#maybe I’ll try to make him again though

[snail-day]

Satoru doesn't do well with the idea of leaving you. Never has. Probably never will.

Even the short missions are enough to make him sulky, but the long ones? The ones where he’ll be away for days, maybe weeks? He turns into a whining mess. You wonder if he's always been like this, just never voiced it aloud to anyone before.

Packing takes three times longer than it should. Every time he tries to fold a shirt or zip his carry on, he ends up abandoning the task halfway through just to wrap his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into the crook of your neck with a pitiful little whine.

"I don't wanna go," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, maybe saying it enough times might make the whole thing mission disappear. "You’re my little Pokémon, y'know? I should be able to just catch you in a ball and bring you with me."

You laugh, warm and breathless, reaching up behind you to card your fingers through his snowy hair. "You could try," you tease, and he groans dramatically, squeezing you tighter.

It’s not just joking, though. When you offer to come with him, he always gets a little quiet. A little stuck in his mind. Turning you around and pulling back just enough to look at you, and the way his bright blue eyes shimmer... God, it breaks your heart a little. He wants to say yes. You can see it in the way his hand trembles against your side. The way his pretty eyes scan your face. It's on the tip of his tongue.

But instead, he just shakes his head slowly, a wobbly little smile on his lips.

Because the thought of something happening to you, curse or no curse, makes his heart ache. Makes his mind wander a little too far for his liking.

What if he’s in the middle of a fight and someone targets you?

What if he’s too far away to reach you in time?

What if...?

"Can’t risk it," he finally says softly, thumb brushing back and forth against your hip, memorizing the feel of your soft skin. Maybe your scent will eventually be engrained in his mind. "You're... you’re everything, baby."

Already pulling you against his lean chest again, holding you so tightly you can barely breathe, mumbling "I love you" over and over against the crown of your head. His palm rubbing up and down your back in loose patterns. You almost think he's tearing up.

"I love you. I love you so much. Don’t forget, okay?" he murmurs between kisses to the top of your head. "Be safe. Call me if you even think something’s weird, kay? I’ll come running, promise."

You have to physically pry him off you just to get him to finish packing. And even then, he keeps glancing back at you every five seconds. Begging for one more hug. One more kiss. One more chance to touch you before he has to drag himself to the door.

By the time he actually gets to the door, he’s somehow hugging you again, despite your giggling protests, rocking you gently side to side in his arms, mumbling about how he’s going to miss you so bad he might just quit being a sorcerer and become your full-time house husband. (He’s only half joking.)

Finally, after a hundred kisses and whispered I love yous, he leans down one last time, nose brushing against yours, voice soft and almost trembling: "Be here when I get back, 'kay? I don’t wanna come home to a world without you."

But then, quieter, so quiet you nearly miss it he adds: "...And don’t... don’t forget about me either, yeah? Don’t find someone normal while I'm gone. Someone who doesn't leave. Someone who can give you the kind of life you deserve."

It’s said with a half-laugh, light and teasing, like he’s trying to play it off, but you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, the way his voice wavers. That tiny, hidden crack in the foundation of Satoru Gojo: The fear that being the strongest might mean ending up the loneliest too.

And even as he finally forces himself to step away, flashing you that big, blinding smile. You catch the flicker of sadness he tries so desperately to hide. Because no matter how strong he is, when it comes to you, Satoru’s always afraid that someday you’ll realize you deserve more than a man who keeps having to leave.

[sh4nksslvt]

maybe i need a whole fic with luffy x reader married now... i'm not charging you, maybe i'm just in love with your writing

a/n: thank u <3 hope u like this~

Wait… Luffy’s WHAT?!

Luffy reunites with his childhood sweetheart, who also happens to be his secret spouse. The crew thought he was joking… until they weren’t laughing anymore.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT

tags: fluff, sfw, ooc, marriage, reader is opposite of luffy

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1.3k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Thousand Sunny drifted through the final tunnel, water glistening against its protective bubble as Fishman Island came into view.

“WOAAAH!” Luffy yelled from the deck, eyes wide. “It’s so shiny!”

“I can’t believe it’s real!” Chopper spun around.

Robin smiled behind a hand. “The architecture here is said to be older than the Grand Line itself.”

“I heard the royal family is pretty generous,” Nami added. “If we play this smart, we could stock up for weeks.”

But Luffy? His mind was somewhere else entirely. Or rather, on someone.

He leaned against the rail, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“I wonder if they’re here…”

“LUFFY, GET BACK HERE, YOU CAN’T JUST–!”

“NAMI!, I SMELL MEEAAT!”

He was already gone. Sprinting like a man possessed through the bustling bubble streets of Fishman Island, eyes wide, tongue out, arms flailing in glee.

“Captain,” Robin said with a small smile, “seems excited.”

“He's always excited,” Zoro muttered, arms crossed. “But this time he’s extra stupid.”

Brook hummed thoughtfully. “Yohohoho, I wonder if the meat will marry him too.”

“Wait, did you say marry?” Usopp blinked. “Oh yeah! Didn’t Luffy say he was married once?”

“…Didn’t we all think he was joking?” Franky asked, brows raised.

“Yeah,” Chopper added with a little snort. “He said something like ‘I already got a wife, and they’re way stronger than all of you!’ and we just laughed.”

The crew exchanged glances.

“…You think he was serious?”

MEANWHILE.

Luffy skidded around the corner, bonking a coral lamp post with his forehead. “Ow–!”

“Still no sense of direction?”

He froze.

That voice.

He knew that voice like the back of his hand — or the taste of meat. Slowly, his wide eyes turned toward the source.

There, standing with arms crossed and an eyebrow raised, was you.

Stoic, calm, one eyebrow raised, and totally unamused as always.

“Y/N!!” Luffy beamed, bolting toward you. “Y/N Y/N Y/N! YOU'RE HERE!!”

Before you could scold him, he’d wrapped you in a tight hug that nearly knocked you back.

“Still a hugger as usual, huh?” you mumbled, eyes softening just a bit.

“Missed you! SHISHISHI,” he grinned into your shoulder.

“You saw me six months ago,” you said, deadpan.

“Yeah!, but that’s like…so long!!”

You sighed, though your hand was already resting on his back, grounding the chaotic ball of sunshine that had stolen your heart all those years ago.

“…You never change.”

FLASHBACK - Windmill Village

“You’re so noisy.”

“C’mon Y/N, let’s go punch that tree again!”

Putting your book down, you sat with your arms folded, watching as young Luffy jumped up and down with excitement, a stick in his hand like it was the strongest sword in the world.

“We’ll get stronger together! Then we’ll go on adventures and eat meat every day!”

You blinked. “That’s your dream?”

“Yup! What’s yours?”

You shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Then make one with me!”

You raised an eyebrow. “Make a dream with you?”

He nodded seriously. “We can share. Like best friends. Or… like married people!”

“…That’s not how marriage works.”

“Then I’ll change the rules!”

You stared at him.

“…Fine.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

“What now.”

“If we ever get married, can I still eat meat at the wedding?”

You looked up from your book. “Obviously. I won’t marry someone who doesn’t love meat.”

He blinked, surprised. “So you will marry me?”

You went back to reading. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

His heart exploded like fireworks.

BACK TO PRESENT

“Wait,” Sanji whispered from the side of the plaza, crouched with the rest of the crew behind some candy-colored seaweed. “Is that them?! MELLORINEE~~”

“THEM?!” Usopp whispered. “You know them?!”

“I’ve heard rumors,” Sanji sighed dreamily. “That’s Y/N — calm as the sea before a storm. Feared in the Grand Line and cold-hearted~"

“Yeah, but they’re…” Chopper tilted his head. “Letting Luffy carry them like a backpack right now.”

“Are they… cuddling?” Zoro’s eye twitched. “In public?”

“I’m SUPER! emotionally confused,” Franky muttered.

“Yohohoho,” Brook said softly. “So our captain is… married.”

“And he was serious,” Robin added, intrigued.

Luffy still hadn’t let go. You were currently being dragged around the island as he loudly pointed at every fish-person, street food stall, and bubble coral with endless excitement.

“Look, Y/N, look!! That octopus is playing drums!!”

You nodded. “Mm.”

“And that shark guy has THREE swords!”

You blinked. “Impressive.”

“Oh! That candy shop sells meat-lollipops!! Want one?”

“…Fine.”

He gasped, eyes shining. “You said yes! You never say yes to candy!”

“It’s for you, dumbass.”

He beamed so hard it could’ve powered the Sunny.

LATER, WITH THE CREW

“LUFFY!!”

He turned mid-bite of his meat-lollipop. “Huh?”

“WHAT. IS. GOING. ON?!” Nami shrieked.

You were sitting beside him, sipping seaweed tea calmly. “Can I help you?”

“YEAH, YOU CAN EXPLAIN HOW YOU’RE—MARRIED TO LUFFY?!”

He tilted his head. “I told you guys already.”

“YEAH BUT YOU SAID IT WHILE EATING A SEA KING LEG!!”

Franky pointed dramatically. “That’s not the time for SUPER confessions, bro!”

You raised a hand. “We’ve been married for years. It’s just not something we flaunt.”

“…You married Luffy. As in legal.”

“Technically yes. I still have the officiation snail photo. Luffy drew a mustache on it.”

“HE LOOKED SO FUNNY!! SHISHISHI” Luffy grinned, remembering it fondly.

“WHAT ABOUT YOUR PERSONALITY?! YOU’RE THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE!” Usopp flailed.

You stared at him. “What about it?”

“I dunno!! It’s just… Luffy’s sunshine! You’re like… moonlight. That can kill people.”

Zoro finally snapped. “Okay, no offense, but how do you even deal with him?”

You sighed, placing a hand over Luffy’s head as he practically melted beside you.

“…I’ve dealt with worse than a meat-goblin with a hero complex and zero sense of personal space.”

“That’s me!!” Luffy said proudly.

Robin giggled. “You really are opposites.”

“They’re so cool,” Sanji whispered, nose bleeding. “They’re scary. But like, in a hot way~”

“Are you crushing on our captain’s spouse?!” the crew hissed.

“Can’t help it~”

LATER THAT NIGHT ON THE SUNNY

You sat at the edge of the deck, legs dangling above the water, watching the glowing sea beneath.

Luffy flopped beside you, resting his head in your lap like he always did when the sky was quiet.

“You’re really okay with all this attention?” you asked, fingers brushing his hair.

“Mmhmm. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You never cared about showing people.”

“I didn’t think I had to. You're mine. That’s already the best thing ever.”

Your hand paused. Then resumed slowly.

“You’re still dumb.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your dumb.”

“…Yeah. You are.”

He yawned, curling closer. “Remember the promise we made?”

“Which one? You made a lot.”

“The one about sharing dreams.”

You looked up at the stars. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I still wanna do that. Even if it’s dumb. Even if I die trying.”

You tapped his forehead.

“You won’t die. I’ll kill anyone who tries.”

NEXT MORNING — FISHMAN ISLAND MARKET

“I WANT TO BUY THAT ONE!”

“Luffy, that’s a pearl the size of a cannonball.”

“I WANT IT!!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Luffy, if I have to carry another crate of your ‘souvenirs’ I will drown you.”

He gasped. “Y/N!! That’s mean!”

“…You like that.”

“I DO!”

“Ew, please stop flirting where I can hear you,” Nami groaned as she walked by.

Zoro muttered, “Every time I think they’ll kill each other, they end up flirting again.”

“Do you think they’ll ever kiss in front of us?” Chopper asked innocently.

Sanji's eye turned into fire. “NO WAY! I'LL KICK YOU! YOU DAMN MONKEY!!!"

“Luffy, stop licking the pearl.”

“You know,” Robin said later that evening, watching you drag Luffy back from trying to arm-wrestle a sea king, “they’re oddly perfect together.”

“Opposites attract,” Franky nodded.

“They’re like fire and ice,” Brook added.

“More like hyper gremlin and emotionless murderbot,” Nami muttered.

“…Still somehow works,” Zoro said.

Sanji sobbed. “WHEN WILL MY TURN COME?!"

.

.

— A FEW DAYS LATER

“Hey, Robin,” Usopp whispered as the ship cruised along the current.

“Yes?”

“…Do you think we should throw them a wedding party?”

She sipped her tea. “I think if you try, you’ll die.”

“Right.”

“Besides,” she added, glancing at the couple watching the sunset at the bow of the ship, Luffy wrapped around you like a sleepy octopus, “I think they already had the only wedding they needed.”

[formulaonecrumbs]

ok, so this is my first time requesting ever so... if you could write something about younger brother lando (around 8 yo) being made fun of at school and older sisster reader comforting him (i'm talking about your older sister au ) if you don't write it it's completely fine just wanna say i really love you wrok 💗

you’re too cool for them

Lando Norris x older sister!reader

summary: lando comes home upset after being made fun of at school. reader finds him and comforts him in the way only an older sister can.

warnings: bullying mention, protective older sister energy

A/N: AHHH im glad i could be ur first request ever :) hope it lives up to wiat u expected. thank u sm, baby. i was going to make this much longer but i’ve been writing for like 4 maybe 5 hours straight WHOOPS. again thank u for the request, happy reading and i love u ❤️

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

home film #11 (out of a gazillion)- found in a cardboard box labelled ‘memories’

(recorded: norris family home, bristol)

timestamp: 3:03 pm 11-15-2007

the clip starts mid-focus, camera pointed at the hallway, picking up footsteps—quick ones, heavy ones—and then the slam of the front door. lando rushes in, head down, backpack nearly falling off his shoulders. it’s raining outside, his socks are slightly damp, and he doesn’t even say hi.

the camera shakes as someone picks it up—adam’s voice murmurs something about “what’s got into him?” before the screen cuts to the living room.

you’re already there, curled up on the couch with a snack and a book, still in your school uniform. you barely look up until lando stomps through, dropping his bag with a thud.

“lando?” you ask.

he doesn’t answer. he just mumbles something under his breath and disappears into the hallway.

cut.

the next shot is more still. you’re holding the camcorder now, awkwardly pointing it at yourself like you’re not sure if you’re allowed to use it. the angle shifts wildly before settling just outside your bedroom.

you knock once, gently. “hey.”

no response.

“i know you’re in there.”

a sniffle.

your voice much softer now, “bean? can i come in?”

a beat. then, a quiet little “yeah.”

the video cuts again, and when it comes back, you’ve set the camera on your desk. it’s angled slightly crooked, catching you and lando sitting on your bed. he’s curled up, knees to his chest, eyes red and puffy.

“they said my teeth are weird.. that the gap is ugly,” he says quietly. “and that my voice is squeaky. and that i’m too short.”

you blink, something in your face hardening—not at him, but at the thought of whoever said it (murder is wrong murdering is wrong murder is wrong murder is wrong). “that’s stupid.”

lando shrugs, trying to act like he doesn’t care. “it’s true though.”

you shake your head. “your voice is fine. everyone’s voice is squeaky at eight. and your teeth are just your baby teeth. they’re perfect as is, sweet like dads. and being short doesn’t matter.”

“easy for you to say.”

you nudge his knee gently. “hey. i get picked on too sometimes. for different stuff. people are mean when they’re bored.”

lando doesn’t reply. just looks down again, and you reach over, pulling his hoodie hood up over his head.

“you’re cool,” you say firmly. “you’re funny, and you’re smart. you’re literally my favorite person.”

he peeks up at you.

“really?”

“yes, really. don’t tell the others.” you smile. “now do you want me to punch them or what?”

lando giggles for the first time.

“maybe.”

you wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a sideways hug. “just ignore them, alright? or tell me. i’ll handle it.”

he leans into you, sniffling again, but this time a little softer.

the video fades out just as you toss him one of your stuffed animals and say, “you’re cooler than all of them. trust me.”

fade to black.

THE END :>

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR V

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This might’ve been one of my favorite chapters to write so far—I had way too much fun with it  Also, not sure if everyone caught my earlier heads-up, but I’m currently on vacation! This is a scheduled post, and I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to interact while I’m away. I will catch up once I’m back though! You can check out my little announcement here, for more info on when posts are scheduled and how long they’ll keep coming. The taglist will most likely be on pause until I return, but feel free to let me know if you’d still like to be added—I’ll make sure to include you in later chapters once I’m back!

OUTSIDE THE GOLDEN CUP

You were fully ready to go home and forget Jason Todd ever existed—maybe even bitch about him to Milo and Anthony over some wine, when you caught sight of the last two people you wanted to see.

They were strolling your way, all smiles and casual affection, like some goddamn ad for moving on. Jake laughed at something she said, and you watched—horrified, frozen—as he brushed her hair back with the same hand that used to trace your jaw.

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “This is not happening right now.”

They hadn’t seen you yet, but it was only a matter of time. And you couldn’t do it again—you couldn’t be the girl standing alone while your ex showed off his new life like it was a goddamn prize he won by throwing you away.

You refused to give him that satisfaction.

So you did the first thing that came to mind.

You turned around and bolted after Jason.

“Wait—come back here!”

He turned, confusion flickering across his face as you reached out and grabbed his arm. “What the hell—?”

You barely let him finish.

“I need you to kiss me,” you hissed.

Jason stared at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “What? No!”

“Just kiss me!”

His brow furrowed in complete disbelief. “Why would I kiss you? Are you—are you insane?”

You glanced over your shoulder—Jake was looking this way now—and panic flared hotter.

“I’m serious!”

He leaned back slightly, like he was trying to decide if you were testing him or genuinely unwell. “Absolutely not. You’re completely bipolar.”

You let out a desperate, frustrated sound and grabbed him by the collar before he could protest further—then yanked him down and slamming your lips against his.

You kissed him.

Hard.

He froze.

But only for a moment.

His grip slid instinctively to your waist, and he kissed you back with a heat that knocked the breath out of you. His mouth was warm, confident, a little possessive. Infuriating as he was, Jason Todd could kiss. 

Your fingers curled tighter in his jacket as the world fell away. For one dizzying second, you forgot Jake existed. Forgot why you were doing this. Forgot everything except the heat of Jason’s mouth on yours and the steady grip of his hands anchoring you in place.

Then—

“Y/N?”

Your name cut through the haze like a slap of cold air.

You pulled back, breath catching in your throat, lips tingling. Jason didn’t move. His mouth was still inches from yours. His gaze flicked to your lips, then up to your eyes, like he was debating whether he should kiss you again—reasons be damned.

Jake’s voice came clearer now, closer. “Y/N.”

You turned toward him, feigning surprise like you’d only just noticed. “Oh!” you gasped—more breathless than you meant to be, though that only worked in your favor. “Jake! Wow, what are the odds of running into you again?”

He smiled, but it was thin, the kind that hovered somewhere between forced and insincere. “Yeah. Funny coincidence. Who’s this?”

You forced a bright smile, even as you felt Jason’s stare drilling into the side of your face, sharp enough to make your skin prickle.

“Jason—my boyfriend,” you said, pitching your voice higher than usual. “You remember, right? The doctor I told you about? We met at that neuroscience conference.”

Jason still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t stopped glaring. Your nerves were fraying with every second of silence, mentally begging him not to ruin this. Not to humiliate you.

Then, finally, he shifted.

Jason turned toward Jake and Hannah with a grin that was all charm on the surface—and nothing but sharp edges underneath. “Jason Todd,” he said, extending his hand.

Jake hesitated, then reached out. The second their palms met, Jason’s grip tightened just enough to make a point.

Jake winced.

“Jake,” he replied, trying not to sound rattled. “You’ve got a strong grip. So… you’re a neurosurgeon?”

You resisted the urge to groan. Three years of dating, and Jake still hadn’t figured out the difference between a neurosurgeon and a neuroscientist.

“Scientist,” Jason corrected smoothly, not missing a beat. “Same as Y/N. We work together—and I have to say, she’s a brilliant woman.”

Jake’s smile twitched, strained at the edges. “Yeah she is.” he agreed more out of the sake of agreeing rather than actually believing it.

“Oh wow, that’s so amazing,” Hannah gushed, completely sincere. “A couple that’s both gorgeous and smart? Total power duo.”

You didn’t miss the way Jake’s jaw ticked at that. His smile faltered.

Jason, of course, leaned into it with practiced ease.

“Ah, Y/N’s the amazing one,” he said, glancing down at you with a look so convincingly tender your stomach flipped. “I don’t know what I love more—getting to work beside her or waking up every morning knowing she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat blooming beneath your skin.

God. He was good at this.

“He’s such a charmer,” you laughed, sharing a quick smile with Hannah before turning to Jason with a soft shake of your head. “If anything, I’m the lucky one.”

He crinkled his nose. “God, I love you.”

“I love you,” you giggled—at the exact same time.

Jake blinked, clearly caught off-guard, his expression faltering. His mouth opened like he might say something—then shut again, silent for once.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly his lips were on yours again, gentler this time. Your fingers curled around his jacket instinctively as your body leaned into his without thinking. When you finally pulled back, you let out a breathless laugh, resting your head against his chest.

“We’re really happy,” you told Jake and Hannah, your voice light, breezy, too casual for how hard your heart was pounding.

Jason nodded, keeping you close with a hand settled snugly at your waist. “We are. But then again—who wouldn’t be happy with her? She’s got the brains, the beauty… even the brawn. Did you know she was a gymnast in high school?”

Jake stiffened. His frown appeared, vanished, then locked into place. “No. I didn’t.”

Jason’s grin turned wicked. “Didn’t think so.”

You gave a slightly awkward smile, not having expected him to bring that little detail up. “Yeah… he likes to brag,” you said with a giggle, reaching up to lightly slap his cheek in a silent shut up.

Jason just laughed, eyes dancing with mischief. “Ooh, feisty—I love it. My girl’s such a wildcat.”

And then, to your horror, he emphasized the point by bringing his large palm down on your ass in a quick, confident smack.

You let out a startled squeak. “Jason!”

He grinned, entirely unrepentant. “Sorry. I just can’t get enough of you.” Then he turned to the other two with a grin that was anything but apologetic.

Jake looked like he was rethinking every life choice that led him to this moment.

But Hannah?

Hannah sighed like she’d just watched the final scene of a rom-com. “That’s so romantic,” she breathed, practically glowing. Her eyes were glued to Jason, dreamy and starstruck, like she’d just mentally cast him as the lead in every fantasy she’d ever had.

You blinked.

Jason smirked.

And Jake looked one second away from combusting.

He shifted awkwardly, clearly itching to escape. “Well. It was nice seeing you, Y/N. And… meeting you, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “You too, Josh. We gotta run.”

Jake blinked. “It’s… Jake.”

“Oh.” Jason tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Right. Jake. Sorry, man. So many J names floating around in my life lately.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, doing everything you could not to burst out laughing.

