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dismalflo · 3 months ago

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all the reasons we're not in love

James potter x fem!reader ✩ 4.6k words

summary: You and James are best fucking friends—nothing more, nothing less. So why does everyone act like you're secretly in love, like it's some kind of undeniable fact?

cw: fluff, a pinch of angst, steamy makeout but no smut, best friends to lovers, idiots in love.

James gets up from the booth and leans down to ruffle your hair just because he knows it’ll annoy you. All sat around a too small booth in the back of the pub with a few chairs pulled up to accommodate the large group. It’s James' turn to buy a round, and you make a show of swatting his hand away as he goes, tracking his movements all the way to the bar.

You have a second to take in the dingy lights and the rowdy regulars in the local before Lily scares you half to death, leaning into your field of view. Eyes alight with mischief and an impish smile on her lip.

“So…” she says, dragging out the vowel, “what's going on?”

“What's going on with what?” you laugh, confused but delighted by Lily after a few drinks.

“You and James!” she practically squeals, shaking your arm with gleeful energy. “You’ve been giggling like schoolkids all night. He had his arm around you! Just admit it already—you like each other.”

You groan. “Lils, we always do that.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically, clearly fed up with your refusal to see what she sees. And you? You’re fed up with everyone constantly implying that you and James must fancy each other. As if friendship isn’t enough.

“James and I are friends. That’s—”

“Best fucking friends,” James announces cheerfully, appearing out of nowhere and sliding your drink in front of you before placing the rest in the middle of the table.

“Exactly! Thank you,” you say, gesturing to him like he’s just proved your point.

Lily exhales sharply, throwing you a meaningful look before turning back to the group.

James sinks back into the booth beside you, draping an arm casually along the backrest behind your shoulders

“Try this,” he says, nudging his glass toward you. He’s been working his way through the list of ridiculous specialty mocktails on the menu and insists you sample every one. “It’s strawberry… something. You’ll like it.”

You take a sip. He’s right, obviously, it’s sweet and bright and tastes like summer. You smile up at him, pleased. “That’s really good. I’m getting one next round.”

He grins, radiant. “You can have that one, angel.”

You try to push the glass back, but he doesn’t let you. He’s about to insist again, mouth open, eyes soft, when a familiar voice cuts in.

“Why don’t you share your drinks like that with me, Moony?” Sirius whines from across the table, looking genuinely offended.

Remus sighs—meaning to sound exasperated, probably—but the fond look he gives his boyfriend tells a different story.

“We’ve been drinking the same thing all night, that’s why,” he replies, a smile starting to bloom on his lips. “And…” He glances your way with a teasing glint in his eye. “We’re not an old married couple like them.”

“Yeah,” Sirius mutters, barely above a breath, like it's a tragedy, “good thing they’re both fit.”

You let out a loud laugh. “We’re friends—”

“Best fucking friends.”

“—Not an old married couple. And honestly, you can’t say anything, Remus ‘Knitwear’ Lupin.”

“She’s not wrong,” James says with a quiet chuckle, sliding his hand to your back, fingers moving in lazy, absent-minded circles.

Remus only laughs, shaking his head, while Sirius looks scandalized—utterly betrayed on his boyfriend’s behalf.

“I like Rem’s knitwear, Trouble,” Sirius says, fixing you with a glare that would be more effective if his cheeks weren’t flushed from the drinks. “And I’d be very careful, or I’ll convince him to stop knitting your presents. Then all you’ll get are boring gift cards.” He nods solemnly, clearly impressed with his own threat.

You gasp dramatically, hand to your chest like he’s wounded you. “You wouldn’t.”

Sirius just giggles in response—giggles, which is never a good sign—so you turn to Remus, eyes wide, appealing.

“You wouldn’t let him, would you? You’ll still knit me things, Rem?”

Remus chuckles, shaking his head with a smile that promises yes, always.

That’s when you notice James has gone quiet. You turn toward him, curious, and catch the way he’s watching you. Soft eyes. That funny little smile he only wears when he thinks no one’s looking.

“You okay?” you ask, voice gentling with concern.

The question seems to pull him out of whatever haze he was in. His grin returns, bright and easy, like it never left.

“I’m great, angel.” He leans in, dropping his voice so only you can hear. “If Moony stopped knitting for you... I’d learn how to.”

You blink at him. “You? Knitting?”

He nods solemnly, one hand still warm against your back, and raises the other as if swearing an oath. “I’d do it for you. Even if it meant stabbing myself with the needles every five minutes. That’s how committed I am.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “You’re so dramatic.”

You’re laughing, and your cheeks are warm, and James is still looking at you like you’ve hung the stars, but you brush it off like you always do.

Because this is what you and James do. Banter, teasing, little smiles no one else gets—your own language that you’ve been speaking fluently for years. It’s not new. It doesn’t mean anything.

He nudges your knee with his own, still grinning like he’s won something. Like your laugh is enough.

And maybe it is. Maybe it always has been.

But then Lily shoots you another look across the table, all smug eyebrows and that annoying “I told you so” glint in her eye, and it hits you again like it always does—this sudden awareness of how everyone else sees you. You and James. As if it’s already written somewhere, carved into the stars or tucked between the pages of your shared history.

You take a sip of the strawberry-whatever to stall, trying not to frown. Because the truth is, you know how this looks from the outside. All the little things he does, the way you lean into him without thinking, the endless inside jokes—it paints a picture. A certain type of story.

Because he’s James. And you’re... you.

And no matter how many times Sirius winks or Mary raises a knowing brow or Lily insists you're in love, you don’t think there’s a universe where you and James actually get together. Not really.

You’re best friends. That’s it.

And maybe there’s something sacred in that. Something worth protecting.

Besides—he doesn’t fancy you. Not like that. And you certainly don’t fancy him. No matter how charming he is. Or how warm his laugh makes you feel. Or how he always saves you the last piece of your favourite treats even when he pretends he won’t. Or how he’s looking at you now like he’d burn down the world just to keep you smiling.

No. You don’t fancy each other. That would be... messy. Complicated. The end of everything easy and good between you.

And James Potter may be a lot of things, but he’s not your ending.

He’s your always.

So you take another sip of the mocktail he gave you and bump his shoulder with your own, like nothing ever passed through your mind. He bumps you back, that lazy smirk still on his lips.

The pub starts to empty in waves, voices thinning out as people stumble toward coat racks and lingering goodbyes. You're nestled deeper into the booth than you realized, lulled by warmth and easy laughter and the comfort of being surrounded by your people.

Eventually, someone suggests calling it. Mary’s already halfway into her coat, Sirius is trying to coax Remus into stealing pint glasses for their flat and Lily kisses you on the cheek with a meaningful look before grabbing Marlene’s arm and disappearing toward the door in a burst of cold air and laughter.

And James?

James is exactly where he’s been all night—at your side, elbow brushing yours every time he moves. When you pull your coat on, he reaches over without thinking and helps tug the hood into place for you.

“You ready?” he asks, and it’s easy, familiar.

“Yeah. Thanks for driving.” You smile, a little sleepy now that the buzz is fading.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t trust anyone else to make sure you get home.”

The drive is quiet, but it’s not uncomfortable. Music hums low through the speakers—something you’ve heard a million times over, something James mumbles along to under his breath when he thinks you’re not listening. He’s one of those annoyingly good drivers too. One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely between the seats, fingers drumming to the beat.

You glance over once and catch him mid-yawn, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at the road.

“Wanna come in?” you hear yourself ask when he pulls up in front of your place, your voice softer than you expect. “Just for a bit? I might put on a film.”

James looks at you, searching your face for something. Whatever he finds, it makes him smile gentler than before. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.”

You flick on the lights when you step inside, and it’s like muscle memory from there: shoes off, jacket thrown over the arm of the sofa, kettle filled. James leans against your kitchen counter like he belongs there. And he kind of does. There’s a mug he always uses in your cupboard. A hoodie of his in your laundry pile.

“What are we watching?” he asks, already padding into your living room, socked feet silent on the floorboards.

“Something easy,” you say. “Something we’ve seen before so I don’t actually have to pay attention.”

James shoots you a grin over his shoulder. “That for me or for you?”

You ignore the question, toss him the remote. “Dealer’s choice.”

You end up on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled somewhere in the middle because it’s late and it’s cold and this is what you do. It’s not new.

The movie starts playing, dim blue light casting soft shadows across his face. You watch it for a while—or try to—but your thoughts start running at a mile a minute instead.

You try to focus on the movie. Really, you do. But all you can hear is Lily’s voice echoing in your head: “Just admit it already—you like each other.”

It’s not just her. It’s everyone.

Sirius, with his loud, theatrical gasps every time James passes you a drink. Marlene muttering “just kiss already” under her breath like it’s an inside joke. Even Remus, who’s supposed to be the voice of reason, always quirking a brow when James tosses an arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Which it is. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean anything.

But now? Now it’s stuck in your head. Every glance, every smile, every stupid joke he laughs too hard at—it’s all tinged with the weight of everyone else's expectations.

You lean your head back on the cushion and sigh.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” James asks, voice soft and scratchy with tiredness.

You glance at him. His eyes are still on the TV, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he already knows you’re spiraling.

You hesitate, then sit up a little. “Can I ask you something?”

His gaze flicks to you instantly. “Course.”

“Do you ever get… tired of everyone thinking we’re in love?”

James lets out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “All the fucking time.”

You nod, almost relieved. “Right? It’s like—just because we’re close doesn’t mean we’re secretly pining.”

“Exactly!” James says, animated now, like he’s been waiting for someone to validate this. “Like, we literally watched Sirius throw himself at Rem for years and no one said shit, but I pass you a drink and suddenly it’s like—‘When’s the wedding, James?’”

You snort, finally smiling. “It’s exhausting.”

“Truly.”

Silence falls again, but it’s different now.

“I just…” you start, voice quieter. “I wish there was a way to prove it, you know? That we don’t fancy each other. That this—” you gesture vaguely between the two of you “—this is just friendship.”

James raises a brow, half-amused. “You want, like… a presentation?”

You giggle. “Maybe.”

“Bullet points and everything?”

“‘All the reasons James Potter is categorically not in love with me.’”

“‘Exhibit A: the time I ate her last slice of pizza.’”

“‘Exhibit B: he never laughs at my best jokes.’”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

Another beat passes. You look at each other.

There’s a flicker in James’ eyes—just a spark of something you can’t name—and it hits you, sudden and sharp, how close you are. His knee is still pressed against yours. His fingers are brushing your ankle like it’s nothing. Like it always has been.

You lick your lips. Heart hammering. And then—

“…We should kiss.”

James blinks. “What?”

You’re not even sure where the words came from. They just slipped out. But now that they’re here, they feel oddly right. Inevitable.

You swallow. “We should kiss. Just once. To prove there’s nothing there.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence.

You rush to explain. “I mean—everyone keeps saying there is. And maybe if we just… did it, and it was awkward or bad or whatever, we could tell them and they’d drop it. They’d finally stop acting like we’re in some secret relationship.”

James is still staring, mouth slightly open.

You flush, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s stupid, forget it—”

“I’ll do it,” he says suddenly.

Your breath catches. “You will?”

He nods, slowly, like he’s still catching up with himself. “Yeah. If it’ll prove a point.”

You try to ignore the way your pulse spikes. “Right. Okay.”

With the room still mostly shrouded in darkness, it's difficult to make out the features of his face clearly. He shifts closer to you whilst manoeuvring your legs to settle beside you properly. There's little time to recognise the shift in his gaze as it pins to your lips before he's grinning and speaking again.

“What happens when you fall in love with me because of this?”

You snort, rolling your eyes, “Your ego’s fucking massive Potter, I’ll be fine.” you say, gently slapping his arm. “Not sure about you though.” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at you, acting like you're the biggest nuisance in the world.

“Come on then.” you say, impatiently. James sighs, then nods, before he's raising a hand to cup your jaw. His touch is gentle, like he's holding something fragile, priceless. And then he's leaning in so slowly, allowing you the time to pull away in case you’d been joking.

You let your eyes fall shut, expecting his kiss as your hand drifts to rest on his knee. You don’t notice the faint hitch in his breath at your touch—it’s so subtle, it nearly slips past you. The kiss comes and goes in a heartbeat, a fleeting, chaste peck that barely brushes your lips. When his hand pulls away and he clears his throat, your eyes open. He doesn’t say a word.

Despite the fact you should feel happy that you felt nothing, there's a strange twisting feeling in your stomach. Like when you startle awake after dreaming that you're falling. Then it comes to you, that kiss wasn’t a real one it can’t prove anything.

“That wasn’t a proper kiss, James.” you say while looking down at your hands, not wanting to face him.

“You’re right.” you look up to see his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and you're startled by the sudden fascination with his mouth.

“You have to kiss me like you’d kiss someone you're in love with.”

James’ gaze drops to your lips and stays pinned there as he’s silent, thinking.

“I can do that… I think.”

“Come on then.” you joke as you take a deeper breath in.

James exhales, slow and steady, but you can see it, the way his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s restraining something. Like there’s a weight behind your words neither of you wants to name just yet.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice quieter now, with none of that usual cocky lilt. It’s careful. Measured. He’s giving you one last out.

You nod. “It’s just a kiss.”

But it’s not. You both know that. It hasn’t been just a kiss since the moment you suggested it.

Still, you say it anyway, because it’s easier to pretend it’s simple.

James shifts closer, knees brushing yours again, the space between you shrinking by the second. His hand finds your jaw again but this time his thumb lingers at your cheekbone, the pad of it brushing soft circles that make your heart lurch. There’s something almost reverent in his touch now, like he’s memorising every inch of you.

When he leans in this time, it’s slower. Like he’s moving through water. Like the world around you doesn’t matter anymore.

And when he finally kisses you, it’s nothing like the first time.

It’s not hesitant or performative or brief. It’s warm and aching and real.

James kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. Like this isn’t about proving anything or making a point—it’s about you. About this.

His lips are soft and sure against yours, and when your hand slips up to grip the front of his jumper, he deepens the kiss with a low hum in the back of his throat, like he’s been holding that sound in for too long.

One of his hands slips down to your hip, shifting you closer, settling you on his lap. You go willingly, knees digging into the sofa at either side of his thighs as he tilts his head back to reach you better. Completely lost in each other, forgetting, you’re sure your lips will soon turn numb.

Your hands drift upward to settle around his neck and lightly tug the hair at the nape of his neck. James pulls you closer by the waist, chests flush and his mouth remains probing and searching on your own.

There’s the feeling of a smile in the kiss but you can’t tell who’s it is. You’ve fallen into a steady rhythm, easy and sweet, but when a noise is pulled from his throat you freeze, pulling away.

Looking down at him your face sits somewhere between concern and confusion. James stares right back at you panting, but otherwise seemingly unaffected.

“Forgive a man for getting distracted, angel.” he defends, like it's all your fault.

You know you should move away from him now. Really, you know. But there's a strange standoff happening where neither of you look away and neither of you move. Until you do.

It's hard to tell who moves in first, but the other reciprocates and you’re kissing again. James kisses you like a man starved. It's feverish and intense. It's everything.

You can’t help but grab hold of his hair, curls silky and soft through your fingers, giving them the slightest tug experimentally. It makes James shamelessly grind up against you. Nails digging lightly into the back of his neck, you gasp when his mouth leaves yours properly and latches onto your neck, lost in the bliss of it all, you grind down against him.

“Fuck, don’t do that,” His breath sounds strained. “can’t take it—“ His murmur is a rumble against your skin. You flush at the idea that he can’t contain himself because of this. Because of you.

When he pulls away, finished ravishing your neck, you come back down to earth, scrambling to remove yourself from his lap. His hair is messy, messier than usual, from your touch and his lips are red and kiss bitten.

You look to the far corner before you speak, unable to look at him now.

“... I guess we’ve proved we don’t fancy each other, then.”

You’re a liar and you know you are.

It’s been two days since the kiss. Two long, excruciating days where you haven’t spoken to James once. Not a text. Not a call.

You’ve replayed that night over and over in your head, hoping it would start to blur around the edges, lose its sharpness. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s crystal clear—every touch, every sound, every look he gave you. And worst of all? You don’t even regret it.

You’re halfway through nursing a lukewarm coffee at the back corner of a café when Sirius slides into the seat across from you like he owns the place, all leather jacket and smug grin.

“Oi,” he says, tugging your cup toward himself and taking a sip without asking. “You’ve been avoiding us.”

You blink, startled. “Us?

As if summoned, Remus appears beside him, calm and neat in that way that makes you feel even more frazzled by comparison. “She’s definitely been avoiding James,” he says, not unkindly, as he slides into the seat beside Sirius.

Sirius throws an arm around Remus’ shoulders with dramatic flair. “And thus—by extension—the rest of us, tragically caught in the crossfire of whatever the hell is going on.”

You frown. “Nothing is going on.”

Sirius lets out a loud, derisive snort. “Right. Tell that to James, who has been moping around the flat.”

“I’m serious,” you say quickly.

Remus raises an eyebrow. “So are we.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on. He’s not moping.”

Sirius levels you with a look, all theatrics dropped. “He didn’t even yell at me for eating his last bag of crisps yesterday. He just sighed. Who even does that?”

Your heart sinks, but you try not to let it show. “He’s probably just… tired. He drove me home from the pub that night, maybe he’s still catching up on sleep.”

Sirius and Remus share a look.

Remus tilts his head. “That’s the night it started, you know.”

“I told you,” Sirius says, grinning now like he’s cracked a case. “Something happened in that car. Or after. Did you two fight?”

“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “Nothing happened.”

Sirius narrows his eyes at you. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

“I’m not lying,” you lie.

Remus leans in, voice quieter now, more careful. “We’re not trying to corner you. Just… we’re worried. About both of you.”

You take a long sip of your coffee, trying to buy time, but it’s cold and bitter and doesn’t help at all. You stare into the cup like it holds the answers. It doesn’t.

Sirius softens, which is somehow worse. “Look, we’re not asking for details. Just—maybe talk to him?”

You sigh. “I don’t know what I’d even say.”

“Try the truth,” Remus offers gently.

The truth is a mess, though. The truth is a blur of lips and hands and breathless gasps. It’s James’ eyes on yours in the dark, his fingers brushing your cheek like he was afraid you’d vanish. It’s the way you didn’t sleep that night, couldn’t sleep, because your skin still remembered the shape of his touch.

And the worst part? The worst part is you know what you felt wasn’t one-sided.

Sirius glances at his watch. “If you don’t call him, I’m sending him to your flat.” He threatens, leaving no room for argument.

You don’t call him.

You want to—God, you want to. You’ve picked up your phone half a dozen times just to stare at his name, thumb hovering over the call button like it’s going to electrocute you. But every time, something stops you. Some awful cocktail of fear and guilt and what-if. What if it was a mistake? What if he regrets it? What if he doesn’t, and you’re the one who ruins everything?

So you don’t call. You sit with the silence and let it suffocate you.

It's nearly midnight when there's a knock at your door.

Your heart jumps into your throat. For a second, you think about ignoring it, pretending you’re asleep, but you already know who it is.

You open the door anyway.

James is standing there, hoodie thrown on as if he’d left in a rush, curls messy and damp like he’d just run his hands through them a thousand times on the way over. His eyes flick across your face like he’s checking to make sure you’re real. Like he didn’t quite believe you’d actually answer.

He looks tired.

You swallow. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he echoes, voice low.

There's a silence. Tense. Tight. It stretches between you like a rubber band pulled too far.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he says eventually, shifting on his feet. “Told myself you’d call. That I’d give you space.” He pauses. “But I waited. And waited. And you didn’t.”

Your chest aches.

“I know,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I just… I couldn’t.”

James steps past you without asking. You don’t stop him.

He makes his way into your flat like he always has- it’s muscle memory. Like he belongs here. And God, maybe he does.

“I’ve been losing my mind,” he says suddenly, turning to face you. “I thought we were okay and then it’s like you disappeared. No texts. No calls. Like it didn’t mean anything.”

“It wasn't supposed to mean anything, James.” you snap.

He flinches, like you’ve slapped him. You immediately regret it.

“I didn’t mean—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“You didn’t mean for it to mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it did.”

You exhale shakily, crossing your arms like they can shield you from this. “We said it was just a kiss. To prove a point.”

“Yeah, well, that didn’t work,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

You glance away, blinking too quickly. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It’s not fair that I kissed you and everything changed and you’re acting like it didn’t.”

You hate this. Hate how right he is. Hate how vulnerable he looks standing in your living room like he’s afraid to breathe too hard and scare you off.

Your voice is quiet. “I didn’t know what to say.”

He’s quiet a beat. Then:

“Say anything.”

You hesitate. Your throat feels too tight. But then you force yourself to look at him, to see him.

“I love you,” you say. “And I don’t care if it’s wrong, I just do.”

James exhales, a slow, shaky breath like he’s been waiting for this—like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you repeat, firmer now. “I love you and I’ve been trying not to. Because I thought it would ruin everything.”

He steps forward, hands gentle as they come to rest at your waist. “I’ve always loved you, I think.”

It breaks something open in your chest. This is real. This is terrifying. This is everything.

“But what if we mess it up?” you ask, voice trembling.

