my sneaker competition. I'm an excellent multitasker."

She shouldn't find that as funny as she did. "Fine. After training tomorrow? And yes, the coffee is excellent."

"Perfect. I'll bring my presentation. You bring your coffee machine's A-game."

"Get back to practice," she said, but she was grinning like a fool.

"Yes, boss," he chuckled before hanging up.

Shanice leaned back in her chair, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. This was business. Just business. Even if his voice did things to her that should be classified as a cardiac event.

Her phone buzzed again - Dream for real this time. "Mom mom mom did you see Marcus's new training pics? His fit is actually insane!"

Shanice glanced down at the practice field, where she could just make out number 9 jogging back to rejoin his teammates.

Just. Business.

The rest of her day was a blur of meetings and calls - sponsorship negotiations, community program reviews, endless emails about jersey designs. She was good at this part. Numbers, strategies, making shit happen - that's what got her here, not knowing the difference between a free kick and a corner kick.

On her way out, she nearly ran into Simone Inzaghi, Inter's manager. He'd been trying to get her to actually watch a match from the owner's box instead of just handling the business side.

"Shanice! This Saturday, yes? You'll come?" His English was getting better, but his hopeful expression did most of the talking.

She adjusted her Birkin on her shoulder. "Still not a football fan, coach."

"I will change this," he declared, shaking his head with a laugh. "I will beg if needed."

"We'll see," she smiled, already knowing she wouldn't. She had enough football talk from her daughters - she didn't need to add live matches to the mix.

The drive home to her Lake Como villa was usually her decompression time. Twenty minutes of pure luxury car silence, winding along the lakeside, watching the sun set behind the mountains. But today, that peace was shattered by the sight of a familiar Maserati in her driveway.

"What the fuck, Alex?" she muttered, pulling her Porsche in beside it. They had a custody arrangement for a reason. Wednesday wasn't his day.

Sure enough, when she walked in, Alessandro was in her kitchen like he still owned the place, stirring something that smelled suspiciously good while Heaven played sous chef. Dream was sprawled on the kitchen island bench, scrolling through her phone like this was just another regular Wednesday night.

"Ooh! Mama's home!" Heaven squealed, abandoning her post to launch herself at Shanice.

She caught her baby girl, hugging and kissing her while pinning her ex with a look that could freeze the whole lake. "Alex, a moment please."

Alessandro had the nerve to look completely unbothered as he handed Heaven the wooden spoon. "Keep stirring the sauce, tesoro."

Shanice led him to her home office, shutting the door with maybe a little more force than necessary. The room was her space - all clean lines and modern art, not a single piece of football memorabilia in sight. Unlike the rest of the house, which had slowly been taken over by Dream's Inter Milan shrine.

"What are you doing here, Alex? It's not your day."

He leaned against her desk like he used to do when this was their house, not just hers. Still fine as hell in that tailored suit, still wearing that Rolex she'd given him for their tenth anniversary. Still irritating as fuck.

"The girls called. Said they missed my cooking." His accent got thicker when he was trying to charm his way out of trouble. "You know how Heaven loves my pasta alla vodka."

"They have phones. You have a phone. A heads up would've been nice."

"Ah, but then you might have said no." He flashed that smile that used to make her weak in the knees. Now it just made her want to throw something at him. "Besides, I heard through the grapevine that you met our new striker today. Thought you might want to... compare notes."

Shanice's eyes narrowed. "You're here because of Marcus Thuram?"

"I'm here because of pasta," he corrected, but his eyes were laughing at her. "But since you brought him up..."

"Don't start, Alex." She moved behind her desk, putting some space between them. "I had one conversation with him about community programs. That's it."

"Mhmm. And tomorrow you have coffee." He examined his nails like this was casual conversation. "In your office. Alone."

"How do you even-" She stopped herself. Of course he knew. Half the board was probably still loyal to him. "It's a business meeting."

"With the guy Dream has plastered all over her walls?" His smile turned knowing. "The one with the harem of models?"

"The Angels," she corrected automatically, then wanted to kick herself.

"Ah, so you know about that." He pushed off the desk, moving closer. "Listen, tesoro-"

"Don't 'tesoro' me. We're not married anymore."

"Fine. Listen, Shanice." He held up his hands in surrender, but his eyes were still dancing with amusement. "I just want you to be careful. Marcus is... how do you Americans say it? A player. On and off the field."

She felt her temper rising. "Are you seriously in my house, uninvited, trying to warn me about a man like I'm some teenage girl? I'm forty, Alex. I own half your shares in Inter. I think I can handle a meeting with a footballer."

"Of course you can," he said smoothly. "You can handle everything. Always could. Just..." He paused at the door. "Maybe wear something less..." He gestured vaguely at her outfit.

"Get the fuck out of my office."

"Mama!" Heaven's voice saved Alex from whatever Shanice was about to throw at him. "The sauce is bubbling!"

"We're not done," Shanice warned him as she brushed past.

His low chuckle followed her down the hall. "We never are, bella. We never are."

In the kitchen, Dream had finally looked up from her phone. "Did you really talk to Marcus again today?" Of course, that's what got her attention.

"She did," Alex answered before Shanice could, stirring the sauce Heaven had abandoned. "And she's having coffee with him tomorrow."

The shriek Dream let out could probably be heard all the way in Milan. "OH MY GOD MOM! You have to tell me everything! What was he wearing? Did you see his sneakers? Was he nice? Were the Angels there? Is he even hotter in person? Can you get me his autograph? Or better yet, can you–"

"Dream." Shanice cut off the stream of questions. "Homework. Now."

"But Mom-"

"Now."

Heaven giggled at her sister's dramatic sigh. "I just want to know if his shoes were limited edition."

"Both of you, homework. Alex-" She turned to her ex, who was now plating pasta like he belonged there. "Next time, call first."

"Of course," he said with that infuriating smile. "I wouldn't want to interrupt any... business meetings."

Shanice decided right then that she was absolutely wearing her tightest dress tomorrow. And those Louboutins that made her legs look like they went on for days.

Purely for business reasons, of course.

Shanice stood in front of her closet the next morning, eyeing her options like she was planning a battle strategy. And maybe she was. That Roland Mouret dress had been collecting dust since Milan Fashion Week - the black one that hugged every curve like it was painted on, with that strategic slit that made her legs look endless. Perfect for making a point to her ex-husband about exactly what she could and couldn't handle.

"That's the one," she muttered, pulling it out. The fabric alone probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, but that's what you got for twenty years of fashion industry connections. She paired it with those red-bottom stilettos that had their own insurance policy - six inches of "fuck you" to anyone who thought forty meant invisible.

Her reflection in the full-length mirror had her feeling satisfied. The dress did everything it was supposed to do - snatched her waist, highlighted those gym sessions she'd been religious about since the divorce, and made her ass look like it was advertising something exclusive. Her hair were swept up in a French roll showing off the diamond earrings Alex had gotten her for their fifteenth anniversary. Petty? Maybe. But she wore divorce well.

"Damn, Mom!" Dream's voice made her turn. Her daughter was standing in the doorway, already in her school uniform. "Is this what you're wearing to meet Marcus?"

"This is what I'm wearing to work," Shanice corrected, but she couldn't help smiling at Dream's knowing look. "Don't you have a bus to catch?"

"Can't you just admit you're trying to get his attention? I mean, I've seen the Angels, but they don't have anything on you in that dress."

"Everything’s packed?"

Dream rolled her eyes. "Yes, but-"

"Bus. Now."

But as she walked into Inter's offices two hours later, the click of her Louboutins echoing off marble floors, Shanice had to admit her daughter might have had a point. This wasn't just a work outfit. This was a statement.

She just wasn't sure who she was making it to.

Maria's eyes went wide when she walked in. "Ms. Carter, the coffee machine is ready and-" she paused, taking in the outfit "-Mr. Thuram called to confirm he'll be here after morning training."

"Perfect." Shanice tried to ignore the little flutter in her stomach at his name. "Any other messages?"

"Mr. Ricci called." Maria's expression was carefully neutral. "Twice."

Of course he did. "Any actual emergencies?"

"He said something about wanting to make sure you got his advice about appropriate business attire."

Shanice's laugh was sharp. "I bet he did." She strode into her office, the dress moving exactly like it was designed to. "Hold my calls unless it's about the sponsorship deal. Or Mr. Thuram," she added, because Maria would assume anyway.

Her office was ready - coffee machine prepped with those specialty beans, a view of the practice field below (not that she was looking), and enough actual work on her desk to remind herself why she was really here.

But when she caught her reflection in the window, all dangerous curves and boss energy, she had to smile. Alex always did hate it when she dressed like this for business meetings. Said it was distracting.

That was kind of the point.

The sound of cleats on marble made her pause in reviewing contracts. He was early. She could hear Maria's professional greeting, followed by that deep laugh that somehow managed to sound like trouble even through walls.

Shanice stood, smoothing down her dress.

Game time.

Marcus didn't even try to hide how his eyes traveled up from those Louboutins when Maria showed him in. She caught his muttered "good damn" before he switched to that media-ready smile.

"What was that?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Nothing," he recovered smoothly, but his eyes were still taking in the dress like he was memorizing it. "Thanks for making time for me."

"Coffee?" She gestured to the machine, using the moment of turning away to hide her smile. That reaction had been worth every euro of this dress.

"Please." He settled into one of her visitor chairs like he owned it, all long legs and easy confidence.

"Should we be expecting any other visitors today?"

The question was casual, but he caught the underlying meaning. She'd seen the Angels in their usual spot during morning training.

"Just us," he replied, grabbing the cup from her.

"Your... friends are otherwise occupied?"

His chuckle was low and knowing. "They're... back at home." The way he said it made it clear 'home' was a loose concept.

Shanice pushed away thoughts about how weird it must be to just be cool with being one of many in a rotation. Not her business. Not her place to judge anybody's sex life, especially not when she had actual business to discuss.

"So," she sat behind her desk, crossing those Louboutin-clad legs deliberately. "Tell me about this sneaker competition for local kids."

Marcus set down his coffee and pulled out an iPad. But instead of launching into some formal presentation, he leaned forward with that infectious enthusiasm she was starting to realize wasn't just for show.

"Look, these kids in the local neighborhoods, they've got crazy talent. Not just for football - for design, for art. But nobody's giving them a platform." His French accent got thicker when he was excited, she noticed. "I want to do something that combines both. Get them designing custom football boots, have them pitch their ideas like it's Shark Tank or something."

"And the winners?"

"We produce their design. Limited edition. Split the profits with them and their schools." He grinned. "Plus they get to see a professional wear their creation in a match."

She had to admit, it was good. Combine Inter's community outreach with actual entrepreneurship opportunities, get some good PR, maybe even discover the next big thing in design...

"My daughter Heaven would lose her mind over this," she said without thinking.

His eyes lit up. "The sneakerhead? Dream mentioned her yesterday."

Shanice blinked. "When did you talk to Dream?"

"Instagram. She slid in my DMs like 'my mom's gonna be your boss now so we're basically family.'" He laughed at Shanice's mortified expression. "Don't worry, I kept it professional. Told her to focus on school and that her mom seems cool."

"Seems?"

"Well," he stood, and somehow the office felt smaller with him up. "That was before I saw you in this dress. Now I'm thinking 'cool' might be an understatement."

He was at the door before she could process that. "Think about the proposal? The kids would really appreciate it."

Shanice managed a nod, proud that her voice stayed steady. "I'll review the numbers."

"Looking forward to your decision." That smile again, the one that probably got him everything he wanted. "Boss."

The door clicked shut behind him. Shanice let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

So much for keeping it professional.