“It was really nice meeting you,” Hannah said sweetly, clearly trying to smooth things over.

Jason turned to her like she was the only person in the world. “The pleasure was all mine,” he said, catching her hand with gallant ease.

Then—of course—he bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand like he was stepping straight out of a period drama.

Hannah flushed instantly, caught somewhere between flattered and utterly frazzled.

Jake’s frown sharpened, but he forced a brittle smile. “Oh look at that. A kiss on the hand. Classy.”

“You are so lucky,” Hannah whispered to you with starry eyes. And she meant it. The poor girl was enchanted.

You gave a polite, noncommittal smile. “I know.”

Jake clearly had enough. He tugged Hannah’s hand a little too firmly. “Enjoy your night.”

“Oh, we will,” Jason replied, already wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you snug against him like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse. As the couple turned to walk away, Jason called out, sweet as syrup, “See ya, Justin!”

“It’s Jake!” came the snapped reply from halfway down the block.

Jason grinned, satisfied. Like a cat full of cream and mischief. His eyes still sparkled as he watched them disappear around the corner.

Then Jason turned to you, expression flat, voice bone-dry. “So. Want to tell me what the hell that was?”

You let out a slow breath, brushing your hair out of your face as the adrenaline finally started to fade. “An emergency.”

He arched a brow. “That’s not how normal people handle emergencies.”

You snorted, the tension finally beginning to unravel from your spine. “I’m not normal. You of all people should know that.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s one word for it.”

Your mouth twitched, and you looked up at him, expression softening. “Thanks, by the way. Really.”

A sly smile curved across his lips as he cupped a hand behind his ear. “Sorry—what was that? This ear’s a little deaf.”

You huffed, but it came with a reluctant smile. “I said thank you. Thank you. You don’t have to be annoying about it.”

He grinned, but this time there was something softer behind it. Something genuine. “You want to try this again? Start over. We could grab a bite—your pick.”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your bottom lip.

Then he added, “You do owe me an explanation for… whatever that was.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. He wasn’t wrong. You had, technically, assaulted him with a surprise kiss and roped him into a soap opera without warning. The fact that he went along with it—without throwing you to the wolves—definitely earned him a second chance. And probably dessert.

“Come on—I know a café just down the street. Cozy, quiet, not too many people. Coffee that’s actually good,” you added, shooting him a teasing look over your shoulder, “and the pastries are amazing.”

CAFÉ NERO

“…and I packed up everything,” you said, fingers tracing the rim of your iced coffee. “Turned down a position at STAR Labs. All to move back here with him.”

You took a sip, using the taste of the cold overly sweet liquid to ground you for a second.

“Few months later, I found him in our bed with his yoga instructor.”

Jason winced. “Damn.”

You gave him a rueful grin. “You can say it. I’m an idiot. Three PhDs, I literally study the brain—and I still didn’t see how much of a tool he was.”

Jason shook his head. “You’re not an idiot. You were in love. Love’s great at messing with the parts of the brain that normally warn us about red flags. Doesn’t make you dumb. Just makes you human.”

Your gaze softened at his surprisingly insightful words. “He just wasn’t the guy I thought he was. It feels like… a mistake.”

Jason leaned back, his tone more certain. “I don’t believe in mistakes.”

You gave him a look, amused. “That’s a very convenient philosophy for someone like you.”

He smirked. “Maybe. But it’s the mistakes that shape us. Break us down, sure. But they also build us. They brought you back here, didn’t they?”

You blinked, considering. “Would you rather be back in Central City?” he asked.

“Surprisingly… no.” You glanced out the café window, watching the Gotham streets pulse with life. “For all its chaos, Gotham was—is my home. I love my place and my best friends live across the hall.”

“And you like your job,” Jason added.

“I love my job,” you agree, thinking about all the brilliant sleep deprived lunatics you taught and worked with.

He shrugged. “So there you go.” Then, watching you mull it over, his smirk softened. “Just saying.”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That’s dangerously close to sounding wise.”

“I have my moments,” he smirked, then quoted, almost under his breath,“‘We all have a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.’”

You blinked. “Wait—what was that?”

Jason took a slow sip of his drink, expression suspiciously innocent.

“No way!” You gasped “That’s Pride and Prejudice.” You pointed a finger at him, eyes lit with amusement. “That’s a direct quote.”

He didn’t deny it. Just smiled. “You sure?”

“Yes!” you laughed, practically bouncing in your seat. “That’s Elizabeth. Talking about trusting your own judgment. I wrote a whole damn paper on it in high school!” You leaned forward, studying him like he was a puzzle you’d only just realized you wanted to solve. “How do you know that quote?”

“Maybe I just appreciate the classics,” he said, trying for nonchalance—but the faint flush rising in his cheeks betrayed him.

You squinted at him. “How many times have you read it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve lost track.”

His flush deepened, blooming up his cheeks now, and you couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your lips.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You so are.”

“It’s good,” he defended, a little sheepishly. “Austen didn’t just write about romance. She wrote about perception. Power. How we lie to ourselves and convince ourselves we’re right—until someone challenges us.”

You tilted your head, watching him with new eyes—seeing a side of him that didn’t quite fit the arrogant bad boy persona you’d so easily pinned him with. Maybe he was right. Maybe you had been too quick to assume. He hadn’t exactly made the best first impression, sure—but you hadn’t given him much of a chance to prove otherwise, either. The truth was, you’d both misjudged each other. Different shades of the same mistake.

“It’s not just Darcy and Elizabeth dancing around their feelings,” he went on. “It’s how pride isolates you. How prejudice can ruin things before they even begin. It’s about waking up to your own flaws and doing something about them.”

“Wow,” you murmured, genuinely impressed. A smile tugged at your lips. “Okay. That was… borderline profound.”

He chuckled, looking a little self-conscious. “I read it when I was younger. Thought I was a Darcy type.” He paused, then added dryly, “Turns out I was more of a Lydia.”

You choked on your drink. “Lydia?!”

“Metaphorically,” he said, raising his hands. “Reckless. Stubborn. Thought I knew everything and didn’t need anyone.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “But don’t worry, I’ll still be the Darcy to your Elizabeth.”

“That is so cheesy.” You giggled. “I still can’t wrap my head around the face that you’re a closet Austen fan.”

“Don’t go telling people,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Too late,” you teased. “I’m never letting this go.” A smile lingered on your lips as you shook your head in disbelief. “And here I thought you were all leather jackets and terrible flirting.”

Jason leaned in, forearms braced on the table, eyes glinting. “Maybe I just needed the right Elizabeth Bennet to call me out.”

You raised your cup, matching the spark in his gaze. “You’ve got a long way to go, Mr. Darcy.”

His smirk deepened. “Challenge accepted.”

Now that you weren’t arguing or making assumptions about each other, the date had gone… surprisingly well.

More than well, actually.

You found yourself genuinely enjoying Jason’s company—his sharp wit, his unexpected depth, and the fact that, beneath the leather and bravado, he was a total literary nerd. Not only could he keep up when you started debating themes and structure, he actually challenged you. Matched your pace with insight and humor.

It reminded you—just a little—of how Dick had been able to keep up when you started rambling about science. The way he hadn’t just nodded along, but asked questions. Listened.

You tried not to think about that. Tried not to dwell on the small, unwelcome flutter of disappointment still lingering in your chest over the fact that he hadn’t texted you back. Maybe he got busy. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You brushed it off and pulled your focus back to Jason, who, to his credit, hadn’t given you a single reason to walk away again.

What were the odds, anyway? Two gorgeous, intelligent men—both with sharp minds and devastating smiles—taking you out in the span of a few days. 

You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until you glanced outside. The streetlights had flickered on. Gotham was slipping into night—where the real chaos lived. The two of you had been talking for far longer than an hour, and while your brain wanted to stay planted in that booth, you’d learned your lesson.

You stood reluctantly, gathering your things as the last traces of sunlight slipped out of Gotham’s skyline. Juan glanced up from where he was wiping down the counter and sent you a knowing grin.

“Can I expect no more order for one?”

You glanced toward the door, where Jason was already there, holding it open with one hand, waiting. Then back to Juan, smirking. “We’ll see.”

Juan chuckled softly. “He’s good man, Doctora.”

You smiled, warmth creeping into your chest. “Yeah,” you said, eyes drifting back to the door. “I think he really is.”

Outside, the air was cooler now but neither of you seemed to mind, wanting to drag out the moment for just a few more minutes.

Jason paused beside you on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets. “So,” he asked, voice casual but eyes watching you closely, “what’s the verdict?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a smile. “The verdict is… I actually had a lot of fun. And I wouldn’t mind doing this again.”

Something that looked suspiciously like relief flickered across his face before settling into a crooked, satisfied grin. “And here I thought I might have to crash another one of your lectures.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You were insane for doing that.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “Worked, didn’t it? Got me a date with you.”

You grinned, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.

The two of you exchanged numbers and say your goodbyes. Jason offered one last wink before turning and disappearing into the crowd like he belonged to the night.

You made it home in one piece—miraculously not mugged or emotionally spiraling—kicked off your shoes, and flopped onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. Then you checked your phone.

One unread message.

Your eyes widened as you saw the name on the screen.

Dick Grayson

Hey, sorry I haven’t texted sooner. Got caught up with an emergency. Let me know when you’re free for that second date.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. Shit. You were so screwed.

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02

[pankowcrumbs]

Over the Radio X Lando Norris

18+

Plot: You are Lando's new race engineer and the flirting is everything even though it's forbidden.

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

The headset felt heavier than usual.

It wasn’t the weight, obviously. It was the pressure. I’d just been promoted me, Y/N, twenty-five, notoriously chatty and chronically single to the role of Lando Norris’s race engineer. A job I’d secretly daydreamed about since joining McLaren as a junior engineer three years ago. Not just because I loved strategy or thrived in high-stakes environments.

But because Lando made work… dangerous in the best way.

We’d always had this flirty, electric thing between us laced through teasing in the paddock, lingering glances after debriefs, and him playfully tapping his pen against my shoulder when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. But I’d never let it go further. Too complicated. Too public. Too… risky.

And now?

Now I had a mic strapped to my head and a driver... that driver relying on my voice to guide him through every sector.

“Alright,” came his voice through the comms during FP1, low and casual, “I’m just going to say it I like hearing you in my ears.”

I rolled my eyes, cheeks already heating. “You’re supposed to like hearing me, Norris. I’m your engineer now.”

“I liked hearing you before you got the promotion.”

“Focus.”

He chuckled, the sound crackling slightly over the radio. “Can’t help it when you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“Bossy.”

Jesus Christ.

I muted myself for a second just to let out a laugh. He was testing me already, barely ten minutes into the first session. I should’ve expected nothing less.

Back on comms, I cleared my throat. “Alright, let’s try the medium tyre run, please. Box now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I swear he said it just to get a rise out of me.

By qualifying, he was in full performance mode razor-sharp on track, but his mouth still didn’t switch off completely.

“Tyres feel great,” he said mid-run. “Or maybe it’s your voice lulling me into a false sense of security.”

“Glad I can soothe your inner chaos.”

“Oh, you do. Might ask you to record bedtime stories next.”

“Eyes on the apex, Norris.”

“Yes, boss.”

I caught one of the mechanics chuckling nearby.

It didn’t help that we were the same age. Didn’t help that he looked at me like I wasn’t just a voice in his ear, but something he wanted and maybe always had.

Didn’t help that part of me… wanted it back.

Race day.

This was it.

Lando was starting P4, and I was trying not to throw up from nerves. We stood by the car before the formation lap, the crew swarming around us in a flurry of final checks and tyre warmers and last-second whispers.

He walked over to me, helmet in hand, curls slightly damp under his cap.

“You good?” he asked.

I nodded. “You?”

He grinned. “You’re in my ear today. I’ll be great.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not allowed to flirt with me mid-race. We’ve got a championship to chase.”

“No promises,” he said, leaning in just enough for no one else to hear. “You make strategy sound sexy.”

He winked and walked off before I could swat him with my clipboard.

God help me.

“Radio check.”

“Loud and clear.”

The lights blinked off and the race began.

For the first few laps, everything was clinical. Tyre temps. Fuel delta. Turn eight oversteer.

But by lap twenty, he was settled and cocky again.

“Okay, love, talk to me.”

“Your pace is solid. Holding strong at P3.”

“Love that. Love you, too, but we’ll unpack that later.”

I flushed despite myself. “Lando”

“You sound flustered.”

“You sound overconfident.”

“I’ve got the world’s prettiest engineer in my ear. Hard not to be.”

I bit back a smile. “Focus on Leclerc. You’re gaining three-tenths in Sector 2.”

“Yes, boss. I like when you take charge.”

He was impossible.

And brilliant.

And absolutely relentless.

By lap 37, he was chasing P2, and we were in the thick of strategy calls. I tried to keep my voice even, professional, despite the sweat on my palms.

“Box this lap, confirm?”

“Confirmed.”

He flew into the pit lane. Tyres off, tyres on, and gone again textbook.

Back on track, I checked data. He was flying. We were flying.

Then came his voice, smug and smooth.

“You’re amazing at this.”

“Just doing my job.”

“I meant being sexy and strategic at the same time, but sure.”

I laughed couldn’t help it. He was unreal.

“And you’re dangerously close to being muted.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I really wouldn’t.”

“Liar.”

I was. A little.

Maybe more than a little.

By the final ten laps, he was in P2, battling for the lead. My heart was pounding as hard as his engine.

“Push now, Lando. You’ve got the grip. He’s vulnerable.”

“Copy. For you, I’ll push.”

“You’d better. Don’t make me come down there.”

“Oh, please do. You threatening me in person? Hot.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly gave myself whiplash.

He overtook on Lap 59. Clean. Bold. Beautiful.

P1.

“YES!” I yelled, forgetting to mute. “You’ve done it!”

He was laughing in my ear. “Sounded like you just...”

“Don’t.”

“I’m just saying...”

“Drive the bloody car, Norris!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He won.

He bloody won.

I barely remembered the cooldown lap, too overwhelmed with numbers, data, and his smug little voice in my ear.

“You were perfect,” he said, a bit breathless. “I don’t just mean the car.”

I didn’t reply.

I couldn’t. Not when my heart was beating that loud.

In parc fermé, I waited on the pit wall, still breathless as the crew jumped and cheered around me. He leapt out of the car, helmet off, curls damp with sweat, eyes scanning until he found me.

And then he ran.

Straight to me.

Lando didn’t hesitate just wrapped his arms around my waist, lifted me clean off the ground, and spun me like we were in some bloody film. I was laughing, flushed, and fully aware the world was watching.

“Lando!” I hissed, “Cameras!”

“Don’t care.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He looked at me all mischief and heat and said, “You realise this means I get to flirt every race now, right?”

I grinned despite myself.

“Only if you keep winning.”

“Deal.”

He pressed his forehead to mine.

“Guess we’re going to be unstoppable, then.”

It didn’t take long for the world to catch on.

The radio clips the ones where Lando called me love, where he shamelessly flirted mid-race, where I threatened to mute him while trying not to laugh went viral before we even packed up the garage.

The fans were obsessed.

I saw the edits first little videos stitched together on TikTok, set to romantic pop songs, captioned things like “find someone who talks to you the way Lando talks to Y/N” or “she’s his soft spot, I’m in tears”. There were screenshots of me on the pit wall, flushed and grinning like an idiot, side by side with photos of him beaming in the car.

#LandYN was trending by morning.

I nearly dropped my phone when I saw it.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered, scrolling through endless fan theories. They’re secretly dating. They’re in love. She’s his lucky charm.

One clip had already reached a million views it was a montage of our comms from the race, ending with Lando yelling “You were perfect!” over the radio.

My cheeks ached from smiling.

Still, I knew better than to get too carried away. It was fun, sure, but it was dangerous too. Teams didn’t love distractions. And even if part of me burned for him always had, if I was honest I wasn’t going to risk my career over a few flirty radio messages.

Or so I told myself.

That afternoon, we were ushered into the press tent for post-race interviews.

Lando was his usual charming, grinning self, hair still messy from the helmet, race suit tied around his waist, white McLaren tee clinging to him in all the right places.

I tried not to stare.

Tried harder not to think about how he’d lifted me off the ground in front of half the paddock hours earlier.

The reporters, of course, pounced almost immediately.

“So, Lando,” one of them called, “incredible win today. Do you think the new race engineer had anything to do with your performance?”

He smirked and flicked a glance at me where I was standing just off-camera.

“I mean…” He shrugged dramatically. “Have you heard her voice?”

The whole room laughed.

I buried my face in my clipboard.

“She keeps me calm,” he went on, grinning like the devil. “Keeps me focused. Also keeps me on my toes. Sometimes I listen just to hear her yell at me.”

Another ripple of laughter.

I shot him a glare over the top of my clipboard. He winked.

Another reporter jumped in, voice eager. “There’s a lot of talk online about how much chemistry you two have. Any truth to that?”

My stomach dropped.

This was it. This was the moment where he’d laugh it off, make a joke, move on.

But Lando paused.

His smile softened.

“I mean, it’s not fake,” he said simply. “We’re close. We trust each other a lot. Makes a difference when you’ve got someone you… y’know. Care about.”

I felt the heat climb up my neck, all the way to my ears.

The reporters caught it instantly, shouting follow-up questions, but Lando just grinned and gave a playful two-finger salute before ducking out of the interview area.

I didn’t breathe until he was gone.

Later, tucked away in the back of the motorhome, I cornered him.

“Are you insane?” I hissed, grabbing his wrist before he could escape. “Did you hear yourself?”

He looked at me, all wide eyes and fake innocence. “What?”

“‘Someone you care about’? Lando, they’re going to eat that up! The fans are already....!”

He cut me off by tugging me closer, voice low and teasing. “Why are you so panicked, love?”

“Because...” I sputtered. “Because it’s my job, and people are already making bloody fan fiction about us!”

His hand slid lazily down my arm, fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. It was maddening how casual he was, like my heart wasn’t currently trying to punch a hole through my ribs.

“Let them,” he murmured. “I’m not scared.”

“You should be. It’s a media circus out there.”

He leaned in, so close I could smell the lingering leather and soap on his skin.

“Y/N,” he said, smiling faintly, “I meant it.”

I blinked up at him. “Meant what?”

“That I care about you.” His hand tightened slightly around my wrist, grounding me. “I don’t care who knows.”

My stomach flipped so hard I nearly stumbled.

“Lando…”

He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, fingers grazing my cheek. “You think I’ve been flirting with you all this time just for fun?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“No one else gets under my skin like you do,” he said, laughing under his breath. “No one else makes me want to win more, just to hear you call me perfect again.”

I didn’t mean to. Honestly, I didn’t.

But I surged up onto my toes and kissed him.

It was clumsy at first too fast, too desperate but then his hands were cupping my jaw, anchoring me, and he kissed me back like he’d been waiting for it forever.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and dizzy, he rested his forehead against mine.

“‘Bout bloody time,” he whispered.

I laughed, shaky and giddy.

“I’m still going to yell at you over the radio,” I warned.

He grinned. “Good. Gets me going.”

I smacked his chest, and he caught my hand, threading our fingers together like he had no intention of letting go.

The motorhome door rattled somewhere behind us. Someone calling for him, for debriefs or photos or something equally less important than this.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

“C’mon, love,” he said softly. “Let’s give them something real to ship.”

We didn’t even make it a full twenty-four hours before the team called us in.

It was Zak who asked for the meeting polite but firm and as soon as I walked into the glass-walled conference room and saw Lando slouched in a chair with that sheepish, boyish grin, I knew we were in trouble.

My stomach twisted.

Zak didn’t exactly tell us off he’s too clever for that but the message was clear.

"You two have great chemistry," he said, steepling his fingers under his chin, "and it's good for morale. Good for the fans too. We're not here to kill the vibe."

Lando nodded along, looking for all the world like a naughty schoolboy.

"But," Zak continued, voice harder now, "there's a line. Banter’s fine. Flirting, fine. It stays on the radio. That’s it. No relationships. No... fraternising. You know how it looks otherwise conflicts of interest. Favouritism."

I felt my heart sink to the soles of my shoes.

"If anything beyond the job happens," Zak said, tone grave, "I'm sorry, Y/N, but you'd have to go. We can't have that. It's non-negotiable."

The words hung between us like a guillotine.

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod. "Understood."

"Understood," Lando echoed, though his voice was quieter.

Zak smiled, all business again. "Good. We trust you. Carry on."

The meeting ended without further fuss, but I felt hollow as I followed Lando out into the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzing above us like a wasp.

I was two steps from escaping when he grabbed my hand and dragged me, fast and urgent, into his driver's room.

The door shut with a soft thud.

"Lando" I started, but he spun to face me, blue eyes bright and burning.

"We just have to be careful," he said quickly, crowding into my space, voice low. "That's all. We can work this out."

I stared at him like he'd gone mad. "Are you insane?" My voice cracked. "I can't risk my job. I love this job, Lando."

"I know," he said, hands finding my hips like magnets, grounding me. "I know, love, I swear. I’d never let anything happen to you."

I shook my head, heart hammering. "One wrong move, and they’ll sack me. I’m not risking my career for..."

"For us?" he finished, smile tilted, heartbreakingly soft. "Not even a little?"

I glared at him, but it had no heat. God, he was dangerous when he wanted something. Sweet talker. Charming bastard.

He took my silence as an opportunity, nosing gently along my temple, voice a whisper against my hair.

"Secret meetings," he murmured. "After long race days. Hotel rooms. Locked doors."

I shivered.

"No one has to know," he coaxed. "We'll be smart. We'll be so bloody careful, they'll never suspect a thing."

I bit my lip, torn between every instinct screaming be sensible and the way his hands curved around me like I was already his.

"You’re asking a lot," I whispered.

"I’m asking for a chance," he said simply. "For us."

He pressed his forehead to mine, and for a long second, we just breathed each other in. Him and me and the impossible thing growing wild between us.

I was so tired of fighting it.

Of pretending.

One night. One chance. Maybe that was all it would be maybe it would end in heartbreak but right then, with his thumb stroking slow circles into my hip, I didn’t care.

"Fine," I breathed, caving, heart racing. "But careful, Norris. I mean it."

His grin was a flash of sunshine.

"Careful's my middle name," he teased, then leaned in and kissed me, slow and sweet and reverent, like we had all the time in the world.

God help me, I was already addicted.

Another race day. Another chance to push the boundary without crossing it.

I was clipped into my headset, the familiar weight of it comforting as I stood on the pit wall, heart thundering in rhythm with the engines.

Lando’s voice crackled over the radio.

"You miss me yet?" he teased during formation lap, the lightness in his voice making me smile against the back of my hand.