James gives you a soft, crooked smile—the one that’s always undone you. “Then we mess it up. Together.”

You laugh, a watery, disbelieving thing, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in.

And when he kisses you this time, it’s not tentative or desperate. It’s steady. Sure. Like he knows you’re his.

Like he always has.

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vanteguccir · 2 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤTIKTOK TREND: MY CURRENT BOYFRIEND * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where Y/N do the TikTok trend 'my current boyfriend' with Matt just to see his reaction.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

"You ready?" Matt asked, stretching his fingers before adjusting his grip on the phone, looking at her.

Y/N was curled up in Chris’s usual chair, criss-cross-applesauce with one of Matt’s oversized hoodies swallowing her whole. Matt sat beside her, knees brushing, phone held out in front of them with one hand, thumb hovering above the record button in the TikTok app.

Y/N nodded, trying to keep her expression neutral.

"Yeah."

Matt pressed the button, the red dot appearing on the screen. They both looked at the front camera, faces aligned side by side.

"Okay." Y/N began sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hey guys, I’m here today with my current boyfriend-"

She didn’t even get to the second half of the sentence.

Matt’s entire expression shifted.

First confusion. His eyebrows twitched together.

Then outrage. His head snapped toward her, his mouth parted in offense, and his whole posture shifted like she’d just said the most disrespectful thing ever.

Y/N paused, eyes flickering to the screen of Matt’s phone to catch the way his eyebrows were now sitting dangerously high.

"What is it?" She asked innocently, turning her head just slightly toward him.

"Current boyfriend?!" Matt repeated, voice high-pitched and dramatic. He leaned back slightly, his phone trembling with his movement, neck craning like he needed to reprocess what he’d just heard.

Y/N fought back the urge to laugh. Her lips pressed together tightly, her eyes glinting with amusement as she leaned in just a little, still facing the phone.

"You’re my current boyfriend, no?"

Matt let out a short, breathy laugh of disbelief, shaking his head with a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, you’re starting to piss me off already."

Y/N blinked, mouth agape in the most offended and exaggerated 'what did I do?' face, her eyes wide.

"What? Am I wrong? Aren’t you my current boyfriend?"

Matt didn’t even answer that. He just nodded toward the phone with a deadpan expression, chin lifting slightly.

"Go on. Keep talking."

"No, wait-" Y/N shifted in her seat to face him properly, the hoodie rustling against her legs, bunching up as she moved. Her knees bumped his and stayed there. "What’s the problem?"

Matt gave her an 'are you serious right now?' look. He rolled his eyes, switching the phone from his hand and placing it carefully against his computer black screen so it stayed upright and still recording before turning to her again.

"Current is for the moment. I’m not your current boyfriend, I’m your first and only. I’m not current."

Y/N bit her bottom lip, trying her hardest not to burst into laughter. Her hands were now tucked between her thighs as she tilted her head, giving him the sweetest, most innocent look imaginable.

"You’re my current boyfriend. The boyfriend I’m currently with."

Matt’s jaw dropped, his hands flying into a full-arm cross over his chest as he sat back, eyebrows practically touching his hairline.

"No. You know what? Fuck you. You’ve always been with me. 'Current' my ass. What the fuck?"

Y/N couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her this time. Just a little one. A breath of amusement through her nose, her cheeks puffed from holding it in.

"But babe..." She tried again, voice teetering between teasing and innocent. "Aren’t you my current boyfriend?"

"You’re shitting with me right now. This isn't real." He uncrossed his arms and slung one around the back of her chair with a dramatic sigh. His hand grazed her hair as he leaned in like he was about to give her a lecture.

"No, wait, baby-" Y/N started again, already giggling softly.

"Finish the video." Matt grumbled, his voice deeper with anger.

She tilted her head.

"But that wasn’t the video-"

Matt narrowed his eyes, glancing from the phone to her.

"It’s annoying me, so finish it like that. 'Current' is bullshit. What the fuck is current?"

Y/N’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.

"What’s the problem? I genuinely don’t understand what the problem is-"

Matt groaned.

"Who's the past then? Who's the future? I am!" He practically shouted, pointing at his own chest. "I am your past, present, and future!"

Y/N couldn’t take it anymore.

She lost it.

Her body folded forward with the force of her laughter, her hands flying to Matt’s thighs to stabilize herself as she laughed so hard her stomach started to ache, while Matt stared at her like she’d completely lost her mind.

He looked absolutely offended and betrayed and in love all at once.

"You’re actually insane." He muttered.

Y/N finally sat up straight, wiping a tear from under her eye, still giggling as she wrapped both arms around his neck, dragging him closer until their foreheads almost touched, hot breathes mixing between parted mouths, his grown beard caressing her lips.

"It was for a video, honey. It was a trend. I would never call you my current boyfriend."

Matt grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'you’re annoying' as Y/N kissed his forehead, his skin warm under her lips from how worked up he’d gotten.

"You really got angry." She whispered, smiling even harder as she turned back to the phone. "He got angry!"

Matt groaned again, rolling his eyes as he tried to gently push her off, but she stayed clinging to him, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his nose, the corner of his mouth, adoring the feeling of his face hairs tickling her sensitive skin.

"I hate you." He murmured, though he didn’t make any real effort to stop her.

"No, you don’t." She said softly, peppering his face with kisses. "You love me. Say it."

Matt just stared at her, jaw clenched like he was trying to stay mad, but the second her lips met his, he melted. Just a little. Enough to let out a sigh and lean into her.

She pulled away, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

"You are my boyfriend of the past, the present, and the future."

Matt gave a single nod, his lips twitching into the softest smile ever as he leaned in and kissed her again, mumbling into her mouth.

"Good."

extra - comments:

"the way he said CURRENT? like his whole world just crumbled in 2 seconds LMAOOO"

"'I am your past, present, AND future', shakespeare could never ✋🏻"

"the way he went from confused to personally offended to philosopher in 10 seconds flat 😭"

"matt: 'go fuck yourself', Y/N: giggles 'you got angry' the balance in this relationship is unreal"

"you can see the exact moment his heart broke and his villain arc almost started"

"this man is fighting for his life over a word while Y/N is just trying not to lose it I’M SCREAMING"

"him placing the phone down LMAOOOO 😭"

"yall are the cutest ever pls never break up or I’ll sue"

"keep feeding us beard!matt content Y/N pls I beg you 😔🙏🏻"

— liked by ynstiktok

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gf2bellamy · 4 months ago

Note

Hiii first of all just wanted you to know that you are the best fluff writer I've ever seen secondly i had this cute idea about bau reader and spencer outing their relationship by accident when she shows up wearing one of spencer's mismatched socks like she’s wearing one and he's wearing the other and the team reaction to it specifically morgan and penelope

matching — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: teasing from the team , secret relationship a/n: hii !! thank you so so much thats such an honor and i hope you like this <3

"I love your apartment," you said with a smile as you slipped off your shoes, stepping onto the plush carpet of Penelope Garcia’s cozy home.

"Why, thank you very much!" Garcia beamed, twirling slightly in excitement. "This is my sacred palace, my whimsical wonderland, my fortress of fabulousness!"

You laughed at her enthusiasm, setting your bag down. She had invited the BAU team over for a small get-together, but judging by the lack of noise , it seemed you were the first to arrive.

"Need help with anything?" you offered, making your way toward the kitchen.

Garcia waved a hand dismissively. "No, no, everything is fine. Completely fine." She smiled. Well, tried to smile. It was the kind of forced expression that made your profiler instincts tingle.

"Penelope," you said knowingly, tilting your head, practically demanding she spill whatever was on her mind.

She let out a dramatic sigh before reaching into the fridge and pulling out—well, something. A cake? A tragic attempt at one? You stared at it, searching for the right words but coming up empty. It was lopsided, unevenly frosted, and slightly collapsed on one side.

"What… happened?" You fought the urge to laugh, biting your lip because this—this was a disaster. And Garcia, who prided herself on being a self-proclaimed Cake Boss, was probably not in the mood for teasing.

"I got distracted," she muttered, poking at the cake with a defeated sigh.

"By…?" you prompted, raising an eyebrow.

She hesitated for a second before mumbling under her breath, "My neighbor."

Your eyes widened. "No way."

Garcia winced, realizing what she just admitted.

"You have a hot neighbor and you didn’t tell me?" you gasped dramatically, placing your hands on your hips as if personally offended. "Penelope Garcia, I thought we were best friends!"

"I was going to tell you!" Garcia defended, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

The two of you turned back to the cake, staring at it like it was a crime scene.

"Well… it doesn’t look that bad," you offered weakly.

Garcia shot you a pointed look, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I mean, if you put enough frosting on it, maybe you can fix it?" You shrugged, trying to sound hopeful.

She let out a dramatic sigh, leaning against the counter. "There is no hope. It's a lost cause. A cake tragedy," she lamented, waving a hand over the mess.

You were about to reassure her when she suddenly narrowed her eyes at you, eyebrows raising in suspicion. "Wait a second… what on earth are you wearing?"

Confused, you followed her gaze, only to realize what she was looking at. Your socks. Or rather, your mismatched socks.

One was a plain dark blue. Totally normal. The other? A black sock covered in bright white physics equations.

Garcia pointed at it like she had just discovered a federal crime. "Excuse me, ma’am, is that… math?"

Your heart nearly stopped.

"Oh—uhm…" You cleared your throat, scrambling for an excuse. "It looked cute, so I got it," you mumbled.

A blatant lie.

Because the truth? The truth was something you and Spencer had agreed to keep between just the two of you. A small, silly little secret.

You had been dating for months now, and this morning, in the rush of getting ready, you had grabbed a random sock from Spencer’s drawer without thinking , before you sat down for breakfast—half-burnt pancakes he had attempted to make, which you had teased him about relentlessly before eating them anyway.

Because, well… he tried. And that was what mattered.

Garcia’s eyes stayed locked onto your sock, her red-framed glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she raised an eyebrow.

"Those letters and numbers are cute to you?" she asked, her tone dripping with suspicion.

"Yes?" You dragged out the word, hoping it sounded somewhat believable.

Then, suddenly—she gasped.

You barely had time to react before she squealed, clapping her hands together like she had just uncovered the biggest scoop of her life.

"I know what this is about!"

Your eyes went wide with panic. "Wait—what?"

"You bought those socks because they reminded you of our very own young Doctor Reid!" She placed a dramatic hand over her heart. "Oh, young love!"

Your stomach flipped.

"Oh, no—no, no, no—"

"You two need to get together!" she cut you off, pointing an accusing finger at you as if you were the one making bad choices and not the person currently clutching a failed cake.

You stared at her, mind scrambling for a response. Denying it would just make her more suspicious. And honestly? The idea of her thinking you just had a hopeless crush on Spencer was a lot safer than the truth—that you were already together.

So, with the best nonchalant face you could muster, you threw your hands up in surrender. "Okay, nope, let’s drop this topic." You forced a laugh, acting like she had totally nailed it.

Garcia squinted at you, clearly not buying how quickly you caved. But before she could pry any further, you seized the opportunity to change the subject.

"So," you said, quickly pointing at the crime scene of a cake, "do you have anything else besides that?"

Garcia let out a huff but allowed you to steer the conversation away. "Do I have anything else? Please." She flipped her hair dramatically. "I have cupcakes, chips, chocolate cookies, vanilla cookies—oh, I even have ice cream! And pizza! And—"

You held up a hand, laughing. "Okay, Penelope, I think we’ll be fine without the cake. That’s way more than enough food."

Before she could reply, the doorbell rang.

Garcia’s eyes lit up. "Our guests have arrived!"

She rushed to the door, and you followed close behind. As she swung it open, two familiar faces greeted you—Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid.

"Hello to my two favorite men!" Garcia beamed, stepping aside to let them in.

"Hey, you two pretty ladies," Derek greeted smoothly, flashing his signature grin.

Garcia wasted no time latching onto his arm. "Come with me," she commanded, already leading him toward the kitchen. "I need your opinion on something, and no, you don’t get to laugh at me."

You watched as she practically dragged him away, no doubt to show off the tragic cake she had created. The moment they disappeared from view, you turned to Spencer, already stepping into his space.

His arms were around you in an instant.

"Hi," he murmured into your hair, his hand gently rubbing your back.

You leaned back slightly to look at him, a small smile on your lips. "Hey. I missed you."

Before he could respond, the sound of Garcia and Derek’s voices echoing from the kitchen reminded you both to be careful. You took a quick step back just in case they suddenly reappeared.

Spencer, however, still looked amused. "You saw me four hours ago," he pointed out.

"Four hours are too long," you countered without hesitation.

Spencer chuckled, shaking his head as his curls bounced slightly with the motion. "I missed you too," he admitted, his voice softer. "Are you coming over tonight?"

The two of you started walking toward the kitchen, keeping your conversation low.

"Are you going to try and make me eat your burnt pancakes again?" you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer scoffed. "I never made you eat them."

"You literally guilt-tripped me into it," you shot back, smirking.

"I offered them. You chose to eat them."

"Because you pouted, Spencer."

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but the debate was cut short as you both stepped into the kitchen, immediately taking in the sight before you.

Derek stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, holding a spatula covered in frosting as he attempted—and failed—to salvage Garcia’s cake. His expression was one of deep concentration, but the results were… questionable, at best.

"You’re trusting Morgan with your cake?" you asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow at Garcia.

Garcia huffed, arms crossed. "I am running out of options here."

Derek turned, pointing the frosting-covered spatula at you. "I’ll have you know, sweetheart, I am excellent at—"

And that’s when he accidentally knocked over the bowl of frosting, sending a massive glob straight onto the floor.

Derek froze.

Garcia gasped.

You burst out laughing.

"Derek Morgan!" Garcia scolded, staring at the mess in horror.

Derek sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, that might have been my bad."

Spencer leaned toward you, voice barely above a whisper. "I’d like to point out that I never make this much of a mess when I cook."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing again. "That’s because you just burn things before they have a chance to make a mess."

Spencer rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless.

Spencer, ever the gentleman, grabbed a handful of tissues and crouched down, diligently wiping up the frosting disaster while Garcia stood and dusted off her hands. Derek, still determined to salvage what remained of the cake, muttered to himself as he spread frosting across the lopsided layers.

You stood in the doorway, watching the chaos unfold with an amused smile.

But that smile vanished in an instant.

Garcia froze. Her eyes locked onto something.

“Your sock,” she said, her voice eerily calm.

Your stomach dropped.

She wasn’t looking at your sock this time. No—she was pointing at Spencer, who had just finished tossing the tissue into the trash.

“My sock?” Spencer repeated, confused, as he followed her gaze down to his feet.

The sock in question—the one covered in physics equations—sat comfortably on his left foot.

The exact same design as the one currently hidden beneath your pant leg.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Garcia’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours. Her expression changed instantly—realization flooding over her as she noticed the wide, guilty look on your face.

Her lips parted slightly in shock. "Oh my god," she whispered under her breath.

Spencer straightened up, now thoroughly lost. “What? What’s happening?”

Derek, finally sensing that something was going down, stopped his attempt at cake decoration and turned toward Garcia, his hands still coated in frosting. “Uh… what’s going on?”

Garcia ignored him, still staring at you.

“You lied,” she murmured, eyes narrowing.

The room was dead silent.

Derek turned his attention to you, his head tilting slightly. "Sweetheart, what is happening right now?" he asked slowly.

Garcia, on the other hand, was already spiraling. Her hand shot out, finger trembling as she pointed between you and Spencer, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.

"They—they—" she sputtered, eyes wide.

Spencer took a cautious step back from her, moving instinctively closer to you as if that would somehow protect him from Garcia’s inevitable explosion. "What is happening?" he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

And then—

"They're wearing matching socks!"

Garcia's yell practically shook the apartment walls, making Spencer physically jump.

"They’re—oh my god—they’re wearing one sock each from the same set! That means—they swapped! That means—"

Her eyes practically bulged out of her head as the realization fully hit her.

"Oh. My. God. You're dating!"

Derek’s gaze snapped downward, confirming what Garcia had just screamed into existence. His eyes flickered from your foot to Spencer’s, then back up at you two.

A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face. "No way," he drawled, shaking his head in disbelief.

Spencer, who had remained mostly silent through this entire catastrophe, finally looked down at his own foot. Then yours. Then back up.

His mouth fell open.

And then it closed.

Then opened again.

Oh no.

He looked horrified.

Which, honestly, wasn’t the best reaction right now.

Panic seized your brain. Without thinking, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"No, we’re not."

The words left your lips so fast it was almost impressive.

Except… yeah. That was the worst attempt at a lie in human history.

Because standing right next to you, Spencer Reid—Dr. Genius IQ Spencer Reid—was standing frozen, mouth still slightly open, his brain seemingly buffering at an alarming rate.

Which, to Garcia and Derek, said more than enough.

Garcia gasped. Derek laughed.

Spencer blinked. "Wait, are we—are we lying? Are we—"

"Yes!" You whisper-hissed. "Lie, Spencer!"

But it was too late.

Derek leaned against the counter, arms crossed, shaking his head with a smug look on his face. "Damn, pretty boy. Never thought I’d see the day."

Garcia, on the other hand, squealed, practically vibrating on the spot. "How long?! How long have you been together?!Who made the first move?! Oh my god, were there love letters? Did he quote Shakespeare?! Tell me everything."

Spencer looked at you, helpless. You looked at him, equally helpless.

The interrogation was relentless. Garcia and Derek took turns, firing off question after question as you and Spencer sat there like two deer caught in headlights.

“How long?”

“Who made the first move?”

“How was your first date?”

Spencer had handled questioning criminals far better than this. But right now he was crumbling under Garcia’s sheer determination.

You were no better. Every time you tried to dodge a question, Garcia found another way to corner you.

And the moment JJ walked in?

Garcia didn’t even greet her. Didn’t even pretend to act normal.

"JJ!" she practically shrieked, making the blonde woman pause mid-step. "Forget hello, forget small talk—did you know these two are dating?!"

JJ blinked, eyes darting between you and Spencer. "What?"

"Matching socks. Lying. Stammering. Busted!" Garcia announced dramatically, pointing at you like she had just solved a murder case.

JJ’s expression shifted immediately into surprise, then amusement. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. "Oh," she said, crossing her arms. "That makes so much sense."

And it didn’t stop there.

Each time a new member of the team arrived, Garcia immediately hit them with the bombshell, practically vibrating with excitement.

Emily? "Did you know these two have been secretly together?!"

Rossi? "our resident genius has a girlfriend! I repeat—a girlfriend!!"

Hotch? "Hotch! I know you don't like drama but this is important! These two are in love!"

You and Spencer just stood there, completely shocked, as the team celebrated your relationship.

#criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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foxtrology · 4 months ago

Text

bette davis eyes (2)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 9.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

Harry Castillo still didn’t know her name.

And it was driving him insane.

It had been three days.

Three days since he sat on the steps of The Met, seething over Lucy’s engagement only to stumble into a conversation with the most aggravating woman he had ever met.

Three days since she stepped out of his car.

"If you find me again, maybe I’ll say yes."

He had taken it as a challenge.

Of course he did.

He had spent years making impossible things happen. He had turned himself into one of the richest hedge fund managers in the country. He dictated the movement of money on Wall Street with a flick of his wrist. People waited months to get a meeting with him.

When he wanted something, he got it.

But he still didn’t know her goddamn name.

He had spent hours.

Hours, going through his friends’ Instagram followings, convinced that she had to be in there somewhere. She had been outside that party on those steps. That meant she knew someone.

Right?

Wrong.

Instead, all he got was accidentally following half a dozen people he didn’t even like and no clue how to unfollow them.

"You could just Google it," Danny had suggested, watching as Harry scrolled through Instagram with the confusion of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

"I shouldn’t have to Google basic fucking technology," Harry snapped.

Danny had just laughed. "This is why Lucy did everything for you."

Lucy.

Right.

Harry shut his phone off and tossed it onto the table like it had personally offended him.

He needed to let this go.

She was just a stranger.

A nobody.

But...

She wasn’t.

She was somebody, at least to him. Someone who had looked at him like he wasn’t some billionaire hedge fund manager but just a man sitting on the steps of The Met, sulking about his ex.

And that was risky.

Because for the first time in a long time he wanted to know more.

She was balancing a tray when she spotted him.

Harry Castillo.

Sitting at the corner of the high end Manhattan restaurant she was currently serving at, looking like he would rather die than be here.

Her grip on the tray tightened. No fucking way.

She had spent the last three days assuming she would never see him again.

Rich men didn’t go looking for strangers they met outside of parties. Not unless they had some weird obsession or a savior complex. And he didn’t seem like the type.

Yet, here he was.

Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Brooding like the miserable, wealthy asshole she suspected he was.

And worst of all—he didn’t see her.

Not yet.

She had to get out of here before he did.

Her name tag was visible.

If he saw it, if he recognized her—

"Table six, go," her manager barked, pointing toward the very table Harry was sitting at.

Fuck.

She briefly considered quitting her job on the spot. Just throwing her apron at the nearest wall and storming out.

But unfortunately, she had rent to pay.

So with a deep inhale, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the tray tighter, and walked straight toward him.

Harry wasn’t paying attention.

Not to the menu. Not to his surroundings.