Saturday came too fast. Shanice had successfully avoided matches for months, but Dream and Heaven had formed an unholy alliance. Their combined powers of teenage begging and nine-year-old puppy eyes were apparently her kryptonite.

"You're an owner, Mom," Dream had argued. "You have to at least pretend to care about the actual games."

So here she was, in the owner's box, wearing weekend casual. Heaven was pressed against the glass, documenting every player's footwear choices in her little notebook. Dream was... well.

"OH MY GOD HE WAVED AT ME!"

Marcus had paused his warm-up routine to wave at Dream, who was now literally squealing and clutching Shanice's arm. Her daughter - usually so cool, so above it all - reduced to a giggling teenager. Which, fair enough, she was.

Shanice's eyes scanned the stands automatically. No Angels in sight. Interesting, since the gossip blogs always said they never missed a match, always in their usual section, always dressed like they were at fashion week instead of a football game-

Nope. She wasn't going to go there. That was the least of her worries. Besides, she wasn't about to become some cougar chasing after a 27-year-old footballer. What could he possibly do for her? He probably couldn't even satisfy a woman properly, especially not a woman like her who knew what she wanted and-

Marcus dropped into a stretch on the field below, and Shanice's brain short-circuited. Those thighs. That ass. The way his kit stretched across-

Well. Maybe he could do a little somethin' somethin'.

"Mom!" Heaven's voice snapped her out of it. "Are those the new Nike Zoom Mercurial Superfly 9 Elites he's wearing?"

"I have no idea what any of those words mean, baby."

But she knew exactly what those thighs meant, and it was trouble. Pure trouble.

The match kicked off, and Shanice tried to look interested in whatever was happening on the field. Heaven was still cataloging shoes, but now she was comparing them to some spreadsheet on her tablet. Dream was providing commentary that might as well have been in Chinese for all Shanice understood.

"Did you see that run? The way he just- Mom, are you even watching?"

She was watching something alright. Just maybe not the same thing Dream was excited about. Marcus moved like water on the field, all power and grace. The way his muscles flexed when he sprinted, the focus in his expression when he had the ball...

"Signora Ricci." A smooth voice interrupted her definitely-not-thirsting. One of the other board members - some old money type whose name she should probably remember. "So nice to finally see you at a match."

"Couldn't disappoint my girls," she smiled diplomatically. These men still weren't used to her being here, being part owner. Still called her Ricci even though she'd gone back to her maiden name.

"You've met our new striker, yes? Quite the acquisition."

Oh, she'd met him alright. Met those chocolate eyes and that devastating smile and that ass that should be illegal in those shorts-

"We had a meeting about his community outreach proposals," she said smoothly. "Very impressive."

"His proposals or his-" Dream's comment was cut off by Shanice's warning look.

The crowd suddenly roared. Shanice turned just in time to see Marcus breaking free, the ball at his feet. The defender didn't stand a chance. One move, two, and then-

GOAL.

The stadium erupted. Dream was screaming. Heaven had abandoned her shoe documentation to jump up and down. And Marcus... Marcus was running toward their end of the field, sliding on his knees in celebration.

He looked up at the owner's box. Straight at her.

And winked.

"Did you see that?" Dream squealed. "He winked at us!"

Sure, baby. At "us."

Shanice took a long sip of her champagne. She was going to need something stronger than this to survive the rest of this match.

Shanice was on her second glass of champagne when Marcus scored again. This time his celebration was all swagger - that signature dance that had Dream and her friends making TikToks for weeks. The stadium was going crazy, and even Heaven had abandoned her sneaker documentation to cheer.

"He's so good," Dream sighed dreamily. "Like, is there anything he can't do?"

Keep his shirt on, apparently. The heat had several players stripping down to their undershirts, and Marcus's clung to him like it was painted on. Those training sessions were clearly paying off because what the actual f-

"Mamma mia, he's really showing off today."

Shanice didn't need to turn around to know that voice. "Don't you have your own box, Alex?"

"Can't a father watch with his daughters?" Alessandro dropped into the seat next to her, looking irritatingly handsome in his weekend casual Brunello Cucinelli. "Though I see you're watching... something else."

"The match," she said firmly. "I'm watching the match."

"Of course." His knowing smile made her want to dump her champagne on his designer sweater. "That's why you haven't blinked since Thuram took his shirt off."

Before she could respond, the final whistle blew. Inter 3, Juventus 1.

"Can we go down?" Dream was already gathering her things. "Please? Dad always takes us to meet the players after home games."

"I don't think-" Shanice started.

"Excellent idea," Alex cut in smoothly. "The owner should congratulate the team on their victory. Especially the man of the match."

Heaven's eyes lit up. "We can see the boots up close!"

Shanice was outnumbered. Again. "Fine. But ten minutes max."

The tunnel to the locker room was crowded with families and staff, the air thick with victory excitement and expensive perfume. Dream was practically vibrating with anticipation. Heaven had her notebook ready.

And then Marcus emerged, still glowing from the win, that undershirt still clinging to every muscle like it was doing the Lord's work. His eyes found their group immediately.

"The Carter-Ricci family!" His smile could power half of Milan. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"You were amazing!" Dream gushed. "Those goals were insane!"

"Can I see your boots?" Heaven was already crouching down with her notebook.

Alessandro's hand found the small of Shanice's back - a move that used to be possessive but now just felt like him marking his territory. "Incredible performance today. You must have been... inspired."

Marcus's eyes flicked to Alex's hand, then to Shanice's face. Something flashed in them - too quick to read. "Very inspired," he said, but he was looking straight at her. "Sometimes you just want to impress the right people, you know?"

Heaven was rattling off questions about his cleats. Dream was trying to casually get a selfie. Alex was doing that alpha male thing Italian men loved.

And Shanice?

Shanice was thinking about exactly what else those thighs could do.

"Yo! Big bro!"

A younger version of Marcus strode up, already changed into Juventus casual wear. The family resemblance was strong - same height, same build, same dangerous smile but instead of a cropped fade, he wore his hair in dreads.

"Little bro!" Marcus pulled him into one of those complicated handshakes that looked rehearsed. "Tough luck today."

"Whatever, you were showing off." Khephren's eyes landed on Shanice. "Who's this?"

"My new boss," Marcus said, and something in his tone made Shanice's skin tingle. "Shanice Carter, meet my brother Khephren."

"Damn, if I knew Inter's management looked like this, I might've signed with them instead." Khephren's grin earned him a solid smack to the chest from Marcus.

"My apologies," Marcus said to Shanice, but his eyes were laughing. "My little brother hasn't learned manners yet."

Alex cleared his throat loudly. "Girls, come on. Time to go."

Dream and Heaven reluctantly said their goodbyes, leaving Shanice standing there like an idiot, trying not to stare at Marcus's abs through that sweat-soaked shirt that was doing entirely too much.

"I should go too," she said, snapping out of it. This wasn't right. She needed to put up a wall between them right now. She was his boss, for fuck's sake.

She pivoted on her heel, but his hand caught her wrist. Warm. Strong. Trouble.

"The proposal - did you read it?"

"Yes."

"Great. Can we talk about it more? Go over the plan of action?"

"Sure, schedule with Maria for an appointment."

His face changed, eyebrows furrowing. "I don't want too many ears in this situation." He tilted his head toward where the board members and her ex were speaking in low voices. "Maybe dinner?"

"That's not–"

"My treat."

"Marcus. That would be inappropriate."

"Then a business lunch," he countered, "still my treat."

Shanice pulled her wrist from his grasp, crossing her arms over her chest. She didn't miss how his eyes followed the movement, lingering just a beat too long.

"Do you think I'm dumb or something?"

"Far from that, Shanice." He straightened up, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. The move was sexy as hell but she kept her face neutral. "You're one of the smartest women I know."

"You don't know me."

"Yet," he added, and they stared at each other for what felt like forever.

"Whatever you think you're playing at, I'm not one of your little friends... or Angels for that matter. Like I said, schedule an appointment with Maria." She turned to leave again.

"So make a call?" His voice was low, just for her ears. Thank goodness no one else heard that.

She paused, glancing back. That smug look on his handsome ass face should've been illegal.

"I'll call you then. To set up the lunch," he said with absolute confidence.

Shanice just scoffed and continued down the tunnel, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.

That man was going to be the death of her career. Or just the death of her, period.

"Mom! Wait up!" Dream's voice echoed down the tunnel. "Why'd you leave so fast?"

Because your favorite player was looking at me like I was dessert, baby girl.

"Time to go home," Shanice said instead, fishing her car keys from her Bottega purse. "Where's your sister?"

"Still with Dad. He's taking us for gelato." Dream studied her face. "You should come."

"Pass." The last thing she needed was to sit across from Alex while he made smug comments about her "meeting" with Marcus.

"Is it because of Marcus?" Dream's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because I saw how he was looking at you. And how you were looking at his-"

"Dream. Don't."

"I'm just saying, Mom. The Angels are pretty and all, but you're like... you're you. And he definitely noticed."

Shanice stopped walking. "Listen to me carefully. There is nothing between me and Marcus Thuram except a business relationship. He's your age, for God's sake."

"He's twenty-seven, Mom. That's not my age." Dream rolled her eyes. "And anyway, age is just a-"

"If you finish that sentence, you're grounded."

Dream threw up her hands. "Fine! But for the record? I wouldn't mind. It'd be kind of cool actually. Like, my mom and my favorite player? That's some Wattpad level plot twist."

"Go get your gelato," Shanice laughed, pulling her daughter in for a hug. "Love you."

"Love you too. Even if you're in denial."

Shanice watched Dream skip back to where Alex and Heaven were waiting, then headed for her car. Her phone buzzed before she even reached it.

Unknown number: Lunch tomorrow? For the proposal.

Her heart definitely didn't skip. Nope. Not at all.

Another buzz: This is Marcus, by the way. Your daughter gave me your number.

She was going to kill Dream.

Third buzz: For business purposes only, of course. 😏

That damn smirking emoji. She could see his face when he typed it, all cocky confidence and knowing looks.

Shanice: Schedule it with Maria.

Marcus: Come on, boss. Let me take you to lunch. Professional lunch. Very proper. Very appropriate.

Those three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

Marcus: Unless you're scared...

Oh, this little boy thought he could play with her?

Shanice: Fine. One lunch. Professional. And you're not getting my coffee ever again.

Marcus: We'll see 😈

She dropped her phone in her bag like it was burning her fingers. What the hell was she doing? This was beyond stupid. Beyond reckless.

But as she slid into her Porsche, all she could think about was that damn smirk and those abs and the way he'd said "yet."

She was so screwed.

........................tbd

[dreamersworldduh]

HIS AWAKENING —PART 3

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT

• NATE JACOBS x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Though Nate has finally admitted his feelings for Y/N, expressing them is an entirely different battle. Used to guarding his emotions behind arrogance and control, he struggles with the vulnerability that comes with actually showing Y/N how much he cares. Every touch, every lingering glance, every unspoken word feels like unfamiliar territory—territory he’s not sure how to navigate.

Y/N, ever perceptive, notices the hesitation. While he appreciates Nate’s confession, he refuses to settle for half-measures. He wants something real, not just words spoken in the heat of the moment. And if Nate truly wants him, he needs to prove it—not just with declarations, but with actions.

Now, caught between his pride and his undeniable need for Y/N, Nate faces his biggest challenge yet: learning how to love without fear.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 9.7k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! Of course the story of Nate Jacobs wasn’t over. I have a few more plans for our lovely toxic duo. Also working on get those requests done. Anywho, I hope you all enjoy!