"Focus, Norris," I said, keeping my tone prim, but the smile was audible, and we both knew it.

"Hard to focus when you sound that pretty," he quipped back, low enough that only I would catch the meaning behind the words.

I heard the collective swoon of the fans in my mind. They’d catch the exchange they always did snipping, editing, posting. #LandoYN was trending every bloody week.

The race itself was chaos late rain, tight corners, pit strategy coming down to seconds but God, he drove like a man possessed.

Each time I gave him a call, he responded instantly, trusting me, trusting us.

On the final lap, I told him, "Bring her home, Lando."

His laughter was breathless over the comms. "Anything for you, love."

And when he crossed the line first, victorious, the roar from the team around me was deafening.

I barely remembered throwing my arms up, screaming with the others, heart exploding with pride until I caught sight of him in parc fermé, helmet off, curls wild, grinning like the sun itself.

He found my eyes across the chaos and winked a quick, cocky, secret little thing that made my stomach swoop.

The media circus after was worse than ever.

"So, Lando," one of the interviewers said slyly, mic shoved in his face. "Your radio with your race engineer... getting pretty famous. Fans are shipping it, mate."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink.

"Yeah, well..." His eyes flicked to me, lingering a second too long. "Some people just... bring out the best in you, don’t they?"

The crowd erupted.

My whole face burned.

Bloody hell, Lando.

Zak would have kittens.

But secretly, deep down, it thrilled me how he didn’t hide it. How he let it show.

Later that night, long after the champagne showers and the debriefs, after the media had cleared out and the garage was dark and still, I found myself outside his hotel room door, heart hammering.

I hesitated for a full thirty seconds before knocking.

It swung open almost immediately.

He stood there, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot, wearing nothing but grey joggers slung indecently low on his hips.

"Hi," he said, voice rough from the day, from the screaming, from the adrenaline.

"Hi," I whispered.

Before I could lose my nerve, he reached out, grabbed my hand, and tugged me inside.

The door shut with a soft click behind me, cutting us off from the world.

We barely made it two steps before he had me pressed up against the wall, mouth on mine.

There was nothing polite about it.

It was hungry.

Months of tension, stolen glances, secret touches it all snapped free like an elastic band stretched too far.

His hands skimmed up my thighs, grabbing beneath the hem of my dress, squeezing like he couldn’t get enough.

I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, pressing closer until I could feel the hard line of him against my belly.

"God, I’ve wanted this," he groaned, lips trailing along my jaw, my throat. "Wanted you."

His hands were everywhere sliding under my dress, dragging the zipper down with one quick, impatient tug.

I wriggled out of it, letting it puddle at my feet, standing there in nothing but a scrap of lace and my heels, breathing hard.

Lando stepped back, eyes dark, devouring the sight of me.

"Fucking beautiful," he muttered, voice wrecked.

He dipped down, kissing my shoulder, my collarbone, trailing lower.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, gasping when he mouthed at the tops of my breasts, teasing with slow, maddening patience.

When he dropped to his knees, I thought I might collapse.

"Lando" I choked out, but he only grinned up at me, wicked.

"Let me take care of you, love," he murmured.

And then his mouth was on me hot, clever, relentless.

He hooked my leg over his shoulder, hands gripping my hips like a lifeline, holding me steady as he licked into me with devastating skill.

I buried my fingers in his curls, tugging helplessly as pleasure coiled tight and hot in my belly.

It didn’t take long I was wound too tight, too desperate and when I came, it was with a cry muffled against the back of my hand, thighs trembling around his head.

He kissed his way back up my body, nipping and soothing, whispering praises against my skin.

When he finally lifted me arms strong, careful and carried me to the bed, I didn’t resist.

I didn’t even think.

I just held onto him, heart racing, trusting him to catch me.

And he did.

All night long.

[goyardgoyangi]

really hot tutor

best friend's older brother! suguru x reader <3

You’ve been avoiding Suguru Geto for three weeks.

Which is hard to do, considering he’s your best friend’s older brother, and he’s been in and out of the apartment more often now that he’s wrapping up his final semester.

He’s almost gone. Degree practically in his hands. Full-time job lined up—some engineering firm downtown with sleek office floors and smart people doing what smart people do. The kind of job that means he won’t be around much longer.

Which is perfect, really. Ideal.

Because maybe once he’s out of the picture, you’ll finally stop remembering how it felt to have his hands on your waist in the dark. Or how his voice sounded when he whispered your name, all whiny and wrecked, like it meant something.

It didn’t, though. It couldn’t.

You’re just his little sister’s friend.

And it was just one night. An error in judgment. A mistake.

A big, stupid, why-did-I-think-this-wouldn’t-be-weird mistake.

“Still stuck on that assignment?” your best friend asks, peering over your shoulder at your calculus notes.

You slam the textbook closed, defeated. “I hate math.”

She laughs. “You need help.”

“I know,” you groan. “But no one in my class gets it either, and the TA ghosted me, and—ugh, whatever. I’ll just thug it out.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Suguru’s good at calc.”

Your spine stiffens. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No.”

“I think he’d—”

“I said no, okay?”

She raises her hands, backing off, but not without a knowing look. “Fine. Just thought I’d offer. He’s on campus tomorrow anyway.”

You don’t answer. You’re already drowning in the memory of the way he looked at you afterward—half-shocked, half-silent, like he couldn’t believe what just happened either.

You haven’t talked since.

Not really.

So when your phone buzzes later that night and his name lights up your screen, your heart goes completely still.

You stare at the message.

Short. Neutral. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t once fall apart on his cock, his cum filling you until you could barely remember your own name.

Need help with calc?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then come back.

Just calc.

You press your lips together, eyes scanning the words like they might rearrange into something more honest. But they don’t.

And you already regret saying yes.

Because the second you see Suguru waiting by the steps outside the student union—tall, lean, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he’s trying to look casual—you feel the panic set in.

You said yes because you needed the help.

Not because you wanted to see him again. Not because part of you misses the weight of his hands on your waist. Not because—

It’s not just the way he looks (annoyingly hot, per usual) or the way he straightens when he spots you. It’s the way he smiles—small, almost hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to anymore.

You stop a few feet away. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, long fingers threading through his hair. “Brought you a drink. Didn’t know what you liked, so I went with something pink.”

He passes you the cup, your fingers grazing his. It’s stupid, really, how something so small makes your face heat up instantly.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Of course.”

The library is quiet in the way that makes your heartbeat feel loud.

You and Suguru take a seat at one of the back tables—hidden away between the towering shelves, tucked beneath a flickering overhead light. You’ve sat here a million times with your best friend. It’s never felt this small before.

He pulls his chair closer than necessary. Opens your textbook without asking. His fingertips graze the margin of the page like he’s easing his way into something more delicate than derivatives.

“So,” he says, pen in hand, “what’s killing you?”

“Everything after series and sequences.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods slowly and leans in.

And God—he’s close.

His voice drops as he starts walking you through the steps, smooth, serious, and painfully focused. He’s always sounded like this when he explains things—like every word is weighed and placed intentionally. You never noticed it before. Or maybe you did and pretended not to.

But now?

Now you can’t stop noticing.

The curve of his mouth when he says “converges.”

The way his brow furrows in concentration.

How the longer strands of his hair fall forward when he leans closer, like it’s trying to graze your cheek.

He’s explaining something, but you can barely hear him over the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne and the heat of him sitting too damn close.

“You still with me?” he murmurs.

You blink. Fuck. His eyes are on you now— forcing you to really look at him, not just steal glances from the side.

You’re trying. You really are. But after hours of formulas and boxed-in equations, your brain’s fried.

Suguru’s been patient—too patient, if you’re honest.

You groan. “Ugh. I’m not built for this.”

Suguru chuckles. “You’re doing fine.”

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, leaning back and stretching your arms over your head. “I wish I had, like, a hot personal tutor or something. Someone who just sits beside me and explains everything and doesn’t make me want to throw my textbook out the window.”

You say it without thinking. Offhand. Harmless.

But then you feel him pause beside you.

You glance at him.

Suguru’s jaw is tight.

He’s still looking at your notebook, pen motionless in his hand, but you can see the little twitch in his brow. The flicker of something restrained in his throat when he swallows.

“What,” you tease, nudging his arm, “jealous?”

He finally looks at you. Straight-faced. Dry tone. “I am your personal tutor right now.”

“Yeah, but you’re not—”

You stop yourself.

Too late.

You don’t even finish the sentence, but he raises an eyebrow anyway. “Not what?”

You pretend to focus on your page, suddenly very invested in the difference between divergence and convergence. “Nothing.”

But his voice drops, lower, a little slower. “Not hot?”

You glance at him—and he’s looking right at you now, eyes half-lidded, corners of his mouth barely curved, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your throat feels dry. “That’s not what I meant.”

He leans in just slightly. Not close enough to touch, but enough to tilt the air between you.

“Okay,” he says. “But just so we’re clear… if you did have a hot tutor—hypothetically—you’d be paying attention to anything but calc right now.”

Your stomach flips.

You open your mouth to say something. Anything.

But then his pen taps the textbook.

“Page 214,” he says, like he didn’t just throw your brain into complete disarray.

You stare at him.

He smirks. Barely.

And somehow, you're more distracted than ever.

You try to focus.

You really do.

But your mind’s a mess now—numbers and symbols smearing together behind the sharp curve of his jaw, the soft shadows beneath his lashes.

He hasn’t brought it up again… yet.

But then—

“So,” he says casually, spinning your pencil between his fingers, “what exactly qualifies someone as a ‘hot tutor,’ anyway?”

You look up from the problem you’ve been pretending to solve for the last five minutes. “Oh my god. Let it die.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, grinning now, fully leaning into it. “For academic reasons.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally so annoying.”

“Is it the voice?” he muses. “Because I have been told my voice is kinda sexy. Like, could probably convince you to join a cult.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically onto the table. “This is bullying.”

He leans in, resting his chin on his hand, voice dropping to a low murmur. “I mean… if you ever did get a hot tutor, you’d let him sit this close, right?”

You look up slowly. His face is inches from yours.

“You’re unbearable,” you say, heart hammering in your chest.

He smiles wider, but there’s something softer beneath the smugness now. Something warm.

“You didn’t say no,” he murmurs.

You stare at him. “Suguru.”

“Hm?”

“Stop flirting.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I’m just trying to meet the academic standards you set for me.”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He sees it. Of course he does.

“Besides,” he adds casually, going back to your notebook like the conversation never happened, “you already called me hot. It’s on record now.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Mm, close enough.”

You sigh, slouching back in your seat. “Remind me why I asked for your help again?”

He looks up at you, a faint, calculating smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Because, even though you’re clearly too distracted by me,” he says with a playful sigh, “you still need my help with calc. Unless, of course, you’d rather fail.”

And damn it—he’s right.

You don’t answer. But you don’t deny it either.

[writingpandagoth]

Oh my...I don't know who was the anonymous that requested the diary story but it brought happy tears to my eyes 🥺 It's such a beautiful story, favourite already.

If it's possible I want to request too a fluffy and romantic story please?

Reader and Severus, both professors. At the start of their dating, Severus doesn't show much affection to not draw attention but sometimes not even when they are alone. Reader just wants simple pure things like holding hands, kiss his forehead, etcétera. at least when they are alone. The idea came to me because I was listening to a song called 'Simplemente Tú' by Cristian Castro that my mother was listening :3

Of course! This actually came quite easily almost like a deep breath.

I hope you like it.

Something Small

It started with a shared library table.

Not in some grand, candlelit way. Just two professors passing each other in the Restricted Section enough times to eventually stop pretending it was coincidence.

You taught Defense. He taught Potions. Your hours were opposite, your syllabi unrelated—but the subjects you read overlapped in all the right places: obscure counter-hexes, lost potion formulations, wartime field research.

The first few weeks, it was only glances. Then nods.

Then one evening—late, long after dinner, when the library was quiet enough to hear parchment shift—he spoke.

“You’ve been working through the Jessen archives backwards.”

You looked up from your notes. “So?”

“They make more sense chronologically.”

You tilted your head. “Not if you’re trying to trace which principles were disproven. Reading the failures first is more efficient.”

He stared at you. Then blinked.

“Hm.”

And that was the first time Severus Snape sat down beside you willingly.

From there, it became a rhythm.

He’d grumble when you took his usual quill from the supply tray. You’d roll your eyes when he restructured your marginalia. He never corrected your logic, though—just challenged it. And he always returned your books in perfect condition.

He was sharp, of course. Brilliant, difficult, constantly skimming five steps ahead. But he listened when you spoke. Reallylistened.

It became easier. Comfortable, in the way that only happens when someone matches your mind instead of your voice.

It wasn’t until the first frost of the year that it changed.

You’d just returned a stack of shared research to the library when he appeared beside you in the corridor—silent as always.

He looked... uncomfortable. Not angry. Just like he was preparing to walk into a fire of his own making.

You waited.

“I—” he started, then stopped. Glanced away. Back again.

“I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat. “If you’d like to... have dinner with me.”

The pause was brutal. His expression didn’t change, but you could feel how tightly he was holding himself still. Like he’d already decided this was going to end in humiliation.

You smiled. Just a little.

“I’d like that.”

He didn’t breathe for two full seconds. Then a tiny nod. Almost imperceptible.

“Good,” he said, like it was a spell he’d just successfully cast for the first time. “Good.”

The first dinner was strange, in a lovely way. He was stiff, awkward, clearly more comfortable with cauldrons than candlelight—but he tried. He brought a book he thought you’d like. He sat close, but didn’t touch you. His hands stayed in his lap the whole time.

You thought it was endearing.

You thought: this could become something.

And it did.

Weeks passed. Meals shared. Late-night conversations that began with theory and ended with silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind of silence that settles.

Eventually, he kissed you.

It was late. You’d walked back from dinner. Neither of you had said much. But at your door, he hesitated—and for once, didn’t retreat.

He kissed you like it was something he’d never done before. Or maybe like he had, but never when it mattered.

You kissed him back. Softly. Slowly.

And when he stepped back, his voice was almost a whisper.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded. Smiling. Heart full of quiet hope.

But in the days that followed, that hope started to strain.

—

Dating Severus Snape wasn’t a whirlwind. It was measured. Cautious. Quiet.

He always knocked before entering your quarters, never assumed physical closeness, and never touched you unless you initiated it first.

Not that he was cold—he wasn’t. Not really. He listened when you spoke. Remembered things you said, even in passing. When you joked about craving blackberry jam, there was a jar of it on your desk the next morning. No note. Just there.

But touch? Affection?

It stayed locked behind the same walls he always kept around himself.

And at first, you didn’t push.

You told yourself he needed time. That he wasn’t used to this—being wanted for more than his mind or his title. Maybe he didn’t know how to be vulnerable. Maybe you just had to wait.

But waiting started to hurt.

Like the night he walked you back from a faculty dinner. The moon was high, the castle quiet. You were tipsy on wine and warmth, and when you reached the door to your quarters, you turned to him with a hopeful look.

You reached for his hand and he stepped back.

Not in fear. Not even discomfort. Just... distance.

“There’s a journal I meant to finish,” he said, already retreating. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You stood in the doorway with your hand still half-raised and something inside you wilted.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t about passion. It was the little things.

You wanted to hold his hand while reading. Kiss his forehead after a long day. Tuck your fingers into his hair while you talked about students and syllabi and the thousand little things that made up your days.

You didn’t want grand gestures. Just... presence.

And he didn’t give it.

Even when you were alone, he seemed to resist being touched. You brushed his fingers once while reaching for a book and he jerked away—muttering something about ink smudges.

You laughed it off but that night, lying alone in bed, your throat felt tight.

You didn’t cry.

But you stared at the ceiling and thought, Is this enough?

--

It happened late one night in his quarters.

You’d been grading beside him, your legs tucked beneath you on the old sofa he never quite made comfortable. The fire had burned low, and your eyes were starting to blur from too many red quill marks.

He hadn’t spoken in a while—just scratched notes onto a parchment in that sharp, efficient script of his.

You yawned. He glanced up.

“You’re tired.”

You shrugged. “So are you.”

He didn’t argue. Just set his quill down with a soft click, leaned back into the cushions with a long, quiet sigh. His eyes closed, head tipping slightly toward the armrest.

And then—then—he reached out.

His hand brushed over your knee. Hesitant. Light. Like he didn’t quite trust himself to complete the gesture.

But he left it there. For maybe ten seconds.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You just breathed, afraid that even shifting would scare it away.

You turned toward him slightly, ready to thread your fingers through his—

But his hand slipped away.

He stood abruptly. “I need to check the cauldron,” he muttered. “I left it steeping too long.”

He was gone before you could say a word.

You sat there alone, blinking, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you.

It was something. A crack in the armor.

But it had closed again before you could see what was behind it.

—

The silence between you had grown too loud to ignore.

Not angry silence. Not tense. Just... hollow.

Like a room where something used to live.

You hadn’t touched him in three days.

Not for lack of wanting. You still looked at him the same way—still met him for tea in his quarters, still spoke about staff meetings and students and potion mishaps. But every time your hand drifted near his, every time you leaned in just slightly—he pulled away.

Not with malice. Just reflex. And each time, it scraped something raw.

Tonight, the scrape bled.

You were sitting across from him in his quarters, a mostly untouched cup of tea growing cold between your hands.

He was writing something—of course he was. Always writing, always focused, always just slightly beyond reach. You watched the way his brow creased. The way his hand moved with intent. How he didn’t even notice your silence.

You set your cup down. Softly. He didn’t look up.

“Severus.”

Still writing. “Yes?”

You swallowed.

Then, quietly—too quietly: “Do you actually want this?”

His quill stopped. The scratch of ink against parchment went still.

He looked up at you. Not confused. Not surprised.

Just... still.

You continued before your courage ran dry.

“Because sometimes I wonder if I’m just convenient. If this—us—is something you agreed to but didn’t really want.”

His lips parted slightly, but no words came.

You let the silence settle.

“I’m not asking for much,” you said, voice soft but firm.

“I don’t need flowers or sonnets or some grand romantic gesture. I just want your hand in mine. I want to touch your face without you flinching. I want to kiss your forehead at the end of a long day. That’s it.”

His eyes were locked on yours now. Intense. Unreadable.

“And it doesn’t have to be in public. I know what people are like. But when we’re alone... I want to feel like I’m allowed to love you.”

That last word nearly broke you and it did something to him.

He looked like he’d stopped breathing. Like the truth had finally hit somewhere deep.

“I’m not angry,” you added, almost whispering. “I’m just tired. Of wondering if I’m asking for something you don’t want to give.”

You stood then. Not in a storm. Just... done.

“I’m going to bed.”

You paused at the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. If you want to.”

And then you left. Again you didn’t cry. Not at first.

You made it back to your quarters, changed into something soft and worn, and curled up on the corner of the bed with a cup of tea you didn’t drink.

You sat there. For hours.

Waiting.

Not that you expected him to come storming after you. That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t one for dramatic reconciliations or impassioned pleas in candlelit hallways. You knew that.

But part of you still hoped.

That he’d knock, just once. That you’d open the door and he’d be standing there—awkward and stiff, maybe, but there.

That he’d reach for you.

Just once.

But the door never opened. The corridor stayed silent.

And as the hours passed, something inside you started to break—not with rage or bitterness, but a slow, heavy ache. The kind that comes from realizing you might love someone who doesn’t know how to love you back.

Not the way you need.

You curled into yourself tighter, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the fire flickering low. Every creak in the floor made you lift your head. Every shadow outside your window made your breath catch.

But he didn’t come.

And eventually, your heart whispered something you didn’t want to hear.

Maybe he doesn’t feel it the same.

Maybe this was a mistake.

You laid down, face pressed into the pillow, eyes wide open in the dark.

And for the first time since it began, you truly considered the possibility that Severus Snape didn’t want to be loved.

At least, not by you.

—

It wasn’t the next morning.

It wasn’t even the one after that.

You’d nearly convinced yourself it was over—quietly, without drama, like so many things Severus left behind. Not with cruelty. Just... absence.

You still saw him at meetings. Still nodded across the staff table. He gave you nothing to read. No coldness. No warmth. Just the same unreadable stillness you’d once found fascinating—and now couldn’t bear.

By the third night, you stopped hoping for a knock.

And then on the fourth, it came.

Soft. Two raps.

You froze, mug half-raised, blanket pulled around your shoulders.

It came again.

When you opened the door, he was standing there. Drenched from the rain—hood down, hair clinging to his cheekbones, robes dark and soaked through.

He didn’t say anything. Just... looked at you.

You opened the door wider.

He stepped in, dripping and tense, eyes never quite leaving yours. He stood in the center of your quarters like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, his coat, his feelings.

You closed the door behind him.

“Severus—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He was still soaked. Still stiff. But there was something in his voice—raw, like he’d cracked himself open just enough to let you see inside.

“I didn’t come because I didn’t know what to say,” he continued, voice low and tight. “And the more time passed, the more I thought maybe... it was too late.”

You stepped toward him, slow.

“I told myself you didn’t mean it,” he said. “That you were tired. Or angry. Or exaggerating.”

He looked down at his hands.

“And then I thought... what if you weren’t?”

You watched his throat work through the swallow.

“I’ve never been good at being wanted,” he said. “And I’ve never let anyone love me without a price. I don’t know how to be soft without feeling like I’m going to break.”

You took another step.

“Then let me be soft,” you whispered. “You don’t have to know how. Just let me.”

His breath shuddered.

And for the first time, he reached for you.

Slowly, trembling slightly, he lifted your hand in his—and pressed it to his chest.

Not possessive. Not desperate.

Just real.

His heart beat hard beneath your palm.

You moved closer, your other hand rising to brush the wet strands of hair from his forehead.

He didn’t pull away.

You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Then to the center of his brow.

His eyes closed.

And you felt him—truly felt him—breathe into it.

When you pulled back, he didn’t let go of your hand.

“May I stay?” he asked.

You nodded, tears prickling your eyes.

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to.

You didn’t ask him why he was trembling.

You just pulled him gently toward the bed, guiding him by the hand he still hadn’t let go of. Your fingers stayed laced, even as you moved—like the physical connection was the only thing keeping him tethered.

And maybe it was.

He sat on the edge of the mattress first, eyes scanning the room like he was still half-convinced he didn’t belong in it.

You knelt before him.

Unbuttoned his wet coat. Slid it off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. You unfastened his cuffs, rolled them carefully, your fingertips brushing his wrists.

He watched you the whole time, silent, not tense—but not relaxed either. Not yet.

When you were done, you reached for his hand again.

He let you take it.

You crawled into bed first, tugging him with you, and he followed without resistance. When you lay back and opened your arms, he hesitated just a second—then came down slowly, one arm sliding under your neck, the other draping across your waist.