His mind was still back in his office, replaying every attempt he had made to find her.

And failing.

His phone buzzed. Another news notification. Probably some article about the market or a New York Times op-ed about billionaires ruining the economy. He didn’t care.

Then—

A shadow passed over him.

Someone setting a drink down.

And before he even looked up—before his brain even processed it—he heard her voice.

“Whiskey neat.”

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

And there she was.

Standing right in front of him.

His breath hitched.

Her.

His eyes flicked to her name tag, sharp and laser focused.

Finally.

She saw where he was looking and immediately reached for it, ripping the tag off with a sharp tug before shoving it into her pocket.

“Not a chance,” she said, shaking her head.

His lips twitched.

“Afraid?”

“Of you?” She snorted, shifting the tray in her hands. “Not even a little.”

He exhaled, leaning back in his chair.

“You work here.”

She raised a brow. “Clearly.”

“You were at the Met party.”

“I was working the Met party.”

Realization dawned.

She wasn’t a guest. She wasn’t friends with anyone there.

She was a server.

A server.

Harry’s fingers tapped against the edge of his glass.

He didn’t know why that made something settle inside him. Maybe because it explained why she hadn’t given a shit about who he was. Maybe because it meant she wasn’t part of his world, wasn’t another socialite or heiress looking for an investment banker to marry.

Maybe because it meant that night was real.

“You’ve been looking for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

His eyes lifted to hers.

She was smirking.

She was amused.

And he hated how much he liked that.

Harry exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

“Well. Now you found me.”

He studied her.

The restaurant bustled around them. The clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation, the scent of expensive wine and seared steak filling the air.

But none of it mattered.

Not when she was standing in front of him, arms crossed, head tilted, watching him like he was the one on display.

He reached for his drink, swirling the liquid before taking a slow sip.

Then—

“Have dinner with me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then laughed.

Again.

Like he had just told the funniest joke in the world.

Again.

“You really don’t like being told no, huh?”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not an answer.”

She tilted her head. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Take off my apron and sit down at your table? I’m working, Castillo.”

The way she said his name made something tighten in his chest.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Then when do you get off?”

Her lips twitched.

“You gonna wait here all night?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

A pause.

“Fine.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

Her eyes flicked to the clock on the restaurant wall before settling back on him.

“I’m off in an hour.” She turned, already walking away. “Let’s see if you’re still here by then.”

He watched her go.

Watched as she weaved through tables, balancing drinks, chatting with customers, completely at ease.

And for the first time in three days—

He felt at ease.

Because this time, she wasn’t getting away.

Harry wasn’t a patient man.

He had built an empire on control, on precision, on the ability to anticipate movements before they happened. That was how he stayed ahead, how he won.

Yet here he was, sitting at a table in an upscale Manhattan restaurant waiting for a woman who barely spared him a second glance.

A woman whose name he still didn’t know.

He leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass, watching as she moved effortlessly through the restaurant.

She was good at her job.

Efficient, quick on her feet, balancing trays with ease.

And she smiled at customers.

Not the way she had smirked at him earlier. Not with that sharp edged amusement that made something itch beneath his skin.

No, these smiles were polite. Professional. A little forced, maybe, but nothing that suggested she was even remotely bothered by his presence.

It annoyed the hell out of him.

Because he was bothered.

She had been stuck in his head for three days.

And here she was, acting like their encounter meant nothing.

Like he meant nothing.

It was infuriating.

And intriguing.

And maybe—just maybe—exactly what he needed.

His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass.

An hour.

He could wait an hour.

Hell, he had waited longer for board meetings that didn’t even matter.

So he settled in.

And watched.

She could feel his eyes on her.

The weight of his gaze followed her everywhere.

She ignored it.

Or at least, she pretended to.

Because if she acknowledged it, if she met his gaze, if she let herself wonder why he was still sitting there—then she would have to admit that she cared.

And she didn’t.

Not really.

Not about Harry Castillo.

Not about his perfectly tailored suit or the way his dark eyes followed her every movement like she was some kind of puzzle he was determined to solve.

Not about the way her heart had kicked up just a little when she realized he had actually been looking for her.

Nope.

Didn’t care.

Not at all.

She refilled a wine glass at table twelve, smiled at a group of finance bros who didn’t deserve it, dodged her coworker carrying a tray of desserts, and did not look at the man still sitting at table six.

But she could feel him.

And it was driving her crazy.

Harry was losing his mind.

Every time she passed his table without sparing him a glance, something inside him tightened.

This was ridiculous.

He didn’t wait for people.

People waited for him.

He could leave right now. Get up, walk out, and be done with this whole thing.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she had said one hour.

And he was going to make sure she kept her word.

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it.

Buzzed again.

Danny.

Danny: Why are you ignoring my texts?

Danny: Did you figure out how to unfollow people yet or are you still stuck?

Danny: Are you seriously still looking for that girl?

Danny: …You are, aren’t you?

Danny: I hate you.

Danny: Text me when you’re done being pathetic.

Harry rolled his eyes and slid his phone facedown on the table.

The hour crawled by.

And then—

Finally—

She walked back toward his table.

Apron off. Jacket on. Bag slung over one shoulder.

Her shift was over.

And Harry sat up a little straighter.

“You actually waited.”

She didn’t sound surprised.

More amused.

Like she had expected him to wait but still found it funny.

He lifted a brow. “You said an hour.”

“And you’re a man who listens?”

“I can be.”

She huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Dangerous skill.”

Harry smirked. “You have no idea.”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched.

It wasn’t a no.

Wasn’t a go home, Castillo.

It was something else.

Something better.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “So?”

“So.”

“What now?”

Harry exhaled, watching her carefully.

She was testing him.

Waiting to see if he was serious.

If he was worth the trouble.

And Harry Castillo never backed down from a challenge.

“Dinner,” he said simply.

She arched a brow. “You just ate.”

“You were working. I don’t eat alone.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s a dumb rule.”

He shrugged. “It’s my rule.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then—

“Fine.”

A single word.

But it sent something sharp and victorious rushing through his chest.

He stood, pulling a few crisp hundreds from his wallet and tossing them onto the table without a second glance.

She eyed the money but didn’t say anything.

Just turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

Harry followed.

The wind cut sharp against his skin as they stepped out onto the Manhattan sidewalk, the world around them alive with the hum of the city at night. A taxi honked a block away, a couple laughed as they passed, and the crisp scent of winter curled into the air.

She shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

Harry didn’t shiver.

He barely felt the cold.

His eyes flicked toward her, noting the way she huddled into herself slightly, as if suddenly self conscious. She had been confident inside the restaurant sharp, unbothered, teasing—but now, beneath the glow of the streetlights, something in her had shifted.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She scoffed. “You think I’m just gonna tell you that?”

His jaw twitched.

She was impossible.

And yet, somehow, he found himself waiting for her answer anyway.

She sighed, exhaling into the cold air. “It’s just…I just got off a shift. I’m not exactly dressed for whatever expensive place you’re about to drag me to.”

Harry blinked.

Then looked her over.

Dark jeans. A fitted black sweater. Scuffed up ballet flats.

She looked fine.

Better than fine.

She looked real.

She looked like her.

And that, he realized, was the problem.

She didn’t belong in his world.

Didn’t fit into the mold of women he was usually seen with.

She wasn’t draped in designer. She didn’t have a last name people recognized. She didn’t float through life with the quiet, effortless privilege of someone born into money.

But she was still the most interesting person he had met in years.

And that was dangerous.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I don’t care.”

She blinked up at him.

“What?”

“I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes searched his, looking for—what? Lies? Pity? Some hidden agenda?

She wouldn’t find any of those.

He had none to give.

Instead, he tilted his head. “Are you hungry or not?”

She rolled her eyes. “I just worked a ten hour shift. What do you think?”

His lips twitched.

Without another word, he turned and started walking.

And after a beat—she followed.

To her surprise, Harry didn’t take her somewhere suffocatingly high end.

No pretentious Michelin starred establishment. No reservations only steakhouse with white tablecloths and chandeliers worth more than her apartment.

God, her roommate was in for a treat when she gets home.

Instead, they ended up at a cozy, tucked away bistro on a quiet side street. The kind of place that didn’t have a dress code. The kind of place where people actually talked instead of posing for Instagram photos.

She narrowed her eyes as she followed him inside. “How do you even know about a place like this?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for her like some old fashioned gentleman and waited for her to sit.

She hesitated, lips twitching in amusement. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He ignored that too.

She sat.

He took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared almost instantly.

Harry ordered whiskey.

She ordered a glass of wine.

She knew her wine, he'll give her that.

And then—for the first time since they met—there was silence.

Not uncomfortable silence.

But silence nonetheless.

She leaned back in her chair, watching him.

Harry was hard to read.

Brooding. Intense. Reserved.

The kind of man who looked like he had a thousand thoughts running through his head but no intention of saying any of them out loud.

The kind of man who could crush someone with a single, well calculated decision in his office during the day and then sit across from her in a dimly lit restaurant at night like none of it mattered.

She tapped her fingers against the table. “So, are you gonna ask me anything? Or are we just gonna sit here and stare at each other?”

Harry’s brow lifted slightly.

“I don’t ask questions I don’t care about the answers to.”

She blinked.

Then huffed out a small laugh. “Jesus. You’re insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She rolled her eyes and took a sip of wine.

He watched her over the rim of his own glass, studying the way she moved.

She wasn’t nervous.

She wasn’t trying to impress him.

And he hated how much he liked that.

She started talking first.

Not because he asked.

But because she wanted to.

“So, what do you think I do?” she asked, resting her chin on her hand.

Harry took a slow sip of whiskey. “You’re a server.”

She smirked. “Wow. Good job, detective.”

His jaw twitched. “That’s not a real question.”

“Fine. How long have I been doing it?”

He studied her.

Noticed the way she held herself, the way she had moved through the restaurant earlier, the way she hadn’t hesitated when her manager snapped at her.

“Years,” he said simply.

Her smirk faltered.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Since I was nineteen.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Something he didn’t understand.

Didn’t push.

But still—he noticed.

She exhaled, rolling her wine glass between her fingers. “It wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Harry’s fingers drummed against the table. “It never is.”

She lifted a brow. “You say that like you know.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did know.

But he didn’t talk about it.

Didn’t talk about the nights he spent as a kid listening to his mother cry in the next room because she didn’t have the money for rent.

Didn’t talk about how she had worked three jobs just to keep food on the table.

Didn’t talk about how she got sick.

How the bills stacked up.

How money would have saved her.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He never did.

She watched him for a moment, like she was trying to figure him out.

Then she leaned back in her chair, lips curling slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Harry exhaled. “Not if I can help it.”

She grinned. “Well, lucky for you, I talk enough for the both of us.”

And she did.

She told him about the worst customers she’d ever had. The ridiculous things people asked for at restaurants. The way rich men treated servers like they were invisible.

She didn’t include him in that category.

And for some reason, that mattered.

She laughed at her own stories.

Harry didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

More than he should have.

More than he ever did.

She didn’t push him to share.

Didn’t ask him about his life, his money, his past.

She just talked.

And it was the first time in a long time that Harry didn’t mind someone filling the silence.

When their food came, she didn’t pick at it like the women he usually dined with.

She ate.

Finished her entire burger.

Made a satisfied noise as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Harry’s lips twitched. He wanted to smile. But he didn't.

By the time they left the restaurant, it was late.

The air was even colder now, the city quieter.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Alright, big shot. Where’s your driver?”

Harry exhaled, glancing down the street.

James was waiting, parked at the curb.

But for some reason—

For some stupid reason—

He didn’t want the night to end yet.

So instead of answering, he met her gaze.

And said, “Let’s walk.”

She blinked.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

And just like that—

Harry Castillo found himself walking through the city with a woman he barely knew.

And, for once, he didn’t hate it.

The streets of Manhattan were quieter at this hour.

The usual chaos—the honking taxis, the chatter of impatient pedestrians, the ever present hum of a city that never slept had settled into something softer. The streetlights cast golden pools of light on the pavement and every now and then, a stray gust of wind sent a flurry of dry leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

She walked beside him, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, her unhurried.

Harry had no idea where they were going.

She was talking again, the words flowing effortlessly, her voice filling the quiet space between them like it belonged there.

“I don’t know how people live alone in this city,” she mused, her breath visible in the cold air. “I mean, sure if you’re a billionaire hedge fund guy, then yeah, easy. But for the rest of us mortals? Forget it.”

Harry glanced at her. “So you have a roommate.”

She huffed out a small laugh. “More like a personal angel disguised as a roommate.”

His brow lifted slightly.

She kicked a small pebble across the pavement as they walked. “Her name’s Maya and she’s the only reason I can even afford to be in New York. She’s an artist—one of those ridiculously talented people who’s always sketching on napkins or leaving paint stains on everything.”

Harry hummed, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. “And she sells her work?”

“Oh, yeah. To people like you,” she teased, smirking up at him.

His jaw flexed slightly. “Like me?”

She shrugged. “Rich. Intimidating. Definitely the type to spend five grand on a painting because some gallery curator convinced you it was ‘evocative of the human condition.’”

Harry let out a sharp exhale, something just short of a laugh. “I don’t buy art.”

She gave him a pointed look. “So you just have blank walls in your penthouse?”

He hesitated.

She gasped, dramatic. “Oh my God, you do!”

His jaw twitched. “I don’t see the point.”

She groaned, shaking her head. “That is actually the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry smirked slightly. “Maya sounds lucky to have you as her publicist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not her publicist. Just her number one fan. And her unpaid assistant, apparently, because every time she has a gallery showing, I end up playing bartender.”

“You work events for her?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, I mean... I don’t want to be useless.”

Harry frowned slightly at that. “You’re not useless.”

She blinked up at him, something flickering behind her expression like maybe she wasn’t used to hearing that.

She recovered quickly, exhaling through her nose. “Try telling that to the people who snap their fingers at me when they want a refill.”

Harry’s jaw tightened.

There was something about that, about the idea of her being treated like she was nothing, about people looking past her like she didn’t matter.

That irritated him more than it should have.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he glanced over at her, taking her in.

Her hair was slightly tousled from the wind, strands curling around her face. The dim glow of the streetlights softened her features, casting a warm hue against her skin. She looked…

Gorgeous.

Pretty.

She caught him staring and arched a brow. “What?”

Harry looked straight ahead. “Nothing.”

She huffed a small laugh, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “You’re weird.”

“Good to know.”

She grinned but didn’t push it.

They kept walking.

They hadn’t planned on stopping anywhere, but when she spotted a small, hole in the wall coffee shop still open, she made a beeline for it.

Harry watched as she pressed her hands against the glass, peering inside like a kid outside a toy store.

She turned back to him, eyes bright. “I need something warm.”

Harry exhaled. “You could’ve just said that.”

She grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He sighed but followed her inside anyway.

The shop was small, filled with the comforting scent of coffee and fresh pastries. A tired looking barista was wiping down the counter, clearly ready to close up for the night but she bounced up to the register without hesitation.

“One hot chocolate, please.”

Harry stared. “Hot chocolate?”

She flashed him a look. “What?”

“You’re a grown woman.”

“Wow, ageism?” she gasped. “How very hedge fund of you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Hot chocolate is for children.”

She smirked. “And yet, I bet I’m gonna enjoy my drink way more than whatever depressing black coffee you’re about to order.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then turned to the barista.

“…Make it two.”

She lit up.

Not a smirk, not a teasing quip...just a genuine, unfiltered grin. “See? You’re not completely soulless after all.”

Harry huffed but said nothing.

They sat by the window, watching the street outside as their drinks cooled.

She took the first sip and sighed dramatically. “Oh my God."

Harry lifted a brow but took a sip of his own.

It was…warm. Smooth. A little too sweet.

Not terrible.

She grinned at him over the rim of her cup. “You love it.”

He set his cup down. “I tolerate it.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

Harry exhaled, shaking his head.

He was lying.

But he wasn’t about to admit that to her.

By the time they finally made it to her place, it was late.

The entrance to her building was old but well kept, tucked into a quieter side street. The kind of place that probably had thin walls and a temperamental landlord.

She stopped at the door, turning to face him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

“You gonna be weird about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “Weird about what?”

She smirked. “You look like the kind of guy who doesn’t walk a woman home unless he’s expecting to come up.”

His jaw clenched. “I wasn’t—”

She grinned, cutting him off. “Relax. I’m messing with you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Hilarious.”

She stepped back, pressing her shoulder against the doorframe. “But hey…thanks. For dinner. And the hot chocolate.”

Harry held her gaze.

She was looking at him like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.

Like she hadn’t quite figured him out.

And that, somehow, made him want to see her again.

Before he could say anything, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head.

“You gonna try to find me again?”

His jaw tightened.

But his lips twitched.

“I already did once.”

She hummed, tilting her head. “Then maybe next time, I’ll let you find out something about me.”

Harry exhaled.

He should have left.

Should have walked away.

But instead, he lingered just long enough to watch her disappear into the building, just long enough to hear her footsteps fade.

And then, finally—

He turned.

And walked away.

He still didn't get her name.

But he knew where to find her.

Harry had gone back to the restaurant.

But she wasn’t there.

Two days.

Two entire days of walking into that overpriced Manhattan restaurant, sitting at the same damn table, ordering the same damn whiskey neat, only for some random server—not her—to take his order.

It was infuriating.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t have her number.

Didn’t know anything except where she lived.

And that made something settle in his chest that he wasn’t ready to examine.

Danny noticed.

Of course he did.

“You’re sulking,” he said, lazily swirling his cocktail at their usual bar.

Harry scowled. “I don’t sulk.”

Danny smirked. “Right. You just glare at your drink like it owes you money.”

Harry clenched his jaw.

Then exhaled sharply. “She’s not at work.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Oh my God, you are sulking.”

Harry resisted the urge to throw his whiskey at him.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and stared at her building’s address for the fiftieth time.

Danny sighed, tilting his head. “You know, if you really wanted to, you could—”

“I’m not hiring a private investigator,” Harry muttered.

Danny huffed. “I was gonna say Google it. Jesus, man.”

Harry scowled.

But he did Google it.

Or rather, he, Danny, and James—his driver, the only person in his life with more patience than a saint—spent two hours tracking down any lead they could.

It was a long, painful process.

But finally—Maya.

Maya Klein.

Her roommate.

Her best friend.

Her very online best friend.

It wasn’t hard to find her art portfolio.

Okay, maybe it was a little hard.

But after squinting through three different Instagram accounts, a Tumblr page, and a very outdated LinkedIn profile, they found it.

And in bold, clean font on her website—

GALLERY SHOWING TOMORROW.

TRIBECA

8PM-11PM

Harry leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against his desk.

“She bartends for her friend’s events,” he murmured.

Danny’s brows lifted. “And you’re planning on showing up.”

Harry exhaled. “I want to see her again.”

Danny smirked. “Wow. You’re down bad.”

Harry ignored him.

He stuck out like a sore thumb the moment he stepped inside.

Danny, of course, fit right in. Already drifting off into the crowd, chatting up a woman in a fringed leather jacket holding a glass of something overpriced.

James had stayed outside, leaning against the Maybach with a cigarette between his fingers, avoiding any part of this ridiculous endeavor.

And Harry?

Harry stood in the middle of an art gallery, surrounded by people who clearly hated him.

The walls were filled with abstract pieces. Raw depictions of capitalism and greed, of money and power and the corruption that came with it.

A statement.

A big fuck you to billionaires.

A big fuck you to him.

And here he was—one of the richest men in the country—standing in the middle of it.

He definitely stuck out.

Eyes flickered toward him.

Some curious. Some amused.

But most?

Judgmental.

Harry sighed.

Danny was gonna love this.

He scanned the room.

And then—

He saw her.

Behind the bar.

Her hair pulled back in a clip, sleeves rolled up, effortlessly balancing bottles and glasses, moving like she had done this a million times.

His jaw unclenched.

Something settled inside him.

Something he didn’t have the time—or patience—to name.

He walked over.

She didn’t see him at first.

Not until he was standing right in front of her.

Then—

Her eyes lifted.

And froze.

Her fingers stilled over the cocktail shaker, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Then, slow and deliberate...

She smirked.

“You again.”

Harry exhaled. “Me again.”

She hummed, setting the shaker down. “Didn’t peg you for an art guy.”

“I’m not.”

Her smirk widened. “So you’re here for the free drinks?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

Her lips pressed together, amusement flickering in her gaze. “Then why are you here?”

Harry held her gaze.

And then—

She sighed, shaking her head.

“You really don’t like answering questions, do you?”

He exhaled. “You weren’t at work.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his hands against the bar. “I noticed.”

Her expression softened just for a second.

Then she sighed, rolling her eyes. “My legs gave out.”

His jaw tensed. “What?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “It happens. I overworked myself too much. I needed a break.”

His fingers curled against the bar.

Harry didn’t like that.

Didn’t like the idea of her pushing herself until she physically collapsed.

Didn’t like the fact that she was still working tonight.

Didn’t like any of it.

She noticed.

“You’re brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

She arched a brow. “You definitely brood.”

Harry exhaled sharply.

She smirked.

Then casually, she grabbed a napkin, scribbled something on it, and slid it across the bar.

He frowned. “What’s this?”

She smiled.