The following weeks passed in a blur, and everything between Y/N and Nate had shifted in ways neither of them fully acknowledged���but both of them felt. The tension that once simmered between them had evolved into something more potent, more charged. It wasn't just about lingering glances or teasing remarks anymore. It was something unspoken, something that had settled into the very fabric of their everyday interactions.

Mornings were different.

Y/N used to wake up to the sound of Nate moving around the dorm, the rustling of fabric and the muffled sighs of someone half-asleep and grumpy about early practice. Now, he often woke up to the warmth of Nate's arm draped lazily over his waist, their bodies tangled in a way that no longer felt accidental. The first time it happened, Y/N had tried to slip out quietly, but Nate had pulled him back without opening his eyes, murmuring a sleep-heavy, "Stay."

And Y/N had.

Classes were different.

Before, they'd sit apart, pretending not to notice each other in lecture halls. Now, Nate made a habit of sitting beside Y/N, stretching out in his seat like he owned the space and shooting Y/N knowing smirks when their knees brushed under the desk. Occasionally, he'd pass him a note written in Nate's barely-legible handwriting—sometimes sarcastic, sometimes suggestive, always smug.

You looked good this morning.

Caught you staring. You're not subtle.

Meet me after practice. No excuses.

Afternoons were different.

The football field and track had once been separate worlds, their teams rarely crossing paths outside of shared locker room banter. But now, Nate's eyes found Y/N easily across the field. When Y/N stretched with his track team, his shorts riding high up his thighs, he could feel Nate's gaze on him. He would smirk, deliberately holding his poses a little longer than necessary, pretending not to notice the way Nate clenched his jaw.

And Nate? He was just as bad. During football drills, when he'd strip off his sweat-soaked jersey, he'd make sure Y/N was watching before wiping his face with the hem of his undershirt, letting Y/N catch a glimpse of hard-earned abs. And when he threw a perfect pass, he always turned to Y/N first—just to see if he was impressed.

Nights were the most different of all.

What started as shared, comfortable silence in their dorm had turned into something heavier. The space between their beds seemed smaller. Some nights, they barely spoke, the tension so thick it felt like an invisible string stretched between them, ready to snap. Other nights, Y/N would throw a teasing comment at Nate, just to see how much it would take before Nate's patience broke.

And sometimes, Nate wouldn't break at all. He'd just smirk, push off his bed, and walk toward Y/N with that look in his eyes—the one that made Y/N's breath hitch before Nate even touched him.

But they hadn't talked about it.

Not once.

Not about what they were. Not about how things had changed. Not about how, in public, Nate still acted like nothing had shifted, but behind closed doors, he touched Y/N like he belonged to him.

And maybe that was the most interesting part of all.

Because neither of them seemed ready to bring it up.

And neither of them seemed willing to stop.

For Y/N, this was nothing more than casual sex. A mutually beneficial arrangement between two roommates who happened to have undeniable chemistry. It wasn't the first time he'd found himself in this kind of situation—hooking up with someone for the thrill of it, for the fleeting heat of the moment, without the baggage that came with emotions.

He knew better than to let himself catch feelings.

Feelings were messy. Feelings led to expectations, and expectations led to disappointment. Y/N had learned that lesson the hard way before, and he had no intention of repeating it. He wasn't the type to sit around hoping for something that wasn't guaranteed.

And Nate?

Nate was just another notch in the bedpost, another mistake he refused to let turn into something more.

At least, that's what Y/N kept telling himself.

But despite every effort to keep things detached, Nate was growing on him.

It was the little things—the way Nate always seemed to find him in a crowded room, the way he'd smirk like he had a secret only Y/N knew, the way he lingered a little too long after they were done, his fingers ghosting over Y/N's skin like he didn't want to let go.

It was the way Nate said his name.

It was the way Nate looked at him.

Y/N wasn't oblivious. He saw the shifts in Nate's behavior, the way he acted differently with him than he did with anyone else. The way his cocky bravado softened ever so slightly when they were alone.

And Y/N had to admit—he had a soft spot for the guy.

It wasn't just about the sex anymore, not really. He liked the way Nate got competitive over stupid things, the way he'd steal Y/N's snacks and then buy him more without being asked. He liked the way Nate absentmindedly played with the hem of Y/N's sleeve when they sat close, the way his smirks turned into real smiles when Y/N got under his skin in just the right way.

But liking Nate didn't mean he was going to fall for him.

Not unless Nate gave him a reason to.

Not unless Nate said it first.

Because Y/N wasn't about to set himself up for heartbreak. He wasn't going to be the one holding onto something that wasn't reciprocated, waiting for Nate to figure himself out while Y/N suffered in silence.

No, if Nate wanted more, he was going to have to be the one to say it.

Until then, Y/N was single.

And if Nate thought otherwise?

Well, that was his problem

Whereas for Nate, everything about this was uncharted territory.

He wasn't the type to hesitate, wasn't the kind of guy who struggled with words or second-guessed himself. On the field, in the locker room, in every other aspect of his life, he was confident—in control.

But with Y/N?

With Y/N, Nate felt like he was stumbling through the dark, grasping at something just out of reach, something he barely knew how to define.

He hadn't even admitted to himself that he wanted Y/N—not just physically, but in a way that made his chest tighten whenever he saw him smile, in a way that made his stomach twist whenever he caught Y/N flirting with someone else at a party.

It had taken him weeks just to acknowledge that he had feelings for Y/N, and even now, he barely knew what to do with them.

Y/N wasn't making it easy, either.

The way Y/N carried himself—always so detached, so effortlessly casual about everything—was driving Nate insane. He acted like this was just another hookup, like there was nothing more to it, like what they were doing didn't mean anything.

And maybe it didn't—to him.

But to Nate?

Every time Y/N smirked at him from across the room, every time he ran his fingers through Nate's hair in the middle of the night like it wasn't a big deal, every time he laughed at one of Nate's dumb jokes like it was the easiest thing in the world—it meant something.

But how the hell was he supposed to say that out loud?

How was he supposed to admit that he wanted more, when Y/N acted like there wasn't even a "they" to begin with?

It pissed him off, honestly.

The way Y/N would tease him, get under his skin, rile him up, and then act like it was nothing. The way he would kiss Nate breathless one moment, then shrug him off like it was just another part of their routine.

Like Nate was just a roommate.

Like Nate was just a good fuck.

And maybe that's all this was for Y/N.

Maybe Nate was the only idiot who was making it into something more.

The thought made Nate clench his jaw, his fists tightening as he sat on the edge of his bed, watching Y/N from across the room. Y/N was scrolling through his phone, looking completely unbothered, like he hadn't spent the previous night gasping Nate's name, trembling under his hands.

Nate exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

He needed to get a grip.

He couldn't be the one to bring it up first. He wouldn't be.

Because if Y/N really didn't care—if this really was just casual for him—then Nate wasn't going to be the one making a fool of himself.

So he bit his tongue.

Swallowed every confession before it could leave his mouth.

Kept playing the game, even though he wasn't sure how much longer he could pretend that the only thing he wanted from Y/N was this.

Because the truth?

The truth was, Nate didn't just want Y/N in his bed.

He wanted him in his life.

And he had no fucking idea how to say it.

The lecture hall was filled with the monotone drone of the professor's voice, echoing off the walls as students either scribbled down notes diligently or stared off into space, barely paying attention. Y/N, ever the diligent student, sat upright, pen gliding smoothly over his notebook as he copied the key points from the lecture slides. His brows furrowed in concentration, his fingers tapping absently against the paper as he underlined an important concept.

To his left, Nate was struggling.

Slouched in his seat, arms crossed, his head bobbed slightly with each passing second, his eyelids growing heavier as the minutes dragged on. He barely even tried to hide it, his mouth parting slightly as he fought off sleep, only for his head to tilt dangerously forward before he caught himself at the last second.

Y/N side-eyed him before nudging him with his elbow. "You keep nodding off like that, and you're gonna wake up drooling all over your desk," he murmured under his breath.

Nate cracked one eye open, blinking sluggishly before stretching out his legs under the desk. "Mm," he grunted, voice thick with exhaustion. "This class is pointless."

Y/N scoffed, flipping to a fresh page. "It's not pointless if you actually pay attention."

Nate made a dismissive noise, letting his head tip back against his chair. "Why should I? You're already taking notes for me."

Y/N paused mid-sentence, turning his head to shoot Nate an incredulous look. "Excuse me?"

Nate cracked a smirk, tilting his head toward Y/N but keeping his posture lazy. "Come on," he said, voice low and smooth. "You know you're gonna let me copy them."

Y/N arched an eyebrow. "And what makes you so sure about that?"

Nate's smirk widened as he leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping lower, enough that only Y/N could hear. "Because you like when I owe you favors." He let the words linger before adding, "And we both know I'm very good at paying them back."

Y/N's grip on his pen faltered for just a second, his cheeks flushing faintly as the meaning behind Nate's words settled in. He turned to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by the small, involuntary smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

"You're annoying," Y/N muttered, shaking his head as he tried to focus back on his notes.

Nate just grinned, leaning back in his chair like he'd won.

Unfortunately, their whispered exchange hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Mr. Jacobs. Mr. Y/L/N," the professor's voice rang out from the front of the lecture hall, immediately silencing the murmurs of other students. "Since you both seem to be having such an engaging discussion, perhaps you'd like to share your thoughts with the class?"

Y/N's head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly as he realized every pair of eyes in the room was now trained on him and Nate.

Nate, on the other hand, remained completely unbothered. He didn't even sit up properly, just lazily turned his head toward the professor with an easy smirk. "Oh, I'd love to, but I'd hate to take up time from your lecture," he drawled, voice dripping with faux innocence.

A few students chuckled under their breath, clearly entertained by the interaction, while Y/N resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.

The professor, unimpressed, sighed. "I'd suggest you both start paying attention before the midterm surprises you."

"Of course, professor," Y/N said quickly, elbowing Nate hard in the ribs as he dropped his gaze back to his notebook.

Nate let out a small grunt at the impact but merely smirked, glancing at Y/N from the corner of his eye. He leaned in one last time, whispering just low enough that no one else could hear.

"Admit it," Nate murmured, voice teasing. "You like having me around."

Y/N didn't look at him, didn't give him the satisfaction. But the small, amused shake of his head as he kept writing told Nate everything he needed to know.

The moment class ended, students moved like a tidal wave toward the exit, eager to escape the monotony of the lecture hall. Y/N gathered his notebook and slung his bag over his shoulder, slipping out of his seat just as Nate got held up near the front of the room, laughing at something one of his football teammates had said.

Y/N didn't wait for him. Why would he? He had his own schedule, his own life. Besides, it wasn't like Nate had asked him to wait.

He maneuvered through the mass of students, his mind already on his next class when—

Thud.

He collided into someone, his momentum halted as a firm chest absorbed the impact.

"Shit," Y/N muttered, stepping back quickly. "I really have to stop running into people."

The guy he'd bumped into let out a short chuckle, his hands raising in an easygoing gesture. "No harm done," he said, offering a friendly smile. "Happens in the stampede of post-class freedom."

Y/N exhaled through his nose, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, apparently I have a talent for it. Sorry about that."

"No worries." The guy shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder before extending a hand. "I'm Aaron, by the way."

Y/N reached out instinctively, shaking his hand. "Y/N—"

"I know," Aaron interrupted, a grin playing at his lips.

Y/N blinked in surprise. "You do?"

Aaron chuckled, tilting his head as if the answer was obvious. "Yeah. You're the Y/N. Star of the track team, campus favorite for breaking records. Kinda hard not to know who you are."

Y/N huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, now I feel like a minor celebrity."