You pulled him closer.

He buried his face against your shoulder.

And finally—finally—you both breathed.

No words. No apologies. No questions.

Just warmth.

His legs tangled with yours, socked feet brushing against your calves. One of your hands threaded into his hair—carefully, gently, like something sacred. He didn’t flinch.

He sighed.

It was so quiet. But you felt it like a release against your skin.

Your fingers stroked through the dark strands again, over and over, and you felt his body begin to soften. His grip on you loosened—not in fear, but in trust.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But his hand, resting on your ribs, gave the lightest squeeze.

“I don’t need much,” you whispered. “Just this. Just you.”

His voice was muffled when it came.

“You have me.”

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time since this began, you believed it.

—

Severus didn’t become soft overnight.

He didn’t wake up wrapped around you like he belonged there. He didn’t suddenly start reaching for your hand in public or kiss you without thought. That wasn’t how he was built.

But the trying was unmistakable.

The next morning, he woke before you—quietly untangling himself from your limbs and moving through your quarters like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch.

When you opened your eyes, he was in the kitchen, clumsily trying to figure out your kettle.

He’d made tea. The way you liked it. No sugar, just a bit of cinnamon.

He didn’t say anything when he handed it to you—just watched the way your fingers curled around the mug. And when you reached up, brushed his hand with yours in thanks—he didn’t pull away.

His jaw tensed, slightly. But he let it happen.

That week, he still didn’t hold your hand in the hallways. Still kept a respectful distance when students passed.

But behind closed doors?

You noticed the pauses.

The way he’d hover just a second longer before pulling away from a hug. How his hand would twitch slightly when yours brushed his, like he was on the edge of reaching back—but hadn’t yet convinced himself it was safe.

Once, he brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers while you were reading beside him.

It was so gentle you nearly missed it.

When you looked up, surprised, he blinked like he hadn’t realized he’d done it.

“Was that... alright?” he asked.

You smiled.

“Yes.”

A few days later, you came back to your quarters after class and found something sitting on your desk.

Not a letter. Not a gift.

Just a small bundle of dried flowers—simple, earthy. Not vibrant. Not extravagant.

But intentional.

You picked them up gently, turning them in your fingers. They were carefully tied with twine. Pressed between them, a small folded slip of parchment.

His handwriting was sharp as always. Barely more than a breath.

I saw these and thought of you. I know I don’t always reach first. I’m trying. I want to try.

Your heart clenched.

He didn’t need to say more.

Later that night, he knocked on your door like always. And when you opened it—he reached for you first.

Awkward. Hesitant. But real.

His hand in yours. Just holding.

Not for show. Not for proof.

Just to feel.

And you knew then: this was love.

Not loud. Not easy.

But becoming.

[nerdycheol]

Velvet Sin || Lee Chan

wc: 1.4k

genre: paranonrmal smut (MDNI), pwp

smut warnings: fingering, oral(f!receiving), overstimulation, semi-public

(a/n): this was requested by yuki(@eclipsaria) hehe. thankyou j (@cheers-to-you-th), supi(@supi-wupi) and ashi ( @junplusone ) for beta-ing ^_~

join permanent taglist

The clock blinked 1:47 AM.

The office was a graveyard of empty chairs and flickering monitor lights, and you were the only ghost left haunting it. Your coffee had gone cold two hours ago, your third mug of the night, and the spreadsheet on your screen blurred every time you blinked too slowly.

Your blazer was slung over your chair. You’d kicked off your heels ages ago, legs tucked under you on the seat, shoulders slumped, fingers twitching absently over your keyboard. Just a few more cells. A few more lines. A few more–

Your eyes slipped closed.

You must have dozed off for a second, maybe two. Long enough that the air felt different when you opened your eyes again– heavier. Warmer. You frowned, sitting up straight. You hadn’t touched the thermostat.

“You’re still here.”

The voice was velvet–soft, deep and indulgent, like the warmth of silk sheets on skin that hadn’t been touched in too long. You startled and looked around, heart stuttering– but the office was still empty.

Except it wasn’t.

In the reflection of your monitor, a figure stood behind you.

You turned, and he was there. Leaning against the edge of a desk like he belonged in your world– no ID badge, no sound of footsteps, but eyes that gleamed like embers and a smile sharp enough to slice through your sleep-deprived fog.

“Don’t be scared,” he said smoothly. “You’re exhausted. I’m just here to help.”

“Who… are you?” you breathed.

His smile deepened. “A friend, of sorts.”

He stepped closer, and with every inch, the heat in the room seems to rise. “You work so hard– you don’t sleep, you don’t eat. You give so much of yourself.”

Your body flushed before your mind could catch up.

“I can fix that,” he murmured, fingers brushing your shoulder like a whisper of smoke. “But only if you want me to.”

Yes.

That was your first thought as his fingers grazed your shoulder. They were warm– deliciously so– and your skin, desperate for contact, reacted like dry earth after rain. A slow, involuntary shiver traced down your spine.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

“Mm,” he hummed, leaning in. His breath kissed the shell of your ear, thick with something sweet and smoky, like spice and heat and something forbidden. “Touch-starved and compliant. I could get used to this.”

You blinked hard, trying to shake the haze from your mind. “This… is a dream.”

“If that makes you feel better.” His chuckle was low, intimate. “Though I assure you, dreams don’t make your body ache like this.”

His hand slid down your arm– barely there, more suggestion than contact– but your whole body leaned into it without thinking. The ache he spoke of bloomed deep in your core, the kind of hunger you’d shoved aside for months. Maybe longer. You hadn’t had time, energy, or even the mental space for desire. But now, with his voice dripping into your ears and his heat soaking into your skin, the need flared alive like it had only been waiting for permission.

“Tell me to go,” he whispered, his lips just shy of brushing your jaw. “Tell me no, and I’ll vanish. Like mist. Like a fantasy.”

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

And in the silence, he smiled.

“There it is,” he murmured. “I promise… I’ll make it feel good.”

His hand finally cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His touch burned, but it wasn’t pain– it was want, pure and hot and indulgent.

“Say it,” he said, voice like sin. “Let me touch you.”

You don’t say anything. You just… let him.

Let him tilt your head the way he wants. Let him study your face with that sinful gaze, like he’s already memorizing where to make you fall apart first. Let his fingers trace your skin like he’s been waiting for this moment—patient, starved, reverent.

You should be asking questions. Should be stopping him. Should be something other than pliant and silent and so achingly desperate for more.

But the pleasure rolls in like a tide, slow and thick, and you can’t bring yourself to swim against it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs when you lean into his touch. You barely register the words, only the pulse they spark between your legs.

He bends, lips ghosting over your jaw. “You don’t need to think. I’ll do it for you.”

His hand trails down your neck, slow and unhurried, fingers grazing the spot where your pulse stutters wildly beneath your skin. The other hand slips behind your white shirt–palm dragging over your chest–until he's cupping one breast in his hand, thumb brushing teasingly over your nipple.

The man in front of you leans in close, his breath skimming your skin a moment before his mouth finds the hollow of your neck.

His lips are hot. Wet. Each kiss he plants against your skin is deliberate– claiming. He drags his mouth slowly along the curve of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste you between kisses, and your breath catches on every exhale.

You wrap your arms around him before you realize you’ve moved.

You shiver as he brings his finger inside your pants, moving them ever so teasingly over your clit– rubbing gently. You don’t know what you’re doing anymore– your hands move of their own accord removing the shirt off him.

Once your shirt is off, he doesn’t waste time–leaning down to take your right nipple in his mouth while his hand kneads and plays with the left.

He licks and pulls at your nipple, forcing an airy gasp from you as you tug at his curls, his groans vibrating against your skin.

The man sits you over the empty table, pulling off your pants, immediately diving into the valley of your thighs. Pushing your panties aside, he gives your pussy a small lick before inserting his index finger inside you.

“Fuck, so wet, just for me,” he murumurs into your thighs, his breath hitting your sensitive area. You let out a whine grabbing more of his hair pulling him closer to you. “So sweet.”

You feel tense and relaxed at the same time, his fingertips pressing expertly against your clit. He switches between swirls and fast side to side motions, making your legs shake as you try your best to keep your hips still- but with every upstroke, your hips can't help but follow.

It isn't long until your lower stomach begins to tighten and your thighs begin to shake more.

He watches you fall apart through his lashes and keeps the same pace, watching as you start to babble. The tightness reaches its peak in your lower stomach and it lets loose suddenly, your moans grow in pitch and your hips absentmindedly riding his face.

In a moment of weakness, he slips a finger inside you, your wet walls fluttering around the intrusion. You grip his forearm, unable to help yourself under the steady wave of stimulation. He builds a gentle rhythm, pumping in and out of you–then slowly pulls back, dragging his fingers through your folds to spread your slick. A beat later, he adds a second finger, thrusting them deeper and faster, the pace growing with your need.

You grow tighter around his fingers, your walls fluttering as if to trap him inside.

His lips close around your clit and your spine curves unwillingly. His nose nudges your clit and you grind against his face, dragging your pussy against his lips. He groans in encouragement–a low sound that sends vibrations straight to your core.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he urges, “let go for me.”

You whine an affirmation and he releases your left thigh. The free hand moves its way up to your tits, pinching your buds– bringing you even closer to your climax.

There’s a burst of heat and you fall off the edge with a sob, pussy clenching and spasming as white hot pleasure burns your blood. He pulls his fingers away just to put them in his mouth– taking in your taste.

You’re still shaking when he finally pulls away, his lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

He kisses your inner thigh once more– soft, unhurried– then rises.

Your hand reaches for him without thinking, but he catches it gently, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and murmurs, “Sleep well, sweetheart.”

You blink, the afterglow pulling you under like a warm tide.

By the time your eyes flutter closed, he’s already gone.

No sound. No trace.

Just silence– and the slow, steady hum of your heartbeat as sleep takes you.

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[violetrainbow412-blog]

Residual Effects

Spencer Reid x fem!reader x platonic!James Wilson

wc: 5.8k

note: I came up with this as a second part to Differential Diagnosis, but you can read it as a standalone if you prefer. I hope you like it; I tried to humanize both men as much as possible. In other words, they make mistakes and are foolish, but they're still good guys.

Solving cases almost always left the team with an emotional burden that was difficult to recover from. That's why most took the opportunity to return home, rest, or relax as much as possible before being called upon again. However, this situation had turned out quite well: just a few victims and an unsub who wasn't truly dangerous—just a confused, somewhat unstable man, but not exactly deadly. Plus, it was local, which meant no wasted hours on the jet or the annoying process of packing and unpacking.

That meant good humor. And good humor always manifested itself in the desire to go for a few drinks.

“I’ve got them”

“You spoil us too much, Rossi,” Penelope commented with a cheerful laugh. No one, not even her, balked at the suggestion. Although, in reality, you hadn't decided where to go either.

You and Reid had been left behind, walking out of the building more slowly. He had that slightly hunched posture, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. You too, hands in the pockets of your leather jacket, trying to ignore the slight tingling of tiredness in your back.

“Will you go?”

“Maybe. I'm kind of tired. I'd just go get a soda or something. Are you going?”

“Yeah... I mean, if you go,” he said, and finally looked at you, half smiling, “Then I’ll go.”

Ever since that case in New Jersey, almost a month ago, Spencer had been behaving differently toward you. Not weird or hostile, but definitely not the same. Sometimes he was quieter, shyer, as if he didn't know where to put his hands when talking to you. Other times, he looked for any excuse to be close, to comment on something, to stay a little longer. Just like now. As if being by your side was his priority, even if it meant fighting his social awkwardness.

You were about to say something, maybe a joke about how everyone needed to relax a little, when your phone started ringing. You had to fumble your hands out of your pockets and search for your phone, which seemed to be caught between the fabric and the lining.

Even though you moved quickly, it wasn't fast enough. Spencer managed to read the name that appeared on the screen. His expression changed almost imperceptibly: his jaw slightly tense, his eyebrows a little lower.

"Hello?"

“Is this a bad time to call?” a warm, familiar voice asked.

Hearing it, a smile spread across your face, almost reflexively.

“No! I'm just getting off work. We finished a case, and I was about to go out with my colleagues for a drink. Are you okay?”

“Yes. Just... I’m around.”

That simple phrase brought you to a complete stop. So did Spencer. You turned slightly to stand back from the group and hear him better.

“What? What do you mean you’re around? In Quantico?”

“DC, actually. There was an oncology conference today at the convention center. As the head of department, I had to attend. It wasn't anything spectacular, but I'll stay until tomorrow. And… I don't know, I was thinking about you.”

His voice sounded honest, a little unsure.

“I thought if you had time, we could have dinner. I know a really nice Italian restaurant a few blocks from where I'm staying. But if you already have plans, I don't want to interrupt anything.”

Your heart beat a little faster, though you weren't sure why. Maybe because of the surprise, or because of the way he said it. It wasn't just an invitation. He'd been thinking about you.

“You’re not interrupting. Seriously. We were just going somewhere. Nothing planned. If you’re here... I’d love to have dinner with you.”

In the background, you heard Emily playfully call your name. It was clear there were several curious ears.

"I'm at the Hilton, right across from the convention center. Do you want to meet me at the restaurant? Call a taxi, I'll pay for it."

“Oh, no need, I brought my car today. Is 40 minutes okay for you?”

“Perfect. I’ll take a shower and wait for you there.”

"That sounds great to me"

“I’m glad you said yes,” he added, more quietly. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.”

There was no way to hide your smile anymore, and you didn't try either.

“See you in a bit”

“I’ll be waiting for you. Drive carefully.”

You murmured a goodbye and then hung up. Emily and Morgan, like vultures circling emotional drama, immediately approached.

“And that happy face?”

“A friend invited me to dinner,” you replied without thinking much.

“A friend?” Morgan repeated, raising his eyebrows. “One who makes you smile like that on the phone?”

“He’s just a friend,” you insisted, even though you knew it wouldn’t convince them.

“It’s a he!”

By this point, the rest of the team was speaking more quietly to catch some of the conversation.

“What do you call this ‘just a friend’?” Emily asked with a mischievous smile.

“James Wilson”

Morgan burst out laughing.

“Is he handsome? Smart? Tall?”

“He’s a doctor. We met a few years ago.”

“He better be a cardiologist… because someone here is going to need help,” Emily joked.

While they laughed, Spencer remained silent. He didn't look at anyone, just at the floor.

“Aren’t you coming then?” he asked suddenly, without looking at you.

“I’m sorry, Spencer. I said yes.”

His posture made you feel like you owed him an explanation. He nodded once, briefly, almost as if he had trouble keeping his teeth from clenching.

“Okay. Have fun.”

“Is something wrong?” you asked softly.

“No. I just... thought we'd all go together. But it's okay.”

Emily and Morgan exchanged a look. Morgan, as always, was the first to break the awkward silence.

"Boy, if you want, we can invite the doctor too. Maybe you'll even become friends, you know, nerd to nerd."

“Very funny,” Reid muttered, walking toward the street without waiting for the others to follow.

This kind of behavior was unusual for him, and it made you wonder what was causing it. Your friends thought of a probable cause, but they didn't want to mention it. It was better for romantic matters to be resolved between those directly involved and not through mediation like theirs.

The other curious people had already realized that you wouldn't be accompanying them, because as soon as you got a little closer, they all crowded around you.

“I would love to go with you, but…”

“Say no more. We understand.”

“Should we expect a ring soon?”

“Come on, Garcia,” you laughed at how reckless the comment seemed compared to JJ’s. “He’s just a friend I haven’t seen in years. There’s no mystery to solve.”

You said goodbye to everyone with a hug, except for Spencer, who offered you only a wave. Distant and simple. But that's how he was when it came to contact, so you respected him and tried to take it in the best possible way.

“Have fun, drink responsibly, and don’t do anything you might regret tomorrow.”

“Or in nine months”

Emily winked at you, and the rest of them burst out laughing. Sometimes—most of the time—they were a total nightmare.

At the chorus of jeers, you just shook your head and started walking in the opposite direction. A smile still floated on your lips, but also that stabbing feeling in your chest that you couldn't understand where it was coming from. You're supposed to be excited about the invitation, right?

The drive was surprisingly short, and by the time you parked, you were a nervous wreck. You tried to fix your makeup as much as possible and were thankful there were no chases or anything that would make you sweat until you were smelly. Your hair didn't look too bad either, and you'd picked a nice outfit, thank God.

Then you looked at the bright sign on the building: RPM Italian. Wilson had texted you the address, and honestly, the place hadn’t disappointed at all.

It wasn't hard to find him once you were inside, after all he was the only man sitting, alone, at a table for two.

And it was impossible not to notice.

He wore a light blue shirt, impeccably buttoned to the neck, and a dark-striped tie that gave him a classic, almost collegiate look. The black jacket accentuated his straight shoulders, and the contrast with the restaurant's warm lighting brought out the softness of his skin and the subtle shine of his brown hair, combed to one side but with a few unruly strands falling over his forehead.

He had that kind of presence that made everything around him seem more contained, more intimate. Effortlessly elegant.

And just as you saw him, he saw you too. He looked up as if he'd been waiting for you all along. His smile—quiet, gentle, all his own—littered his face as soon as he recognized you. And that smile—the one you tried to hide—inevitably appeared on yours too.

"Hello"

“Hi,” you replied, moving closer as his gaze scanned your face with an expression as serene as it was genuine.

His cologne filled your nostrils: sophisticated, with notes of wood and something citrusy you couldn't quite identify, but it made you close your eyes for a second. It was a clean, masculine scent, as if his mere presence gave you a feeling of calm. As if it were his natural scent and not that of a fragrance perfectly chosen for him.

He greeted you with a kiss on the cheek.

“You look beautiful,” he said naturally, as if it were a fact, not a compliment.

Then, with a subtle gesture, he pulled your chair out for you.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. Even without traffic, the streets are a mess."

“Okay, my invitation was too hasty. I didn't even know if you were busy.”

“Today was a good day, cases don’t always turn out so well,” you began, watching him sit down in front of you.

He asked you to go deeper into the day's events, and you happily shared them with him. A bottle of wine was perfect for accompanying the conversation and, in the process, lifting both of your spirits.

Wilson told you about the conference, how everything had gone, the activities, the hustle and bustle of the day, and a little bit about what had been happening in his life over the past month. The past few years, actually, since the conversation you'd had while in New Jersey lasted only a minute. Although it was logical, after all, you couldn't gossip with him in the middle of such a delicate situation.

Now the night was yours.

“It’s so weird seeing you after so many years, you know?”

You frowned at his confession, not quite sure how to interpret it, and at the same time you smiled at him.

“Is it something bad or…?”

“No! Of course not. I mean, I didn’t think I’d see you again. I figured you’d be like most of the interns we have at the hospital, but when I saw you in House’s office that day, it was like… I don’t know, like I’d gone back in time or something.”

“It was a good time, wasn’t it? My twenties crisis seems like a breeze next to what it's like around thirty,” you murmured, making him laugh. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

"Really?"

“Yes. And I mean that as a compliment, for the record. I mean, you always seemed so… so human. Kind-hearted, gentle, funny. I always wondered what made you House’s friend.”

“He’s not that bad,” he defended him. “He just needs a little help sometimes. And patience most of the time. Deep down, he’s a good man, he tries hard to save patients.”

“I see you and I feel that every time you find a mess you think 'I can fix it,' and I honestly don't know if it's an act of selfless love for the world or some kind of self-imposed moral burden.”

“Are you saying I should stop being friends with House?”

“I’m saying you’re a complex personality. Very bright, polite, and kind, but at the same time, it’s as if something compels you to collect outcasts from around the world to try to rehabilitate them or something,” you smiled. “Forgive me if I took the liberty of assuming things about you. It’s part of… well, you know, my job.”

Wilson didn't seem offended. It was more like he was impressed by what you were telling him, perhaps too close to the truth.

“I can't imagine how complicated it is. The human mind is so… unpredictable. I rely on medical evidence, on tests, on the effectiveness of medications. But trying to understand the twists and turns of humanity—that's a challenge.”

“Sometimes it's enough to look a little deeper. You think you know something, but in reality you're looking at it from the wrong perspective or you're not seeing it objectively. It all depends on the person you are, who they are, their life story, their modus operandi. You have to look at things from the outside. It's like... when you eat something that seemed like the greatest delicacy in your childhood, but, as an adult, you realize it wasn't as good as your memories had led you to believe. Maybe I'm digressing, but…”

“No, I understand perfectly,” he finished. He looked at you with a certain admiration, though with those bright, tender brown eyes, it was hard to tell if it was genuine or just a natural reflex.

You were about to say something more about it when a hand placed on your shoulder made you jump. You doubted it was a waiter touching you so familiarly, and when you turned around, you found yourself staring into the face of your elegant Italian colleague.

“Rossi?”

“I just wanted to stop by and say hi. I want you to know we're not spying on you or anything.”

“What?” you squealed. He was speaking plural, what was it…? “No way.”

Your answer appeared a couple of tables over. They were all sitting at one of the tables, the whole team, laughing amongst themselves. Almost as if he felt your gaze, Spencer turned in your direction until he met your eyes; a second later, he focused on Wilson.

“It turns out we suddenly had a collective craving for Italian food, and since this is the best restaurant I know…” he shrugged, smiling, “What can I say? It’s just the coincidences of life.”

James watched with some interest and a touch of entertainment, as if he was enjoying the scene he was witnessing.

“Wilson, this is my… he’s my coworker, his name is David Rossi. Dave, this is Dr. James Wilson, one of the best oncologists in the country.”

“Just James,” he murmured, standing up to shake his hand. You could feel the BAU’s eyes on you. “It’s a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine. How lovely to see our darling so happy.”

You were going to make sure you killed him one of these days. Or if not, at least make him suffer. Your mind immediately went to how much fun the others must be having seeing you blush, and suddenly, you thought you wanted to kill them too. Spencer was the only one who watched everything impassively, as if he didn't want to be there. But he never went places he didn't want to be, so what was happening to everyone?

“Well, I appreciate you coming, but I think it's best if you advise our friends on the dishes. After all, you come here often, don't you?”

“You’re right,” he smiled. “We’ll be there if you need anything.”

You practically shoved Rossi out of your way and tried desperately to ignore how tense the atmosphere had become, at least from your perspective. Wilson wasn't uncomfortable at all; he was even smiling slightly.

“So those are your colleagues?”

"I swear I didn't tell them where I was. They must have heard it on the call or…"

“Does it bother you?” he interrupted. When you looked at him, confused, he continued, “That they’re here, I mean. That they see you with me.”