“My name.”

His fingers brushed the paper.

His jaw flexed.

Finally.

Then—

Across the room, a conversation caught his ear.

Loud. Purposeful. Like it was meant for him to hear.

It definitely was meant for him to hear.

“I don’t understand how these people live with themselves.”

Harry’s fingers stilled.

He turned slightly, gaze narrowing at a group gathered near one of the paintings.

“They show up, throw their money around, act like they’re saving the industry when they’re the ones who ruined it in the first place.”

Another voice chimed in. “It’s capitalism at its finest.”

Harry exhaled through his nose.

Same conversation. Different setting.

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

He should have ignored it.

But then—

Then, he heard her.

Her voice.

Sharp. Defiant.

“You do realize the only reason these paintings are selling at all is because of the people you hate, right?”

Silence.

Harry blinked.

His gaze snapped back to her.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was facing them, eyes narrowed, jaw set.

The guy—some twenty-something in a turtleneck—sputtered. “That’s not the—”

“No, go ahead,” she said, tilting her head. “Explain to me how you think art survives without the rich. Who do you think is buying these paintings? Who do you think is keeping galleries open? I’ll wait.”

The group shifted uncomfortably.

Harry smirked.

The guy scoffed. “That’s not the point.”

She arched a brow. “Then what is the point?”

More silence.

She exhaled. “Look, I get it. The system’s fucked. But if you really hate capitalism so much then maybe don’t take a paycheck from a company that thrives on it.”

The guy’s face turned red.

Then, huffing, he spun on his heel and walked away.

Harry exhaled through his nose.

And when she turned back to him—

He was looking at her.

Really looking at her.

She raised a brow. “What?”

Harry’s jaw ticked.

Then, slow—steady—

He reached for the napkin with her name.

Folded it.

Slipped it into his pocket.

“Nothing,” he murmured.

And, for the first time in months—

Harry Castillo smiled.

Actually let out a smile.

It was a rare thing. Unpracticed. A little uneven.

And it caught her off guard so much she forgot to breathe for a second.

That smile.

The real kind, not the smirk, not the polite billionaire press photo kind. It was all quiet softness and amusement, like a secret between the two of them. It was the kind of smile you could fall into if you weren’t careful.

“Wow,” she murmured, recovering. “You do know how to do that.”

Harry’s smile didn’t falter, but he said nothing.

Typical.

The gallery began to thin out as the night wore on. Coats were retrieved from racks, the sound of shoes echoed across the polished concrete floor, and people began floating toward the exit in clumps, cheeks flushed from wine and conversations.

Harry stayed.

He didn’t know why he stayed.

He could’ve left after thirty minutes like most of the other well dressed nuts in the room. But something about the way she moved behind the bar—tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, laughing quietly when Maya came over to whisper something in her ear—held him in place.

She kept sneaking glances at him too.

Never long. Never obvious.

But enough.

He stayed perched in a corner, away from the art critics and the performative intellectuals with their wine sick grins and disdain for everything they secretly wanted. He watched her wipe down glasses and stack them methodically, her body moving slower than usual now, more deliberate. Her energy was dwindling down.

She was tired.

Exhausted, actually.

He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was watching.

Around midnight, the final few stragglers filtered out. Maya was surrounded by compliments, champagne, and laughter as she waved people goodbye. She was magnetic.

But Harry’s focus was only on one person.

Her.

She was drying a wine glass with a rag that had seen better days when he approached the bar again.

“You’re still here?” she asked without looking up.

“I tend to see things through.”

She scoffed. “That doesn’t sound exhausting at all.”

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he reached into his coat and placed something on the bar. A lemon ginger lozenge.

She stared at it. “What is this?”

“You’ve been clearing your throat for the last hour. Thought you might be getting sick.”

She blinked.

And then quietly, “Thanks.”

He nodded once. “You ready to go?”

She furrowed her brows. “Go?”

“You were going to walk home, weren’t you?”

“I—” She hesitated. “Yeah. I was.”

“Not happening.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Harry—”

“Maya said she’s having people over.”

Her mouth opened. “She what?”

As if on cue, Maya bounced over, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “There you are! Just wanted to let you know we’re having a tiny get together back at the apartment. You’re coming, right?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah…totally.”

Maya beamed. “Perfect! I’ll see you there!” And just like that, she twirled away in her silk pants and heeled boots like a whirlwind of chaos and charm.

Harry looked at her, quiet.

“You don’t want to go,” he said plainly.

She paused. “No, I mean—I don’t mind—”

“You need rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It was. You’ve been on your feet all night and still managed to argue with an entire table of art anarchists without flinching.”

She blinked. “You were listening?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m observant.”

Something warm crept up her neck. “That’s actually…kind of sweet.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Still is.”

He exhaled, glancing toward the door. “Let me take you somewhere quiet.”

She looked at him carefully. "Okay." She nodded.

Harry smiled. “Come on.”

As they walked toward the exit, a low whistle echoed across the room.

“Ooooh, look who’s leaving together,” Danny called out, arm slung lazily around a girl wearing metallic eyeshadow and an alarming amount of lip gloss.

Harry cringed visibly. “Ignore him.”

“Oh, I planned on it,” she muttered, quickening her step.

Outside, James was leaning against the Maybach, his cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He straightened when he saw them. “Evening,” he said coolly, holding the door open without a single question.

Once inside the car, she leaned her head against the window, legs tucked beneath her. The car purred beneath them as it slid through the streets like a shadow.

“You always have a driver?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Even when you’re just, like…getting groceries?”

Harry looked at her. “Do I look like I get groceries?”

She snorted. “Fair.”

He glanced at her again. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She paused. Her apartment would be loud. Crowded. Too many people, too much laughter, and she was tired.

Bone tired.

“I…wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet,” she said softly.

Harry didn’t reply. Just gave James a nod. And James didn’t need to be told twice.

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights flickered through the windows as they sped through Manhattan, the hum of the engine steady beneath them.

She was curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the cool glass, eyes flickering between exhaustion and quiet thought.

Harry didn’t say anything. Didn’t push.

He liked the silence with her.

When they finally pulled up to his building, James barely looked surprised. He simply put the car in park, gave Harry a knowing look and muttered, “Have a good night, sir.”

Harry ignored him.

She hesitated when the elevator doors opened, glancing up at him.

“You sure about this?” she murmured.

Harry met her gaze. “You need rest.”

She exhaled. “You’re really committed to this whole taking care of me thing, huh?”

Harry didn’t answer. Just stepped into the elevator.

After a beat—she followed.

The penthouse was quiet when they entered.

It was huge.

Dimly lit, the skyline of Manhattan stretching out before them through the floor to ceiling windows. She looked around, taking in the sleek design, the impossibly neat kitchen, the pristine furniture.

Then—

“You really don’t have anything on the walls.”

Harry exhaled. “We’ve been over this.”

She smirked. “Still depressing.”

Harry ignored her, shrugging off his coat before turning to her.

“Go take a bath.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

Harry huffed. “You need to relax.”

She scoffed. “I’m fine.”

He raised a brow. “You’ve been on your feet for how many hours straight. Worked so long your legs gave out.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said I’m fine.”

Harry’s jaw clenched.

Then, slowly, pointedly, he turned and started walking toward the bathroom.

“What are you—”

“Follow me.”

Against her better judgment—she did.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious.

A massive tub sat beneath a soft glowing light, marble countertops lining the space. The air smelled faintly of something expensive, probably whatever soap billionaires used.

Harry turned on the water, letting the tub fill, steam curling into the air.

She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You really think I’m about to take a bath?”

Harry gave her a look. “Yes.”

She scoffed. “Why?”

“Because you deserve to rest.”

Something flickered in her expression.

Soft. Unreadable.

Harry stepped back, nodding toward the tub. “Take your time.”

She hesitated.

Then—finally—sighed. “Fine.”

Harry nodded once before leaving the room.

She stood there for a moment, staring at the tub, at the ridiculous luxury of it all.

Then—she caught sight of the robe hanging by the sink.

A man’s robe.

His.

She swallowed.

Slowly, she peeled off her clothes, stepping into the warm water letting the heat soak into her muscles, melting the exhaustion from her bones.

She leaned back, closing her eyes.

And then—

She caught the scent of something in the air.

His shampoo.

His body wash.

Without thinking, she reached for the bottle, pouring a small amount into her palm before lathering it into her hair.

She didn’t know why she did it.

Didn’t know why the idea of smelling like him made something tighten in her chest.

But she didn’t stop.

Not until the scent of Harry Castillo was wrapped around her.

The warmth from the bath had seeped into her bones, leaving her skin flushed, her limbs loose.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt good.

Not just better—good.

Rested.

Weightless.

And wrapped in the scent of him.

She exhaled slowly, fingers dragging through her damp hair as she stepped out of the tub. Water dripped from her skin, soaking into the thick, plush bath mat beneath her feet.

She reached for the robe hanging by the door.

His robe.

It was heavy, rich, expensive fabric, meant for a man built like Harry.

She pulled it on anyway, wrapping herself in it, feeling swallowed whole by the warmth of something that belonged to him.

Something about that made her stomach twist.

Not in a bad way.

Not in a way she could name.

She let her fingers toy with the fabric as she padded quietly out of the bathroom, stepping into the dim glow of his penthouse.

Harry was waiting.

Not in a way that was obvious, but in a way that was distinctly him.

His posture was casual, leaning against the back of his couch, one hand resting lightly on the armrest. He had changed, too—no longer in his suit jacket, just his dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the veins in his forearms, the carefully restrained tension in his body.

His gaze flickered over her, slow like he was taking his time, committing every detail to memory.

She knew what he saw.

Bare legs peeking out from beneath his robe. Damp hair curling against her collarbone. The softened edges of her normally sharp expression.

And for once—

For once, she let him look.

She watched his throat bob slightly, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Come here.”

Her lips twitched. “Bossy.”

He didn’t deny it. Just waited.

She crossed the room, bare feet pressing against the smooth floor, stopping when she was just a few inches away.

Harry’s hands curled into fists against the couch for a second, like he was fighting the urge to touch her.

Then without a word he turned, disappearing into his bedroom.

She blinked, startled.

Then—

He came back.

With clothes.

A pair of sweatpants.

A plain black T-shirt.

Things that were clearly his, judging by the size of them.

He handed them to her, jaw tight. “Put these on.”

She took them, amused. “You actually own sweatpants?”

Harry exhaled through his nose, running a hand along his jaw. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t sleep in a tux.”

She grinned. “Shocking.”

He said nothing.

Just watched as she took the bundle of clothing and walked back toward the bathroom to change.

His sweatpants hung low on her hips, the waistband tied in a loose knot to keep them from slipping. The shirt was too big, drowning her frame, the fabric worn in and soft against her skin.

It felt like being wrapped in him.

Warmth lingered in the cotton, in the faint scent of his cologne. Something expensive.

She padded barefoot through the penthouse, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the shirt. The city glittered outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Everything about this place was so immaculate. So clean. So structured. It screamed of control—of a man who ruled his world with precision.

But the moment she entered it some of that control seemed to slip.

She could feel it in the way Harry watched her, the way his fingers twitched when she walked past him, as if resisting the urge to reach out and keep her close.

She stopped in front of the window, arms crossing over her chest, her breath fogging slightly against the cool glass. “You can see everything from here.”

Harry was behind her, watching her quietly. “You like it?”

She exhaled, eyes scanning the skyline. “Yeah. But…”

His brow lifted slightly. “But?”

She hesitated. Then with a small teasing smirk, she turned to face him. “It’s kinda depressing that you live up here all alone.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. “I’m fine.”

She huffed. “That’s what all lonely people say.”

His lips curved just slightly, something almost amused flickering behind his sharp gaze. “And you’re an expert on loneliness?”

She shrugged, moving closer, the fabric of his shirt swaying against her thighs. “I know what it looks like.”

Harry watched her approach, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And what do I look like?”

She tilted her head, scanning him playfully. “Like a very, very rich man who doesn’t know what to do with himself outside of work.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Accurate.”

She grinned, victorious. “Told you.”

For a moment they just stood there.

Him watching her.

Her watching him.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was heavy. Charged.

Harry’s gaze flickered to her legs, to the way his sweatpants hung off her frame, the fabric pooling at her ankles. Then to the curve of her hip, the way his T-shirt stretched over her body, swallowing her whole.

Something deep and dangerous stirred in his chest.

She looked good like this.

Too good.

Her chin tilted up, eyes meeting his. “You really don’t talk much, do you?”

His hand lifted, brushing her damp hair back behind her ear. His touch was light, barely there, but it made her breath catch.

His fingers trailed lower, down her jaw, grazing the edge of her throat.

She swallowed.

His voice was deep when he finally spoke. “I say what matters.”

Her lips parted slightly, something unspoken hanging between them.

She felt it before she realized what she was doing.

The way her body leaned into his.

The way his fingers skimmed over the fabric of his shirt against her skin, so close, yet still too far.

His touch was careful.

Like he was memorizing her.

She exhaled shakily. “You keep looking at me like that.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over her hip. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to figure something out.”

“I am.”

She blinked. “What?”

Harry’s hand slid lower, fingers teasing along the edge of his sweatpants on her frame. His voice was softer this time, almost dangerous.

“If I can control myself.”

Her breath hitched.

She wasn’t sure who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was her.

But suddenly—

They weren’t talking anymore.

His lips crashed against hers, urgent and deep, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of his dress shirt as he devoured her.

The world blurred.

She barely registered the way he picked her up, his hands firm around her thighs as he hoisted her up, murmuring quietly against her ear, “Jump.”

And she did.

Wrapped her legs around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He carried her through the penthouse with effortless strength, like she weighed nothing, like holding her close was something he’d done a thousand times before.

And then—

He walked her backward towards his bed, his mouth never leaving her skin, breath warm against her jaw.

The mattress hit the backs of her knees, sending her falling onto it in a slow, melting sprawl of limbs and want.

The soft silk duvet caught her, cool against the fever of her skin, her hair spilling across his impossibly expensive sheets. The room was dim but warm, the city humming just beyond the glass windows, the skyline glittering like a thousand secrets no one else would ever know.

Harry stood above her, his breathing deeper now, his eyes locked onto her like he was trying to memorize the moment. Like she was a painting he hadn’t expected to fall in love with.

She propped herself up on her elbows, staring back. Waiting. Wanting.

Harry’s fingers moved to his collar first. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch after inch of warm, lived in skin beneath it. He wasn’t carved like marble—wasn’t the chiseled fantasy that Hollywood sold in glossy posters.

He was real.

His chest was broad, his arms strong but not perfect. Age spots dotted his skin like constellations, a faint scar ran along the side of his ribs, and when his shirt slipped off his shoulders, she saw the slight softness of his belly.

A pouch.

Honest. Natural. Human.

And when her eyes lingered there—he froze.

She could tell.

The way his breath caught. The flicker of hesitation in his brow.

He was used to being looked at like a power figure. A man in suits. Behind desks. Holding titles and leverage.

But being seen like this?

Like a man—just a man—baring everything? That was different.

She sat up slowly, still watching him. She didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t fill the space with false comfort.

She just reached for him.

Her fingers skimmed across the skin of his abdomen, soft and warm beneath her touch, and she whispered, “Come here.”

Something in him shifted.

Like maybe he believed her.

That she wanted all of him.

He slid out of his slacks, slow and deliberate, leaving him in nothing but his briefs for a moment before they, too, joined the pile of fabric on the floor.

Then he reached for her.

She let him.

His hands were careful when they peeled off her borrowed T-shirt, pulling it over her head and dropping it aside. Then her body lifted instinctively as he slid the sweatpants down her hips, revealing soft skin, flushed and ready beneath him.

Now they were skin to skin.

Warm and real.

Harry hovered over her, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he held himself above her, his gaze moving slowly down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just like that.

No flourish. No performance.

Just a truth that had been sitting in his chest since the moment he first saw her.

She reached up and cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing just beneath his lip. “So are you.”

His breath hitched.

And then he kissed her.

Not rough. Not greedy.

Deep.

Warm.

Slow.

The kind of kiss that says I see you. I feel you. I’m here.

His hands roamed her body like he couldn’t decide what he wanted to touch first—her ribs, her hips, the soft curve of her breast beneath his palm.

And then—

He began to slide lower.

Kissing down her neck.

Dragging his lips across her collarbone.

Sinking further and further until he was kneeling between her thighs, the backs of his hands brushing gently along the insides of her legs, coaxing them apart like he was opening something sacred.

She was already breathing heavy, already undone just from the look in his eyes.

He settled between her legs like he belonged there.

And maybe—he did.

He didn’t dive in like a man with something to prove. He took his time.

Let her feel his breath first.

The heat of his mouth pressing gentle, almost shy kisses to her thighs.

Then—

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her center, groaning low when he tasted her.

Like she was the answer to a hunger he didn’t know he’d been carrying.

Her hips jerked. Her fingers scrambled for the sheets.

He pressed his palms to her hips, grounding her, murmuring something too quiet to make out.

Then his mouth opened on her again.

Tongue.

Lips.

Heat.

Every part of him focused on unraveling her.

She moaned, soft and choked, as his tongue circled her clit, slow at first, then faster with just the right amount of pressure.

He adjusted when she squirmed.

Groaned when she whimpered.

Moved with her, not against her.

Like this was a language only he spoke.

She looked down once—just once—and saw him watching her.

Eyes locked to hers.

Dark. Hungry. But more than that...captivated.

Like he could spend the rest of his life right here, on his knees tasting her like he needed her to survive.

His mustache scraped lightly against the tender skin of her thighs, a delicious burn. His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth worked in steady rhythm, not relenting even when she gasped, Harry, please—

Especially then.

He moaned against her like her begging was the most beautiful sound in the world.

And then—

She broke.

She came with a soft, shattered gasp, her body buckling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her. Her hands found his hair, her legs trembled, her hips rolled up into his mouth.

He held her through all of it.

Licked her through it.

Didn’t stop until she was whimpering from overstimulation, her fingers tugging weakly at his hair.

Only then—only then—did he lift his head.

His mouth was slick, his jaw tense, his chest heaving.

He crawled back up the bed, lips brushing her cheek, her neck, the corner of her mouth.

He kissed her slowly.

Didn’t try to speak.

He just laid beside her, naked and warm and quiet.

Letting her curl into him.

Letting the silence stretch.

Letting himself feel.

And when she finally caught her breath, when she looked up at him and whispered, “You okay?”

Harry gave her a look so full of tenderness it nearly undid her all over again.

“I am now,” he said.

And she believed him.

They laid there, skin to skin, her fingers tracing slow, thoughtless shapes against his chest while his hand rested on the curve of her hip not wanting to let go, grounding them both in something quiet and real.

For the first time in months, Harry hadn’t thought about Lucy.

Not once.

Not her laugh, not the space she left behind.

He only thought about the girl breathing softly in his arms, asleep against his chest like she belonged there.

And when his eyes finally closed, he felt safe.

Maybe for the first time in his life.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #the materialists #harry castillo x you #the materialists fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal characters #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #materialists fanfic #joel miller fan fiction #Spotify

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street-smarts00 · 1 year ago

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Weirdest Place

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

Summary: The team finds out you and Spencer have been dating during a night out.

WC: 1.1k

A/N: this is yet another fic based on an episode of friends, specifically a scene from the blackout episode but i added a fun twist lol

Tags: conversations about sex but not smut, established relationship between r & reid, consumption of alcohol

After the team was finished at the BAU they all went out to a local bar for drinks. As the night went on JJ and Hotch left to be at home with their kids. With their boss gone and the tipsiness from their drinks, the topic of conversation got more and more inappropriate.

“A boat?” Rossi asked

“Yes,” Derek confirmed

“A boat?” Emily spoke this time.

“Why don’t you believe me?” Derek asked, slightly offended.

Emily raised her hands in defense, “It’s not that we don’t believe you.”

“It just seemed like your weirdest place would be a bit more adventurous based on how you brought it up,” Rossi voiced.

Derek furrowed his eyebrows, “and a boat isn’t adventurous?”

“No it is,” Penelope chuckled before reaching for her drink. Of course, she’d already heard about Derek’s nautical escapades.

Derek directed his attention back to Emily, “And what about you? What’s your weirdest place?”

She leaned back in her seat with a tinge of embarrassment she tried to hide with smugness. “That’s classified,”

Rossi and Derek cringed at Emily’s diversion.

“Oh god,” Rossi chuckled before taking a sip of his drink.

“Do I even wanna know?” Derek asked half joking.

Emily shrugged instead of answering. Derek decided he was better off not pushing Emily to share her story. He then brought his attention to the man across from him.

“What about you, pretty boy?”

Spencer’s head darted to him with raised eyebrows. “Me?”

“You got a weirdest place?”

“I- um.”

His ears started to turn a shade of crimson and he stuttered on his words, or lack thereof since he was caught off guard.

“It’s probably like a library or something,” Rossi jokes, earning a bright laugh from Derek.

Penelope set her drink down, “don’t make him say it if he doesn’t- “

“Actually it was.”

Everyone froze and turned to Spencer.

Emily was the first to speak, “What?”

Spencer shifted in his seat while the courage he had before started to dwindle. His face was now officially turning red.