Aaron smirked. "Oh, don't worry. I'm not about to ask for an autograph or anything."

"Good," Y/N teased, adjusting his bag. "My handwriting's terrible."

Aaron let out another laugh, an easy warmth to his demeanor. "Where you headed?"

"Next class," Y/N said, glancing at the clock on his phone. "Bio 201."

Aaron's eyebrows lifted slightly. "No way. I've got that too."

Y/N raised an amused brow. "You sure you don't just know that because you did some secret research on me?"

Aaron grinned, shaking his head. "I promise, total coincidence. But hey, now I have a walking buddy."

Y/N smirked, falling into step beside him as they started down the hall. "Well, let's see if you can keep up, Mr. Football."

Aaron let out a scoff, nudging Y/N's shoulder playfully. "Please. I may not be as fast as you, but I think I can manage walking."

The conversation flowed effortlessly as they walked together, the natural ease between them making Y/N forget the crowded hallways, the pressure of the upcoming class, and the lingering soreness from morning practice.

But what neither of them knew—what neither of them even thought to check—was the sharp, focused gaze watching them from a few feet away.

Nate stood near the door of the lecture hall, having just finished his conversation with his teammate. His easy smirk had disappeared the moment he caught sight of Y/N—his Y/N—talking and laughing with some other guy.

His arms crossed over his chest, jaw tightening slightly as he watched the interaction unfold.

Aaron.

He knew of him. A decent player, decent stats, never really had a reason to pay attention to him before. But now? Now Aaron had his full attention.

And Nate didn't like what he was seeing.

Not one bit.

The hum of conversation filled the hall as students spilled out of Bio 201, most eager to escape the droning lecture and stretch their legs. Y/N emerged alongside Aaron, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as they talked.

The past hour had passed easily, filled with quick banter and stolen glances. Aaron was charming, quick-witted, and confident in a way that made it effortless for Y/N to match his energy.

"So," Aaron said, nudging Y/N's arm playfully. "If you're such a track star, when am I getting VIP seats to one of your meets?"

Y/N arched an eyebrow, tilting his head with mock consideration. "Oh, I don't know," he mused, biting back a smirk. "VIP spots are reserved for special people. What makes you think you qualify?"

Aaron grinned, leaning in slightly. "I guess I'll have to work on that, then."

Y/N hummed, pretending to think. "Mmm. Maybe I'll save you a seat."

Aaron let out a soft laugh, his eyes glinting with something playful—something unmistakably flirtatious. "I'll take what I can get," he replied, his voice dropping just slightly.

The air between them shifted, the flirtation now laced with a subtle tension, a challenge silently hanging between them. Y/N wasn't opposed to letting it linger, to seeing where this could go—

But then the air really shifted.

Because suddenly, a new presence made itself known, stepping right into the space between them like it belonged there.

"Funny," a familiar voice drawled, cool and sharp like a blade sliding into place. "Didn't realize we were handing out VIP passes now."

Y/N didn't even have to turn around to know who it was.

Aaron, however, did—his easy expression shifting as he straightened slightly, clearly taken off guard by the interruption.

Nate stood there, casual as ever, but there was an undeniable weight in his presence. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, his eyes flicking between Y/N and Aaron, his smirk just a little too tight to be playful.

Y/N exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he looked at Nate, unimpressed. "Didn't realize you were invited to this conversation, QB."

Nate's smirk deepened, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, I don't need an invite," he said smoothly. "I was just passing by and couldn't help but overhear." He turned his attention to Aaron, his expression unreadable but undeniably assessing. "Aaron, right?"

Aaron blinked before nodding. "Yeah. And you're Nate Jacobs."

"Guilty," Nate said, his tone light but laced with something harder beneath the surface. His eyes flicked back to Y/N. "Didn't know you made new friends so quickly, Y/N."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, his smirk not wavering. "I have a lot of talents, Nate."

Nate chuckled, shaking his head slightly before stepping in just a little closer—so subtly that to an outsider, it wouldn't seem like much. But Y/N felt it. He felt the shift, the unspoken territorial energy radiating from Nate like a silent warning.

Aaron glanced between the two of them, clearly picking up on the tension but not yet understanding the full weight of it. "Uh," he started, shifting his bag on his shoulder. "Well, I should probably—"

Y/N, ever the instigator, smirked up at Nate and decided to push.

"You should come to the meet this weekend," he told Aaron smoothly, his voice light and easy, but his eyes locked on Nate's. "It'll be fun."

Aaron hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Yeah. Sounds good."

And just like that, Nate's smirk vanished.

Y/N could feel the shift, the way Nate's entire body tensed beside him, his jaw tightening just slightly. But instead of lashing out, Nate did something even more dangerous—he relaxed.

His smirk returned, but this time, it was slow, lazy, dangerous.

"Oh, yeah," Nate said smoothly, his voice dropping low as he glanced at Y/N. "He should definitely come."

And Y/N had to fight the shiver that ran down his spine.

Because that? That wasn't a smirk of someone backing down.

That was the smirk of someone ready to play.

The door to their dorm slammed shut behind them, the tension from earlier still thick in the air. Y/N barely made it two steps inside before he spun around, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes locked onto Nate.

"Alright," Y/N started, voice clipped, "what the hell was that all about?"

Nate, who had just shrugged off his backpack and tossed it onto his bed, arched an eyebrow like he had no idea what Y/N was talking about. "What was what all about?" he asked casually, stretching out his arms before leaning back against the wall, completely unbothered.

Y/N scoffed, his hands going to his hips as he glared at Nate. "Oh, don't even try that innocent act with me, QB. You know exactly what I'm talking about." He stepped closer, his chin lifting slightly. "You all but crashed my conversation with Aaron like some jealous boyfriend."

Nate smirked, tilting his head as he looked down at Y/N. "Jealous?" he echoed, his tone amused. "Now that's a reach."

Y/N rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "You—" He exhaled sharply, composing himself before leveling Nate with a pointed look. "You interrupted our conversation. You practically put yourself between us like you were staking some kind of claim."

Nate crossed his arms, that smug smirk never leaving his face. "Maybe I just didn't like what I was hearing."

Y/N huffed out a laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Oh, please. What, you didn't like that I was flirting with someone else?" He stepped even closer, pushing at Nate's chest lightly. "That bother you, Jacobs?"

Nate didn't budge—he was too solid, too rooted in place. Instead, his smirk deepened, and he leaned down slightly, getting right in Y/N's space. "You're really fishing for an answer, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and smooth, laced with something dangerous.

Y/N's breath hitched for just a second—just long enough for Nate to notice. And the moment he did, his smirk turned absolutely predatory.

"I don't fish," Y/N said finally, regaining his composure. "I just like calling out bullshit when I see it."

"Bullshit?" Nate repeated, his voice still maddeningly calm. He tilted his head, his eyes scanning Y/N's face like he was amused. "So, let me get this straight—you can flirt with whoever you want, but I can't say anything about it?"

Y/N blinked, thrown off for half a second before he scoffed. "You don't get to say anything about it, because as far as I'm concerned, we're just roommates who occasionally fuck."

Something in Nate's expression shifted then, so subtle that most people wouldn't have caught it—but Y/N did.

A flicker of something—irritation? Possession?—crossed Nate's face before it was quickly masked by that ever-present smirk.

"Right," Nate said smoothly, nodding as if the words didn't affect him at all. "Just roommates."

Y/N swallowed, suddenly feeling like he had no control over this conversation anymore. "Exactly," he said, standing his ground. "Which means I can do whatever I want."

Nate let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly before taking a step closer—so close that Y/N had to tilt his head to maintain eye contact. "Then do whatever you want," Nate murmured, his voice low and taunting. "Flirt with Aaron. Let him take you out. See if he can make you moan like I do."

Y/N's entire body tensed, his breath catching as Nate's words sent a pulse of something down his spine.

Nate smirked, seeing the reaction. "Yeah," he murmured, voice thick with amusement. "That's what I thought."

Y/N hated how easily Nate could unravel him—how he could turn the entire argument around and make it about this, about them, when Y/N was trying to keep it casual.

But Y/N wasn't going to let Nate win that easily.

So he squared his shoulders, looked Nate dead in the eye, and said, "Maybe I will let him take me out."

Nate's smirk dropped.

It was quick—so quick—but Y/N saw it. Saw the way Nate's jaw clenched, how his fingers flexed slightly at his sides.

But then, just as fast, Nate recovered.

He took a step back, that cocky grin sliding right back into place. "Go ahead," he said, voice lazy, unaffected. "See how that works out for you."

And with that, Nate turned, grabbed a towel, and walked straight into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him like he hadn't just dropped a bomb in the middle of their dorm.

Y/N stood there, his heart pounding, his mind racing.

Because if there was one thing he knew about Nate Jacobs—

He never backed down from a challenge.

However, Y/N had never been the type to back down from a challenge. If Nate thought he could rattle him, if he thought he could get under his skin and win whatever game this was between them—well, he had another thing coming.

Because Y/N wasn't going to let him.

That's why, when the weekend of the track meet rolled around, Y/N didn't hesitate. He knew Nate had been watching him ever since their argument in the dorm, knew that Nate's presence had been looming in the background like a shadow. It was almost amusing, really—how Nate acted so indifferent, so unbothered—but Y/N wasn't stupid.

He felt the way Nate's eyes followed him across campus.

He noticed how Nate's jaw clenched when Y/N got a little too close to Aaron during lunch.

And he definitely caught the way Nate's hands curled into fists when he overheard Aaron casually asking, "So, you wanna grab something to eat after your meet?"

Y/N didn't even hesitate. He smirked, tilting his head slightly as he pretended to consider. "Yeah, sounds fun," he said easily, just loud enough for Nate to hear.

Aaron grinned, oblivious to the fire that had definitely ignited behind them. "Cool," he said, nudging Y/N's shoulder. "It's a date, then."

Y/N didn't correct him.

Because if Nate wanted to act like he didn't care?

Then Y/N would make sure he really didn't care.

The track meet was packed. Spectators lined the bleachers, teammates clustered near the starting lines, and the sharp scent of sweat and adrenaline filled the air. Y/N stood with his team, stretching, rolling out his shoulders, his muscles already buzzing with energy.

He lived for this. The rush of competition, the way everything faded the moment he stepped onto the track—nothing mattered except winning.

But today, something was different.

Because when he glanced toward the bleachers, his eyes immediately found Nate.

Sitting in the middle row, legs spread like he owned the damn place, arms slung lazily over the back of the bench. His face was impassive, unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were locked onto Y/N with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

He shouldn't have cared.

But something about Nate being there—watching him—made his pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with the meet.

Y/N rolled his neck, shaking off the thought. Focus.

The announcer's voice rang out, calling for his event. Y/N stepped forward, adjusting his stance, feeling the familiar burn of anticipation settle in his chest.

He didn't look at Nate again.

But he knew, without a doubt, that Nate was watching every second.

The energy from the track meet hadn't died down, even after the final race was over. The team was buzzing, hyped from their victory, their adrenaline still running high as they spilled out of the stadium in groups, talking and laughing loudly.

Y/N was at the center of it all, sweat still clinging to his skin, his body thrumming with the residual thrill of competition. He loved this feeling—the high of winning, the rush of accomplishment. His teammates clapped him on the back, throwing playful jabs about his speed, about how he'd left the other runners in the dust.

And somewhere in the chaos of celebration, someone suggested food.

"Let's hit up that diner near campus," one of Y/N's teammates said, tossing an arm around his shoulder. "I need a burger and fries. I'm starving."

There was no argument.

And somehow, along the way, the football team got roped into the plans.