“No! My God, of course not. What I'm trying to say is, I hope you're not uncomfortable with them being here or anything. They're a bunch of gossip and… I'm sorry.”

“Do they know you like me?”

While that was true, it didn't stop you from freezing completely. You never expected him to express it so shamelessly, so directly and casually. A nervous laugh soon emerged, almost touching disbelief.

"Sorry?"

“Oh, it’s just… I don’t know, I thought you told them about the little conversation when you went to the hospital. Or your friend, anyway.”

“For starters, Reid isn't a big mouth. Second, that's none of their business. And third, you just said I like you, and in any case, the correct tense would be past tense: I liked you. A mild crush that all college girls eventually have, nothing more.”

A chuckle escaped his lips and you dared to look at him.

“Does this amuse you?”

“I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just… I don’t know, I thought it was really cute when I found out. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of House, but I kept wondering how accurate his conclusions were.”

“House is reckless and an idiot”

“But most of the time he’s right,” he smiled, watching you closely. “Don’t feel bad.”

“I don't. That's in the past, Wilson. Besides, you are older than me.”

“Yes, but…”

“And you're married”

Suddenly, it was his turn to pale. He hadn't even mentioned his current wife, and the way his hand unconsciously went to his ring finger, searching for the non-existent jewel, gave you the confirmation you needed.

And yet, you felt like you'd just hit back. He didn't know for sure if you had ever been—or were ever—attracted to him, and you weren't sure a wife even existed. You were playing the same game, even though he didn't think you knew the rules.

Poor, naive Wilson.

“How… how did you know?”

"I made some guesses. You're not wearing your ring today, but you have a habit of going to that area with your thumb, as if you're used to playing with it. Just like you, a moment ago, I was just throwing a guess into the air."

He remained silent, observing you, as if your comment had activated a mirror he didn't know he needed. His expression didn't show annoyance, but rather a strange mix of vulnerability and respect. As if he felt exposed, yes... but not entirely uncomfortable about it.

Receiving no response, you continued:

“What I find curious is that you decided to forget it today. Maybe trying your luck? Are there a lot of pretty female oncologists at the conferences you attend?”

James didn't answer immediately. His hand slowly moved back from his ring finger, as if you'd caught him in the act. He cleared his throat, his smile barely visible.

“Things with my wife haven’t been going well for a while now…” he said, lowering his voice slightly, as if he knew any misspoken words could backfire on him “It wasn’t a planned gesture. Sometimes, when I’m feeling confused, I just… don’t wear it.”

“That sounds dangerously symbolic. Not wearing the ring, I mean. As if you're subconsciously permitting yourself to be a little less of a husband.”

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly “I promise.”

He understood the nature of your comment. And, honestly, he couldn't blame you. He'd be lying to himself if he said he hadn't contacted you as an attempt to escape the routine, to see if maybe you were what his life was missing.

But he wouldn't tell you, of course not.

“Can I say something without sounding nosy?”

Wilson nodded, looking at you with genuine interest.

“Maybe... and I say maybe because I don't have all the answers, okay? But... maybe you should think about whether you're there because you still love her or because you're afraid of being alone.”

He gave a short laugh, with no trace of mockery.

“Would you say that from your own experience?”

“I say this because loneliness often disguises itself very well as commitment. And because there's nothing more exhausting than trying to keep a dead relationship alive just to avoid the silence.”

Wilson seemed to process this more seriously than you'd anticipated. He looked at you as if you were much more complex than he'd initially believed. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly.

“You are quite perceptive.”

“I already told you, it’s my job.”

As you watched him speak, with that polished charm that had once seemed unattainable, you couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment.

For years you had idealized him, as if James Wilson were the perfect representation of the thoughtful, brilliant, and emotionally available man who was so scarce in the world. But now, standing before you, you no longer saw the idol you had once fantasized about from a distance, but a real man: one who made mistakes, who made selfish decisions, who could be emotionally irresponsible without even realizing it.

You were still attracted to him (because it wasn't easy to shake off the feeling), but now it was tinged with reality and maturity. You might like him, you might desire him, but you also knew that trying something with him would be like walking on glass: complicated, unstable, and probably painful.

The parallel with your previous analogy –the objective view of your favorite food– felt like a bitter omen.

A comfortable pause settled between you. The restaurant music, the murmurs, the drinks, everything seemed to continue, ignoring the conversation you'd just had. Until he spoke again.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

It wasn't a loaded question. There was no ulterior motive. But you still looked at him with some suspicion.

“Was that a flirtation attempt?”

“No, it’s not that,” he said quickly, his hands raised. “I just… wanted to know. That’s not why I came to you, I just wanted to see you. I thought it would be a good idea to invite you to dinner”

A relaxed smile suddenly appeared. You felt more comfortable now that you knew he wasn't trying to get into your pants, although, to be honest, a month ago you would have accepted the offer without a second thought.

“It’s okay. I'm glad to know I'm not a whim of your midlife crisis,” you admitted. “And to answer your question, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

You said it sarcastically, and he smiled. You reminded him a little—too much—of House, and he wondered if that was a good or bad thing. He was surprised to think that the passing of time had taken away that insecure little girl, whom he now saw in Cameron, and made way for a worthy apprentice of the doctor. Perhaps that was why you had argued so much during that visit; two such strong personalities didn't get along so easily.

Oblivious to the other person's thoughts, your gaze involuntarily returned to the other table. Something in your chest suddenly tightened.

Spencer.

He wasn't laughing. Not like the others. He was watching you.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment you couldn't read him. He looked confused, annoyed... or just plain hurt. But it was him, after all, so nothing was as simple as it seemed.

“Everything okay?” Wilson asked, following your gaze.

“Yeah,” you answered, looking away from Spencer as if that would make him less important.

He knew who you'd been eyeing. He also wondered if your answer about a relationship was only half-truthful. If you'd been hiding something or had subconsciously been searching for the object of your desire after answering the question.

“House was quite impressed with your friend. He said he was brilliant.” James poured himself a little more wine, not hiding his curious tone “Rare for him to praise anyone other than himself.”

“Reid is… peculiar”

“I read some of his publications. The guy is a genius,” he took a sip. “And he seems very serious. I wonder if he’s always like this or if he’s just trying to kill the man in front of you with his eyes.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. You knew Spencer was good at keeping his emotions under wraps, but you also knew he had a way of letting them show when he wanted. That was one of them.

Wilson looked at him once more.

“I think I just made an enemy without knowing why.”

“You’re not his enemy,” you said, your voice calm. “He’s just not used to seeing me outside of certain scenarios.”

“Like on a date?”

“It’s not a date”

“But it might seem so”

“Now you’re implying that he likes me?”

“No,” he murmured, without a trace of lying “I’m just saying what I see. Just like you.”

The sudden setback he gave you, with your own arguments, made you laugh while you shook your head.

“You know, of all the things that could have happened, I didn’t expect our evening to go this way.”

“Nor me. But I'm glad it did.”

"Why?"

"Because sometimes it's good to talk things through. To avoid misunderstandings."

“To think that I'm still in love with you, for example?”

“Or assume I’m trying to cheat on my wife with you.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere felt like there was a certain complicity, you could even say a certain unresolved tension. As if you were saying those things, but deep down, you were thinking that if you had kissed at any moment, it would have felt natural.

In a sort of tacit agreement, the topic of conversation changed, and you continued eating dinner as normal. The wine glass in your hand was almost empty, but you did not attempt to refill it. He didn’t either.

You both paused in that strange, comfortable moment that occurs after a long conversation, one that seems to have lasted minutes and yet a lifetime. The murmur of the Italian restaurant was soft, discreet, just enough to envelop you in a bubble where no one else seemed to exist.

At some point, dessert arrived, and with that, the time to say goodbye. You hadn't realized your friends were no longer at the next table, which made you wonder how long ago they'd left.

“It was… nice to see you,” he finally said, that nostalgic smile forming in his eyes more than on his lips “I didn’t know how much I needed it until it happened.”

“Yes,” you replied barely, in a soft voice. “I didn’t know either.”

He looked at you more closely, and then he said it. No drama, no cheap insinuations. He just blurted it out, as if he were confessing it more to himself than to you:

“If one day circumstances were different… I don’t know, I’d like to see you again.”

And there it was. The phrase that left the air suspended between you. You could have done many things with it: laugh, say yes, shake your head, respond with something equally ambiguous. But you did nothing. You just looked at him. And he understood.

He paid the bill without much insistence, and you didn't argue, because you knew it was a way to close the moment; to make everything intact, without cracks. When you left the restaurant, the night air greeted you with a light breeze and the scent of distant rain.

You wanted to say something else, but whatever thought had crossed your mind was cut short by what you saw. Spencer, standing on the corner, hands in his pockets and the collar of his coat pulled up to his cheeks. He didn't seem rushed, but he did seem expectant. When he saw you, his frown softened slightly... until he noticed who was walking beside you.

“Dr. Reid! It’s so nice to see you again.”

The aforementioned greeted him with a nod, trying to be as rude as possible, and saying a soft hello.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“A taxi,” he muttered dryly.

The idea of giving him a ride immediately occurred to you, and as you looked at Wilson, it was as if he'd already read your mind. A soft smile told you he agreed.

“I can take you home.”

“Thanks, but I already called the taxi. It would be very rude to just leave.”

“That’s no problem,” the doctor chimed in. “I could have yours. I was thinking of taking one to get back to my hotel.”

Reid looked at you then, as if seeking confirmation that the option was really valid. Then he looked at Wilson, assessing without hiding it. The moment became intense, although no one said anything.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Either way, James was about to leave.”

“I was thinking of walking you to your car, don’t think I’m a savage,” he joked, and you laughed softly.

That brief, carefree laugh made both men look at you. For a moment, you were the exact center of two opposing universes.

You turned towards the elder.

“If you come back to town, please call me.”

“Same here. Even if you're not in Jersey and want to call me, I'm available.”

You leaned forward to say goodbye, with a hug, and he leaned his head down to kiss you. A simple, polite touch, with no ulterior motives… but not entirely innocent. Because Spencer saw it. Because Spencer felt it. And because you noticed it too.

“Sleep well. Good luck on your return flight.”

“Take care,” Wilson said, before saying goodbye with a last smile.

You gave Spencer a small nod and started walking toward the car. He followed you, but not before saying goodbye to Wilson with a formal handshake. You didn't want to pressure him. You decided to wait. You knew that if something needed to be said, it would come from him.

He walked in silence for several minutes, with his hands in his pockets and his steps slow.

“Did it go well?” he asked, without turning around completely. His tone was calm, but there was a barely perceptible tension in his words.

“Yeah. It was quite nice. I liked the food, the wine… the conversation was good.”

There was another pause.

“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

You raised an eyebrow.

"What are you talking about?"

“I don’t know if you had plans to go somewhere else afterward.”

You paused before looking at him again. You were almost back at the car.

“We just wanted to have dinner. Sleeping with married men isn't my style.”

Spencer turned his head, now yes, to look at you fully.

“Is he married?”

“As I feared,” you said, with a dry smile.

Your friend didn't know how to interpret that and looked down for a moment. The cold ran through you, chilling you to the bone, and you wondered if you could ask him for his coat to warm you up a little. But that would have been cruel.

“And if he wasn’t?” he then asked, without embellishment, “Would you have something with him?”

The question took you a little by surprise. Not because you weren't expecting it... but because the way he said it was too direct, even for him.

You sighed, letting the warm air escape through your lips.

“I don’t know,” you finally answered. “He’s kind, very handsome, and I like him, but… today I realized there are things about him, emotional things, that I don’t know if I could deal with. He’s full of voids that I don’t know if I want to fill.”

Spencer didn't say anything for a second. He just looked at you, as if trying to read what was behind your words. As if it hurt him that you weren't sure, but also as if he was relieved to hear that you weren't entirely convinced.

When you got to the car, you leaned against the door for a moment, searching for your keys. Spencer stood by your side, his hands still in his pockets, as if the weight of his coat could keep him firmly on the ground. The night was still warm, but you couldn't tell if the trembling in your hands was due to the weather or everything you'd said to each other. And everything you hadn't.

“Do you want me to drive?”

“No, Reid, it’s okay. I know you hate doing it.”

Your thoughtfulness made him smile, and he climbed into the passenger seat. You were grateful that it was warmer inside, something that would improve once the air-conditioning was on.

The man snuggled into the seat, staring out the window at the streets, and then you sat for a while enjoying the comfortable silence in the car. The only thing that remained was the murmur of the radio, which had just changed songs. A guitar filtered through the speakers, followed by a slightly nasal voice.

I met her in a club down in old Soho…

Spencer blinked, then tilted his head slightly, as if recognizing an old acquaintance. And when the song reached the chorus, he smiled.

“Did you know this song was banned on some radio stations for mentioning a soda brand?” he said suddenly, without you asking.

You barely turned your face towards him, without taking your eyes off the road.

"Huh?"

“Coca-Cola,” he explained, with that half-smile that appears when he’s about to share a piece of trivia that probably no one asked for but that he finds fascinating. “In the original version it says: 'Where you drink champagne and it tastes just like Coca-Cola' But the BBC didn’t allow explicit commercial references, so The Kinks had to go back to the studio to re-record it saying 'cherry cola' just so it could be played on the radio.”

“Are you kidding?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No. And it wasn't even because of the song's content. Which, if you think about it, is a lot more scandalous.”

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls, it's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world…

He raised an eyebrow, as if the song had just proven its point for him.

“It was written in 1970. A song about a relationship with a trans person or drag queen, amid the Conservative era. Ray Davies wrote it after his manager realized, too late, that Lola wasn't the woman she seemed. The fascinating thing is that the song never pokes fun at the subject. It's more… tender. Confusing, yes, but honest.”

You chuckled, impressed.

“I've never heard it before. It's a beautiful song.”

You were silent for a moment, listening.

“Also,” he added, in a softer tone, “it’s a good metaphor for embracing the unexpected. Things that don’t fit with what you believed. Or what you were prepared to feel.”

You didn't say anything, because you didn't need to. You just kept driving, while Lola continued singing her cheerful chorus, and you wondered if, in some way, that song sounded a little like what Spencer wasn't saying.

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

The dark lords Nanny- Tom Riddle x reader- Part 3

5 months since the last update....woof

summary; You're the dark lords nanny for his only son Mattheo, a few months have passed and WOW is this kid attached to you. what is a dark lord to do!?

P1 P2

 =

Two and a half months passed since taking the nanny job, and it was still pretty easy, Mattheo didn’t cause any major fuss-other than when someone took care of him on your Tuesdays off; crying the whole time until you returned to take him and he would instantly calm down.

“You know you make it very difficult to have days off, little lord.” You chuckled quietly as Mattheo cooed at you, staring right at you as the temp nanny left the manor, a bit frazzled after dealing with Mattheo’s fussing-which included using his growing magic to make things fly around and sometimes break because his favorite person wasn’t with him.

You sighed softly as Mattheo kept staring at you, looking at the clock-just about time for dinner. “Okay bud, let's go get you fed.” You murmured, turning on your heel to get his bottle. Mattheo rested his head on your shoulder as you worked, watching intently with his fist in his mouth while you fixed up a bottle and then capped it.

“There we go,” you mumbled softly, positioning him correctly and giving him the bottle-Mattheo quite happy to be fed, and he settled quickly, nearly falling asleep as he ate.

“Why does he make a fuss every time you attempt to leave him with another?” you jolted as you heard the lord's voice from behind-turning to see him lingering in the doorway of the nursery. You cleared your throat, looking back at Mattheo, who was very content now, his eyelids slowly lowering as he ate.

“I suppose babies can be picky with their people, I’m the longest nanny he’s had, correct?” you said, half asking the lord even though you knew you were right. He nodded, staring at you intently. “It makes sense he’s a bit, attached then, as I’m the person who's stuck around him the longest. Babies will usually cling to something or someone constant, familiar. It’s not irregular for them to pick someone above the rest.” You explained and the lord slowly nodded, his eyes flickering between you and his son.

“Perhaps it would be helpful for those who take care of him on your days off to visit more often,” The lord drawled slowly, not a terrible suggestion but for some reason it made you…feel possessive of the sweet boy in your arms, whose eyes had fluttered closed by now, finished eating his meal.

“I suppose that would be helpful for my days off, so he’s not fighting the temps,” you murmured softly, adjusting Mattheo so he was against your shoulder, his head heavy against your neck as you set the bottle down and tapped your wand on it, letting it clean itself.

The lord hummed, his eyes on you again before he slowly nodded. “I’ll see to it they’re here more frequently, possibly allow you more days off as well-weekends maybe.” The lord muttered before he turned on his heel-his cloak billowing behind him as he went back to his office just down the hallway.

You sighed softly, pushing your tongue into your cheek.

Mattheo was gonna hate this.

-

Mattheo did indeed hate that the temp nannies that usually only came in every other Tuesday were now coming every few days-he hated it hated it. Almost as soon as he saw them, he’d start crying and cling to your shirt, his sweet face turning red as he protested about anyone other than his favorite person taking care of him.

“Kid, please,” you groaned lowly, trying to get him to let go of your hair but he was holding tightly-screaming his head off as one of the temp nannies tried to gently pry him from you. “this isn’t gonna work,” you said with a groan and the nanny agreed with a wince, allowing Mattheo to cling back onto you and his cries went quiet, save for a few sniffles and hiccups.

“What is all this noise?” The lord drawled, his face set into a stern glare as he entered the nursery.

“The young lord hates us, my lord,” The two nannies who’d been training to take care of Mattheo more often bowed their heads. “he cries every time we attempt to take him from Ms. (y/n).” he turned to you, raising his brow and you nodded with a tired sigh, Mattheo clinging tight to your shirt and hair-refusing to let go.

The lord furrowed his brow, stepping forward, his day cloak flowing behind him. He reached out and you allowed him to take his son. Mattheo tried to hold onto your hair; but the lord, gently, pried the baby's fist free from your hair. Mattheo frowned up at his father but didn’t scream, unhappy being taken from his favorite person but accepting his fathers hold.

The lord turned, handing Mattheo to one of the temp nannies and he instantly began screaming. The lord frowned, bringing Mattheo back to him, and then attempted to hand him to the other nanny. Mattheo cried again.

“How odd.” The lord murmured, his eyes sparking with curiosity, intrigue. He turned again, handing Mattheo back to you and the baby boy instantly began to snuggle up to you, happiest in your arms. “You two are dismissed for the day. Return tomorrow,” The lord ordered and the two temp nannies nodded and bowed out, leaving you and the lord alone with Mattheo.

“He is curiously attached to you, he didn’t even like his first nanny this much.” The lord murmured, sitting down in the rocking chair next to the crib, his scarlet-brown eyes locked onto Mattheo, who was snug in your arms.

You shrugged, almost helplessly. “I really don’t know why, I mean-kids, especially babies, do tend to latch onto a particular person, especially someone they see the most. But usually those his age don’t have such a…strong reaction.” You murmured, looking down at Mattheo, who was staring right back. He gave a gummy smile-and cooed-his little hand gripping your hair again.

The lord watched the interaction intently, his eyes narrowing in thought. He didn’t speak, leaving you unsure of what he was thinking, he was just…watching you and Mattheo-who was now trying to eat your hair. “oh no,” you murmured, gently prying it out of his slobbery grip and mouth. “hair isn’t for eating little lord.”

The lord stood. “You’ll take the week off, a paid vacation, Mattheo will learn to deal with the other nannies taking care of him.” He said and honestly you couldn’t argue, Mattheo did need to learn that he couldn’t get his way by throwing a tantrum whenever you weren’t the one taking care of him. It was unfair to you and the spare nannies.

“Yes sir,” you said with a nod, looking down at Mattheo-who had no idea what was coming up for him. He was going to hate it. “When would you like me to start?”

“Saturday, you’ll return the next, and resume caring for my son on Sunday.” The lord said and you nodded, bowing to him as he left the nursery.

That left enough time to plan a vacation, maybe you’d visit your parents, or siblings, or perhaps enjoy the countryside. In the meantime, you still had a job to do.

-

Mattheo was already screaming his little head off when you handed him off to the first spare nanny of the week, she winced as she took him-listening to him scream. “Have a good week miss,” The nanny, Sarah, said with a strained smile-you gave her one back, wishing her luck for the two days of her shift, Mary would be the next one and then Emmalie.

“You too, good luck with him.” You said, grabbing your trunk, reaching out to gently take Mattheo’s chubby hand as he reached towards you, crocodile tears running down his pudgy cheeks. “you be good little lord, the quicker you stop fighting this the sooner I can come back,” you said but being only 4ish months old, Mattheo didn’t understand and tried to transfer himself back to you. you smiled softly and stepped back before he could; leaving the property and apparating to the hotel you had gotten for your vacation.

You checked in and went to your room, setting your luggage on the large bed, looking around and nodding. Yes, this would do quite nicely.

-

 Your week was spent eating out at cozy restaurants, enjoying the room service the hotel provided, swimming in the hotel pool, sleeping in every morning and staying up late every night, not having to worry about taking care of anyone else but yourself, and being paid for it!

But all vacations had to come to an end, so Saturday you checked out of the hotel and went straight back to the manor, quietly stepping inside-not announcing your presence so Mattheo didn’t start screaming, just in case.

“Nanny (y/n) you are backs,” the head house elf, Minnie, said, looking up at you with her big grey/brown eyes as she popped in front of you. You nodded, thanking the house elf as she took your luggage.

“I am, how’s the house been?” you asked and Minnie grimaced, hiding the expression quickly. You winced. “That bad?”

“The young masters has been…fightings the other nannies, and the master has been temperamental’s. Mattheo’s will be’s happy to see you’s nanny (y/n).” Minnie said and you sighed, running your hand over your neck, heading straight for the nursery. You weren’t supposed to get back to work till tomorrow but Mattheo was probably on a hunger strike right now.

Only 4 months old and already protesting.

You opened the door and instantly you were met by crying from Mattheo, an exhausted and exasperated nanny trying to hush the baby boy. “Please young master, your father will be extremely upset if he hears you again!” the nanny, Emmalie, said, trying to soothe Mattheo who looked upset in more than one way.

You sighed, stepping forward, arms out. “Hand him over Emmalie,” you murmured and she sagged with relief as she turned-quickly transferring Mattheo to your arms and he continued to cry for a few seconds, then opened his eyes-seeing you, and buried his face in your upper chest, crying more. “…I’m never going to get another vacation, am i?” you sighed and Emmalie gave a weary smile.

She gave you the run-down of what happened and Mattheo, through the whole week, had refused to settle, and half the time refused to eat, to the point where the lord kept having to get involved because he was the only other one Mattheo would listen to-the nannies had run themselves dry trying to calm the young lord.