“Me and um- someone were at the library because I was showing her it’s Edgar Allen Poe collection. Then at some point we ended up in … um the second floor bathroom.”

“Oh my god,” Penelope giggled before placing her hand on her mouth in shock.

“I can’t believe I was right,” Rossi commented.

“I can’t believe Spencer Reid was getting freaky in a library,” Derek said with a humorous grin.

“Shut up,” Spencer squeaked in a high pitched voice.

He hoped the topic of conversation would quickly be dropped so he didn’t have to reveal too much about his love life. But he suspected that wouldn’t happen once you came back to the table.

You and Spencer had started dating a few months prior and wanted to keep things to yourselves. You both intended to figure out the beginning of your relationship without the eyes of your friends.

“The line for the bathroom was so long,” you complained as you approached the table and sat down next to Spencer. “What did I miss?”

“Oh we never heard Y/N’s place,” Penelope excitedly pointed out.

You looked at her confused, “What place?”

“I have no clue how we got here but they all started talking about the weirdest places they’ve had sex,” Emily explained.

“Wow. Well, when I’m done I need to hear all of yours,” you pointed your glass in a motion towards all of them before drinking the last sip.

“I usually don’t venture outside the bedroom but out of the few times I have I think there’s two tied for first place.”

“What’s one of them?”

“Library.”

Silence fell over the group. Spencer’s stomach dropped to the floor at your answer. His face turned cherry red and his eyes remained frozen on the table in front of him.

You on the other hand were baffled at the reaction from your friends.

“What?”

While your eyes scanned the group you were met with relatively neutral expressions that didn’t match the growing tension in the air. All of them looked as if they wanted to say something, but not one of them was ready to speak.

Embarrassment and regret were creeping their way towards you in silence. Your body tensed up and you folded your arms in front of you.

“Come on guys, it's not that weird. It’s not like we were in an aisle, we were in the bathroom,” you tried to defend yourself.

That sentence seemed to spark something in the group. Their body language started to relax but still had a bit of hesitation. They all knew at this point, but they wanted you to confirm it.

“What floor?”

You followed the voice to Emily “Excuse me?”

“What floor was the bathroom on?”

You couldn’t wrap your head around her question.

“Why does that matter?”

“It does, which floor?” Penelope questioned this time.

“Second I think,” you hesitated, still confused.

“Oh my god!” Penelope squealed. “You guys are sleeping together?”

With your eyes wide, face hot, and heart pounding, you stared at her. Trying to figure out how a story like this was one they already heard. You forgot until now that they were already playing this game before you got back.

Turning to the side you playfully smacked Spencer’s arm. “You told them that?”

He gaped at you and grabbed his arm. Face still red of course now accompanied with a crack in his voice. “I didn’t think you were gonna tell them. I thought you would have talked about the other time.”

“Why would I tell them that?” You said in a quieter tone.

“What other time?” Derek interrupted, filled with curiosity.

Rossi pipped in next, “you said two places were tied for weirdest, what’s the other place?”

You and Spencer went quiet. You looked at each other before returning your gaze to the group.

“I think this is a great time to get a refill,” you grabbed your glass and stood up. “Spencer, coming with?”

He quickly scrambled to stand up, “Absolutely.”

The two of you made your way to the bar as your friends all started murmuring.

“So, you didn’t want to tell them you had sex on a plane?” He asked with a slight smirk.

“No, of course not!” You squealed which earned a laugh from him.

“Eventually they would’ve found out we’re dating and I didn’t want them to figure out it was on the jet,” you explained.

“It’s not like any of them were there,” he said before leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“I still don’t wanna get fired.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid headcanon #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction

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p1astr81 · 1 month ago

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hii! i saw you're taking requests and i was wondering if you'd do one for oscar piastri with a reader whos like really affectionate and whos love language is physical touch but maybe she thinks its too much for oscar so she stops like touching him all the time and kind of pulls away? i’m sorry my explanation doesn’t make much sense but i’m sure with your writing it’ll be really good (please make it like really really angsty)

Your first mistake was reading your hate comments under a post about you and Oscar. Taken without your knowledge, the video showed you clung onto Oscar’s arm as you exited a restaurant.

Your second mistake was listening to the comments and believing them.

The seed had been planted, sprouting the idea that so much physical affection wasn’t Oscar. It wasn’t what he wanted and you forced it onto him. Perhaps you even made him uncomfortable.

“You almost ready to go?” He had one hand on the car door, the other was occupied by his phone. He looked back at you with a raised brow in question.

You were busy reapplying your lip gloss. “Yup!”

You walked side by side into the paddock. Strangely, you had yet to take his hand in yours. His hand brushed against yours like an invite. Instead of taking his hand, you occupy your hand with your purse instead.

He noticed, rendered it as strange, but didn’t comment on it.

Your strange habits continued through the day. You didn’t move your chair closer when you sat down. You didn’t kiss his cheek before he got in the car for qualifying, not so much as a hug even. When he qualified on pole, you smiled, but you didn’t hug him. Everything was strange with you. He knew something was up.

As you left for the night, he put his hand on your lower back. Conveniently, you’d dropped your water bottle right after. You crouched down, Oscar’s hand slipping from you. When you stood up, you put some distance between the both of you so that I would be awkward for him to try to resume his hold on you.

This was more than strange. Something was deeply wrong. That became evident when you only pecked his cheek before going to bed.

He’d decided that he would wait for tomorrow. Perhaps it was just an off day.

When you casually dodged his kiss the next morning, he knew it wasn’t just one off day.

He had to clear the air before the race.

He stood in the suite, leaning against a wall located across the room from you. You were singing softly to whatever song was in your head. “Did I do something?” He asked suddenly. No lead up. Just silence and then a bomb.

You put down your straightener, chuckling. “Yeah. You put it on pole and now you’re going to win.”

He shook his head, measured steps crossing the room. He stopped next to you, leaning against the desk you were sat in front of. His hands were in his pockets, virtually relaxed but mentally shaken. “That’s not what I meant.” He adverted his eyes to the window before his gaze found your soft and confused eyes again. “Did I do something to you? Or say something?”

You laughed again, shaking your head.

Oscar could tell the sound was fabricated.

“No. Why would you think that?” You tilted your head.

He sighed, shifting his position against the desk. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Laughing, you tried to dismiss him. “I haven’t been-“

“Yes you have. All day yesterday. You’re usually all over me but yesterday… nothing. Not even a real kiss.”

Chewing on your lip, you picked up your straightener again. He watched as you ran the hot tool through your hair. You still hadn’t said anything. You continued to straighten your hair, flattening three more strips before the silence killed him.

“Will you say something? Please?”

The hot tool was dropped onto the table with a loud clatter. “Maybe I realized I’m too clingy for you.” You only glanced at him, then your eyes trained on the desk. Jaw clenched, breathing measured.

He scoffed, offended at the accusation. His hands left his pockets to cross over his chest. “And who put that idea in your head?” When you stayed silent for too long, he held your face in his hand and forced you to look at him. He softened when he saw your eyes brimming with tears. “Oh. Was it me?”

“No.” You hiccuped, still trying to hold back your tears. “Do you still love me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “Why would you think—where is this all coming from?”

“Your fans.” You felt the first tear slip. He wiped it away before you got the chance.

“What?”

You hiccuped, more tears falling as the memories of their words echoed. “They- I- you- they said that I’m too clingy and that you obviously don’t like that or me in general.”

He wanted to be angry at people. He wanted to find who they were and tell them off to their faces. But his heart was aching in his chest. “Honey, they don’t know you better than I do. They don’t know me.”

“But-but- they-I saw you. in the- in the video.” You could hardly get your words out, hiccuping like crazy.

He tilted his head and crouched down beside you. “What video?” He was so gentle, so caring.

But you didn’t see any of that through your hysterics. “The video! After we left the restaurant on our date. Someone video’d us and- and you looked to annoyed.”

He took your hands, led you over to the bed to sit you down. “Aw, hon, I was annoyed. But not at you. Never at you.” He shook his head. “They gave us the wrong wine again.”

A sharp exhale left your lips. A sound of disbelief. “What?” Your quiet voice squeaked.

“I didn’t say anything because I hadn’t thought you noticed, and I know you hate correcting people.” He smiled and squeezed your hands. “I love how clingy you are. My day isn’t complete if you’re not attaching yourself to my arm or texting me a million times.” He held your face in the palm of his hand. Your cheek was slick with tears and warm from blush. “I spent all of yesterday spiraling because I didn’t have my koala climbing my arm.”

You laughed at him and found a home in his chest, burying your head there. He stroked your hair and muttered reassurances in your ear, telling you over and over again how he loved you and your clingy ways.

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 blurb #f1 fluff #f1 x you #op81 #f1 angst #oscar piastri x fem!reader #oscar piastri angst #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri one shot #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri blurb

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jungwnies · 3 months ago

Text

f1 grid (2/2) | sharing the cookie

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli, ollie bearman, yuki tsunoda, isack hadjar, and liam lawson (click here for part one) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : your f1 boyfriend agrees to try the viral cookie challenge with your toddler (or cousin...) only to be hilariously betrayed (inspo: tiktok - click for reference)

୨ৎ : genre : comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 1230

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : its quali time.. feeling nervous gas

ʚ・kimi antonelli

“this is gonna be a disaster,” kimi whispered, side-eyeing the plate in front of his tiny cousin.

you nudged him gently. “you don’t know that. maybe she’ll surprise you.”

he leaned closer, lips at your ear. “she bit me over a stuffed bunny last week.”

fair point.

you hit record.

his little cousin sat on the floor with two big cookies in her hands, practically vibrating with excitement. kimi sat across from her on the carpet, blank plate in front of him, hands resting on his knees like he was at a press conference.

"wow," he said dryly, glancing at her cookies. "they didn’t give me any. that’s sad."

she blinked at him.

then blinked again.

then took a giant bite out of one cookie, and held the other up dramatically.

“for your girlfriend,” she said, proudly handing it straight to you.

you barely held back a laugh. “wait, not for kimi?”

she shook her head. “she’s pretty. you can have mine.”

kimi turned to look at you, fully offended. “excuse me?”

“guess i win,” you said, biting into the cookie like it was a trophy.

kimi held out his hand to his cousin. “i thought we were a team.”

she shrugged. “you have a car. you don’t need cookies.”

you doubled over laughing while kimi sat there, blinking in actual betrayal.

“you guys are evil,” he muttered. “both of you.”

later, he was caught sneaking a cookie out of the jar and whispering, “this one’s just for me. no small traitors allowed.”

ʚ・ollie bearman

“i don’t think i’ve ever been this nervous around a child,” ollie whispered to you as your little cousin climbed onto the couch with his plate of cookies.

“he’s obsessed with you,” you whispered back. “play it cool or he’ll sense it.”

you hit record.

your cousin sat proudly in the middle — one cookie in each hand — glancing between you and ollie like this was some kind of test.

ollie gave him his best sad eyes. “wait… i didn’t get any cookies?”

your cousin blinked. looked at the cookies. then at ollie.

“why not?” he asked, genuinely confused. “aren’t you a grown-up?”

you tried not to snort. ollie blinked. “well, yes, but…”

your cousin nodded solemnly, fully taking over the situation. “okay. you can have one.”

ollie looked shocked. “really?”

“but only,” your cousin said, holding a tiny finger up, “because you’re a racer. and you drive the super fast cars.” then he leaned closer and added in a whisper, “they go like vroom vroom.”

you lost it behind the camera.

ollie took the cookie carefully, like it was an award. “wow. that means a lot. thank you.”

your cousin nodded, very serious. “you’re my third favorite.”

ollie paused. “third?!”

he shrugged. “max goes faster. and my dad says lewis is a legend.”

ollie gasped. “you gave me a pity cookie.”

your cousin patted his knee. “still better than nothing, bearman.”

you were on the floor at that point, and ollie was left holding his single, hard-earned cookie like a true motorsport warrior.

ʚ・yuki tsunoda

“you really think he’s going to share?” you whispered as you handed your son two cookies and yuki none.

yuki didn’t even blink. “absolutely not. he’s me.”

you hit record.

yuki sat at the kitchen island, trying to look casual while your three-year-old climbed into the seat beside him, holding two slightly melty chocolate chip cookies like they were gold bars.

“wow,” yuki said with a dramatic sigh. “they only gave you cookies?”

his son looked at him. then at the cookies. then back at him.

yuki leaned in, hopeful. “you don’t think papa deserves one?”

the toddler narrowed his eyes.

then — and this was so tsunoda family it hurt — he said, “you’re a grown-up. you can buy your own.”

you nearly dropped your phone from laughing.

yuki blinked, fully offended. “what?! i feed you every day!”

the kid shrugged. “i eat nuggets. you don’t even cook that.”

yuki gasped. “the betrayal.”

a pause.

then, with the tiniest sigh imaginable, your son broke one cookie in half and handed yuki the smaller piece.

“okay. you can have this. but next time, i want a bite of your ramen.”

yuki took it like it was a peace treaty. “deal. but only one bite.”

your son nodded solemnly. “i’m growing. i need snacks.”

yuki looked directly into the camera. “i’m raising a villain. a tiny, polite villain.”

ʚ・isack hadjar

“they’re cute,” isack whispered, watching your 5-year-old cousin march in with two chocolate chip cookies like they were briefcases full of power. “but i don’t trust them.”

you snorted. “it’s a cookie challenge, not a mafia standoff.”

“same energy.”

you hit record.

isack sat cross-legged on the floor while your cousin plopped down across from him, cookies in hand, eyes narrowed like they were sizing up a business deal.

“wow,” isack said, feigning drama. “you got two cookies?”

his cousin nodded, slowly. “yup.”

“crazy. they gave me… none. not even a crumb.”

your cousin paused. then raised an eyebrow. “do you want one?”

isack blinked. “…yes?”

“okay,” the kid said, “but you have to do five jumping jacks.”

isack stared. “what?”

“five.”

you: already wheezing.

“are you… bartering with baked goods right now?” isack asked, genuinely baffled.

your cousin nodded like a tiny ceo. “it’s the economy.”

sighing dramatically, isack stood up and started doing half-hearted jumping jacks. “one. two. this feels like extortion. three. i hate you. four. five.”

your cousin smiled. “okay. you can have… half.”

“half the cookie after cardio?” isack muttered, taking the piece. “this is the worst gym reward system ever.”

ʚ・liam lawson

“i don’t know, she’s too sweet,” liam whispered as you handed your daughter two warm cookies and guided her toward the living room.

“that’s the point of the challenge,” you grinned. “let’s see if she’ll share with you.”

“she’d give me a kidney if i asked,” liam muttered, sinking onto the carpet. “i feel like a monster already.”

you hit record.

your daughter shuffled into the room proudly, holding the cookies with both hands, cheeks puffed with focus. she saw liam first and beamed. “papa! look!”

“ohhh, two cookies?” liam said, eyes wide in fake surprise. “that’s so many. i didn’t get any…”

she paused. looked down at both cookies. then glanced at you.

her tiny eyebrows furrowed. then, very carefully, she held out both cookies — one to liam, one to you.

“you can both have one,” she said sweetly. “i don’t need one. i already had a snack.”

liam blinked. “wait. you’re giving them both away?”

she nodded, chipper. “sharing is nice.”

you: already struggling to hold the camera steady.

liam: already looking like he might cry.

“no, no, no,” he said quickly, holding the cookie like it was made of gold. “you’re supposed to keep one, sweetheart. this is your treat.”

she smiled up at him. “but you didn’t have one. and you always give me the last bite. so now i give you the whole one.”

liam looked at you, horrified. “why would you do this challenge to me?” liam scooped his daughter into his lap immediately. “this is it. we’re retiring. i’m raising her on a farm away from the cruel world.”

your daughter giggled. “can i still have cookies on the farm?”

liam kissed her cheek. “you can have ten cookies, every day.”

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r1nstaaa · 25 days ago

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Unrecognisable makeup Haircut [Dad!Hyunjin x Reader]

masterlist <3 check out my other hyune fic here!

warnings: none rly. tooth rotting fluff!!! i love this man sm ugh

You had a feeling it would turn out this way, but seeing it happen in real time was a whole new experience.

You were sat on the couch in your living room with your baby in your lap when Hyunjin walked in, bouquet in hand and stars in his eyes as he took in the sight in front of him. Coming back to you; coming back home always felt so comforting.

Long as his daughter recognised him, that is.

“Hi. baby. Dadda’s home. Hey…” he said, making his way over to you and giving your temple a chaste kiss as a silent greeting while he talked to the barely 11 month old baby on your lap.

Silence.

She just… stared?

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t smile.

She sat there in her onesie, holding on to her jiniret plushie for dear life while her lips trembled and brows furrowed, giving her father a look of deep betrayal.

“….Baby?” he tried again.

You tried to hide your laugh with a cough, as he looked at you with those lost puppy eyes. “I told you the buzzcut was going to confuse her.”

He looked heartbroken. “What? I’m her dad. She can’t not recognise me. We’ve spent almost every morning painting together!”

“Hyune.” You giggle. “She can barely recognise herself with a new hat. This is like, a brand new person vibe.”

Your baby sniffled and turned away from him, hiding into your neck to avoid him like he was some overly enthusiastic man trying to sell lemon squeezers.

He let out an offended gasp. “Is she hiding from me?”

You nodded solemnly. “You’re now demoted to scary bald man.”

“I’m not bald!” he protested. Your baby peeked out from her place in your neck, and gave him a glance again. He smiled at her, doing his signature finger wave in hopes of getting her to recognise the cute little gesture.

Her lips wobbled.

She started crying.

Cue thirty minutes later, Operation ‘Make Hyunjin Appa again’ was in full swing.

He had tried every trick in the book, including but not limited to-

Her favourite puppet voice,

Wearing her favourite hoodie, [Apparently the ‘you smell like hoodie. you are hoodie. hoodie=appa’ logic was not very popular]

showing her the paintings they created together.

Nothing.

She refused to be within 5 feet of him without a trusted adult by her side.

She didn’t even accept the toys he offered to play with. Or the snacks that he offered.

You were this close to putting a hat on him and calling it a day. You could pretend the haircut never happened.

“She liked me better when i had bangs…” he murmured into your shoulder, voice sounding distraught as he clung to you for his only source of comfort.

“She liked you better when you didn’t look like you just enlisted.” You replied, scrolling on your phone looking for ‘big hats’

“Hey. It’s not that short. C’mon.” he piped back.

You just held up your phone and showed him a single meme that you’d loved. A STAY comparing his hair to kiwi fuzz.

“Okay. Point noted.” he mumbled, resignation clear in his voice.

An hour later, you were rocking your baby to sleep in your lap when you felt a little tap on your arm.

It was Hyunjin, obviously. With your fluffy blanket wrapped around his head like a shawl.

You blinked. And smiled at him. A confused smile, but a smile nevertheless.

“She always liked this blanket, right?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Are you trying to camouflage your way back into your daughter’s heart, hyunnie?” you asked incredulously.

“I’m simply blending into the atmosphere she trusts. Babies are drawn towards familiarity.” He was so serious.

You were trying your best to not burst into a fit of giggles right there and then.

“She’s gonna see your carpet head and start crying again.”

“She’s going to remember me.” He said, voice oddly confident and determined this time.

He sat still on the couch as if he did it for a living. Quiet, steady breathing. No sudden movements whatsoever. Consistent eye contact, almost like he was trying to activate telepathy with the little bundle of sunshine wearing a giraffe onesie in your arms.

Eventually, she peeked out from your shoulder.

She stared at him.

He wiggled his fingers from under the blanket.

“Hi munchkin.”

No reaction.

He slowly peeked his head out from the blankets again, almost like his world would end if he did it too fast. It would for him, though.

This was a serious matter.

She blinked.

Then blinked again.

“….Appa?”

He gasped, “Yes!”

She reached out for him, all tiny arms and sleepy smiles.

Hyunjin emerged out of the blanket like he was allergic to it. “It’s me, baby! it’s appa!”

She finally giggled and launched herself into his arms.

You groaned, “not during bedtime…”

“I’VE BEEN PROMOTED BACK TO APPA STATUS! SHE FORGAVE ME! MY BABY LOVES ME AGAIN!” He spun her around in his arms, all joyful like he’d just won the most prestigious award there was. But he’d decided he already did that when he chose this life with you. The best decision he’d ever made.

Later that night, she was finally asleep in her crib. You were cuddled into his side on the couch, his hand running through your hair like it was second nature.

“Please don’t ever shave your head again.” You mumbled out into the comfortable silence.

“I wouldn’t dare to.” He kissed your forehead.

“Liar.”

“I mean it this time!” he whined.

Silence.

“You’re going to dye it pink next month, aren’t you?”

“Only with my baby’s approval. And of course our baby girl’s too.” He gave you his signature ‘i’m such a flirt when it comes to you’ grin.

Honestly? You couldn’t care less about what he did to his hair as long as he never changed himself. And you knew he never would. He was yours through and through.

Buzz and all included.

#skz #skz x reader #skz imagines #skz scenarios #hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin x reader fluff #hwang hyunjin x reader fluff #hwany hyunjin x reader #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #hwang hyunjin imagines #skz hyunjin #hyunjin imagines #stray kids x reader

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my-castles-crumbling · 5 months ago

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barty crouch jr - jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 476

James wasn’t an easily frustrated person. While he wasn’t patient, he was easygoing, and it took a lot to make him annoyed or on-edge.