Y/N wasn't even sure how it happened—one second, it was just the track guys, and the next, a handful of football players had invited themselves along, their towering figures blending into the group like they belonged there.

Which, of course, meant Nate was there too.

Y/N wasn't surprised.

After all, Nate had been watching him all day. He hadn't spoken to Y/N, hadn't even approached him after the race—but Y/N felt his presence. Every time he glanced toward the bleachers, every time he turned his head slightly during cooldowns, Nate was there. Just sitting. Just watching.

So, of course, he was tagging along now.

Y/N didn't acknowledge him, though. He just kept walking with Aaron beside him, their conversation easy, their shoulders brushing every so often as they made their way to the diner.

If Y/N happened to glance over his shoulder and happened to catch the way Nate was looking at them—his jaw set, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets—well.

That was just coincidence.

The diner was packed by the time they arrived, but somehow, they managed to push a few tables together, turning the place into their own private post-game celebration.

Y/N slid into an empty seat, laughing at something Aaron had said, barely even paying attention to where everyone else was sitting—until he heard a chair scrape across the floor.

And then Nate was dropping into the seat right beside him.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard for half a second. Because wait a minute—

He looked across the table and saw Aaron, now seated directly across from him, a bemused expression on his face.

Aaron frowned, shifting slightly in his seat. "Uh, wasn't I just—"

"Guess not," Nate cut in smoothly, grabbing a menu like nothing was wrong. "Seats are first-come, first served, right?"

Y/N's lips parted slightly as realization dawned. He stole his seat.

Nate had stolen Aaron's fucking seat.

Aaron stared for a second, clearly confused, but then he just shook his head with a light laugh, like he wasn't going to make a big deal out of it. "Right," he muttered, picking up his own menu. "Guess I'll sit here, then."

Y/N's gaze flicked to Nate, narrowing slightly.

Nate didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge what he just did.

He just leaned back in his chair, one arm resting lazily along the back of Y/N's seat as he skimmed the menu like he hadn't just pulled some petty, possessive bullshit in front of everyone.

Y/N's jaw clenched.

Oh, this was a game now.

Fine.

Game on.

The track team and football players had settled in comfortably, their victory-fueled energy carrying over into dinner. Plates of food were being passed around, drinks refilled, and the chatter was endless.

Y/N, however, was thoroughly engaged in his conversation with Aaron.

Leaning slightly forward, his elbows resting on the table, Y/N smirked as he listened to Aaron talk about an embarrassing moment at one of his recent games. "Wait, you tripped over nothing on the field?" Y/N teased, raising an eyebrow.

Aaron groaned, rubbing his face. "I swear there was a divot in the grass, but of course, nobody believes me. My coach still won't let me live it down."

Y/N chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "I mean, I get it. Falling on your ass mid-play? That's rough."

Aaron pointed a finger at him. "Alright, track star, don't get too cocky. I'd like to see you try dodging three guys while catching a pass and watching your footing."

Y/N smirked, about to fire back—

Until he felt it.

A large, warm hand settling casually on his thigh.

The touch was so casual at first, so light, that Y/N almost didn't react. But then—it moved.

Slow. Deliberate.

Inching higher.

Y/N's breath hitched for a fraction of a second—so brief that nobody but him noticed. He didn't have to look to know exactly whose hand it was.

Fucking Nate.

The bastard didn't even acknowledge what he was doing. He just sat there, pretending to be invested in his food, twirling a fry between his fingers as if his hand wasn't currently sliding up Y/N's thigh under the table.

Y/N swallowed, refusing to react, refusing to give Nate the satisfaction. He turned his attention back to Aaron, keeping his voice perfectly steady. "I think I'd manage just fine," he said, smirking. "Track makes you quick on your feet. Unlike some people."

Aaron laughed, rolling his eyes, but Y/N barely processed it—because Nate's hand was still moving.

Up.

And up.

Y/N clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around his fork.

And then—enough was enough.

With a quick, decisive movement, Y/N swatted Nate's hand away, shoving it back toward his own damn lap.

Nate finally reacted.

He let out a small, quiet chuckle—one only Y/N could hear. It was low, smug, vibrating in the small space between them.

Y/N shot him a look—sharp, unimpressed.

Nate just grinned, his blue eyes glinting with something dangerous.

The worst part? He didn't even look the slightest bit guilty.

Y/N turned back to Aaron, ignoring the way his skin still burned from Nate's touch. He wasn't going to give Nate the reaction he wanted.

This was a battle of control.

And Y/N was not going to lose.

If Nate wanted to play games, then Y/N was more than happy to remind him that he never lost.

So, while he continued his conversation with Aaron—laughing, teasing, acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary—he let his hand drop beneath the table. Slowly, deliberately, he rested it on Nate's thigh, mirroring the exact move that Nate had pulled just moments ago.

At first, Nate didn't react. He remained lounged in his seat, chewing idly on a fry, his posture exuding casual arrogance.

But then Y/N started to move.

His fingers traced slow, featherlight strokes over the fabric of Nate's jeans, his touch casual—innocent, even. The kind of touch that wouldn't seem out of place if someone glanced their way. But beneath the surface, it was a challenge. A warning.

Nate didn't tense.

Didn't flinch.

Instead—he smirked.

Y/N didn't have to look to know. He could feel the amusement rolling off of Nate in waves, that cocky bastard reveling in the fact that Y/N had engaged with him. That he had reacted.

And then—Nate adjusted himself.

Not in an overt way. No, that wasn't Nate's style.

It was subtle—the slow shift of his hips, the deliberate way he spread his legs just slightly, offering Y/N more access.

Y/N clenched his jaw, keeping his face neutral, not letting it show how that single movement sent a wave of heat coursing through him.

But two could play at that game.

Y/N let his fingers move higher, grazing along the zipper of Nate's jeans, trailing over the hard lines of his thighs. Nate remained still, his breathing unchanged, but Y/N knew he felt it.

And then, without breaking his conversation with Aaron, without faltering once, Y/N took it a step further.

With practiced ease, he slid his fingers to Nate's zipper and pulled it down.

The soft sound of the zipper unfastening was drowned out by the chatter around them, by the clinking of plates and the hum of the diner.

Nate still didn't react—not outwardly.

But Y/N felt the shift.

Felt the way Nate's breath hitched, just barely.

Felt the way his body tensed for the briefest moment before relaxing again, as if daring Y/N to continue.

And Y/N, never one to back down, did.

His hand slipped past the waistband of Nate's boxers, his fingers grazing warm, hardening flesh. The moment he wrapped his fingers around Nate's dick, he felt it twitch in his grasp—growing, stiffening beneath his touch.

A thrill shot through Y/N's spine.

But still—Nate remained calm.

His breathing never changed. His posture never faltered.

But when Y/N squeezed slightly, teasing the sensitive skin with the lightest of touches—that was when Nate finally reacted.

It was subtle—a slow exhale, controlled, measured.

But Y/N felt it.

Felt the way Nate's thigh muscles tensed beneath his palm.

Felt the way Nate's dick pulsed in his grip.

And when Y/N risked a glance, he was met with pure smugness.

Nate's lips were curled into a smirk, his blue eyes sharp and focused as he turned his head slightly toward Y/N.

That look alone sent heat flooding through Y/N's veins.

Because Nate wasn't annoyed.

Wasn't flustered.

He was enjoying this.

Enjoying the fact that Y/N was touching him—that Y/N wanted to touch him.

It pissed Y/N off.

And turned him on.

So, as Aaron continued talking, completely oblivious to the war happening beneath the table, Y/N did the only thing he could do.

He kept going.

Sliding his fingers up and down, slow, teasing, his movements careful but deliberate.

And Nate?

Nate just smirked wider.

Because Y/N had fallen into his trap.

And he knew it.

But just as quickly as Y/N had started—he stopped.

Without warning, Y/N pulled his hand away from Nate's dick, sliding it casually back to his own lap as if nothing had happened. The sudden loss of warmth sent a wave of irritation through Nate, but before he could react, Y/N turned away from him entirely, shifting his attention back to Aaron with an easy, deliberate smile.

"Hey," Y/N said smoothly, tilting his head, "feel like going for a walk?"

Aaron blinked, caught slightly off guard. "Oh—yeah, sure." He glanced around at their half-finished meals. "Right now?"

Y/N nodded, already pushing back his chair, stretching his arms as if he wasn't just fisting Nate's dick under the table a second ago. "Yeah, I could use some air." His tone was casual, effortless—like this wasn't a power move.

But it was.

And Nate knew it.

Because Y/N didn't just pull away—he was making a statement.

Aaron grinned, oblivious to the battle happening right beside him. "Alright, let's go."

Nate clenched his jaw.

His fingers curled tightly around his fork, his grip so strong he could probably snap it in half if he wanted to. His body was still thrumming with heat, still aching from the way Y/N had just been touching him. He could still feel the ghost of Y/N's fingers wrapped around his dick, still felt the way his body had been climbing toward something more.

Only to be denied.

And now Y/N was just going to get up and walk away with some other guy?

Not just any guy—Aaron?

Nate felt something dark coil in his chest. Something possessive.

He didn't move, didn't speak.

But the moment Y/N and Aaron walked past him, heading toward the diner's exit, Nate turned his head ever so slightly—just enough to watch them leave.

And just as Y/N stepped through the door, he cast a glance back at Nate, his smirk devilish.

Nate's jaw ticked.

Oh, so that's how Y/N wanted to play it?

Fine.

Two could play this game.

And Nate never lost.

The cool evening air wrapped around them as Y/N and Aaron strolled side by side, their footsteps falling in sync against the pavement. The city lights flickered in the distance, casting a warm glow over the quiet streets as they walked away from the crowded diner.

For the first few minutes, their conversation was light—casual teasing, easy banter, small laughs exchanged under the dim glow of the streetlights. But then Aaron's tone shifted, his curiosity evident in his next question.

"So... what's the deal with you and Jacobs?"

Y/N nearly stumbled but caught himself before it was noticeable. He glanced at Aaron, raising an eyebrow. "Nate? What do you mean?"

Aaron smirked knowingly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Come on, Y/N. You can't tell me you didn't notice the way he was looking at you back there. And don't even get me started on the seat-stealing stunt."

Y/N let out a scoff, rolling his eyes. "That was just Nate being an ass. He's like that with everyone."

Aaron chuckled, shaking his head. "Nah. That wasn't just him being an ass. That was territorial."

Y/N hesitated for a split second before quickly composing himself. "There's nothing going on between us," he said, shrugging. "We're just roommates."

Aaron gave him a sideways glance, as if trying to gauge whether he was telling the truth. "Just roommates?"

Y/N smirked. "Just roommates."

Aaron's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, then he grinned. "Good," he said simply.

Y/N arched an eyebrow. "Good?"

Aaron nodded. "Yeah, because if there was something going on, I'd have to rethink what I was about to say next."

Y/N tilted his head slightly, curiosity piqued. "And what exactly were you about to say?"

Aaron turned toward him fully, slowing his steps as they neared the entrance to Y/N's dorm building. "I was going to say," he said, voice dropping slightly, "that I want to take you out."

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He wasn't surprised necessarily—Aaron had been flirting with him all night—but hearing it spoken so directly still sent a jolt of unexpected warmth through him.

A date.

An actual date.

Not a game. Not a chase. Not the tangled mess of mixed signals that Nate constantly threw his way.

Something simple. Something normal.

Y/N hesitated for a brief second before offering a small, genuine smile. "That so?"

Aaron nodded. "Yeah. So what do you say?"