Yet now, he was calming, still crying but calming down-clinging to you like you were his lifeline. “Has he eaten today?” you asked-furrowing your brows as Emmalie shook her head. “Okay, I’ll feed him, you go report to the lord and go home, you look like you need a nap.” You said softly, and Emmalie didn’t even bother to argue, heading straight off to go see the lord.

You sighed, looking down at Mattheo-he was a mess, snot and tears staining his face, looking very hungry and upset. “Let’s get you fed little lord.” You murmured, kissing his forehead and getting to work.

After a while, you and Mattheo were graced with the presence of the lord, who stepped into the nursery with a look of confusion and a bit of concern, then he relaxed seeing you holding Mattheo-who was falling asleep after eating and getting bathed and fed. “ah, that’s why the wailing stopped.” The lord drawled, crossing his arms as you let out a soft huff of amusement, settling Mattheo into his crib.

“Yes, I apologize that he’s been so…rough while I was gone,” you said with a bow of your head and the lord let out a low sigh, looking tired. “It is not your fault, I underestimated how…attached he is.” He muttered, stepping closer to the crib to look down at Mattheo beside you. you slowly nodded, your hands resting on the edge of the crib, watching Mattheo fall asleep. “did you enjoy your week off?”

The lord suddenly asked and you nodded. “I did, very much sir, thank you.” you said softly and the lord nodded, stepping back.

“Good. We’ll have to figure out another solution to this problem, it doesn’t bode well that he refuses to let anyone but you and I care for him.” You slowly nodded, agreeing. “In the meantime, you’ll be his sole caretaker, until I can find someone he accepts.” The lord said, staring down at Mattheo again before stepping back. “You’ll help me interview, starting next week. Goodnight, (y/n).” The lord said and you returned his words, watching him leave the nursery before looking back down at Mattheo.

“You better behave little lord, I’m your nanny, not your mom.” You whispered, brushing your finger over his chubby cheek. Though deep down, you denied the wish that he was yours.

-end of p3-

taglist! sorry for taking so long!

@helendeath @bunny24sstuff @death-be4-decaf

@lynbubble @chimchoom @lanalanalanasworld

@undecided-simp

[lcvejjoong]

never liked you

pairing : playboy! wooyoung x nerd! fem! reader

synopsis : You thought he was different. But when the truth unraveled, so did everything you believed about love.

genre : fluff, angst

warnings : none

author’s note : ngl i crashed out somewhere near the end but it was fun to write ig 🥹

word count : 4.5k

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

Does love ever last?

You didn’t know.

You never really tried to find out. Having many exams to ace and projects to finish, it didn’t really help in your love life.

Come on, just give him a try. You never know, maybe he’s the one!

You were willing at first, thinking that nothing will go wrong. But when your classmate ran into class bawling her eyes out after her boyfriend dumped her, you hesitated.

After a few days of thinking, you told the boy that you weren’t ready for that kind of commitment yet. That resulted in an awkward moment for him, considering the fact that he had a bunch of flowers in his hand.

You felt bad. Really bad. You liked him, yes, but you were afraid that whatever happened to your classmate will happen to you.

You never really thought about it after. Several boys put letters and gifts in your locker on Valentines, but they all went unanswered, courtesy of you cooped up in your dorm, furiously reading through your notes and pulling all-nighters for exams.

Your friends had begged you to try again, saying that your life will be ‘boring’ and ‘lonely’. You brushed them off, saying that studying is your life. “Plus, I have you guys,” you added, nudging them while laughing.

But then again, life has other plans for you.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

Love.

The teacher’s sharp voice brought you back from your daydreaming.

You looked up to see her standing by the door with a student, saying something about being late. Although you were seated at the far back of the room, you could make out the tall figure and the long black hair of the boy.

His eyes met yours, and he gave you a smirk with a playful wink.

You turned away, rolling your eyes.

Jung Wooyoung. The school’s playboy, known for breaking girl’s hearts.

For fun.

And though you have zero interest in him, you found your cheeks feeling a little hot. Luckily, the teacher didn’t notice, ushering Wooyoung back to his seat before beginning the lesson.

Once again, you were drifting off, staring outside the window thinking about what to eat during your break.

Suddenly, you heard : “Jung Wooyoung and Kang Y/N.”

You whipped your head to board, finding a big ‘Research Project’ written on it. “This project will be 50% of your final grade, so please take it seriously. If you have any questions, feel free to email me.” The teacher continued, stacking up her books and preparing to leave the classroom.

You hurriedly packed your bag, ignoring the calls of your classmates. Your head was a mess. There was no way this was happening.

“Y/N!” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the hallway, causing you to walk faster.

He jogged up in front of you, waving several pieces of paper in your face.

“You forgot to take the project paper. Luckily, I got you,” he winked.

You scoffed, snatching the paper and continuing your walk to your dorm to reflect on what you did to deserve this.

His fingers closed around your wrist, bringing you to a sudden stop and forcing you to face him.

You tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened.

“Let go of my hand,” you said, your voice low and threatening.

He held your gaze and said, “Look, I don’t care what you think about me — I need this grade.”

You pulled back slightly, startled. “I thought you didn’t care about grades.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t risk being kicked out of school, so I’ll have to make do.” He smiled a little, releasing your hand. “So, your place? Mine’s a little messy.”

You let out a breath. “Alright. 1 p.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

He did a little salute and said, “Can’t wait!” before running off.

“Don’t forget to bring your books!” you yelled, earning a faint “Yes, madam” in return.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

You didn’t know if you were anxious or excited.

Staring at the cookies baking in the oven, you were leaning on the small table top in your kitchenette. Brushing your fingers against your wrist, you remember the gentle but firm grip of his hand.

There was just something about him that made you constantly think about…

The sharp doorbell interrupted your train of thought. Hurriedly, you opened the door to find Wooyoung standing outside, books on one hand and a plastic bag on the other.

“Hey,” he smiled, lifting the bag he was holding, “I brought us some drinks.”

“Come in.” you replied, offering him a small smile, stepping aside to make way for him.

He took in a breath and asked, “Are you baking cookies?” You nodded, “Yea, I was bored so I figured I’d bake while waiting for you.”

“Well it must be a sign because I love cookies,” he grinned, helping himself on the couch. He took the plastic bag and pulled out 2 drinks, handing one over.

You took it tentatively, looking at it with an unsure expression.

Noticing your hesitance, he chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, I didn’t poison it.” You looked at him with utter disbelief. “It’s not that. This is actually my favourite drink. Only my closest friends know that.”

“Then I must be destined to be your friend.” He joked. You rolled your eyes, muttering a ‘whatever’.

But what you didn’t realise was that you were smiling.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

After a few hours of reading, writing, joking around and munching on cookies, you were finally done with a section of the project. You let out a huge yawn, stretching your arms while briefly closing your eyes.

When you opened them, you found Wooyoung staring at you.

“Is there something on my face?” You panicked, hurriedly wiping at whatever unknown particle on your skin.

He didn’t say anything, only standing up from where he sat. You quickly stood up, thinking he was going to leave already.

But instead of going towards the door, he made his way towards you.

He took a step closer, then stopped, just inches from you, his body trembling slightly.

His hand hovered, uncertain, near your cheek. His fingers twitched, just a fraction of a movement, as if they wanted to reach out.

Your breath hitched, waiting. He leaned in, lips hovering right above yours. You could feel the heat in the air, making your heart race, the beat quick and erratic, like it was trying to escape from your chest. You could feel his breath hitting your nose, shallow and fast.

You wanted to pull away. But a part of you made you stay where you were. Your mouth went dry as you watched him licked his lips, and unknowingly, you leaned in closer.

“Are you sure…?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if asking for your permission.

You didn’t answer, your mind not responding. Slowly, almost painfully so, he closed the gap. His hand moved to your jaw, finally touching your skin, the warmth of his face grounding you in the moment.

Then, with a hesitation that stretched out like an eternity, he kissed you.

And without thinking, you kissed him back.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t forceful. It was gentle, tentative, as though he were testing the waters, feeling you out. It was the kiss of someone who had wanted this for a long time but was too afraid to make the first move.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, his hand lingered against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin. You didn’t say anything, heart pounding in your chest, still racing from the kiss, but your mind was slow to catch up.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just stared at you, his lips still slightly parted, eyes wide, like he was processing it too. And that uncertainty… it made you feel even more exposed. Was he playing you? Or was he waiting for you to say something? Your mouth felt dry again.

“I…” he started, the expectancy growing in your heart. But his words trailed off, and the panic rushed back into you.

“I’m sorry, did…did I scare you?” he asked. “I shouldn’t have done that.” His hand dropped from your cheek. He straightened, shuffling back.

“Uhm…I should probably get going. It’s pretty late.” You didn’t trust yourself to say anything, so you just nodded. Picking up his bag and making his way to the door, he gave you a soft smile and said “Thanks for today, y/n,” before stepping out of your dorm.

That night, you lay in bed, tangled in blankets, staring up at the ceiling as if you could find the answers to your questions hidden in the cracks of the paint, before falling into a dreamless sleep.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

“Y/n!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your head jerked toward the front of the room.

Your teacher was staring right at you, arms crossed. The rest of the class turned in unison, a wave of curious glances and stifled snickers.

“You want to join us back on Earth?” she said, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make your cheeks flush.

You looked down, embarrassed, from all the stares of the classroom, especially from Wooyoung, who was sitting a few tables away.

You purposely came earlier to avoid seeing him at his usual spot against the lockers, and ignored the texts he sent.

You couldn’t stop replaying it. Every detail was etched in your memory: the way his hand had brushed your cheek, the way his breath had felt against your skin, the quiet after the kiss when neither of you spoke. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you tried to ignore the warmth spreading over your cheeks.

Stop thinking about it, you told yourself. There was no reason to. No reason to replay that moment over and over again, imagining how it would feel, how it might change everything. You clenched your fist around your sleeve. Wooyoung was a playboy. It didn’t mean anything to him. It didn’t mean anything to you.

But part of you wanted to believe that it did. You weren’t sure what it meant, or why it made you feel so… unsteady.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, attempting to calm yourself down. Glancing at the clock, you were relieved to find the class ending in a minute. Great, I won’t see him for another two days after this. You hurriedly shoved your books in your bag, waiting for the signal to leave from your teacher. Once you heard ‘that’s all for today’, you bolted out of the classroom.

You turned the corner of the hallway, turning back to check if anyone had followed you. You let out a small breath of relief, straightening your clothes before walking away calmly.

“Y/n.”

You turned on your heel, attempting to run. You didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see what was written all over his face—regret? Confusion? Or worse… nothing at all.

But you didn’t get far.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but gentle, halting you in your tracks. Your breath caught as you turned halfway, refusing to meet his eyes.

You didn’t answer, still not meeting his gaze. “Why are you avoiding me?” You didn’t answer, still not meeting his gaze. “Is it because of yesterday?”

You kept your gaze down. Your free hand clenched.

“It was a mistake,” you said. He let out a short breath, almost like a laugh but not quite. “Then why are you running?”

You flinched at that. Not enough for anyone to notice, but he did.

He was still holding your wrist, but not pulling you back. Just waiting.

“I’m not running,” you said, still not facing him.

“Right.” A pause. “Then look at me.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t.

You shook your head. “I’ve got class.”

“Say that, then,” he said, quiet but certain. “But don’t stand there and pretend that kiss meant nothing. Not when you’re shaking like that.”

You hated that he could feel it—how your wrist trembled ever so slightly in his hand.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Your expression was guarded, eyes hard. The kind of look you give someone when you're trying not to fall apart in front of them.

“Did it even mean anything to you?” you asked.

His jaw tensed slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question. Like he’d been preparing for a fight—not honesty. But he didn’t answer.

Your heart sank. You had expected it, but it still hurt more than you thought it would. You shook your head, “Like I thought, it didn’t. Another fling for the playboy.” You attempted to yank your hand from his grip, but it only got tighter.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t say it like that.” You shook your head, “But it’s true, isn’t it. I’m just a fling to you, another random girl for you to kiss.”

“But you're not.” He said. “I…I wanted it to mean something. I just thought that you didn’t want it to be anything.”

You froze. Did you hear him correctly?

He looked down. “I like you. I really do. But if you don’t want to, I understand.” He dropped your hand and sighed. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.” He was about to walk away but you stopped him.

“Do you mean it? Do you actually like me?” You questioned. He paused, turning around. “I do. I asked the teacher for tuition and used it as an excuse to be paired with you.”

Then, unexpectedly, you smiled.

Not big. Not dramatic. Just this small, sideways grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, the kind that betrayed everything you’d been trying to hide.

“I like you too,” you said, turning to face him fully now. “I was confused at first. But I think…” you paused, looking up at him, “I think I acted by my feelings.”

“You really thought I kissed you just to run away forever?” you asked, not even bothering to hide the laugh in your voice.

His mouth parted, like he wanted to say something, maybe even smile back. You looked at him, and something in his face shifted. The hesitation was gone, replaced by this slow, surprised softness.

“I didn’t know you could talk like that.” You laughed, and he grinned. “Does that make you my girlfriend now?” Your eyes lit up, and you gave him a small nod. He opened his arms and you naturally sank into them, wrapping your arms around him as he embraced you. “I won’t be going anywhere,” he whispered.

And for once, you believed him.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

It’s been a few months now.

And somehow, it still catches you off guard sometimes—like when he grabs your hand without thinking, or says something under his breath in class that makes you laugh when you were supposed to be paying attention. Or when he looks at you like you were the only person in the room, even when the hallway was packed.

You never made a big deal out of it. No announcements, no labels screamed into the void. Just you and him. Quiet moments. Shared playlists. Fingers brushing across notebooks. Late-night calls where you don’t even say much, just listen to each other breathe.

And it’s easy. Easier than you expected. No games. No second-guessing. Just someone who makes you feel like you can show up exactly as you are—and he’ll still look at you like you matter.

Your friends had been skeptical at first, given his reputation in school. But after seeing how happy you were with him, they didn’t say anything.

After all, they were the ones who had asked you to get a boyfriend.

Maybe you can finally answer your own question. Maybe love does last forever.

But then again, life isn’t always that easy.

It was a typical Friday evening, and you were seated on Wooyoung’s couch, fidgeting with his hoodie on your lap.

You two will usually meet at his place to watch a movie every week, but today he texted you, saying that he would be late due to a hold up in class, telling you to make yourself comfortable and pick a movie while waiting for him.

Putting the controller down on the table, you got up to prepare some snacks to eat during the movie. Bringing the bowl to the small table in front of the couch, you were about to take a bite of the chocolate when your phone buzzed. Thinking it was Wooyoung, you quickly picked up your phone to reply to him, only to see an unknown number pop up on your screen.

At first you thought it was a scam. But when you unlocked your phone to block it, you found a shirt video followed by a “I’m sorry.” after. Curiosity got the better of you and you tapped into the chat.

The video was taken at an awkward angle, suggesting that the person was recording in secret. You turned your head to getting a better view of the people in it.

There were three boys gathered around a hooded guy leaning against the lockers and they were talking about something. The recorder moved closer, opening a locker to make him or her less suspicious. The guy leaning on the locker turned his head, revealing the unmistakable dark hair of Wooyoung. Your heart fluttered at the sight of him, eyes darting towards the bowl of chocolates waiting on the table.

You snapped your focus back to the video when the guy with a perfect slim nose asked, “So, you gonna target any girls this term?” Wooyoung shrugged, “I don’t know man. There’s no more fun girls anymore.” “That’s because you got them all already.” The guy with long silver hair and feminine features joked, nudging Wooyoung with his shoulder. “Now you’re just flattering me.” Wooyoung laughed.

The guy that looked like a giant puppy then said, “Isn’t there a girl in your class called Y/n?” “You mean Kang Y/n?” Wooyoung mused, “She’s a nerd in my literature class.” The silver-haired guy commented, “The girl sitting at the back of your class? She’s cute. You should try her.”

The guy with the slim nose shook his head. “She’s known for being obsessed with her studies. Her friends say she’s impossible to get to.” He sighed, “Poor Jongho wasted his money on the bouquet of flowers and got rejected. He really liked her.”

The giant puppy guy turned to Wooyoung and said, “If you can make her fall for you in a week's time, I’ll buy you new strings and a strap for your guitar.” Wooyoung straightened from his position, “Add in a new stand and I’ll do it.” The puppy guy smirked, “Done.” They shook hands and the screen turned black.

It then switched to another scene. Wooyoung and his friends appeared to be at a bench in the schoolyard, and you recalled the outfit he was wearing after sending you to class.

“So, how did you do it?” The silver-haired dude asked. Wooyoung took a sip of his soda, “The literature teacher loves to pair us according to the alphabetical order. Persuading her to meet at her house was a piece of cake. I didn’t really do anything much. ” The puppy guy chuckled, “Now you’re just flexing.”

“While you wait for your prize to come, you should be worried about how to get rid of the girl,” the slim nosed guy smirked.

Wooyoung laughed. “Real. I never liked her anyways. She was so easy to fool.” he says, taking another sip from his can before the screen pauses, marking the end of the video.

You sat still, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting loosely in your hand. The video played again—you didn’t mean to hit replay, but maybe a part of you needed to hear it twice. Needed to be sure.

His voice, once warm and familiar, felt foreign now. Sharp in ways it had never been with you.

Every word peeled something away. A layer of trust. A piece of the girl who thought she knew him. Your chest felt hollow, like someone had carved out everything good and left only silence.

You didn’t know what to think. Right now, you just felt small. Embarrassed. Like you’ve been the only one playing a role in a story you thought was real.

The signs were so obvious. The way he suddenly showed a random interest in you. You knew the teacher for 2 years. You knew that she loved to pair students by the alphabet. Not only that, but the obvious fact that he was a playboy. Your friends had warned you many times, but you had ignored them, saying that he had changed for you.

You didn’t cry right away. It wasn’t sadness at first—it was numbness. A quiet dissociation from the version of yourself that had believed in him so completely.

And somewhere underneath all that numbness, a quiet seed of anger started to grow. Not for him, not yet. But at yourself—for not seeing it sooner.

You loved him loudly, unafraid, thinking that he really changed. But in the end, it only resulted in his betrayal and your heartbreak.

Keys jingled, and the door creaked open.

“Baby! I’m back!” The sound of his voice cracked something in you. It sounded so sincere. Unlike what the video suggested.

Wooyoung appeared in front of you, giving you a soft smile and pecking your cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting down beside you, “the teacher couldn’t stop talking.” He picked up a piece of chocolate, taking a bite. “Where did you buy this? It tastes so good.”

When you didn't reply, he stopped. Putting the chocolate down, he reached for your hand, resting it on yours. “Baby, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, face scrunched up with worry.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pulled out your phone, found the video again, and placed it face up between you.

His smile faltered, face going pale. His hand twitched on the table. “Where.. did you get this?”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, struggling to get the words out. “That was a long time ago. It isn’t like that anymore, y/n. I do love y- ”.

You looked at him, shifting back a little. “Do you really?” You gestured to your phone, “Because it shows that you're just playing me. Like the playboy people warned me about.”

“Y/n, please listen. It was just a stupid bet- ”

“Is that all I am to you? A stupid bet?” You questioned, tears slowly forming at the bed of your eyes.

“I should have known,” you said. Your voice broke a little on the last word, but you swallowed it down. “you would never change. You’re a liar, a player. You are a coward.”

He reached across the table, but you pulled your hands back, folding them tightly in your lap.

“I trusted you,” you whispered. “I loved you.”

“I know,” his voice shaking, “I know. It wasn’t true at first. But over time, you made me feel nothing like I’ve never felt before. I fell for you instead.” You turned away, unable to stop the tears flowing down your face.

He kneeled down before you. “Please Y/n…give me another chance. I’ll treat you better.”

He said your name like it was a prayer, like it could undo what he’d done. But prayers are for the desperate, and you weren't desperate anymore.

You stood up, wiped your tears, and gathered your things. Your movements were careful, deliberate. You didn’t rush, didn’t stumble — you refused to show that you were devastated.

You didn’t look back as you ran out the door, the cold night air hitting your face like a slap. You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept running, each step feeling impossibly heavy.

You could hear Wooyoung running after you, calling your name over and over again. But you didn’t falter, not until you reached the familiar door in front of you, pushing it open and steeping inside.

You collapsed onto the cold floor, your knees giving out as the weight of it all finally caught up to you. The silence around you felt heavy, like even the walls were holding their breath. Tears streamed down your face, hot and fast, leaving damp trails on your cheeks as you pressed your hands into the ground, trying to steady yourself against the shaking in your chest.

Your sobs were broken and uneven, small gasps of pain you couldn’t hold back anymore. It wasn’t just sadness—it was frustration, fear, loneliness all tangled together. And in that moment, sitting there with nothing but the sound of your own heartbreak, you let yourself fall apart, because you couldn’t pretend to be strong any longer.

In your head, you replayed everything—every small look, every inside joke, every moment that once made you believe you two were unbreakable. You thought about your first date, awkward and sweet, and about all the times he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world.

You pressed your face into your hands, breathing in slow, shaky gulps of air, calming yourself down. You laid on the floor, curled up until sleep overtook you.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

After that night, you decided to take a break from your studies.

You spend most of your time in bed, sometimes shedding tears, rethinking your days with him. Otherwise you were just staring into your ceiling, mind empty.

You had received several texts from Wooyoung, asking about your wellbeing or saying that he was sorry, wanting to meet up and talk it out. But you ignored him, putting your phone on do not disturb.

2 weeks went by, and you decided that you were not going to fall behind on your studies just because of some stupid break up.

When you walked into class, you were greeted by some of your friends, answering questions and assuring them that you were fine.

As you were talking out your books for class, the door opened, and you heard your teacher nagging. You looked up, and your breath instantly stopped. Standing at the classroom door, Wooyoung looked up at you, eyes wide. He had cut his hair short and dyed it blonde, enhancing his facial features.

You looked down, avoiding his gaze, and started to chat with your friend. At the corner of your eye, you could see him bowing to the teacher, walking towards his seat. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before sitting down.

You could constantly feel his eyes on you during the lesson, but you ignored him, acting like you have never talked to him before.

When the class ended, you didn’t bother to rush out of class. Packing your bag slowly, you could feel Wooyoung deciding to approach you. But after a few seconds, he turned away, following his friends out of the classroom. You breathed a sigh of relief, slinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way out.

You entered the schoolyard, a drink in your hand, and sat down on a bench.

And you realised you finally had an answer to your question.

Does love ever last?