However, Barty Crouch, Jr. was a special case.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly. It was just that Crouch was so…Crouch. He’d realized it around the time he’d started spending more time with Regulus. He didn’t spend any more time with Crouch– he only saw Regulus alone…and every time he saw him it was secretive and riddled with want and confusion and tension and desire, at least on James’s end.

But it seemed that now James was noticing Regulus more, he was noticing his friends, too. And Crouch was bloody obnoxious.

He was touchy, for one. He always had his hands on all of his friends, especially Regulus. A hand on his shoulder or in his hair. Who did that? Sure, James was touchy with his friends but not…not like that!

And he was loud. He laughed like a hyena at Regulus’s jokes and called across corridors to the other boy, practically screaming, “Oi, Reggie! How are you, darling?” It set James’s teeth on edge. His grating voice, his ridiculous laugh, his very presence.

And the way Regulus looked at Crouch, too! Like he was…like he was special! It was infuriating.

So forgive James for being a bit cold when one day, Crouch approached him and said, “Hey Potter? Have you seen Dorcas? Meadowes? I know she hands around your friend, McKin-”

“No,” he nearly spat, not looking his way. Instead, he looked over to the table where Crouch had come from– where Regulus currently sat.

But Crouch, far from looking offended, broke into a bemused smirk. “Wand up your arse, Potter? What-?” But he broke off when he met James’s eyes and followed their gaze. “Ah,” he said, grinning widely.

James frowned. “Ah, what?” He was beginning to get really annoyed.

“Oi, Reg, darling?” Crouch called to Regulus, instantly making James flush with embarrassment.

“What the fuck, Crouch? What are you-?” he began to protest, but he was cut off.

“What, Barty?” Regulus drawled, looking over to the two of them with an unamused expression.

“Have we ever fucked?” Barty asked loudly, causing many nearby students to gape.

James gasped and turned red from embarrassment but Regulus didn’t flinch.

“No,” he said simply, a little wrinkle forming between his eyes as he narrowed his eyebrows.

Crouch nodded. “And will we ever fuck?”

Regulus gave a short laugh. “I certainly hope not.”

And even though he was still mortified, James registered a feeling of relief flood through his body. Why-?

“Well, there you have it. So have you seen Dorcas or not?” Crouch demanded, waxing his thanks to Regulus and turning back to James.

“Erm….Gryffindor Common Room,” James mumbled, still blushing, gazing over at Regulus who was hiding a smirk behind his hand.

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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The Mysterious Mrs Piastri - The "Canon" Version

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

Notes:

Hi! This is the reworked version of the "The mysterious Mrs. Piastri". No worries! The original is still there. The problem is, that I wrote that piece originally as a stand alone.

There was never supposed to be Bee. There was never even supposed to be Felicity, because it was originally supposed to be a reader insert.

There was never supposed to be a sequel, which is why there is a lot of social media stuff in the original that's very out of character for Felicity, but I used back then to flesh out the "character" more because again, there was never supposed to be sequel.

So here it is: The new and "improved" version:

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Lando relaxed. This one was easy. Surely Oscar would say tattoo. Maybe he’d joke about getting “downforce” written across his bicep in cursive. Something normal.

Instead, Oscar said, calm as ever, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

Lando choked.

He choked.

His drink shot out of his mouth like a missile. “YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned to him, eyebrows creased in confusion. “What? No.”

And then it happened.

Lando watched, in real-time, as his brain caught up with Oscar’s words. “Wait.” His voice cracked. “WAIT.”

He stood up. Actually stood up. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

Oscar just nodded. Calm. Chill. Like he’d just announced what time breakfast was, not that his entire personal life was something Lando apparently had zero clue about.

Lando was spiraling. “WHAT?”

Even the interviewer sat forward, sensing blood in the water. “Wait—married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar looked almost offended by the clarification. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands flew to his head. His whole worldview was crumbling. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged like they were discussing tire strategy. “A while now.”

Lando looked to the crowd for help. The crowd was screaming. Phones were recording. PR was probably out back crying.

“I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend!” Lando yelled.

Oscar squinted at him. “You know that.”

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT.” Lando was full-blown shrieking now. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oscar just shrugged again, that same infuriating calm on his face. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando’s soul left his body. “YOU HAVE A WIFE?!”

The interviewer was thriving. “We need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar, ever consistent: “Since we were fifteen.”

Lando wheezed. “FIFTEEN?!” He sounded like he was being personally attacked. Oscar nodded like that was a normal answer.

“Where did you meet?”

Oscar blinked. “School?”

Lando turned to the audience, pointing like he needed witnesses. “Look at this guy! Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course!”

“When did you get married?” the interviewer asked, beaming like she’d just uncovered the next great F1 scandal.

Oscar: “When I was eighteen.”

The crowd erupted. Lando clutched his chest. “EIGHTEEN?! WHY?!”

Oscar: “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

Lando physically recoiled. “What, like… straight out of high school?!”

“Not straight out,” Oscar said thoughtfully. “We waited.”

“How long is a bit, Oscar?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Three weeks after graduation?”

Lando made a noise he was pretty sure only dolphins could hear. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, THAT’S A BLINK.”

The interviewer was practically in Oscar’s lap at this point. “How did you propose?”

Oscar shrugged. “I asked her to marry me.”

Lando stared. “That’s it? That’s the whole story?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

“Where?” the interviewer prompted.

“At home.”

“…At home?”

“On the bed.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “YOU ABSOLUTE ROBOT.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

“That poor woman,” Lando muttered.

Then came the worst part.

“How did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?” the interviewer asked.

Oscar gave the most Piastri answer imaginable: “No one asked.”

Lando screamed.

“Who is she?!” the interviewer asked, practically vibrating. “What’s her name? Where’s she from?”

Oscar, completely useless: “My wife?”

Lando looked ready to launch himself into the stratosphere. “YES, BUT WHO IS SHE? WHY HAVE I NEVER MET HER?!”

Oscar blinked. “I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!”

Oscar just shrugged again.

Lando was losing it. “Okay, but why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you knew,” Oscar said, like that wasn’t the most unhinged thing he could possibly say.

“How would I have known?!” Lando shouted. “Do I look like a mind reader to you?!”

Oscar just looked at him, completely unbothered. The calmest chaos Lando had ever known.

Finally, Lando gave in. “You have to introduce me to her. Like, actually. You can’t just be married and expect me not to meet her.”

Oscar sighed, clearly seeing the writing on the wall. “Fine.”

“Good.” Lando sat back. Then narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Does anyone else know?”

Oscar considered. “I think Zak does.”

Lando shrieked. “WHY DOES ZAK KNOW?!”

“Because he’s my boss?”

“I’M YOUR FRIEND!”

Somewhere, McLaren PR was having the worst day of their careers.

Oscar Piastri, the most low-maintenance driver in the paddock, had just casually revealed on live fan stage that he had a wife—and had had one since he was eighteen.

And Lando?

Lando was never going to emotionally recover from this.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/FormulaTea: 🚨OSCAR PIASTRI JUST CASUALLY ANNOUNCED ON FAN STAGE THAT HE’S BEEN MARRIED SINCE HE WAS 18??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN. WHAT.

@/chaoticf1brain: not oscar piastri saying “i already did one of those” to a “married or tattoo?” question and lando immediately short-circuiting. THIS IS CINEMA.

@/pitlaneprincess: the fact that oscar piastri’s marriage reveal came from a game of “would you rather get married or get a tattoo” is so unintentionally iconic. robot behavior. absolute king.

@/mclarensburner: no like. imagine being oscar’s teammate, sharing hotel gyms and debriefs and flights and NEVER KNOWING he was out here with a whole ass wife since he was a teenager. i’d scream too.

@/lanxiety_norris: Lando’s live meltdown over not knowing Oscar was married has already entered my top 5 F1 moments of all time. He spat out his drink. He screamed. I will be studying this footage for the rest of my life.

@/drivehivehq: oscar saying “she’s amazing. 10/10. would always marry her again.” in the middle of lando’s breakdown 😭💍

why is he lowkey husband goals???

@tiretalkpod: Oscar Piastri being married for FIVE YEARS and no one knowing is somehow more chaotic than any on-track drama we’ve had in the past 3 seasons. This man kept a whole wife secret like it was tire strategy.

@/piastrified: oscar: “how did i keep it a secret? no one asked.” the ENTIRE INTERNET: now asking every possible question at once

@/PRnightmare: McLaren PR right now: 🧍‍♂️💻💥🔥🧯📉📉📉📉📉

@landosocial: lando literally said “I’M YOUR FRIEND” like a hurt Victorian child finding out his best mate got married without telling him i’m sobbing 😭😭😭

@/f1brainrot: we don’t know her name. we don’t know her face. we just know she said yes to a man who proposed “at home. on the bed.” and honestly? she’s a legend.

@/gridwivesunite: Oscar said “I proposed at home. On the bed.” Oscar also said “she said yes.” Sir??? Why is this accidentally the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard???

@/tracklimitsandtea: Me watching Oscar drop five years of marital lore in one fan stage while Lando has a nervous breakdown: 👁️👄👁️

@/buzzingtonstan: IF THIS MAN HAS A WHOLE WIFE, DOES THAT MEAN HE ALSO HAS A KID?? IS THERE A BABY PIASTRI OUT THERE??? OSCAR. BLINK TWICE.

@/landodrama: someone make the Netflix episode of this IMMEDIATELY. title it “How Oscar Piastri Crashed the Internet in 6 Words”

@/flannelanddownforceWHO IS THE MYSTERIOUS MRS PIASTRI!?!?

@/nicolepiastri: I see the internet is discovering my son is married. Welcome to the club. I, too, found out after the fact 5 years ago. 👍

↪️@/piastriluv: NICOLE PLEASE TELL US YOU’RE KIDDING 😭😭😭

@/landochaotic: Did he at least call you after the ceremony or did you find out via a tax form?!

***

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call barely rang twice before Felicity picked up, her face appearing on-screen, framed by the garage lighting. She had her hair tied up and was wearing one of his old hoodies—his favorite one, judging by the faded McLaren logo on the sleeve.

Just seeing her calmed him down instantly.

“Hey, Oz,” she said, smiling like she already knew he needed it.

Oscar slumped back against the couch, head tilted to rest against the wall. “Hey, Fliss.”

She studied him for a second. “So. How was your day?”

Oscar closed his eyes for a beat. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyebrows lifted in slow, amused surprise. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar opened one eye. “Apparently not.”

That earned a full laugh, soft and familiar. “How the hell did you think he knew?”

Oscar shrugged. “I dunno. We’ve been married for, what, five years now? I figured… someone would’ve told him.”

Felicity gave him a long, fond look. “Oz. You’re about as subtle as a torque wrench, and somehow also the most emotionally secretive man alive.”

“I can be romantic,” Oscar huffed, immediately defensive.

Before she could reply, there was a loud, unmistakable bang on the door. Followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar closed his eyes again and muttered under his breath, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

On-screen, Felicity was trying very hard not to laugh. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND DEMAND ANSWERS—”

Oscar tilted the phone so she could see the ceiling. “Yes.”

Now she was laughing freely, and it was a beautiful sound—one he’d always liked more than any podium cheer.

The banging continued. “STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. I CAN HEAR YOU BREATHING.”

“You should probably let him in,” Felicity said, lips twitching. “Before he combusts.”

Oscar sighed the sigh of a man who had accepted his fate. He got up, opened the door—

—and Lando barreled in like a man on a mission.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” Lando demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar didn’t even flinch. Just held up the phone like it was Exhibit A. “She’s on FaceTime. Calm down, lunatic.”

Lando whipped around so fast he nearly tripped, then launched himself onto the couch, staring at the screen with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Silence.

Felicity gave him a polite, amused smile. “Hi. You must be Lando.”

Lando stared. Then pointed. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

He turned to Oscar, looking betrayed on a spiritual level. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the screen. “And you married him? At eighteen?”

Felicity shrugged, her smile fond. “Yep.”

“WHY?!” Lando looked genuinely baffled.

Felicity tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

Felicity stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Oscar side-eyed Lando. “What’s so hard to believe?”

Lando just flailed his arms. “You’ve been my friend for years and I didn’t even know you had a girlfriend, let alone a wife!”

Oscar folded his arms. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, and now I’m the emotionally unaware one?”

“Yes.”

Lando flopped back on the couch like his entire world had been shaken. “You never told me!”

“You never asked.”

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar looked at him flatly. “You’re meeting her. Right now.”

“No. In person. I need proof she’s not a deepfake generated by your PR team to make you seem like a human being.”

Oscar deadpanned, “No PR team is that good.”

Lando pointed to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you soon.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to Fliss, who was fully laughing.

“You were not kidding about him,” she said.

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife- Felicity—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 14. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

Fliss is still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

@/felicitypiastri

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???↪️ @/felicitypiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @/felicitypiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/landoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention?↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of.↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/felicitypiastri: 10/10, would marry you again. (Even if you forget to tell people.)↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

***

@/felicitypiastri Instagram Post

Caption:

So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love.

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of nearly two years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer?10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments:

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OBVIOUS TO WHO?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/paddockgossip: Did ANY other drivers know??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.

@/f1softies: The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes.

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: To be fair, you were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He still does that, btw.↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/arthur_leclerc: The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/felicitypiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/logansergeant: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. Also, I am busy at home. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yep.

↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/felicitypiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/piastrified: oscar posting a heartfelt essay about marrying the love of his life felicity posting a selfie from their wedding day and casually mentioning he stole her pen we are in a ROMANCE NOVEL people

@/tifosibutsoft: not to be dramatic but i would lay down my life for felicity piastri and her 20-photo instagram grid.

@/formulafeminism: her instagram goes: 🧠 page-long math caption 🐔 chicken in a knitted sweater?! 🛠️ engine restoration 🍞 perfect sourdough crumb 💍 wedding ring in engine grease this woman is unhinged. i love her.

@/landoslostmind: lando finding out oscar is married via fan stage chaos the internet finding out felicity is better than ALL of us via a grid that has exactly zero curated content same vibe.

@/chaosinturn1: felicity: “technically i’m an f1 wag” also felicity: wears oil-stained jeans, builds a gearbox, and bakes bread from scratch at 3am this woman is a weapon

@/garagegirlsupreme: Felicity Piastri’s whole vibe is: “I could kill you with this torque wrench or love you for the rest of my life. Either way, you’re eating homemade banana bread.” 10/10 no notes.

@/formula1tumblr: Oscar: “I’d marry her again in a heartbeat.” Felicity: “We were inevitable.” Me: sob crying into an old hoodie I pretend is Oscar’s

@/pitwallposters: you know she’s terrifyingly brilliant bc her instagram isn’t even TRYING to be aesthetic and it still made us fall in love with her

@/felicityspanner: people are out here thirst-following felicity for hot girl math & carburetors and you know what? same

@/softoscarpiastri: Oscar: “I assumed people knew.” Felicity: “Oops.” Me, holding back tears while reading both their posts like it’s a Nicholas Sparks adaptation: 🧍‍♀️

@/beehivetheory: felicity piastri’s instagram is the most confusing and impressive thing i’ve ever seen. one post: her holding a sourdough starter like it’s her child. next post: her under a 1967 alfa romeo spider with a wrench in her mouth. next: her proving a theorem i don’t have the qualifications to read.

@/mclarenbrainrot: i think the best part is that felicity’s account is just soft lighting, feral captions, old cars, and a literal chicken coop.

@/chaoticgoodfelicity: “Technically I’m a WAG. I steal Oscar’s hoodies so that counts right?” felicity i want to be you SO BAD.

@/formulanope: I don’t know who I want to be more:

Oscar, who married the love of his life at 18 and thought everyone just knew

Felicity, who loves cars, chickens, and spreadsheets more than media attention

@/speedmathqueen people are shocked oscar married a genius but felicity’s instagram LITERALLY has a video where she’s like “just fixing a differential while calculating gravitational drag on a whiteboard” and then makes banana bread like it’s nbd how is this woman real

@/lanlanf1: every team principal right now reading oscar’s caption like: “okay so not only is he unshakeable on track but also writes like a poet, has been married since 18, and literally fixed himself by 15. great. fantastic. my drivers can’t even commit to a protein shake.”

@/gpbutemotional: Zak Brown: “we support family at McLaren.” Andrea Stella, quietly reprinting Oscar’s driver bio with “married to a woman smarter than all of us combined”

@/justpitthings: the fact that felicity Piastri could win an engine-rebuild competition, a bake-off, and a theoretical physics conference in the same weekend AND look bored while doing it… she’s what every gifted kid from tumblr wanted to become

@/tinfoilfelicity: convinced felicity is the reason oscar is so calm. you grow up married to someone who organizes her maths notes in color-coded hexadecimal and has chicken and suddenly nothing in life phases you anymore.

@/piastriupdates: what do you mean oscar’s love language is handwritten notes inside his gloves before every race i’m actually going to cry in the middle of a petrol station

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri smau #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

827 notes · View notes

enwoso · 4 months ago

Note

Would do a quick oneshot of the arsenal girls hearing tiny call Leah 'Mama'

belonged | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

grumpy masterlist

training had wrapped up early, the girls having a game to play tomorrow as the rest of the girls were scattered across the pitch. alessia was sat on the grass, you perched in her lap. letting you play with the hem of her training top as the rest of the squad chatted around them.

giving you a chance to get out any bundled energy you'd built up from just watching in the sidelines, it also making for an easier afternoon for alessia — you being less energetic.

leah was kneeling a few feet away, tying her laces as she half listening to beth and katie debate about which coffee shop had the best coffee this week. it was the usual post training routine, relaxed and familiar well until you unknowingly dropped jaw dropper of a line.

"mama, can you help me?" you asked holding you water bottle up to leah with your big blue expectant eyes, leah looking down with a smile as she nodded taking the bottle from you.

a brief silence followed.

leah totally unfazed by your words, it being the normal now, took the bottle and twisted the lid off with ease, "there you go angel."

but the rest of the team? they were staring. hard.

beth's jaw was practically on the floor, katie had stopped mid sip of her own bottle as her eyes flickered between you and leah like she had just witnessed the biggest plot twist of a movie in real time. kyra actually looking on offended that she hadn't been told this information sooner.

"hold on," vic was the first to speak, waving a hand dramatically towards leah as alessia stood not too far behind, "did she just—did she just call you mama?"

leah finally noticing the attention, feeling there long stares on her, looked up with a frown not really understanding the point of their shock, "uh.. yeah?"

alessia groaned quietly, already anticipating the incoming chaos along with the questions, the team knew about alessia and leah (thanks to you) but this never seemed to be a topic of conversation. "oh here we go."

"since when?" katie demanded, moving forward like she was about to conduct an interrogation of the biggest crime.

"she's been doing it for a few months now," alessia said, rubbing your back absentmindedly as you stared off into the distance watching the goalkeeper finish their session off, "just.. clearly none of you have noticed?"

beth spluttered, shock still hitting her in waves, "and you didn't think to tell us?"

alessia raised an eyebrow, "do you expect me to make a powerpoint for you guys every time my daughter does something cute?"

"yes, actually or even just a message in the groupchat would have done" kyra deadpanned, a few of the other humming in agreement.

meanwhile, leah was still cradling your bottle, looking between the girls and then back at alessia, "how have they not noticed?"

alessia just shrugged. "they're a bit slow."

katie gasped in offense. "excuse me?" as she continued to ramble on about her great reflexes, not that anyone was really paying attention to that as they were all still in shock about the whole, 'leah, mama' situation.

beth, her mind not really wrapping around the facts, "so she just casually calls you mama, and we've never noticed?"

you, now not distracted by the goalkeepers and instead thoroughly confused by all the fuss. blinking up at beth and answering her question matter of facts, "le is mama."

leah grinned, hearing it never got old in leah's mind, as she reached over to ruffle the top of your head, "that's right, angel."

katie shook her head in disbelief, "i can't believe this. leah's just winning at life. arsenal captain, england legend and now — confirmed favourite parent and loving family."

leah smirked. "i mean, i don't like to brag, but—" alessia groaned, nudging her in the leg. "oh my god, do not start this again."

this not being the first time leah's parent ego had gotten a little too big as she teased alessia on the fact she was now the favourite but deep down alessia knew she didn't need to compete in that as she'd always edge it in a different way.

the team groaned collectively, but there was no missing the warmth in the air. because, really, it didn't matter that they'd only just noticed. what mattered was that you had known all along.

567 notes · View notes

rosierin · 5 months ago

Text

blondes aren't your type, huh? | atsumu miya

a/n; college au where you're besties with the miyas & suna

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The living room was a mess of half-eaten snacks, empty bottles of water, and textbooks no one had touched in hours. (Y/n) sat cross-legged on the rug, sandwiched between throw pillows and the coffee table, nursing a lukewarm drink while the TV droned on in the background. The movie had lost their attention ages ago—if it had ever had it to begin with.

The boys were scattered around the space like a bunch of lazy housecats: Atsumu sprawled out across the couch like a spoiled prince, Osamu slouching beside him with a bowl of crisps in his lap, and Suna draped over the armrest he had long proclaimed as his own.