Y/N exhaled softly, glancing up at the dormitory doors before looking back at Aaron. "I say..." He paused, letting the tension build for a moment before smirking. "Ask me properly tomorrow."

Aaron laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. I'll do that."

They stopped just outside the entrance, standing close enough that Y/N could feel the warmth radiating from Aaron's body despite the cool air.

Then, without much hesitation, Aaron leaned in.

Y/N knew it was coming, saw the way Aaron's gaze flickered to his lips before closing the distance, giving Y/N the perfect opportunity to pull away if he wanted

to.

But he didn't.

Instead, he let Aaron press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, the touch light yet confident, like a promise for something more.

When Aaron finally pulled back, Y/N could still feel the ghost of the kiss tingling on his lips.

"Goodnight, Y/N," Aaron murmured with a grin.

Y/N huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Night, Aaron."

With that, Aaron stepped back, giving him one last glance before turning and walking away, disappearing down the dimly lit street.

Y/N stood there for a moment longer, exhaling slowly before finally stepping inside the building.

And as he walked toward his dorm, one thought nagged at the back of his mind.

He should feel excited.

And yet, all he could think about... was what Nate would do when he found out.

As soon as Y/N stepped inside the dorm, he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as he stripped off his jacket and tossed it onto his bed. The air inside was noticeably warmer than the cool evening outside, but something else made the space feel heavy—something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up before he even turned around.

Nate was there.

Sitting on his own bed, elbows resting on his knees, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Y/N had barely taken two steps toward his dresser to grab some fresh clothes for his shower when Nate's voice cut through the air.

"Where did you and Aaron go?"

Y/N paused, turning slightly to glance over his shoulder. He arched an eyebrow, his lips quirking in amusement. "Excuse me?"

Nate's gaze was steady, sharp. "You heard me," he said, voice level but laced with something simmering beneath the surface. "Where'd you go?"

Y/N scoffed, shaking his head as he grabbed a towel from his dresser. "Not your business, QB."

That answer wasn't good enough for Nate.

In a blink, he was standing, his height and presence taking up way more space than should have been possible. He didn't move closer, but he didn't have to. The weight of his stare was enough.

"Y/N," he said, his voice lower now, more deliberate. "You are my business."

Y/N let out a short, sharp laugh, turning fully now to face Nate. "Oh, am I?" he mocked, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's funny. Because last I checked, we were just roommates who occasionally fuck."

Nate's expression didn't shift—at least, not in an obvious way. But something flickered in his eyes, something that told Y/N his words had landed exactly where he wanted them to.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, thick and charged, a standoff neither was willing to back down from.

Then, slowly, Nate took a step forward.

Y/N didn't move.

Another step.

Y/N stood his ground.

Nate stopped just a breath away from him, his voice quiet but firm as he said, "You know it's more than that."

Y/N swallowed.

He hated how those words made his heart stutter, how they sent a thrill down his spine even as he fought to keep his face impassive.

So, instead of acknowledging it, he pushed back.

"Do I?" Y/N tilted his head, his smirk sharp, challenging. "Because all I remember is you saying you were straight."

Nate's jaw clenched, and there it was again—that flicker of something, something he was fighting hard to keep buried.

But Y/N saw it.

And that was all the confirmation he needed.

With a smirk, he stepped around Nate, brushing past him deliberately as he walked toward the bathroom. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he threw over his shoulder, "I've got a shower to take."

And with that, he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Nate standing in the middle of their dorm—seething, breathing hard, and definitely not as in control as he wanted to be.

The steady stream of hot water cascaded over Y/N's shoulders, soothing the lingering tension in his muscles as steam filled the small dorm bathroom. It was peaceful, the kind of solitude he needed after the long day—the adrenaline of the track meet, the mind games with Nate, and the unexpected kiss from Aaron.

Aaron.

Y/N exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back under the spray. He shouldn't be thinking about it. It wasn't a big deal. It was just a kiss—a normal kiss—from a guy who actually wanted him in a way that wasn't shrouded in ego and possessiveness.

But for some reason, he knew it wasn't really Aaron he was thinking about.

The door creaked open.

Y/N's eyes snapped open instantly, water running down his face as his body tensed. The only other person who had access to this bathroom was—

The shower curtain was yanked back slightly, and before Y/N could even process what was happening, Nate was stepping inside, completely unbothered by the invasion of personal space.

Y/N blinked, half in disbelief. "Are you serious right now?"

Nate didn't answer.

He just stood there—completely naked, broad frame towering over Y/N, his blue eyes dark and unreadable through the steam.

Y/N let out a sharp breath, immediately turning back to the water as if Nate wasn't standing there with him. "I don't have time for this, Nate," he muttered, grabbing the soap and lathering it over his chest. "I actually came in here to shower, not deal with whatever this is."

Nate ignored the dismissal completely. "We need to talk."

Y/N snorted, shaking his head as he scrubbed his arms. "No, you need to talk. I don't have anything to say."

The tension in the air thickened.

Y/N felt Nate shift closer, the heat from his body contrasting against the water. "Bullshit," Nate said, his voice low but firm. "There's plenty to say."

Y/N rolled his eyes, refusing to look at him. "Not unless you're finally dropping your damn pride and admitting what we both already know."

That made Nate pause.

Y/N could feel him staring, could sense the tightness in his posture.

But still, he didn't stop. He grabbed his shampoo, squeezing some into his palm as if Nate wasn't standing there, waiting for an answer to a question Y/N hadn't even asked yet.

Seconds stretched between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words.

Then—

Nate moved.

Before Y/N could react, he was being pinned against the cool tiles of the shower wall, a sharp gasp leaving his lips as Nate's wet hands gripped his waist, pressing their bodies flush against each other.

"Fuck you," Nate muttered, his voice dangerously low.

Y/N smirked, despite the way his breath hitched at the sudden closeness. "That's not an admission, QB."

Nate's fingers dug into his waist, his jaw clenched tight. "You really think I'm gonna stand by and let you act like none of this means anything?" His voice was rough, strained with something Y/N couldn't quite place.

Y/N narrowed his eyes. "You're the one who refuses to call it what it is."

Nate's breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling against Y/N's own. He stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to will the words out, but they stayed stuck—trapped beneath layers of ego and fear and denial.

Finally, Y/N scoffed, shaking his head. "That's what I thought."

He moved to push past him, but Nate didn't let go.

"You are my business," Nate said again, voice quieter this time.

Y/N exhaled through his nose, looking at him now—really looking at him. Nate's usual cocky smirk was gone, replaced by something raw, something vulnerable.

For the first time, Y/N thought—maybe—Nate actually meant it.

But words weren't enough.

Not yet.

Y/N tilted his head, studying him. "Then prove it."

The challenge hung between them, steam curling around their bodies as water continued to cascade down their skin.

And for once—Nate didn't have a comeback.

Y/N had had enough.

The heat of the shower wasn't the only thing suffocating him—the tension between him and Nate was just as thick, just as overwhelming. The water still ran down his body, but all he could focus on was the weight of Nate's stare, the way his strong grip still lingered against his waist, like he wasn't ready to let go.

Too bad.

Because Y/N was done playing this game.

He pushed against Nate's chest, forcing space between them as he turned toward the curtain, reaching for it. "I'm done with this conversation, Nate."

"No," Nate said firmly, reaching out as if he was going to stop him again. "We're not—"

Y/N cut him off before he could even try.

"You know what's funny?" he said, looking over his shoulder. "Aaron asked me on a date tonight."

That shut Nate up real quick.

Y/N saw the way his body tensed instantly, the way his grip on the tile beside him tightened.

But Nate didn't speak. Didn't react.

So Y/N kept going.

"And you know what?" Y/N continued, turning around fully now, ignoring the way water still streamed down both of them. "I might just go."

Nate's jaw clenched.

Y/N smirked, but it wasn't a real one. It was sharp, laced with irritation, with frustration, with something undeniably real.

"Because unlike you," Y/N pressed, stepping closer, "Aaron actually knows what he wants. He's sure of it. He can actually admit it without all this back-and-forth bullshit."

Nate's eyes were burning into his.

Y/N could see the way his muscles tensed, could feel the way the energy in the room shifted.

But still—Nate said nothing.

And that? That pissed Y/N off more than anything.

So he exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he turned back toward the curtain. "Exactly what I thought."

But just as he pulled it open—

"You haven't admitted anything either."

Nate's voice was low, rough, but the words hit.

Y/N froze.

He felt Nate step closer, could sense the heat of his body pressing against his back.

"You keep saying I'm the one avoiding it," Nate murmured, voice thick, "but you haven't admitted a damn thing either."

Y/N swallowed, his fingers tightening around the curtain.

Nate leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against the damp skin of Y/N's neck.

"You keep pushing me to say it," Nate continued, voice barely above a whisper. "But you haven't said what this is either."

Y/N's chest tightened.

Because... fuck.

Nate wasn't wrong.

He hadn't admitted it—not out loud, not in a way that made it real.

And suddenly, the air between them felt heavier than ever.

For the first time since this entire game started... Y/N wasn't sure what to say.

He stood frozen, his grip tightening around the shower curtain, water still dripping from his hair, his breath coming just a little too fast. The steam curled around them, making the space feel smaller, more charged.

Nate was still behind him, too close, his breath ghosting against the damp skin of Y/N's shoulder. He had thrown the challenge out there, forcing Y/N to face the one thing he'd been trying to avoid.

And Y/N hated him for it.

He exhaled sharply, turning around to face Nate, their bodies nearly touching in the confined space. His eyes met Nate's, and for once, there was no smirk, no teasing, no games. Just truth.

"You wanna hear it?" Y/N asked, his voice quieter than before, but firm. "Fine. I do like you."

Nate's lips parted slightly, like he hadn't actually expected Y/N to say it.

Y/N continued, stepping even closer, owning his words.

"I do have feelings for you, Nate," he said, eyes locked onto Nate's like a challenge. "And yeah, I love messing with you. I love the chase, I love pissing you off, I love the way you look at me when you think I don't notice." His voice dropped slightly, more vulnerable now. "And I won't lie—the sex is great. But..." He shook his head, his fingers curling slightly. "I'm not here for just that."

Nate swallowed, his blue eyes dark and unreadable, but Y/N saw something flicker behind them.

"I don't do half-assed feelings," Y/N went on, his voice steady but serious. "I'm not going to sit around while you figure out what you think you want, while you pretend this is just some game. Because I don't play unless I know there's a finish line."

Nate was silent.

Y/N let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "So unless you're done messing around—unless you're actually willing to be something—then don't stand here acting like you care who I go out with."

The words hung between them.

Nate's throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hands flexing at his sides.

For the first time, he wasn't smirking. He wasn't throwing some sarcastic retort back.

He just stared at Y/N.

And Y/N waited.

Because this was the moment.

Either Nate was in... or he wasn't.

And Y/N wasn't going to wait forever to find out.

[kiszjuli]

YOU WIN .ᐟ

✸ varsity!jaemin x fem!reader | genre. fluff. | w.c. 2.1k | ♡

↳ synopsis. in which jaemin has been pining after you and makes you a deal. if he wins the valentine’s day basketball game, you have to go out with him. you agreed, but you knew you didn’t like him like that. at least that’s what’s you’ve been telling yourself.