No, it doesn’t.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2025

[maroonshirt81]

Hey, wanted to see if you would write carcar shifter au? One of them is like a cat shifter (or dog) and the other one figures it out? Cute fluff maybe? And possessiveness is always welcome!

this request hit me square in the chest with ideas... Even though I'd never have written a shifter AU of my own volition! This is why I love writing request fills! :D

not sure if the level of fluff is what you meant, anon – I'm an enemies carcar truther at the core, but I still think it's extremely fluffy.

carcar, 5k, squabbling neighbors with shared garden wall AU, cat shifter AU, ao3

****

Carlos Sainz Jr. loves his life – he has a job he likes, a close-knit group of friends, and a cute little house with the most beautiful garden anyone’s ever laid eyes on. All in all, it’s almost perfect, with one notable exception: the neighbor’s cat is trying to ruin it.

“He did it again,” he tells Oscar, leaning across the small stone wall that separates their gardens.

Oscar is currently elbows-deep in a pot full of soil, digging for potatoes and barely glancing up as Carlos complains to him. Even after a full minute of waiting for a response, a bored “Hm?” is all the reaction Carlos can draw from him.

“Your cat!” Carlos clarifies, gesturing toward a knocked-over flowerpot on his side of the wall, where scraps of red blossoms sway pitifully in the weak breeze. “Destroyed my beautiful geraniums!”

“I don’t have a cat,” Oscar says automatically, even though Carlos has seen the orange menace stroll right through Oscar’s terrace door multiple times. Carlos has no idea why Oscar keeps denying it. Specifically to piss him off, is his best guess.

“Besides,” Oscar adds, for once giving him more than the bare minimum of attention, though he still doesn’t bother to look up, “good on the cat. Those geraniums stink.”

Oscar’s own garden looks like a survivalist’s wet dream – neat rows of salad greens, vegetables, berry bushes, and fruit trees. Squash and pumpkins in containers to keep them from spreading too much. Little pots of herbs lining the terrace. Capital B boring. He wouldn’t know how to appreciate Carlos’s flower paradise to save his life.

‘Geraniums stink.’ What an asshole.

“You know what stinks worse?” Carlos fires back. “Cat poop! So just make sure the damn thing stays on your side of the wall!”

Oscar finally looks up, holding a couple of baby potatoes like he just delivered them from the pot’s womb. He has tiny hands. He’s struggling to hold like two potatoes in one.

“Not sure you know how cats work, mate,” he says, that awful Australian twang coating every word. “Anyway, I don’t know why you’re so sure the cat’s mine. I told you, it’s not. One day you’ll just have to accept that.”

“I know it’s yours because I’ve seen it walk into your house! And because it only started showing up after you moved in! And because it looks exactly like you!”

He probably shouldn’t have said that last part out loud, because now Oscar has an excuse to look at him like he’s lost his marbles. And sure, Carlos knows it sounds crazy, but it’s a well-known fact that many pets resemble their owners in disturbing ways.

“Sure, mate,” Oscar says after a long pause, leaving the statement unacknowledged for maximum psychological impact. “I’ll tell my imaginary cat to stay out of your garden next time I see it. Can’t promise it’ll listen, though. It’s a cat.”

Then he walks off, carrying his four potatoes in his dirt-smeared arms, back into his stupid house.

****

The next day, Carlos finds cat poop sitting squarely on the grave of his shredded geranium pot. The bastard hadn’t even tried to bury it. Carlos picks up the dried poop with his garden gloves and, in a blaze of rage, hurls it over the wall into Oscar’s garden.

A moment later, a pointed cough grabs his attention. He turns to see an unimpressed Oscar peeking over the too-low wall.

“Really?” Oscar says. “I know you’re not my biggest fan, but throwing poop at me is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Carlos feels a flicker of shame for half a second before anger swells again. He storms up to the wall, barely restraining himself from jabbing Oscar in the chest.

“I told you to watch the cat!” he scolds, Spanish blood taking control of his hands, which slice through the air in sharp, furious angles. “And what happens? He poops on my flowers! Poops!”

Oscar watches the animated hand gestures, entirely unimpressed. When Carlos finally stops, he has the audacity to just shrug.

“Still not my cat,” he says. “So I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

Carlos lets out a frustrated sound that he hopes comes off as firm and not whiny. “Why do you insist on lying?”

“I don’t lie,” Oscar lies effortlessly. “That’s like a big thing about me. Remember, the whole reason you don’t like me is because when I first moved in and you asked how I liked your garden, I told you the truth and you couldn’t take it.”

“You said my garden is an eyesore!” Carlos squawks. “Which is clearly not the truth!”

“It is to me,” Oscar shrugs again. “We just have different tastes.”

“It’s not about taste! Some things are inherently true! You can’t say my flower paradise is an eyesore – just like you can’t say I’m an eyesore!”

“You’re an eyesore,” Oscar shoots back without hesitation.

Carlos is momentarily stunned. Then, a horrific possibility dawns on him. “Oh my God!” he breathes. “You’re… are you blind? Are you blind and just never told me?”

“Carlos…” Oscar sounds more exasperated than Carlos has ever heard him. “You’re wearing the biggest straw hat known to man and freaking overalls. You look like you just escaped from a game of Stardew Valley. If I only saw you out of the corner of my eye, I’d think you were impaled in the middle of a cornfield asking if anyone’s seen your brain.”

“You are blind,” Carlos mutters, more to himself than to Oscar, who clearly isn’t listening. “And a liar. Blind and a liar.”

“Sure, if it makes you feel better…”

“No!” Carlos says firmly. “This isn’t about me feeling good. This is about you being a compulsive liar, which is a problem because you’re my neighbor, and I am suffering directly because of your untreated condition!”

“Oh my God,” Oscar sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m ugly!” Carlos demands, yanking off his straw hat so Oscar can properly admire his gleaming hair.

“Mate!” Oscar groans. “I never even said you’re ugly. Just that you’re an eyesore in that demented outfit!”

“So you do think I’m hot, then?”

Oscar glances at his wrist and widens his eyes slightly. “You know what?” he says. “I actually don’t have time for this. So – see you around, Carlos. And please try not to throw any more poop in my garden, that’d be ace. Bye.”

And just like that, he turns around and walks off, leaving Carlos fuming at the wall.

It takes until the very last second before he disappears behind the terrace door for Carlos to notice that he doesn’t even wear a watch on his wrist.

****

So, Carlos can’t get Oscar to admit he owns the cat. Fine.

He will, however, get him to admit that Carlos is hot, because that one’s about personal pride – plus, it would annoy Oscar so much more.

So the next time he sees Oscar out in the garden, Carlos sprints to throw on his overalls and straw hat – and just his overalls and straw hat! No shirt underneath. Just miles of sun-kissed skin and bare, defined arms. Carlos knows how to use what he’s got. He’s not like Oscar – three hunchbacks and two widow’s peaks in a trench coat. Well, beige shorts and a white T-shirt.

Okay, that was mean. Actually, Oscar isn’t ugly, even though most of his individual features should come together to make a weird and awkward whole. Somehow, it works. Maybe it’s his dry, quietly confident personality. Carlos doesn’t know and doesn’t care to think about it right now. He has something to prove.

“Mate,” Oscar calls from the other side of the wall as soon as Carlos steps out into the garden. That’s a new record for getting noticed. Carlos can’t help but feel a little smug. Then Oscar ruins it by adding, “You’re gonna get the most ridiculous tan lines!”

“At least I actually tan!” Carlos shouts back, heading straight for the garden hose. He briefly considers putting on a little show – dousing himself with water for that irresistible wet look – when Oscar announces, “Well, have fun with that. I actually have somewhere to be, so unfortunately I can’t stick around to laugh at the aftermath.”

And then he just packs up and leaves!

Carlos stares after him, limp hose in hand, denim overalls chafing against his freshly shaved chest.

What a let-down. Maybe Oscar really does think he’s ugly. That stings a little. Actually, it stings a lot.

To make matters worse, five minutes later, the damn cat is back. It sits perched on the wall between their gardens, staring unblinking as Carlos tries to soothe the rash on his chest by letting water run directly into his overalls.

For a moment, Carlos considers spraying the cat with the hose, but then decides against it.

For once, the cat isn’t doing anything. Just sitting and staring.

At least now Carlos can pretend he’s putting on the show for an audience.

****

When Carlos goes into the garden the next day – fully clothed this time to hide the angry rash across his chest – he turns on the hose only to discover it’s turned into a sprinkler overnight. The damn cat’s been chewing on it.

That’s when he decides enough is enough.

If the cat really doesn’t belong to Oscar, then Oscar shouldn’t mind Carlos catching it and dropping it off at the nearest animal shelter.

So Carlos devises a plan.

You catch more flies with honey, and you catch more cats with milk, he thinks, as he places a little dish of cream out on the terrace. Rich, full-fat cream – probably the finest thing the cat’s ever tasted.

Trap set, he retreats into a shady corner behind his morning glories, net at the ready, and waits.

The cat… is nowhere to be seen. Not in the first hour. Not in the second. Not in the third. After three hours of crouching, Carlos’s back is sore on top of his chest, and he gives up. He sets the net down and slips through the open terrace door into the kitchen.

That’s when he sees the orange monster sitting on the counter, teeth sunk into his $200 leg of jamón ibérico.

“Ayayayayay!” he shouts, clapping his hands in frustration, but the cat just gives him the same unimpressed look its alleged owner would. Only when Carlos circles the kitchen island, getting close, does the damn thing leap out of reach.

Carlos decides not to play his little games right now, and instead goes to inspect the damage done to his jamón.

“You really are a pest,” he mutters, grabbing the sharp knife on the counter to cut away the gnawed-on parts. “Did you not see the cream I put out for you?”

He turns, finding the cat sitting on his kitchen island – out of reach, but otherwise unafraid, even though Carlos is holding a big knife in his hand. There’s a vase full of fresh flowers from Carlos’s garden right next to the orange monster, so he hopes the cat isn’t clumsy.

He sighs and tosses the contaminated pieces of jamón onto the island. He’s not going to eat that, but just throwing it away feels wrong too.

“I see you’ve got expensive taste,” Carlos says, watching the cat dive into the scraps. “At least you have taste, unlike your owner…”

The cat glances up, licking his lips, and Carlos can’t help but snort.

“Seriously. You look exactly like him.”

“Meow,” says the cat, and Carlos swears it has an Australian twang. Another snort escapes him.

“Don’t know why he denies any and all connection to you,” Carlos rambles, like an idiot chatting with his nemesis in feline form as he cuts another piece from his $200 pig leg. “You’re kinda cute. For a cat, I mean. When you’re not actively ruining my life.”

The cat responds with another twangy “Meow,” and Carlos tosses it the fresh slice.

“Look at you!” he says. “You’re almost more talkative than your owner!”

“Meow.”

“Or maybe not. Can you say more than one meow in a row?”

“Meow.”

“Hm.” Carlos slices another bit of jamón, holding it up. “How about now?”

The cat falls completely silent, fixing Carlos with a dangerous look.

“Come on! Meow-meow. Not that hard, see? Then you get this.” He waves the jamón and mouths, “Me-ow, me-ow!”

Very, very slowly, the cat lifts a paw and touches the vase of flowers.

“Don’t you dare!”

The vase scoots an inch closer to the edge.

“I’m serious!” Carlos warns, but apparently, so is the cat, because the vase keeps inching.

Before it can end in disaster, Carlos throws the piece of jamón onto the counter, sighing in relief as the cat leaves the vase alone and devours its prize with a smug look on his face.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Carlos mutters. “Honestly, I didn’t think cats were this intelligent.”

“Meow,” says the cat smugly.

“Too bad you use your intelligence for evil.” Carlos grabs the plastic wrap on the counter and seals up the exposed side of the jamón. “That’s enough for now. Your owner will be very cross with me if I upset your little tummy.”

The cat scoffs, but doesn’t beg for more. He simply turns, jumps off the island, and deliberately hits the vase with a back paw mid-jump, sending it crashing to the floor. The cat is out of the open terrace door before Carlos can decide to throw his big knife at him.

Mission Animal Shelter: failed. But at least Carlos is sure of one thing – he still really, really hates that cat. For a moment there, he had almost started to warm up to it.

****

Carlos makes the mistake of leaving the window open while making pancakes the next morning.

Just as he’s sliding the last one onto the plate, he looks up, and there’s the cat, perched on the windowsill like Carlos hadn’t spent the night dreaming about skinning it alive.

“Ay!” he barks, quickly scanning the room for anything breakable. Unfortunately, there are a lot of flower-filled vases. “Did you come to break more of my things?”

“Meow,” the cat replies. Not a clear confirmation or denial. Carlos hopes it is the latter and sits at the kitchen island.

The cat hops down from the windowsill, onto the counter, then to the floor, and finally onto the empty stool beside Carlos, staring up at him expectantly.

“I’m not feeding you any more of my jamón after you broke my vase yesterday,” Carlos informs him, still bitter.

The cat simply blinks at him – or, more accurately, at the rolled-up pancake in Carlos’s hand.

“This?” Carlos asks, unrolling the pancake for the cat to get a better look. “You want some pancake?” He tears off a small piece and offers it to the cat, who eats it from his hand without hesitation. The whiskers tickle his palm, and the nose is cold and wet.

Carlos stands up and grabs a plate for his guest. Because. Well. He’s already talking to the damn thing, isn’t he? Doesn’t get much more idiotic than that. Besides, it’s kind of nice to have company.

The cat looks down at the pancake on the plate Carlos sets in front of him, then back up at Carlos, as if waiting for something.

“What?” Carlos asks. “Surely you don’t eat with a fork and knife!”

“Meow,” the cat says sarcastically.

“What then – toppings? Are you seriously demanding toppings?”

“Meow,” the cat confirms, and for a moment Carlos wonders if he should talk to someone about his delusions.

“I usually just eat them plain,” Carlos says, turning to rummage through his cabinets, looking for something a person without taste might like on their pancakes. “So I’m not sure I have any – oh! How about this?”

He pulls an unopened jar of Nutella from the depths of the cabinet and presents it to the cat like a waiter offering a fine bottle of wine.

“Meow meow!” the cat says enthusiastically, which shocks Carlos so much he nearly drops the jar.

“Okay, but – wait a minute! Let me google something first,” Carlos says, fishing his phone from his pocket and quickly searching whether cats can have Nutella.

“Oh,” he mutters, disappointed, when the answer is a very clear no. “Sorry, buddy, but I can’t give you this. It’s actually toxic for you.”

The cat, who just moments ago had been acting like his best friend, now hisses at him.

“Look, I’m not going to poison you!” Carlos insists. “Not just because I wouldn’t put it past your owner to take revenge, but also because I don’t want to find your diarrhea all over my precious flowers!”

Clearly, that mature reasoning and responsible decision-making displeases the cat, because it hisses again, grabs the pancake in his mouth like a dead mouse, and knocks the plate off the counter for good measure. Then he bolts, disappearing out the open window while Carlos just sighs and grabs the broom to sweep the shattered pieces off the floor.

****

“Oscar.”

“Carlos,” Oscar replies from half inside a blueberry bush.

“Can I give your cat a little bit of chocolate?”

Oscar goes still for a moment, then pokes his head out of the bush, eyebrows raised high.

“Still not my cat, mate,” he says. Carlos waits, just stares back, until Oscar returns to his berry-picking, half-disappearing into the bush again. Carlos waits some more until finally, from deep within the leaves, comes, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Carlos says.

“I read somewhere cats are smart enough not to poison themselves with food they can’t tolerate,” Oscar elaborates, voice muffled by foliage. “So if it eats your chocolate, it’ll probably survive. Not that I care, because it’s not my cat.”

“Sure, Oscar. Thank you, Oscar,” Carlos says, feeling bold enough to decorate his words with a big smile, knowing Oscar’s too deep in the bush to see it. He turns to leave but stops. On a sudden whim, he picks one of the blue cornflowers growing in a small flowerbed bordering the wall and leaves it on top for Oscar to find.

****

The cat returns the next morning. Eats three pancakes with Nutella and doesn’t die.

When Carlos heads out to water his plants later, Oscar isn’t around – but a small basket full of blueberries waits for him on the little wall between their houses.

Carlos eats them wrapped in the rest of his pancakes and admits that some toppings actually taste good.

****

A week passes, and the cat becomes a regular guest in Carlos’s house.

It’s a problem. Kind of. Even though the more Carlos does what the cat wants, the less likely it is to break anything.

What’s a problem is the damn hair! Carlos finds it everywhere – he’s even spotted some stuck to his precious jamón iberico, and he doesn’t even want to know how much fur he’s accidentally eaten. Sometimes he starts imagining a hairball forming in his throat and gets all nauseous.

So when he spots Oscar’s ass sticking up over the little wall, bent over his lettuce patch, Carlos quickly jogs over to bombard him with more cat-related questions.

“What, Carlos?” Oscar asks before Carlos can even say a word. He seems busy putting up snail collars and doesn’t straighten up.

“There are cat hairs everywhere in my house!” Carlos complains to Oscar’s ass, which, now that he’s so directly faced with it, is a pretty nice ass, he must admit.

“And why is that?”

“Because your cat keeps visiting me and doesn’t understand the concept of cat-free zones!”

“Not my cat,” Oscar says, predictably.

“You should see my couch!” Carlos continues, hopping up onto the little wall and letting his legs dangle from Oscar’s side. “He napped on it the other day, and now my brown couch is orange!”

Oscar leaves the snail collars and finally straightens, crossing his arms as he faces Carlos. “Really?” he says. “You feed the cat, and now you let it sleep in your house? Are you sure it’s not your cat?”

Carlos hesitates.

“I don’t even know his name,” he mutters, brow furrowing.

“Uh-huh.” Oscar doesn’t look like he’s about to volunteer that information.

“Do I just give him one?”

“That’s usually how it works when you get a cat, mate.”

“Hm…” Carlos strains his brain trying to come up with a suitable name, but comes up empty. So he just sits and watches as Oscar goes back to work, legs still swinging off the wall.

“You’re still here,” Oscar points out once he’s done with the snail collars and sees Carlos still sitting there, staring at his… garden.

Carlos might have gotten a little distracted from brainstorming cat names.

“Yes,” he says, scratching his chin like he’s been in deep thought all along. “Hey, can I name the cat Oscar? He looks exactly like you. I don’t think any other name would suit him.”

“You can name it whatever you want, mate,” Oscar replies, completely unbothered. “It’s your cat.”

“Okay.” Carlos nods, satisfied. “And what do I do about the hair?”

Oscar gives a sigh so long, Carlos is surprised he hasn’t consulted his invisible watch and ran away yet.

“I don’t know, mate,” he says. “Brush it?”

“Brush it!” Carlos repeats, lighting up. Then he jumps off the low wall, jogging back toward his house with a quick, “Thank you, Oscar!” tossed over his shoulder. As he passes his bed of impressive gladiolus flowers, he pauses. Thinks. Swerves to detour into his garden shed and retrieve a pair of pruning shears, clips three of the most beautiful blooms, and puts them in a tall vase the cat hasn’t managed to knock over yet.

Oscar has moved on to his radishes by the time Carlos returns with the impromptu bouquet.

“Here,” Carlos says, placing the vase on the little stone wall between their gardens. “For sharing your cat with me.”

Oscar, for once, doesn’t manage to get out one of his signature sarcastic comments before Carlos turns and heads back inside.

****

He orders a special cat brush online. It looks strange – square, with little wiry hooks that don’t exactly look comfortable, but the website claims it has a massaging effect, so Carlos hopes the cat won’t hold it against him.

Carlos doesn’t end up naming the cat ‘Oscar’. Well, he does for one evening. But when he tells Lando on the phone that he can’t move because Oscar is asleep in his lap, the teasing is so relentless he decides the risk of confusion just isn’t worth it.

He lands on ‘Oscat’ instead. Still fitting, but clearer.

Oscat loves the brush.

Carlos hears him purr for the first time and is so startled, he nearly drops the damn thing. He knows cats purr, obviously, but he’s never had one do it in his lap – the vibrations are crazy, and it’s way louder than expected. Like the cat has his own little engine.

Carlos likes engines.

He sends a selfie of himself with Oscat in his lap to Lando, just to prove that the cat is real and that he is not cozying up with the terrible neighbor he used to complain about daily.

Though honestly, Oscar hasn’t been that terrible lately. He even smiles now when he sees Carlos step into the garden. Most days, there’s a little container of berries, herbs, or veggies left by Carlos’s door or on the wall between their gardens.

Sometimes, the cat sits next to the container, as if he brought it himself, and walks right into Carlos’s house as soon as the door opens, like he owns the place.

Carlos’s phone pings. Lando has responded to his selfie with a flood of “My dad with the cat he didn’t want” memes. Carlos rolls his eyes, puts the phone down, and refocuses on brushing the purring cat in his lap.

****

“So, Oscar…” Carlos begins, the moment Oscar steps through his terrace doors, carrying a large bag of fertilizer. Carlos is already waiting, seated on the stone wall.

“Carlos,” Oscar replies evenly, though he’s smiling again. Carlos still isn’t used to that. He momentarily forgets what he meant to say.

It’s not until Oscar is right in front of him that Carlos remembers his question.

“Are you really serious when you say Oscat doesn’t belong to you?”

Oscar rolls his eyes dramatically. “Wow. And here I thought it had finally sunk into that thick skull of yours.”

“It’s just…” Carlos cuts in before Oscar can continue mocking him. “I don’t really think he belongs to me either, you know? I have no idea where he sleeps at night. He doesn’t eat the cat food I buy or use the litter box. He just comes over whenever he pleases, makes me fawn over him for an hour or two, then disappears again. Is that normal for cats?”

“Pretty much.” Oscar shrugs. “They’re independent. Maybe it has like four other people wrapped around its paws and just wanders from one house to the next. Maybe the other houses have better litter.”

Carlos is deeply displeased by that thought. He can live with sharing the cat with Oscar – but random strangers with superior litter boxes? No way!

“Well, how do I know he’s treated alright? Is he healthy? Is he getting all his shots? Can I just take him to the vet for a check-up, or will they discover some microchip inside him saying he belongs to some family with kids and take him away from me?”

Oscar must notice how serious Carlos is, because instead of making another joke, he just watches him quietly for a moment.

Then he puts the bag down and hops onto the stone wall beside Carlos, so close their shoulders are almost touching.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that cat, mate,” he says, staring straight ahead into his blueberry bush. “That thing eats, like, a jar of Nutella a day. You’d probably need a lab-made virus to take it down.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, still not looking at him. For someone so nonchalant, he’s terrible at pretending to be nonchalant. “It’s probably just some stray who adopted you. Would likely scratch your eyes out if you tried to take it to the vet.”

Carlos thinks it over. Long enough that Oscar eventually turns and meets his eyes.

“Look – you said the cat’s smart, right? I’m sure it’d let you know if it needed help.”