It was (y/n)’s favourite kind of afternoon—the kind with no plans, no expectations. Just good food (courtesy of Osamu) and even better company. And how lucky she considered herself—to spend most of her weekends like this, surrounded by her three best friends, who, for the past year, had also been her roommates.

The thought floated in the back of her mind, making her smile. And for once, the world felt utterly at peace.

That is... until Suna decided it shouldn't be.

“Hey, (y/n),” he called, not even glancing her way. His voice was nonchalant, completely at odds with the question he was about to ask. “You ever think about dating an athlete?”

(Y/n) turned her head, suspicious. He didn't elaborate just yet, probably giving just enough time for the question to truly sink in. There were two athletes currently sat in this very room, but only when (y/n) shot him a look that said go on, did he continue:

“Like… a setter? Like… Atsumu, specifically?”

The man in question choked on a piece of popcorn.

Osamu went stiff for half a second before his shoulders started shaking with poorly contained laughter, only to keel over fully as a single kernel came flying out of Atsumu's coughing mouth.

(Y/n) spluttered a laugh despite herself, slapping a hand over her mouth in a poor attempt to contain it. Then, remembering Suna's question, she forced herself to settle, smoothing the grin from her face as she shook her head. Not in response, but in disbelief. And maybe a bit of quiet reprimand.

You're evil, she wanted to tell him. Instead, she played the oblivious card—one she knew nor Suna, nor Osamu would buy, but would do enough to protect Atsumu's ego.

“What—where did that come from?” she asked with a purposely tilt of her head.

Atsumu made a strangled noise—either offended or confused, his face a bright scarlet. Whether from the fact he almost succumbed to a piece of popcorn, or because his friends of his friends tormenting him, (y/n) wasn't sure. “What is wrong with you?!” he barked, chucking a pillow across the room. “Why would ya ask that?!”

Suna dodged the attack, so lazy in a way that was bound to rile Atsumu up further. “Why not?" He shrugged. "Just curious.”

"Ya were not 'just curious', you ass—!”

(Y/n) giggled, unable to help it. The sheer chaos that followed Suna’s provocations never got old, especially when Atsumu was the target. She glanced over at him, taking in his flushed cheeks and furrowed brows, the way he was both flustered and avoiding her gaze at all costs.

“No need to freak out so much, Tsumu,” she said lightly.

That made him tense. She watched his posture lock up like a pulled muscle.

Osamu recovered enough to grin wide. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu, why ya freakin’ out, huh?”

Suna, coyly playing along, chimed in: “Something to confess?”

Atsumu’s hands twitched with the urge to wrap around both their necks. His face was alight, from embarrassment or rage was hard to tell. Still, he managed to flash his friends the best glare he could muster.

“Will you guys quit bein' weird?"

(Y/n) smiled to herself, wrapping her arms around her knees.

She was used to this dynamic by now—the silly squabbles, the teasing, the banter, the way the boys always poked fun at one another until someone snapped. But with Atsumu, it was always a little different. Always a little... extra. Because beneath the joking and the back-and-forth, she knew. She’d known for a while now.

Atsumu fancied her.

It wasn’t something he said outright—God forbid—but it showed. In the way his teasing turned soft when it came to her. In how he always waited to walk her home from campus, or how his ears would flush when she complimented him, even offhand. It wasn’t serious, she didn’t think. More like… a crush he hadn’t fully admitted to, even to himself.

It flattered her, to say the least. And maybe she liked it. Maybe she fancied him too.

But she also knew Atsumu. Knew how flighty he could be, how quick he was to flirt and flinch from anything a bit too real. And so they stayed where they were—teetering on the edge of friendship and something else. Undefined but content, for now.

Which, of course, made them the perfect target for Suna and Osamu’s amusement.

(Y/n) didn't miss the scheming look they exchanged as the silence stretched on—the pull of their identical grins.

Apparently, they were far from done.

"So would you?" probed Suna.

(Y/n) hummed thoughtfully and sat up straighter, pretending not to the threat Atsumu had mouthed to his so-called friends. "I'm not sure," she mused, pursing her lips. “I think I'd happily date an athlete for the…” She rubbed her thumb and index finger together in the universal 'money sign.'

Osamu and Suna both nodded along approvingly.

Atsumu rolled his eyes.

"At least she's honest," Osamu offered.

(Y/n) tilted her head, considering the idea. She knew nobody expected a genuine response, but she mulled it over anyway, just for the sake of it. “But I dunno about Atsumu, specifically…” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Somehow, she felt a spike of tension. Even Suna and Osamu visibly flinched. She caught the flicker of guilt pass between them. A silent uh-oh. Maybe that jab had gone a little too far.

Osamu tried to patch it with a weak smile. “Ya know… he’s not that much of an asshole.”

"Liar," Suna coughed.

Atsumu scowled. One more word out of him and he looked just about ready to lunge.

Osamu cut in before he could do so. "No, no. S'true— s'more of an image thing, ya know?"

Atsumu opened his mouth, but (y/n)'s laugh seemed to distract him from whatever he was about to say. She waved a hand, understanding Osamu's good intentions. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just… well, I guess I'm just not that into blondes.”

Atsumu made a face so dramatic she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. “That’s yer reasonin’?!”

Suna smirked. “What about Osamu, then?”

Another hum. (Y/n) glanced at Osamu and gave him a once-over—chestnut hair, boyish features, charming grin.

Yep. Definitely handsome.

She gave a firm nod, flashing two thumbs up.

Atsumu looked like he'd gone through all five stages of grief.

Suna didn't bother to contain his laughter.

Osamu, meanwhile, smirked and straightened his shoulders. “It ain't easy bein’ the better-lookin’ twin,” he sighed dramatically, puffing out his chest.

Atsumu groaned, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. He'd visibly given up on arguing and flopped back against the couch, turning his focus to the TV, ignoring any of them existed.

Osamu chuckled and prodded his brother’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, don’t sulk.”

Suna joined in. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu, you still got your great personality." His voice sounded strained.

Despite the smile on her face, (y/n) felt a twinge of sympathy. They always ganged up on Atsumu. He was all bark and bluster, but when the teasing went too far, it showed. Usually ending like this—with him falling quiet, arms crossed, eyebrows marred, the tips of his ears adorably pink.

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Hey. Don’t worry, ‘Tsum. You may not have the hair, but you’ve still got your handsome face.”

Then, before he could react, she leaned over and planted a deliberately sloppy kiss on his cheek.

The act wasn’t even remotely romantic—more like a mum kissing her kid before school—but the effect was immediate. His entire face lit up—redder than any of his high school jerseys—and he immediately looked away, mumbling something incoherent as he sank lower into the cushions.

Satisfied, (y/n) stood up and stretched. With Atsumu no longer moping, she could focus her priorities elsewhere.

“I’m getting more snacks.”

As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, Osamu and Suna turned to Atsumu, no longer having to water-down their behaviour.

They puckered their lips, making exaggerated kissy noises.

Atsumu shot them a withering glare, no longer having the energy for either of them. “You guys fuckin’ suck.”

Suna snickered. “Aw, our little ‘Tsumu is in looove.”

Osamu wiped a fake tear. “They grow up so fast.”

Atsumu dragged a hand down his face and sank into the couch.

Perhaps he shouldn't have moved in with them after all.

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seungfl0wer · 1 year ago

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*Chan Calling You Clingy*

Genre: Angst/Fluff

Pairing: Bangchan x Reader (GN)

Warnings: none? I mean arguing and cursing? Not proof read

The way this one sounds like it could be real hurts me even more not gonna lie

This is part of a series Find the other members here:

Bangchan, Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin

-🩵

Your boyfriend and you had just arrived in Australia. He had brought you to spend sometime with him and his family. It wasn’t often that he had time to himself it was almost unheard of though that he had time to be able to visit his home and family. This was not the first time you had met his family. You and Chan had been dating for a few years now. They treated you like family and you were comfortable around them. Chan was able to get 4 whole days here with his family and it made you so very happy to see him be able to spend time with them.

You followed him around a lot while you were there, although you were comfortable around his family it still made you nervous to be without Chan. His sister who was out in the US with friends had told you about a good food spot there that she said “you totally had to eat at before leaving.”

You asked Chan about it when you got there and he told you “you guys would stop there at some point.” The time was winding down really wanting to stop by you asked him again. He just basically sighed “babe we will” his voice low. He sounded grumpy for some reason you stared at him for a second before asking him what was wrong. He rolled his eyes “nothing y/n” he said getting up to grab his drink. He’s seemed irritated all day today and you don’t know what was wrong. Did you do something? Did someone say something?

You didn’t wanna press, you laid your head on his shoulder only for him to move it making you move your head. You looked confused offended even. What was his problem? Why the fuck won’t he talk to you about it. He looked at you “can you just leave me alone” he hissed. He got up walking to his window to look outside. His mom and dad had went to the store quick to grab a few things for lunch.

“Channie what’s wrong?” You ask voice cracking a bit. “Y/n please” he said in almost a growl. You could feel he was angry but why? It was eating away at you before you kept at it “babe talk to me? What’s wrong? Did I do something?” You asked walking towards him. He spun around “y/n what part of leave me alone don’t you get? You’ve been so clingy the whole damn time I feel like I haven’t even had a chance to spend with my family. Can you just leave me alone!” He spat out his words running together.

He’s never raised his voice at you let alone yet at you like this. You could feel your eyes weld up with tears and you nod “fine I’ll leave you alone” you said before grabbing your bag heading out the front door. You walked to the park chan and you would frequently would go to. You went to play some music to calm you down a bit realizing you forgot your phone at the house. You sat there thinking you should go back for it deciding not to. Not wanting to see Chans dumb cute face right now.

You sat in one of the swings wiping your tears away. You sat there calming yourself down for a bit before going to a spot you two had dubbed as “your spot” it was a small spot covered by trees nice and shady. You laid down underneath it your mind just racing. Thinking about how you’ve been lately. You had kinda clung to him a lot while down here, feeling awkward a bit still not wanting to be alone at his house with his parents yet.

Chan had cooled down a bit he was about to text you but his parents came home. He went to help bring in groceries helping his mom put them away. “Y/n go for a walk?” His mom asked grabbing a pan out of the drawer. He tilted his head a bit as she continued “we saw he walking towards the playground you guys go to all the time.” He breathed out a bit and just nodded not wanting to get into what happened.

He headed back to his room to grab his phone to text you to come back for dinner.

Chan ran, he ran as fast as he could. All the horrible scenarios raced through his head. He felt the tears building up as he ran. As he finally got to the park he frantically looked for you. God where were you! He couldn’t find you, his heart sank fearing the worst. Before remembering the little place you guys had a picnic here under the trees.

He raced to the spot his eyes widened as he saw you lying under it. He felt at ease a bit finally finding you. You had fallen asleep under the trees you looked so pretty but yet so sad with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks.

He softly rubbed your shoulder trying not to scare you awake. “Babe wake up” he said softly. Your eyes fluttered awake bringing your hand up to wipe at them. Trying to focus your eyes and wake yourself up you stared up only to be met with Chans gaze. You sat up looking around forgetting you had come to the park “did I fall asleep” you asked rubbing your head.

Chan almost full on tackled you wrapping his arms around you pulling you to him. “Y/n I’m so sorry for what I said to you” he said burring his face into your shoulder. “I brought you here to spend time with me and my family and all I did was be an asshole.” He said his voice sounded so sad, cracking in parts. He sniffled as he tried to choke back his tears “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, I’m just sad we have to leave. It’s so hard for me to leave.” He stuttered “I hate that I only get to visit so little. I want to spend more than a few measly days with my family you know? It’s all I ever get. The others get to see their families why can’t I”

At this point he was sobbing into the crook of your neck. You’ve never really seen him cry it’s normally only a few tears before he pushes it away. He doesn’t show this side very often not wanted to seem weak. But here he was crying so hard on your shoulder.

You rubbed the back of his head as you let him cry it out. He started to calm down a bit “Chan I’m sorry if I took away time with your family.” You said still rubbing the back of his head. He shook it no “no no don’t say that you’re part of our family now. I’m sorry for the way I acted you didn’t deserve that.” He pulled away from you wanting to look at your face. He places a hand on the side of your face as he rubbed your cheek with his thumb. “You aren’t clingy by the way, I just said it while I was mad. I know it won’t take away the hurt but please don’t make it make you pull away. I love how you are and I’d never change anything about you.”

His eyes searched your face only to be met with a small stream of tears “I just don’t wanna be to clingy to the point I push you away either.” You said through tears. “You won’t I promise you. I promise you my love. You will never push me away. You’re stuck with me remember?” He said tapping his finger at the promise ring he got you a few months ago “I’m not going anywhere.” He said before pulling you into him. “I love you angel” he said kissing your cheek. “And I love you too” you said whipping away the tears.

He helped you up giving you a big long hug before heading home to the delicious lay out of food his parent had just got done preparing. You headed to the bedroom to find your phone with all his messages. “Babe I’m sorry I never responded to you. I left my phone here” you said with puppy dog eyes looking at him. “It’s ok my love, I’m just happy you’re safe.”

💙 If you’d like to read more of my stuff you can find it Here: Master List . Thank you for reading and if requests are open or you just wanna talk feel free to send me something🩵

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ilyprs · 2 months ago

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P I S T A N T H R O P H O B I A | s.geum

───𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛───

pistanthrophobia : the fear of trusting people, forming close romantic relationships, and being vulnerable in interpersonal connections

' in which she can't escape her first love

•seong-je x reader

•part 1. (part 2 is out on my profile !!🩷)

ׂׂૢ་༘______________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

▶︎•၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•✩♬ now playing: moon |[G-IDLE]

"So, how was my performance?"

"Terrible! I feel like my ears are about to burst! Please never sing again."

"Yah! You asshole," Baku shouted before suddenly chasing Gotak around the small karaoke room where the three teenagers were hanging out. The girl sitting on the couch just sighed in annoyance, took another sip of her drink that sat on the glass table surrounded by snacks, and grabbed a handful of popcorn while watching the drama unfold between the two boys. She wasn't worried—it had become a daily routine and was nothing new to her.

"Serim, back me up, just this once!" Baku yelled again while trying to catch the fleeing Gotak who was laughing at him.He struggled because the small room was cluttered with all kinds of stuff, and Gotak was moving quickly and skillfully through the mess.

"Nope. I'm staying out of your nonsense," she said, continuing to shovel popcorn into her mouth with enjoyment and a grin on her face now.

"That's so unfair of you! I always protect you!" Baku said, clearly offended, looking at the girl. He wasn't entirely wrong, but she just shrugged lazily and kept watching the two idiots go at it.

While Baku was looking at Serim, Gotak used the distraction to escape his grip. Once he had created some distance, he looked at the time on his phone.

"Shit, it's already 5:56 PM. We've got 4 minutes to get out of here," he warned his best friends and started making his way to the messy table to throw away the empty snack packages from the karaoke table. Baku also looked away from the girl and began cleaning up. In a rush, the friend group tidied up the room before quickly heading outside.

⸻

"When can you finally come back to school, Hu-Min?" Gotak broke the silence as the three walked toward the next convenience store. The weather was still relatively chilly at night, so Lee Serim hid her face in her fluffy scarf to stay warm. She looked at the mentioned boy with interest—it had been a while since he'd last shown up at school. There was a serious reason why the eldest had been suspended, but the group never liked talking about it, so it remained unspoken between them. Everyone respected each other's boundaries. They all walked at the same pace, enjoying the cold air and the quiet of nature.

"Ah, you'll find out soon enough, trust me!" Baku said with a laugh, leaving the other two confused. Serim rolled her eyes in annoyance at his secrecy.

"Stop being so mysterious and just tell us when you're coming back, you jerk!" she snapped and gave the taller boy a gentle kick in the butt. He suddenly dropped dramatically to one knee and started yelling in mock panic. Lee Serim's eyes widened and she quickly knelt in front of him to look him in the eyes. Gotak could only laugh loudly.

"OMG, cut that crap out before someone actually believes you and comes over here!" she scolded him angrily while Hyeon-Tak watched the scene with amusement. The three had been best friends for years, and Baku's dramatic antics were nothing new. Their friendship had started shortly after Lee Serim had transferred to their school, and from day one it had felt deeper than any bond she'd ever had before with any of her old friends- which weren't many.

Baku burst into laughter when he saw the girl kneeling in front of him. She only rolled her eyes again and gave him a final smack on the head before standing up and offering him her hand. Grinning, he took it, and the three continued their way to the store.

"Did you hear? I heard there's going to be a new student at our school," Serim said, glancing at the two boys beside her. It had become a habit for Serim to always walk between the two—just in case anything happened, they could protect her. She had argued with them often, saying she was more than capable of defending herself. Her father hadn't been a famous MMA fighter for nothing—he had taught her plenty. She trained four times a week at his gym, which the boys now also attended thanks to her. Still, the boys refused to back down and were firmly convinced that she was safest walking between them. Eventually, she gave up arguing and just automatically got in between them.Even if she didn't the boys always switched places so she could be between them.

"Really? I'm curious. What kind of idiot transfers to this psycho school voluntarily?" Gotak asked, laughing.

He wasn't wrong. The school was total trash, and no one in their right mind would go there willingly. Serim hadn't transferred by choice either—it had been due to an incident at her old school. Even though she'd found her best friends there, she still hated the place with a passion. It was full of idiots who did nothing but pick on weaker students to boost their fragile egos.There were many instances where she would get in trouble for sticking up for the weaker students, even getting into multiple physical fights.

"Lee Serim transferred voluntarily," Baku commented with a grin before getting smacked on the back of the head again. He quickly apologized when he saw her angry glare, and they continued walking.

⸻

"Do you guys want anything else?" Serim asked the boys before grabbing the drinks and paying. With a bag of drinks in one hand and a lollipop in the other, she stepped out of the store. When she reached the boys, she held out the bag, and each took their respective drink. Serim popped the lollipop in her mouth, grabbed her sugar-free Red Bull, and handed Baku the bag so he could throw it away. Re-energized, the three continued their walk home—until the girl suddenly turned around in panic.

"Fuck! I forgot my wallet at the store!" she cried and quickly shoved her drink into Gotak's hands.The boys looked at each other and sighed- it wasn't anything new to them, Serim constantly forgot stuff and they always had to remind her.She ran in the opposite direction, lowering her scarf so she could see better.

"Yah, Lee Serim! Should we come with you?" Baku called after her, but she waved him off and kept running. It wasn't far to the store, so she wasn't too worried. When she arrived, she saw a group of teenage boys standing in front of it, and her stomach turned. Of course it couldn't be that easy. No way she could just walk in and grab her wallet without trouble. Internally, she cursed her luck and prayed none of the Union guys recognized her. Keeping her head down, she walked past the group and into the store.

Once inside, she took a deep breath—no one had said anything. But in the next instant, her breath caught again.

No, no, this can't be happening. Not today...

Standing at the register was the reason for her breathlessness. When the bell above the door chimed, he turned slowly to face her, locking eyes. Wordless, Lee Serim stood frozen as a thousand thoughts ran through her mind—but not a single one escaped her lips. All she wanted was to turn around and leave, to walk away and never look back. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she feared it might leap out. His face also changed instantly as he recognized her familiar eyes, and his well-known smirk spread across his lips. His gaze through his glasses was intense and intimidating, but Serim knew better. He was desperately searching for a reaction from her. Any emotion—he'd take whatever she gave. Seconds passed, feeling like hours, before he broke the silence.

"Well, look who it is," he said playfully, his smirk growing wider. Serim was still frozen in place but forced herself to take one step forward. The faster she moved, the sooner she could escape the situation. Without giving him another glance, she approached the register and looked at the cashier, completely ignoring the boy who had stepped closer.

"Excuse me, I think I left my wallet here. Have you seen it by any chance?" she asked, trying to hide the tremble in her voice to deny the boy any satisfaction. The cashier looked at her curiously, but she just gave him an impatient smile. He turned around and began looking.

Meanwhile, Geum Seong-Je reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Serim instantly slapped his hand away and turned to face him closely for the first time in ages.

Seong-Je only grinned stupidly and said, "When are you finally going to give in and talk to me again?" As he tried to reach for her again, the girl grabbed his wrist—this time, not letting go. She stared into his eyes furiously, unable to avoid his intense gaze. There was a time she had loved looking into those eyes—so full of love, comfort, and safety—but that was long gone. Too much had happened between them to forget so easily. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and she had to restrain herself from pushing them back up like she used to. His expression softened for a moment—they were thinking the same thing. But she quickly dropped his wrist when the cashier returned. Clearing her throat, she looked at him and saw her pink wallet in his hand. She thanked him quickly and ran out of the store as fast as she could. Too many thoughts overwhelmed her—she needed to get out, to leave Seong-Je and all their memories behind.

Lost in thought, she didn't notice bumping into someone until she heard swearing at her feet.

"Ah! You stupid bitch! Are you blind or what?!" a teenage boy yelled angrily, getting up. Serim could feel his rage as his friends began circling around her.

"Watch how you talk to me, you bastard," she replied coldly, trying to push past him—but to no avail. She was getting impatient because the last thing she needed was to spend even more time near that guy who was still inside the store, probably watching her.