↳ playlist. pov - ariana grande. universe (let’s play ball) - nct dream. i wanna be yours - arctic monkeys call me baby - exo. talk saxy - riize. adore you - harry styles.

the large, crowed gym boomed with the sounds of sneakers squeaking against polished floors and the faint echo of chatter and commentary bouncing off the walls. valentine’s day was tomorrow, and with it came the school’s annual basketball game—a game everyone seemed to love, whether it was purely for the game itself, or the romance that seemed to come with it. for you, though, it was just another day behind the camera, documenting the campus chaos for the yearbook.

through your camera, you’d captured just about everything this year: pep rallies, club meetings, quiet moments in the library, and even pictures of people doing the simplest things. and of course, na jaemin. somehow, he was everywhere. whether he was on the court, joking with friends, or flashing a charming grin at you, jaemin had an uncanny ability to find your camera—and you hated how often you found yourself keeping the photos he was in.

you’d spent the last semester convincing yourself it didn’t mean anything. he was just one of the many faces in the crowd, one of the players you documented out of habit. but jaemin thought very different.

about a week ago, he’d found you crouched on the sidelines during practice. you fiddled with your lens, as he walks up and proposed his idea to you. “if i win the valentine’s day game,” he’d said, leaning casually against the bleachers, and looking down at you, “you have to go out with me.”

at that, you almost dropped your camera. “what?”

“come on, pretty girl, you heard me.” his grin had been infuriating, as always. before you could think to respond, he added, “i’m. a deal’s a deal.”

“and if you don’t?” you piped.

"i don't always win, but i promise you i will this time.” he responded with a confident tone.

the idea was ridiculous. you clearly didn’t even like jaemin like that—or at least, that’s what you’d been trying to convince yourself of.

although you found your heart beating a little quicker when he was around, eyes lighting up a bit when he walked in the same room, laughing slightly harder at his jokes-it was all meaningless. right?

so, motivated by your persistence to prove your subconscious wrong, you’d agreed and now, as the stands filled quickly with students, and your camera in your lap, you glanced around not being able to shake the feeling that this wasn’t going to end you you expected.

—

despite yourself, because of the infectious crowd, you felt the pre-game thrill in your chest. you adjusted some things on your camera, getting it ready for when you needed it. aiming it in front of you you changed some of the setting, while looking through the lens. then you had noticed that he was directly in the middle; staring your way. you lowered the camera, looking at him straight on. that stupid smirk and casually spun a basketball in his middle finger. show off. his coach called the team for a quick team talk, and of course he didn’t leave without throwing a wink at you.

you fought the urge to roll your eyes but couldn’t deny the small flutter you felt in your stomach.

the gym fell to a hush as the referee walked to the middle of the court, the basketball in hand. both teams on either of his sides, waiting in anticipation. you got your camera ready for the shot, eyes trained on the scene in front of you, but you felt the weight of someone else’s gaze.

jaemin.

he stood at the center, opposite the other team’s strongest member, his attitude relaxed but ready. something about his calm and confident demeanor told you that he already knew how the game would end. like he was playing with certainty, and not hope.

seconds later, the whistle blew, the ball was thrown into the air.

jaemin reacted instantly, leaping towards it. his body stretched effortlessly to the ball, fingers grazing it first—the perfect tip-off. just like that the gym erupted in cheers and the game begun.

from behind the camera, you followed the motions of the players. shoes squeaked against the polished wood, the sharp bounce of the ball echoed through the gym. jaemin was moving like he was made for this, weaving through players with an ease. his focus was intense, completely imo in the game, but every now and then his eyes would flicker to you.

they were subtle glances, quick enough that no else would would have caught it. but you did, and he knew that.

and you hated that your stomach flipped every time it happened.

—

later in the game, halfway into the second quarter, jaemin caught a pass near the three-point line, and without hesitation, he launched the ball toward the hoop. The form was perfect, the kind of shot that sent the crowd to their feet before it even touched the net. and of course, you got the perfect picture of him in action, feet lifted at least a foot off the ground.

the cheers that followed were deafening. jaemin didn’t celebrate, he didn’t even look surprised. he just turned on his heels and jogged back to defense with that same cocky smirk, and looked directly at you.

you lowered your camera, heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

—

the fourth quarter had rolled around, and the gym was like a madhouse. the scoreboard glowing with mirrored numbers. 76-76. the game had been the kind that had the entire crowd on the edge of their seats constantly. every dribble, every pass, every shoot felt like it carried the weight of the entire game. and at the center of it all—na jaemin.

but he was also exhausted. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening his hair. his cheeks were flushed, and his chest heaved.

the rest of the team was just as worn out, struggling to keep up as the opposing team tried to pushed harder, desperate to steal the lead. jaemin had been their anchor, but the slight lag in his step was noticeable.

and yet, every time he looked up at the stands to you, there was still that unwavering determination. almost as if it pushed him harder; to keep his drive high.

you weren’t sure how long you had been holding your breath when the game reached the final full minute. the rival team had the ball, moving with quick, calculated passes, trying to run down the clock. the team knew what they were aiming for—a last-second shot, the buzzer-beater that would end it all.

jaemin wasn’t about to let that happen.

in a fraction of a second, he darted forward, intercepting a pass with a speed that seemed impossible given how drained he had to be by now. the crowd gasped, watching with intense focus, defenders right on his heels. you didn’t even realize you were standing until your knees bumped against the scorer’s table, camera still clutched tightly in your hands.

the timer was ticking down—

ten seconds left.

he crossed the three-point line. his teammates shouted, signaling for a pass, but he didn’t even glance their way, focused on his own play.

seven seconds.

an opposing player lunged at him, trying to block him. failing, jaemin spun around him, keeping the ball in his possession.

four seconds.

he took the shot running out of time.

the ball left his fingertips, spiraling toward the hoop just as the final buzzer blared through the gym.

time seemed to slow, everyone’s heads following the ball.

the ball traced the rim once—twice—before finally sinking through the net.

the gym erupted with cheers and yells and claps.

the student section stormed the court, screams of victory bouncing off the walls. the team tackled jaemin in celebration, hands ruffling his hair, hitting him on the back, yelling his name.

but jaemin wasn’t paying attention to them.

his eyes were locked on yours, with an ‘i told you so’ look.

and you knew.

this wasn’t just a win, it was his win.

and you were his prize.

—

jaemin had done it. he’d won the game, meaning he’d also won the bet.

as you sat at the bottom of the bleachers, still surrounded but the buzzing nature of the gym, you weren’t sure scared you more—the fact that he actually pulled it off, or the fact that you secretly wanted him to.

but before you could process it any further, a familiar figure broke through the heavy crowd.

jaemin. hot, sweaty, completely breathless.

his jersey clung to his skin, strands of damp hair falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed even more. his eyes were sharp, focused and locked onto you. he didn’t stop until he was right in front of you

your breath caught in your throat.

jaemin tilted his head, a breathless grin tugging at his lips. “so…” he ran a hand through his damp hair, the pieces falling right back. his chest still rising and falling with heavy breaths. “about our little deal.”

you swallowed hard.

your mind scrambled trying to find an excuse, something to get out of this, but every word died before it could reach your tongue. the truth was, no matter how much you had tried to convince yourself otherwise, you wanted this. wanted him.

jaemin must have noticed the mix of hesitation in your expression because his smirk widened, a teasing glint in his eyes. he leaned in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of sweat and cologne, his voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous.

“you’re not gonna back out on me, are you, pretty girl?”

something about the way he said it, made your breath hitch. the way he looked at you. like he already knew he had won more than the game and bet. you couldn’t form a proper response.

“uh..”

jaemin let out a quiet chuckle, gaze flickering to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again. “guess that means i’ll pick you up at seven.”

and just like that he turned around back to the court, leaving you standing there with your racing heart.

oh, you were screwed.

—

you weren’t nervous, definitely not.

at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as you checked your reflection for what had to be the tenth time in the last five minutes. it wasn’t even a real date. just the result of a stupid bet.

and yet, here you were, doing your last touches.

a sharp knock on your dorm door made you jolt, heart leaping into your throat. you took a deep breath before opening it, only to find jaemin leaning casually against the frame, looking criminally hot.

his sweaty jersey and damp hair from earlier was gone, now replaced in a white tee, covered by a black jean jacket and matched black jeans. his usual charm fully present. his cologne was soft but warm, dangerously enticing. and they way he had that signature smirk, he knew exactly what you were thinking.

jaemin’s eyes raked over you, picking out every detail. he let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “damn,” he leaned in. little. “if i knew you’d clean up this nice, i would’ve made the bet a long time ago,”

you rolled your eyes trying to ignore the quickened pace of your heart. “are you gonna flirt all night or are we gonna leave?”

he chuckled, stepping from the doorframe, gesturing his arm out of the building. “both. definitely both.”

with a dramatic sigh, you stepped out and locked the door behind you. as you followed him to his car, you realized something—this felt like a real date. nothing forced, not awkward, not something you were being dragged into. interesting.

—

jaemin ended up taking you to a tucked away, late-night café, the kind with dim lighting and cozy booths. it was quieter than you expected, more intimate, which he probably planned.

as soon as you sat down in the booth, jaemin leaned forward, eyes fixed on you with that same infuriating smirk. “so, be honest,” he said, tapping his fingers against the table. “how long have you been secretly in love with me?”

his words caught you off guard. “excuse me?”

he grinned. “i mean, you did agree to this pretty quickly.”

you scoffed. “it was a bet.”

“sure.” he nodded slowly, like he wasn’t the one who came up with it. “and yet, here you are. looking beautiful, by the way,”

you rolled your eyes, ignoring the warmth creeping up your cheeks. “do you flirt with everyone like this?”

jaemin tilted his head, pretending to think. “only you.”

your stomach flipped, but you forced yourself to glare. “unbelievable.”

he laughed, leaning back. “better get used to it, pretty girl. you’re my valentine this year,” ‘and hopefully forever’ he thought to himself.

you smiled shaking your head.

the worst part? you weren’t even mad about it. in fact, you couldn’t form see yourself going out with him more than just tonight. maybe you did harbor some feelings for na jaemin after all..

—

⁀➷⊹ ࣪ ˖~ THE LA LA LOVE SERIES .ᐟ

taggies(open) ↳ @kittydollzz @huffnpufffckk @completelyjae @lovesuhng @nae-vm @ayibdorrt @chocoriki @yomaman @yukisroom97

[saiyanprincessswanie]

Second Chances

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Reader

Word Count: 1550

Summary: Feelings have been brewing for a while now. Do you risk your friendship to express your true feelings?

Warnings:  Little angst but mostly fluff. Trope: Best Friends to lovers, Idiots in love & roommates, Activities: Borrowing hoodies/clothes, Quotes: “You’re adorable when you giggle. You’re always so adorable.” & “You’re the most precious thing ever. I will protect you with everything I have.”

A/N: Thank you to @fictional-affairs for the amazing header. Thank you @firefly-graphics for the divider. Thank you to my beta reader @lfnr-blog-blog-blog

Reblogs & Comments are welcomed and encouraged. It lets me know you like my work. 😊💜

I do NOT consent to translating or reposting my work on any social media platform, app, or third-party site. If you see my work anywhere besides my personal Tumblr & AO3 accounts, it has been stolen. I will NEVER give written or verbal permission to repost or translate any of my fanfics as they’re MY intellectual property. 🚫🚫

The snow was coming down on this quiet afternoon. You were bundled up in Andy’s hoodie, a pair of leggings and warm fuzzy socks. A blanket was draped over your legs and the book you were reading was captivating. Andy was currently making chili to warm you both up on this cold day. 

When you first met Andy he was quiet and kept to himself. He had lost his wife and son in an accident. Between losing his family and job Andy was a lost soul wandering through the world.

Then life gave him an opportunity and he decided to work for a nonprofit organization that helps people who are falsely accused of murder. It just so happens you work for the same organization and team up on cases with him every now and then. What started as coworkers evolved into you becoming best friends for several years now.