Carlos just nods. He doesn’t really have any words right now. He’s never seen Oscar’s eyes from up close like this. Though he’s very familiar with another set of eyes, which have different shaped pupils, but are otherwise an exact replica.

When he returns to his side of the garden, he stops by the rose bushes, clips a single white bloom with pink edges, and places it on the stone wall between them.

****

Carlos Sainz Jr. loves his life – he has a job he likes, a close-knit group of friends, a cute little house with the most beautiful garden anyone’s ever laid eyes on, and a very opinionated pet who likes to spend the evenings sprawled across his lap, purring like a helicopter about to lift off.

All in all, it’s almost perfect.

With one notable exception.

He’s pretty sure he’s developed feelings for his terrible, tasteless, snarky nightmare of a neighbor, and he has no idea what to do about it.

“Oscat…” Carlos murmurs, his voice barely audible over the purring. He’s lounging in a garden chair, one hand around a glass of wine, the other sunk into the cat’s fur. The cat still hears him, lifting his head and blinking his narrow, golden-brown eyes.

“Do you… do you think Oscar still hates me?”

The cat slow-blinks, then leans forward to gently bite Carlos’s finger.

“So… you think there’s a chance he might like me?”

“Meow meow meow!”

Carlos’s eyebrows shoot up. That is by far the most elaborate opinion Oscat has ever voiced about anything. He watches the cat try to act nonchalant by aggressively licking his paw.

“I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m ugly and annoying,” Carlos adds, almost to himself.

The cat scoffs. Scoffs!

And sure, Carlos is no expert on cats, but he’s been reading up a lot lately, and from all the knowledge he’s gathered, he’s pretty sure cats aren’t supposed to be this intelligent. Or able to hold up an entire conversation with a human being. Or eat jarsful of Nutella.

“So… if I walked over there right now, rang his doorbell, and asked him to join me for a glass of wine on my terrace… do you think he’d say yes?”

“Meow meow!” Oscat agrees enthusiastically.

Yeah. At the very least, cats shouldn’t be this sure about the answer some random human with their exact eyes, and exact looks, and exact accent would give about being asked out.

And maybe Carlos would not feel confident sharing his theory with another human soul, not even his closest friends, but… It just makes sense. It would explain why Oscar was always so adamant about how the cat doesn’t belong to him, and why he knew about the Nutella thing, and why he told Carlos not to take the cat to the vet. And why Carlos has never seen Oscar and Oscat at the same time. It would just… explain everything.

“Shit, I hope I’m not wrong about this,” Carlos mutters, setting down his wine.

Then, without warning, he grabs Oscat by the scruff and starts tickling the cat’s soft, white belly with his other hand.

Oscat wails. He curls into a croissant around Carlos’s hands – a sharp croissant with claws and fangs, but Carlos is determined, and Oscat’s hissing and wailing suddenly turns into squeaking and from there into high-pitched, breathless giggling.

It doesn’t happen gradually. There’s a big poof, and suddenly, Oscar the human is sitting in Carlos’s lap, face flushed right to the tips of his widow’s peaks, grabbing both of Carlos’s hands with his own, to stop the tickling.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other.

Then Oscar schools his expression into that trademark blank mask.

“Alright,” he says in the most flat, casual voice imaginable. “Congratulations. You got me.”

Carlos can feel a grin spreading so wide it makes his cheeks ache. “Hello, Oscar,” he says, as if Oscar has just walked out his terrace doors with a watering can instead of shape-shifted from a cat in his lap. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“No,” Oscar says. “And for the record, I think you’re ugly and annoying.”

“And you,” Carlos laughs, “are a compulsive liar.”

Oscar shrugs. “Cats aren’t exactly known for their moral integrity.”

“So… is that a yes to the wine?”

Oscar glances down at where he’s straddling Carlos in the garden chair, still holding his wrists. “Are you going to offer me a chair first?”

“Hm…” Carlos says, still smiling. “No. I don’t think I will.”

“Want me to turn back into a cat?”

“Absolutely not!” Carlos laughs, freeing his wrists so he can wrap his arms around Oscar’s waist, making it abundantly clear how he’d prefer Oscar to stay.

Oscar’s face, which had begun to lose its flush, turns red all over again.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Okay?” Carlos asks, leaning in just enough to make his intentions clear.

Oscar doesn’t need more than that. He meets him halfway, all that fake nonchalance flying right out the window. He kisses like a guy who’d take any excuse to not have to explain why he was just being a cat purring in Carlos’s lap a minute ago, and he has obviously never heard of the concept of chapstick in his life. Despite all that, Carlos can’t get enough of him. The sharp edges have always been the most intriguing thing about Oscar anyway.

They don’t take a break until ten minutes later, when Carlos pulls back, breathless, to inform him, “If you ever shit on my flowers again, I’m taking you straight to the vet!”

Oscar just giggles, high and embarrassed, and kisses him again without even trying to come up with a snarky answer.

Except two seconds later Carlos hears the wine glass shattering on his terrace tiles.

Ah, well.

They’ll just have to drink from plastic cups from now on.

[holylulusworld]

Animalistic (2)

Summary: He’s coming for them.

Pairing: Alpha!Kraven x Omega!Reader

Warnings: a/b/o, betrayal, human trafficking, sex trafficking, angst, kidnapping, innocent reader, implied character death (unnamed thugs), grumpy Kraven

A/N: Please consider that I do not write for Kraven from the comics, but from the movie.

Catch up here: Animalistic (1)

Animalistic Masterlist

Kraven wraps his jacket around your shoulders, knowing you must be cold in your party dress, with no shoes and nothing to keep you warm.

“Thank you,” you murmur, offering a cracked smile. It’s a kind gesture, and you want to tell him you appreciate it.

“Your friend, where is she now?” The man dragged you around town, never stopping until you reached a car hidden in the dark. “I need to know. I cannot waste more time tonight.”

You swallow hard at the mention of your best friend. “She was my best friend since childhood. I always looked up to Oriana. She was so strong and self-confident.” You choke out a sob. “How could she do this to me?”  

“Greed.” He grunts and opens the door to the passenger seat. “Get inside. We don’t want one of them to follow us.” You glance at him. “Even though, I don’t think there’s anyone left.”

You sniffle and wipe your teary eyes. “I know where she lives. If that was her home. Maybe she lied about that too. I don’t know anymore. If I ever knew her at all.”

“She’s not worth your tears,” Kraven tells you to get inside the car. He silently closes the door, sighing deeply because he didn’t plan on bringing a helpless and scared omega with him on a hunt.

Kraven gets behind the steering wheel. He leans forward to open the glove compartment, causing you to stiffen in your seat. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He grunts. “I only wanted to get this.” He drops a pencil and notebook in your lap. “I want you to write down everything you know about her. Every detail.”

“I can just tell you.” You sniff and look out of the window when he starts the engine. “What do you want to know?”

“First, we will go to her home,” he says and quickly glances at you. “I want you to write down her address. You can sleep while I drive.”

You scribble her address down. “She has a roommate…” You sniffle and shake your head. “Had.” You correct yourself. “Celia was one of the women at the party. I don’t know what happened to her after Oriana slammed my face into the tile wall.”

Kraven exhales sharply. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with the victims. He only wanted to take out the monster and move on. “You said something about the other women. That you heard where they are taking them.”

“I heard the men laugh and joke about the women’s future. One of them mentioned a truck and that they should be happy they showed them how to satisfy their owners.” You start to whimper and hide your face in the palms of your hands. “They wanted them to be thankful.” You growl now. “Can you believe this?”

“Sadly, yes,” Kraven replies. “I’ll try to find the others too. I won’t make any promises, though.”

“That’s more than I can ask for,” you sniffle. “After everything happening to them, they deserve to be free.”

Kraven nods and focuses on driving while you slump into the seat, slowly drifting into sleep. He drives slower than he likes but doesn’t want to risk getting in an accident with you.

“That’s her place,” you whisper, once again averting your gaze. “There’s a back entrance.”

“Don’t worry, I know how to get inside.” He looks at you for a brief moment. “Hmm… I can’t leave you here all alone. It’s safest if you come with me. She won’t be a challenge.”

You open your mouth to protest. “I don’t know if I can face her. Not after everything she did and the pain she caused. Maybe I’ll freak out and kill her.”

“You’re welcome to be my guest,” he laughs. “I won’t let her live either…”

You stiffen in your seat again. So far, you haven’t had the time to think about Oriana’s future. Blinding rage was what kept you sane over the last few days. “I can live with that.”

“Kraven.” He offers his hand.

“Y/N.” You shake his hand. “That’s a unique name.”

“I choose it myself after—” He stops talking and hastily gets out of the car. There seems to be more behind the man saving you. A story to tell. Maybe you’ll get to know it one day.

Kraven guides you inside the building. He’s hiding in the shadows, sneaking toward Oriana’s apartment with the deadly accuracy of a lion.

“You’ll stay behind me.” He signals you to stop and listens closely. Kraven inhales deeply and visibly relaxes as he doesn’t sense enemies. “If you cannot go through with this, I can help you hide.”

“No!” You walk around him to walk toward Oriana’s door. “I’ll take that woman down myself!”

“Cub, wait!” He moves faster than expected to shove you behind his back. You ignore the pet name and growl as he won’t let you have your revenge. “Let me get her first. You can do whatever you want after she tells us everything about Darian Garton and his business.”

“Fine,” you sigh but lean against the wall next to the door. Closing your eyes, you listen to him pick the lock. Kraven usually would just kick the door open, but he cannot risk drawing attention toward you.

It’s a blur after Kraven entered the apartment. You heard a scream and then, silence. It took you a few moments until you found the strength to enter the apartment—the place you knew so well.

“She’s not here,” Kraven huffed and pointed at the man on the ground. Dead, without a doubt, but you didn’t want to step closer to be sure. “Any ideas?”

“Sometimes,” your voice cracks as you try to help your savior hunt your friend down. “Sometimes, if the world got too much, she came to my place to find solace.”

“Your place,” Kraven curses. “We should’ve known she was not waiting at home. If you do business with Darian Garton, you grab the money and run. I don’t think they’ll look for her at your place. It’s a condemned place now.”

“Condemned because they kidnapped me,” you murmur. “Oriana is hiding there until she can leave town.”

Kraven takes a quick look around the apartment. He doesn’t believe Oriana left anything useful behind. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go to your place.”

It wasn’t easy returning home after what was lying behind you. This place felt colder now that the world tried to swallow you whole.

Kraven and you sneaked inside your apartment. Finding the traitor sleeping on your bed. Oriana looked so at peace, and it made you even angrier. After all she had done to you and the other women, she slept as if nothing had happened.

“Let me,” Kraven says. “You cannot come back here. We don’t know if I will find all of them. Grab a bag and pack a few things. Only the most important things. I’ll take care of her.”

You don’t listen when he rudely wakes Oriana or when he slams her into the wall like she did with you days ago.

Busying yourself with packing two duffel bags, you ignore her whines. Oriana showed no mercy that night, and you will return the favor.

“Done?” Kraven asks as he ties Oriana’s hands behind her back. “This place isn’t ideal for an interrogation. We need to bring her somewhere else.”

“Okay,” you turn around, not sparing Oriana a glance. She looks up at you, gasping as you walk past her.

“What? Y/N?” She whimpers before Kraven puts duct tape over her mouth. Oriana starts to trash, but you couldn’t care less.

Kraven wraps one hand around her throat, forcing her back on her feet. “Listen,” he growls. “If you don’t stop, I’ll break your fucking neck.”

You laugh when she starts to cry. She brought hell over you and the other women—now she will feel the heat.

[ghostsirensworld]

may I please request a Luffy x fem reader where they encounter an enemy who’s devil fruit makes people reveal the truth which ends up with Luffy confessing his feelings for the reader and leaves him all embarrassed and the rest of the crew in shock. maybe he even says something along the lines of “I think y/n looks cute when she’s wearing my straw hat” idk, I just had this thought I hope it makes sense cause I feel like it would be super adorable! thank you!!

whoops i post once in a while yall gotta get used to it i fear but yesss

“Under the Hat”

(Luffy x Fem!Reader — ooc?)

It was supposed to be a normal scuffle.

The Straw Hats had cornered the enemy captain — a lanky man with wild hair and a sly grin — when suddenly, he clapped his hands together.

A strange purple ripple washed over the Sunny’s deck like mist.

“You can’t hide anything now,” he crowed. “Thanks to my Hontō Hontō no Mi! You’ll blurt out whatever you’re thinking!”

Everyone stiffened.

“Eh? That sounds annoying,” Luffy said, picking his nose lazily.

The enemy snickered. “Let’s see how long you last, Straw Hat!”

At first, nothing happened.

Then—

Without warning—

“I think Y/N looks super cute when she’s wearin’ my hat!” Luffy declared, loud as anything.

The words echoed across the deck.

A single gull cried overhead.

You froze mid-step.

Nami blinked like she’d been slapped.

Zoro made a sound like he’d just choked on sake.

Sanji let out a wail of despair, clutching his chest.

Even Franky’s jaw dropped open with a metallic clunk.

Luffy stood there, looking as casual as ever—until he realized everyone was staring at him.

He frowned. “What? It’s true.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“You—you think that?” you stammered.

“Yeah,” Luffy said instantly, scratching his cheek. “You look cool. And cute. Like part of my treasure.”

His voice was so open, so genuine, it knocked the breath out of you.

The enemy captain cackled, delighted.

“I told you! No secrets!”

Luffy tilted his head, utterly baffled. “Huh? That’s not a secret though. I already knew that.”

The crew faceplanted collectively.

“THAT’S THE POINT!” Usopp shouted, yanking at his hair.

“Luffy… you don’t just say that kind of stuff!” Nami snapped, smacking his arm.

“Why not?” Luffy asked, looking genuinely confused. “I meant it.”

At this, your cheeks flamed hotter than a firework.

You gripped the hem of your shirt tightly, trying to hide your face.

Zoro smirked from where he leaned against the mast. “Captain’s got guts, I’ll give him that.”

Brook twirled his cane. “Yohohoho! Such youth! Such romance!”

Meanwhile, Sanji sobbed openly into a handkerchief. “To think—our captain falls in love before me! This cruel world!!”

Chopper was busy spinning in circles, tiny hooves smacking his cheeks.

“This is too embarrassing!! I can’t take it!!”

Still, Luffy, simple and bright, just beamed at you.

“You can wear it whenever you want, y’know,” he said suddenly, lifting his hat and plopping it lightly on your head.

You blinked up at him, your heart practically melting.

The straw hat — his treasured straw hat — slid over your forehead, nearly swallowing you whole.

Luffy grinned wide, that pure, honest grin that could command the seas.

“You look good,” he said again, simple as breathing.

You bit your lip, smiling helplessly under the hat’s brim.

“Thanks, Captain,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Luffy laughed — loud and delighted — and tossed an arm casually around your shoulders, pulling you close without hesitation.

He didn’t seem to even realize he was doing it — it was natural, like claiming something important without thinking twice.

The crew howled louder at the sight.

“Y/N’s officially the captain’s favorite now,” Nami said, smirking wickedly.

“You better treat her like gold, Luffy,” Franky added, striking a dramatic pose. “Or we’ll super kick your ass!”

Luffy just flashed a toothy grin.

“I already do!” he shouted.

You hid your burning face behind the wide brim of his hat, feeling like you could float right off the ship.

Somewhere behind you, Zoro muttered under his breath, grinning:

“Idiot.”

But you didn’t mind.

Because if loving an idiot like Luffy meant getting to see this side of him — bright, wild, and true —

you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[lilangelbud]

Idea….. daddy x daughter sex after built up tension n daughter cries during or after bc she wants daddy so bad and it feels so good but she knows it’s really wrong too n she feels guilty and gross and daddy talks her through it n comforts n soothes her and tells her it’s okay n makes her feel good to get her mind off it n just really tender and gentle daddy <3

“I can’t do this,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she pulled away, her body still flush against his. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as she shook her head, her breath hitching in her throat. “It’s wrong. It’s so wrong.”

He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, though his own heart was racing. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She choked back a sob, her hands gripping his shirt like she was afraid he might let go. “But… but it’s you. It’s us. It’s… it’s not supposed to be like this.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against hers, his breath warm against her skin. “I know,” he whispered. “I know it’s wrong. But it’s also… it’s also right, don’t you feel that? Don’t you feel how much I love you?”

She hesitated, her body trembling as she searched his eyes for reassurance. For something, anything, that could make sense of the storm raging inside her. “I do,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “But… but what if we can’t stop? What if this ruins everything?”

He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering there as if he could absorb all her fears. “It won’t,” he promised, his voice firm now, though still soft. “I won’t let it. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

Her breath hitched again, and she nodded, her body relaxing slightly against his. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Okay.”

The tension had been building for weeks. Months, maybe. It had started with glances that lingered too long, touches that felt just a little too deliberate. At first, she tried to brush it off, telling herself it was just her imagination. That she was reading too much into it. But then, one night, he had reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and his fingers had brushed against her cheek, and something had shifted. Something she couldn’t ignore.

She had pulled away then, her heart pounding in her chest, and he had looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher. “Sorry,” he had muttered, his voice gruff, and she had nodded, pretending it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It couldn’t be nothing.

After that, it was impossible to ignore. Every time he was near, she felt it—the electricity, the heat, the ache that settled low in her belly. She tried to push it down, to bury it deep where it couldn’t reach her, but it was too strong. Too persistent. And then, one night, she had broken.

It had been late, the house quiet, the kind of quiet that made her feel like she was the only one awake in the world. She had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when she heard his footsteps outside her door. She held her breath, waiting, and then the door creaked open.

He stood there, silhouetted in the dim light from the hallway, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. “I can’t sleep,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion—or something else.

She sat up, her heart pounding. “Me neither,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

He crossed the room in a few quick strides, sitting down on the edge of her bed. She could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the faint scent of his cologne, and it made her head spin. “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly, his eyes searching hers. “About us.”

She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “Us?”

He nodded, his hand reaching out to brush against hers. “Yeah. Us. About… about how I feel about you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head, trying to deny it, to push it away. “You shouldn’t,” she whispered. “You can’t.”

He leaned closer, his hand cupping her cheek, and she felt her resolve crumbling. “I can’t help it,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve tried, but I can’t. I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much it hurts.”

She wanted to protest, to tell him he was wrong, that this was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her body betraying her mind. “I love you too,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But it’s not supposed to be like this.”

He kissed her then, softly at first, his lips brushing against hers like a question. She hesitated, her heart pounding, and then she kissed him back, her hands gripping his shirt as if she were afraid he might disappear.

It was slow, almost tentative, as if they were both afraid to take the next step. But then, his tongue brushed against hers, and she moaned softly, the sound muffled against his mouth. His hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, and she could feel the hardness of his body pressed against hers.

She should have stopped him. She knew she should have stopped him. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. All she wanted was him—his touch, his kisses, his love. And as his hands slid under her shirt, his fingers brushing against her skin, she knew there was no going back.

He undressed her slowly, his hands trembling as he pushed her shirt up over her head, his lips trailing kisses down her neck, her collarbone, her chest. She shivered, her body arching into his touch, and when his mouth closed over her nipple, she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair.

She could feel his need, his desire, but he was gentle, so gentle, his hands and lips exploring her body like it was something precious. Something sacred. And when he finally slid inside her, she cried out, her body trembling with a mix of pleasure and guilt.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soothing as he kissed her tears away. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

She nodded, her body relaxing against his as he began to move, slow and steady, his thrusts deep and deliberate. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned, his forehead resting against hers.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “So perfect.”

She moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders as he continued to move, his body pressing against her in all the right places. And then, the guilt crept in, threatening to ruin the moment.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

He kissed her, his lips soft and reassuring. “Don’t be,” he murmured. “Don’t be sorry. Just feel. Just let me love you.”

She nodded, her tears mingling with her moans as he continued to move, his hands and lips everywhere, leaving no part of her untouched. And when she finally came, her body trembling with release, he held her close, whispering words of comfort and love as she cried.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his hands stroking her hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”

[bidisasterevankinard]

All I'm saying I couldn't stop myself after this. No real mpreg. allusions to sex and breeding kink mentioned

“Push, Evan, push,” Tommy screams into his ear and Buck does all he can, through pain and white dots in his shut eyes, pushing and pushing,still trying to squirt and see his husband. 

But everything is so blurry and his body doesn’t cooperate with him. He just wants Tommy and … their baby?

“You did it, love,” Tommy finally appears in front of him with a bundle - when did he have time to bundle the baby?- putting them on his chest.

Smiling, Buck takes off the hood, needing to see the fruit of his labor. But in the place of the baby with Tommy’s nose and cleft he just has a … helicopter? Blue little helicopter that wails like a real baby.

“I’ll go make him a baby fuel mix,” kissing his birthmark, Tommy gets up and Buck just nods.

He looks at the baby again, shaking his head, hoping the helicopter will actually become a baby, but now he has nothing in his hands.

He jumps from the bed, needing to find his baby, but … only just wakes up in his bed, not sweating after giving birth, but from the warm body that was his big spoon. 

Body that sits up too.

“ ‘van? ‘at’s wron’?” Toomy yawns.

“I… I had a strange dream,” Buck says, touching his belly and trying to remember all biology lessons he had in school.

“What dream?”

“You’ll never let me forgot about it.”

“I promise to make only one bitchy joke,” Tommy holds his hand to his chest.

 With a sigh, Buck says, “I gave birth.” 

Tommy just nods, “some people say you can see yourself pregnant or giving birth if you have new beginnings in life,” hsi fiance, kissing his birthmark, whispering softly, “We have a huge one tomorrow.”

Buck looks at their suits, fully ready for their wedding tomorrow.

“Yeah, but…,” Buck chuckles, “I gave b-birth to a helicopter. Blue one.”

Buck loves Tommy. He loves Tommy’s belly laugh, but he still pouts because Tommy laughs over him.

“Oh my god, babe,” Tommy kisses him, “maybe I shouldn’t have given you a ride to Vegas and then showed you ‘Junior’ in one day.”

That makes Buck chuckle too. “I enjoyed both of them though.”

“Well, I'm happy you liked it even if it gave you a strange dream,” the last thing Tommy says with a lower voice, pinning him to the bed, “or maybe it wasn’t just a dream, huh, baby? Do you want me to try really hard and put a baby in you? Try every day of your honeymoon till your body just has to keep it?”

Swallowing, Buck pushes his half hard cock into Tommy’s. “d-don’t start anything you can’t end, Kinard. We should sleep.”

“We have time for mutual heads. I need to make sure I keep you satisfied, almost husband.”

Buck would never let him know he almost came from just Tommy calling him husband.