Andy had moved in with you over two years ago and became your roommate to help you both save money. You would have thought being best friends with someone who is your coworker and roommate would have failed from the start. Being around someone that much could drive people crazy, but not you and Andy. It was the total opposite.

You both loved spending time together and hanging out. With Andy everything seemed right in the world and now your current problem was you developed feelings for him. How could you stupidly fall for your best friend? There was the fact he was handsome and he had the best personality. He was encouraging, loyal, kind, caring, respectful, and thoughtful. He had many other attributes about him you could list but you would be here forever listing them.

Andy was 6’1, with ocean-like eyes that you could swim in all day long. His body you have felt thanks to cuddling is muscular and firm. Though you have seen him shirtless many times and you thanked the lord for the view.

Then there was you, a woman who refuses to date thanks to a break up you had prior to meeting Andy. It was a bad breakup that found you questioning your self worth. But thanks to Andy you feel confident and comfortable in your own skin. No longer were you questioning yourself. Now you were a strong female who knew what you wanted. But could you tell him the truth about how you felt?

So here you both have been snowed in since yesterday. Thankfully you both have enough food to last this storm and stay safe indoors. You were several chapters into your book when you felt a pair of hands start to rub your neck. Strong hands were gently massaging you and your eyes closed from the feeling. You couldn’t help the groan that left your mouth when he moved into your shoulders.

”For someone who has been reading all morning your shoulders are tense. Is everything okay? ” Andy spoke gently as his hands continued to rub your shoulders. “Also is this my hoodie?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well last night. Tossed and turned most of the night. Nothing a nap after lunch won’t fix. The hoodie used to be yours but I commandeered it.” You tilted your head back and warmly smiled up at him. After a few more rubs of your neck, he patted you on the shoulder.

“Commandeered it my butt. You stole it months ago and I haven't seen it since. Let’s go eat some lunch. It will warm you up in no time.” He smiled at you as you stretched on the couch and got up.

Both of you walked into the spacious kitchen and grabbed a bowl. You put a couple of spoonfuls of chili in your bowl and made your way to the dining room table. As you sat down Andy had made his way to the table, sitting across from you.

As you made small talk with him your eyes wandered across his face from his eyes to his beard to his lips. You licked your lips absentmindedly and went back to eating. The thoughts of him being yours made your heart race. Would being honest ruin what you already have? You had the best roommate and best friend in the world. The thought of losing him made you tense again. Maybe you should keep your feelings to yourself.

You let out a sigh and that had Andy reaching his hand across the table and gently taking your hand. You looked up and your eyes locked onto his soft blue ones. He offered a friendly smile before he took your hand and pressed a kiss to it.

“Sweetheart, something is telling me that you want to talk about something but you’re nervous. You know you can talk to me about anything. I won’t judge you at all.” 

Feeling nervous you look away from him and pull your hand back. You weren’t sure how to start this conversation but you knew Andy was going to be persistent about this.

You stood from the table and grabbed your empty bowl. Putting it on the counter you wrapped your arms around yourself and tried to figure out how to just come out with it.

Andy followed you into the kitchen and set his bowl next to yours. He watched as you bit your lip and stared at him with sadness in your eyes.

“Sweetheart, come here.” He stretched his arms open and waited for you to come to him. Slowly you walked to him and wrapped your arms around him. 

Your head was against his chest as Andy held you close to him. You felt him kiss your forehead and breathe in your scent. 

“You know I will never judge you for what you have to share with me. You mean everything to me.” Andy reassured you and gave you a big hug. 

Pulling away from him reluctantly you grabbed his hand and walked over to the couch. As you sat down Andy slowly sat next to you. 

Andy wouldn’t be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. Something in your expression has changed this morning and he was worried about losing you. He couldn’t help himself with developing feelings for you. If you wanted him to move out he would be crushed because he was in love with you. 

You stared at him for a minute before you took a deep breath and spoke. “I have feelings for you Andy. I have for some time now. I’m in love with you and I can’t keep pretending that I’m not.”

Andy’s eyes go wide with shock. He couldn’t believe what he heard. After all this time of being coworkers, roommates, and best friends who knew you had the same feelings as him. Andy couldn’t help but smile and let out a chuckle. 

You looked at him confused. Why did he just chuckle? Did he think it was a joke to him?

Grabbing your hand Andy intertwined his fingers with yours. Lifting both hands to his face Andy kissed the back of your hand. 

“I promise I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that I have feelings for you too. I didn’t know how to approach you about it cause I didn’t want to ruin what we already had between us. You mean everything to me and make me feel like myself again. Since losing my wife and son years ago I didn’t think I deserved happiness again. But you made me believe in second chances.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you shook your head. “Andy, I promise this is for real. I was so afraid of losing you that I kept it to myself this whole time thinking you only saw me as a friend. But knowing you feel the same makes me so happy.”

Andy pulls you into his lap and starts kissing you from your forehead to your cheeks. His beard tickles you and you let out some giggles from the affection he is showing you.

“You’re adorable when you giggle. You’re always so adorable. Everything you do drives me wild.” Andy says affectionately as he kisses you all over your face making you giggle more.

He stops his silly kisses and lightly cups your face then leans in for a kiss on your lips. The kiss is soft and slow. Both of you are testing the waters and grabbing at each other to pull the other closer. This is what you have been waiting for and a soft moan pulls from your lips as you separate.

Andy smiles warmly at you and caresses your cheek. “I want you to know you can always count on me to treat you like the queen you are. You’re the most precious thing ever. I will protect you with everything I have. You will never have to worry about being alone cause I will always be here for you.”

You pull him close again and kiss him on the lips. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Let’s not find out,” Andy whispers to you as he holds you tight. 

You thank the universe for allowing you two to finally express your feelings. You feel that this is going to be the beginning of forever with him.

Taglist:

@americasass81

@astheskycries

@awesomerextyphoon

@awkwardgiraffe726

@b3autyfuld1sast3r

@caffiend-queen

@caplanbuckybarnes

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@fictional-affairs

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@thefallenbibliophilequote

@what-is-your-plan-today

@wolfsmom1

@yenzys-lucky-charm

[pessimisticloather]

Haven...

Pairing: Hwang!Hyunjin x fem!reader, established relationship, non-idol au

Synopsis: you come back home from a very bad and shitty day at work but your loving and.. dramatic partner boyfriend is there to comfort you

Genre: fluff, comfort, slight possessiveness

A/N: .. so this is my first time trying this.. didn't know what I was doing most of the time.. so enjoy.. I guess.

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††

Y/N sighed heavily as she stepped off the bus, her shoulders slumping under the weight of an exhausting day. The sky was a deep shade of navy, dotted with stars that twinkled above her like distant, indifferent spectators. The cold evening air nipped at her skin, but it wasn't nearly as biting as the frustration gnawing at her heart.

She had woken up that morning full of optimism, thinking maybe today would be better. But work had been a disaster. The project she had spent weeks on had been ripped apart in a meeting, her boss barely acknowledging the effort she had put in before criticizing it in front of the whole team. Then, to make things worse, a coworker had taken credit for an idea she had casually mentioned last week, and instead of speaking up, she had just swallowed the unfairness. By the time her shift ended, she was drained, disheartened, and in desperate need of comfort.

Y/N climbed the steps to her apartment, her legs feeling heavy with exhaustion. She just wanted to curl up in bed, bury herself under the covers, and shut out the world for a while. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe she’d find the courage to stand up for herself. But right now, she just wanted the day to be over.

When she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the warm scent of something savory filled the air—garlic, butter, and a hint of spice. Normally, she would have paused to appreciate it, maybe even smile at the thought of her boyfriend, Hyunjin, making dinner. But tonight, she barely noticed.

Laughter drifted from the living room. Hyunjin and one of his friends, Changbin, were on the couch, a video game paused on the screen in front of them. A couple of beer bottles sat on the coffee table, along with a half-empty bag of chips. It looked like they’d been having a good time.

“Y/N!” Hyunjin’s voice was warm, affectionate. “Hey, babe, how was work?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance in his direction. She kicked off her shoes, set her bag down, and walked straight to the bedroom without a word.

Hyunjin’s smile faltered. Changbin glanced at him, raising an eyebrow.

“What was that about?” Changbin asked.

Hyunjin shook his head, frowning slightly as he stared after her. “I don’t know.” He leaned forward, setting his controller down. “She usually says something.”

Changbin exhaled, pushing himself off the couch. “She looked upset, man. Maybe you should check on her.”

Hyunjin nodded. “Yeah… I will.”

Changbin grabbed his jacket from the chair. “I’ll head out. Let you two talk.”

“Thanks, man.” Hyunjin gave him a quick fist bump before walking him to the door. As soon as Changbin left, Hyunjin turned his attention to the closed bedroom door.

His heart tightened. Y/N was normally so bubbly, full of warmth and laughter. But tonight… something was wrong.

He knocked softly before pushing the door open.

Y/N was curled up on the bed, still in her work clothes, her arms wrapped around herself. She didn’t turn toward him. She didn’t say anything.

Hyunjin stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Y/N?” His voice was gentle, careful.

She sighed, her breath shaky. “I don’t want to talk, Hyunjin.”

He hesitated, then walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. “Okay,” he said simply. He wouldn’t push. But he wasn’t leaving either.

For a few moments, silence stretched between them. Hyunjin could feel the weight of her sadness like a storm cloud in the room, thick and heavy.

Then Y/N finally spoke, her voice small. “Today sucked.”

Hyunjin glanced down at her, watching as she stared at the wall. “Yeah?”

She nodded, and just like that, the dam broke.

“I tried so hard on this project at work, and my boss just—he tore it apart in front of everyone. Like it was nothing.” Her voice wavered. “And then this guy at work—he stole my idea. Just said it like it was his, and I didn’t even fight it. I just sat there, Hyunjin.” She sniffed, turning onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “I just let it happen. And I feel so… small.”

Hyunjin’s jaw clenched. His protective instincts kicked in, but he forced himself to stay calm. Y/N didn’t need anger right now. She needed comfort.

He lay down beside her, reaching for her hand. “That’s not fair,” he said, his voice steady. “You worked hard. And you deserved to be acknowledged for it.”

Y/N let out a bitter laugh. “Tell that to my boss.”

Hyuny squeezed her hand. “I wish I could. I’d tell him he’s an idiot for not seeing how amazing you are.”

Y/N turned her head, finally meeting his eyes. There was exhaustion there, but also something softer. A flicker of appreciation.

Hyunjin continued, his voice quieter now. “And I know you, Y/N. I know how much you care about your work. I know how much effort you put into everything you do. And just because some jerk took credit for your idea doesn’t mean it wasn’t yours. Doesn’t mean you’re not brilliant.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “I just hate that I let it happen.”

“You were caught off guard,” Hyunjin said gently. “It doesn’t mean you’re weak. And it doesn’t mean you won’t stand up for yourself next time.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. She just looked at him, the weight in her chest slowly lifting.

Hyunjin reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Do you want me to beat him up?” he teased lightly. “I’ll do it. I’ll fight him. Right in the middle of your office.”

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. “You’d get arrested.”

“Worth it,” Hyunjin said without hesitation.

Y/N laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit.

Hyunjin smiled. “There she is.”

She rolled her eyes but shifted closer, resting her head on his chest. Hyunjin wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly.

They lay there in comfortable silence for a while. Hyunjin traced slow circles on her back, and Y/N focused on the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“Thank you Jinnie,” she murmured.

Hyunjin kissed the top of her head. “For what?”

“For just… being here.”

He smiled, his hold on her tightening. “Always, babe.”

And just like that, the day didn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.

@furioussheepluminary