The boy shoved her back roughly and called out to his friends:

"Did you hear that? I think this chick needs a good slap to learn some respect." His friends clapped and cheered, supporting their idiot friend. Lee Serim looked at them with nothing but annoyance. Guys like them didn't scare her. She knew most of them were all talk and would run at the first real hit. Silently, she counted them—seven boys, some shorter than her, most looking pretty inexperienced. She could probably take them down, but she wasn't in the mood. She didn't want to dirty her clothes in this weather, and her friends were likely already looking for her. Thinking of them made her curse again—they'd definitely be worried and probably already on their way. She didn't want her friends to run into these jerks—it would only end in another bloody fight.

Still deep in thought, she caught the boy's movement from the corner of her eye as he lunged. She dodged easily, causing him to lose balance, then kicked him in the back, knocking him down. Just as he tried to get up and strike again, a familiar voice interrupted him. Serim's entire body had a physical reaction to his voice and she tried to ignore it.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, asshole?" The voice was unmistakable, and a few of the boys gasped. They knew they had screwed up and would pay for it. Lee Serim looked up toward the kiosk and met his eyes again. This time, they weren't playful—they were furious. Before things could escalate, Serim heard a voice from farther away.

"Yah, Serim! Where are you?" Baku's voice rang out, and she swore under her breath. Fuck! If Baku and Gotak ran into Seong-Je and the Union guys, it would be a disaster. She quickly gathered herself and ran out of the circle, heading for her friends. The boys quickly avoided her and let her get through without even looking at her.

"Don't tell me those were Union assholes," Baku said in a dangerously quiet tone when she reached them. They looked furious, and Serim knew she had to act fast before the evening turned into a bloodbath.

"Yes, but nothing happened—really," she said quickly and panicked, grabbing both their hands and pulling them behind her. They tried to protest, but she didn't stop. Just as they turned the corner, she dared a final glance back—meeting the intense eyes of her first love, who was staring at her with full attention. In front of him, the boy who had attacked her was now kneeling, and she saw Seong-Je holding his hand. The last thing she heard as they turned the corner was the painful scream of the poor boy.

#fanfic #weak hero class two #enemies to lovers #geum seong je #geum seong je x reader #park humin #gotak #toxic #kdrama

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idkwhylou · 5 days ago

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𝐕. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

Summary : After a night spent in the safety of Marcus’s arms, you wake to confusion, doubt, and the weight of everything left unsaid. But as the days unfold with unexpected softness, something between you both begins to shift. And for the first time, maybe… it’s time to try.

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Words : 8,2K

Warnings : trauma recovery, mentions of bruising, secret relationship, soft intimacy, bit of fluff, arranged mariage, no y/n

A/N : I couldn't keep it in my drafts any longer, I've received so many messages, comments and reactions... Soooo I'm giving it to you now guys ;)

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The morning light filtered the thin drape of the chamber’s window, soft and golden, casting pale striped across the bed. You stirred slowly, your body aching in places you had not realized had tensed in sleep. The space beside you was empty. Cold.

Your hand moved instinctively across the linen, searching for the heat that should have lingered. But there was nothing. No trace of Marcus. Only the imprint of where he had been, like a dream dissolving on waking. You blinked, trying to remember when exactly you had fallen asleep. When his arm had curled around your waist. When your body, exhausted from weeks of fear and silence, had finally let go.

For a few seconds, you lay perfectly still. The ceiling above you was painted with soft movement—tree shadows swaying faintly in the breeze—but all you could see was last night. Titus’ voice. His hands. His lies. And then, Marcus. Silent and steady in the dark, the weight of his body beside yours.

You let out a quiet breath, but it trembled at the edges. Where was he now ?

Your eyes darted to the edge of the room, his sandals were gone and so was the cloak he had draped across the back of the chair. No sound came from the hallway—no voices, not even footsteps. The silence was not oppressive, but it pressed all the same.

Was he avoiding you ? Regretting you ? Had you misunderstood the quiet closeness of the night ?

A knot began to twist in your chest, slow and uncertain. You sat up, brushing the sleep from your eyes with the heel of your palm. Your hair was tangled across your shoulder, still holding the faintest scent of him, and you hated how safe it had felt. Hated how much you wanted to believe in a single night of stillness ? As if that could undo everything.

Maybe you should not have come into his room, kept avoiding him, pretended he did not exist. What the hell were you thinking ? How could you think h could comfort you when he could not even apologize ? Like a fool, you let yourself be softened by his reassuring and protective touch, when he never knew how to be tender with you. What an idiot.

He was not there. Of course he was not. You blinked once again at the empty space beside you like it had personally offended you, then promptly flopped onto your back with a groan, hands over your face. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You had let him hold you—hold you—like some tragic little wife, all tear-stained and fragile, and now he was just gone ? Maybe he was with Lucilla. Gods. Drinking something expensive and brooding handsomely while she praised his noble restraint. You scoffed aloud at the ceiling. Restraint your ass. You should have bitten him too.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, trying not to wince at the soreness in your arms—bruises you had not had the courage to look at yet.

You needed air.

You needed to see him—to know, even without words, if last night had meant something. Anything. You were tired of worrying, of resenting people, of feeling out of place. And so, barefoot, you crossed the room. The floor was cool beneath your feet. The hallway stretched quiet ahead. You did not know what you expected, find him waiting for you ? Gone altogether ?

But when you turned the last corner and stepped into the dining hall, your breath caught.

There he was.

Marcus sat at the end of the long table, as he always did. Regal without trying. A goblet in one hand, his dark eyes resting on the morning light pouring through the open archways. His tunic was simple, but perfectly set. No armor today, no sword at his side, just him. Composed. Real. And alive, apparently, which was somehow infuriating.

He looked up, and when your eyes met his, the strange tightness in your chest eased like something heavy being set down. His expression did not shift dramatically, but it did not close either. “Good morning.” He said, his voice even.

You nodded once, the simplest answer. One second, you were sulking your way into the dining room—ready to hurl yourself into a cup of wine and strew like a tragic heroine—and the next, you froze in the archway like you had spotted a ghost.

Your heartbeat scrambled like it had been caught doing something wrong. You hesitated for a breath, then crossed the room with more confidence than you felt and took the seat beside him—not too close, but not across the entire Empire either.

He looked at you then, quietly, as if assessing a storm cloud that might pass or pour. “Is everything alright ?”

“Yes.” You said quickly, too quickly. “Perfect. Absolutely. Why would not it be ?”

He arched an eyebrow, and you gave him your best imitation of someone not unraveling internally. It probably looked more like a poorly trained actor in a second-rate tragedy.

And so, silence felt between you. Not the old, cold silence full of resentment, but something more… tentative. Testing the air between two people who did not know how to begin again. You reached for some bread, took a bite and chewed it like it was your sole task on earth.

He was the one who moved first, reaching for a fig, the smallest shift of his shoulders brushing ever so slightly toward you. You glanced at him, then looked again—truly looked. He looked different now, not just older, but worn in, like marble weathered by time. His face was thinner, as if something had been quietly carving at him from the inside out. The line of his jaw was darker with stubble, rough and uneven like he had not bothered to shave in days, and it suited him far too well.

His eyes—always intense, always watching—held a quieter storm behind them now. But it was his body that caught you off guard the most. Broader somehow. His arms, strong before, now looked as if they had been chiseled harder by effort or whatever weight he had been dragging through the months of your silence. He looked heavier with it. More real. More tired. And, if it was possible, even more beautiful. The kind of beauty that was not sculpted, but earned. The kind that made your breath catch in your throat, and your pride pretend it did not.

Should you say something ? Ask where he went last night ? Make a joke ? Thank him for not letting you cry like a stray dog ? Gods, was that pathetic ? Maybe you should compliment his beard. No. Terrible idea. He would think you missed him. Which you did—did you ? He did not need to know that.

You cut a fig into quarters like it was a military strategy as he sat behind you, quiet and still—the kind of stillness that made you want to scream just to see if he would flinch. You could feel his presence, heavy and calm, and it made your thoughts more chaotic by contrast. Was he only kind because you were falling apart ? Or worse, did he pity you ?

You were midway through constructing a compelling inner monologue about how you were absolutely, definitely never going to bring it up, when his voice cut through your spiraling.

“Do you want to go for a walk ?”

The question hung there, small and simple. But it felt like a stone dropped into still water. You were not sure why it hit you like that. Maybe because he had not asked you anything gentle in months. Maybe because, for the first time, it was not about duty or damage control. There was something different in his eyes; a thread of hope, too thin to name.

And Gods, you did need a walk. Fresh air. Space to sort through the riot inside your head. To figure out what to say to him, because you were absolutely not going to let him avoid it this time. Not the apology. Not what happened between you. If you had to drag him through it one question at a time, so be it.

You drew in breath. Nodded once. “I should… get ready.” You said quietly, already rising from the table. But before you could take a full step, his hand caught your wrist. You froze, not from fear, but from the suddenness of it. His grip was not hard, but firm enough to stop you and to hold your attention.

“What are those ?” His voice had changed—lower now, rougher, like something had scraped through his throat.

You turned slowly, your gaze finding his. His eyes were fixed on your arm—on the edge of the sleeve that had fallen when you reached for your cup. The bruises were faint now, dulling to that sick yellow-violet, but they were still there. Ugly, lingering, leaving the memory of Titus branded into your skin.

You did not answer right away. Instead, your heart thudded, loud and unhelpful. You could feel the heat climbing into your neck. That too-familiar feeling of being exposed, blended with shame.

“It is nothing—”

“No.” He cut in, quiet but certain. You tried to pull back, just an inch but he did not let go. “Tell me who did that.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You did not know what to say or how to say it. The words tangled in your throat. You could see it now, the shift in his whole posture, the way the air around him pulled tight. This was not casual curiosity. He knew. Maybe not everything. But enough.

And he was angry. Not at you—never at you—but something simmered beneath his skin; and it scared you, because you did not know if it would spill. You looked down and swallowed. Then, finally, you said, “It does not matter anymore.”

His jaw clenched, and still, he did not let go. “It matters,” he said, “It matters to me.”

You jerked your head towards him, but looked away quickly, jaw tightening. The words were there—pressed like thorns behind your teeth—and you could not make them come out.

“I said I am fine.” You muttered, quieter this time, the fight draining from your tone.

Marcus studied you, his fingers still around your wrist, but the grip was looser now. Almost hesitant. His brows furrowed with worry, the effort of holding something back. For a moment, it felt like the entire villa held its breath. Then, with a soft sigh through his nose, he let you go.

The absence of his touch was immediate. You stepped back, smoothing your sleeve like it mattered. Like you could erase what he had seen. You could feel his eyes on you still, heavy and sharp, trying to fit the last pieces together.

“This is not finished.” He said at last, voice firm. “You do not have to tell me now. But you will tell me.”

You nodded, or something like it. A slight dip of your chin. Not a promise, neither a refusal. Then you turned, and left the room to get ready—your heartbeat still tangled somewhere between his words and your own silence.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The weeks that followed moved like a quiet tide, surprising in their peace. Marcus was often gone during the day, pulled between the Senate and the army, his name spoken like a spell in every corner of the Empire. But somehow, despite the demands, he returned to the villa more often now—and not just to sleep.

Sometimes, it was just to share a late meal with you in the gardens, his armor unbuckled, tunic sleeves rolled to his forearms as he listened to you talk about nothing and everything. Other times, he would find you reading beneath the trees and simply sit near, not intruding. Just there, a shadow beside yours, his presence oddly calming.

Things were not perfect—no, far from it. There was still heat between you, but not the kind that burned to has. It crackled in the way you traded sharp glances over breakfast, when you teased him for forgetting he had already told you about some senator’s outrage (again), or when he would call you a ‘menace’ for beating him at a gale you swore you did not cheat at.

It was strange, really. The tension did not break you, instead it built something. He was still hard to read sometimes, still carried the weight of the Empire in the set of his jaw, in the quiet way he stared at the horizon when he thought you were not watching. But there were moments when he let you in. When he laughed too loudly at something you said. When his eyes softened during quiet walks, brushing your fingers just barely with his.

And you—you stopped flinching when the silence stretched. You started trusting it. Trusting him in a way.

Even the villa felt different. Less like a gilded cage, more like a strange kind of home. You found yourself leaving the doors open longer, letting sunlight spill across the floors, the air less heavy. There were no declarations. No grand promises. But things were changing, growing softly and deliberately.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself hope that whatever this was—whatever was unfolding between you and the man once made of cold marble and war—might actually be real.

Still, not everything had been said.

Sometimes you would feel his eyes on your arm, the one that bore the fading yellowed shadows pf bruises that had never quite healed right. You had caught the way his gaze lingered there when he thought you were not looking, jaw tight, fingers curling against the edge. But he did not press further, and you did not explain.

You had not spoken about that night neither. The fight that had splintered you both. The night you had said things too sharp, too honest, and he had let you walk away like it meant nothing. Everything still hung between you like a wire pulled taut.

There were times you felt it again, that crack under the soft, everyday peace. When the air stilled and a silene stretched just a little too long. When Marcus returned from the Senate with his shoulders squared and his voice clipped. When you wondered if the soft truce between you was simply a lull, not a solution.

And though his presence had grown warmer, his touch gentler, his words more frequent. Something inside you still braced. Just a little. Waiting for the question, or the accusation—the return of the cold. Because neither of you had dared to touch the wound, you had just taken it upon yourself to bandage it without even disinfecting it. Not thinking that it could become infected again, and not heal, continuing to burn. And wounds, even quiet ones, had a way of bleeding through silk.

Still, he stayed. And so did you. That had to mean something.

You decided long before the sun set, but it was not until the villa had quieted and the stars spilled fully across the sky that you found the nerve. Tonight, would be the night.

You stood outside his chamber door for a long moment, hand hovering just above the carved wood. You had not stepped a foot in here since the trembling aftermath of something you had not even dared name aloud. The memory of his strong arm around you still lived beneath your skin. So did the way your breath had hitched when his hand found your waist.

Now ? You were not sure what you felt.

Your knuckles rapped gently once—a sound so soft it was nearly swallowed by the hush of the night. You heard nothing in response, but the door was ajar, just enough to invite doubt. You pushed it open slowly.

The room smelled like him, the curtains stirred lazily in the breeze, moonlight draping itself across the bed. And there he was; seated at the edge of it, half turned toward the open window, boots still on, elbows on his knees. He had not heard you, or maybe he had and just had not moved. His hair was mussed, beard thicker than usual, shadows pooled beneath his eyes. Even in stillness, he looked heavy—like he carried the whole world on his shoulders.

He glanced toward you, brows drawing ever so slightly together. “Could not sleep ?” He asked quietly, voice like smoke.

You shook your head. “No. Not really.”

A pause. You could feel his eyes searching your face as you stood there like an idiot. This was not how you planned it. You had rehearsed. Gods, had you rehearsed. In the mirror, in the gardens,… At one point, you practiced a ‘serious but emotionally available’ face in a spoon. And now ? Now your mind was blank your hands clammy, and Marcus was looking at you like he had been expecting something coherent.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Great start.

You cleared your throat, “I, uhm—well, I just—” You gestured vaguely toward the chair. Or the fireplace. Or the concept of words. “I was walking. And then I… kept walking. And now I am here.”

Marcus blinked slowly, like a man trying not to spook a very nervous deer.

You gave a nervous laugh. “Not because I was following you. Obviously. That would be strange—I mean not that strange. We are married. I am technically allowed to know where you sleep.”

Dear Gods. You were actively unraveling in real time. He did not laugh, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth—the ghost of a smile, maybe. Or sympathy. Or both.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “Anyway. I am here. And I will just… sit. If that is alright. Unless it is not. In which case, I can stand. Forever. I have excellent calves.”

There was a pause.

And then, to your complete and utter horror, he spoke gently. “I have things to say actually.” Marcus said, voice even. “And I would rather not say them to a woman pacing holes into my floor.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

A beat. And then you finally sat. Not gracefully, but it counted. You did not speak—not because you did not want to, but because your whole brain had been reduced to a very faint buzzing noise. Marcus was not looking at you with frustration or coldness. He looked like someone trying very hard to be careful.

His voice, when it came again, was quiet. “I should have said them a long time ago.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped like he needed them to stay still. The fire cast shifting shadows across his face—more angles than softness, but his eyes… they were quieter now. Tired. Honest.

“I have spent most of my life doing exactly what I was told,” he began, tone flat but not without feeling. “Born into duty. Raised with purpose. There was no space for softness, not really. My father taught me that empathy was a crack in the armor. And if you leave that crack, someone uses it.”

You did not move. You barely breathed.

“I was trained to lead man. To win wars. To make decisions and never waver. But no one teaches you how to live with those decisions after. Or what happens when the battlefield follows you home.” His voice dropped a little, like the words were being pulled out one by one.

“When we got married… I did not know what to do with you.” He looked down, his jaw tightening. “You were so alive, so bright. And I was afraid—not of you but of what it meant to have something—someone—I might not be able to control for once.”

You felt a prick behind your eyes, but you did not dare to interrupt. Not now. For the first time since the ceremony, you never heard him talk that much.

“I thought distance would protect us both.” He spoke. “If I kept you at arm’s length, maybe you would stop wanting more from me. Maybe I would stop wanting something I did not deserved.”

He swallowed hard, “But you did not stop. You were kind, you were patient, you made… space for me. And I filled it with silence. I treated you like you were the one intruding. And that night—” His voice hitched for just a breath. “That night I raised my voice to you—”

He shook his head, shame rippling through the gesture.

“I should have never spoken to you that way. I was cruel. I knew I was hurting you but I did it anyway. And when you started to see him again and again, looking at me like I was a stranger—” He drew in a slow breath, eyes flicking to you then away again. “I have seen that look before. On men in battle, right before they realize the blade’s already gone through.”

You felt your throat tighten as Marcus exhaled through his nose, slowly. “I promised myself I would be better after that. That if you ever gave me another chance, I would not waste it. I did not think I would get one…”

He finally looked at you again, and his gaze was everything he had not been able to say until now. “I do not expect you to forgive me easily. Or quickly. But I have to say it. Because I was wrong. And I see you now. I seeyou.”

You sat frozen, the room too still, too full. Your fingers were clenched in your lap without realizing, your heart hammering wildly in your chest. It was not a grand declaration, neither poetry, but it was the most honest thing Marcus had ever given you.

You sat still for a long time after he finished, the only sound between you the soft crackle of the fire. The weight of his words pressed against you like water—not drowning, but deep and heavy.

“I do not know if I can ever really forgive you Marcus…” You said at last, voice low, trying to not be cruel. “I am… trying to understand. And I heard what you said. I did. It meant something that you said it.” You glanced down at your hands. “So, thank you for that.”

A flicker of a smile touched his lips, faint and rueful, but he said nothing.

“I just…” You shook your head. “I need you to understand that what you did—how you treated me—it made me feel like less than nothing. Like I was stupid for even hoping I could be seen. You made me feel disposable, small, and I hated myself for the things I did.”

His jaw tightened but he did not interrupt, letting you take your time, just like you did with him.

“As for Lucilla,” Your voice faltered, sharp and bitter. “I do not want to talk about her. Not now—maybe not ever. I am not stupid… I know there are things I do not know, things I will probably never know. But if there is one thing you can give me now, it is this: let me choose not to know. At least for now.”

“I can do that.” He said quietly, his voice solid with sincerity. “Whatever pace you need. I just… I want to make sure things go well for our marriage. Even if it takes time.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your chest aching—not from hurt, not anymore. From something else. Something that might one day become softness again.

Then you inhaled, slow and shaky. “I should tell you about the bruises.”

Marcus straightened with that quiet, focuses stillness he always had when preparing for something painful. His eyes did not leave you a second.

You wet your lips, “You were away that night and Titus found me in my chamber.”

His name landed like stone. Marcus did not speak, but you saw it in his face—that flash of rage quickly banked, forced down with effort.

“He thought I wanted something from him. But I did not… I did not see what he wanted. I did not want it.” Your throat tightened. “But he did not care.”

You looked down at your arm, at the ghost of the fading bruises beneath your sleeve. “He grabbed me. Told me I had led him on. That I wanted it. That I could not act like I did not.” You were trembling now, but you did not stop. “He kissed me.”

Marcus’s hands were fisted in his lap, his knuckles white.

“The marks are from when I tried to pull away,” you said. “He was stronger. He did not care. And then, I screamed for the guards.”

Silence crashed in the room, loud and suffocating. Then—“I will kill him.”

You looked up sharply, “No.”

His voice had turned ragged, wild with fury. “He touched you—”

“I know what he did.” You snapped, louder than you meant. You swallowed hard and lowered your voice. “But that is not why I told you. I did not come here so you would explode again or fight another man.”

He stared at you, still trembling with restraint. “I told you because I needed you to understand,” you continued, voice gentler now. “When I came to your bed that night—it was not about forgiveness. I was not over what you said, or how you made me feel. I was still angry, hurt.”

You breathed in.

“But I needed someone. I needed safety. And even after everything. I still felt safer beside you than I did anywhere else.”

That silenced him. Not in weakness, in something deeper, a hit that landed behind the ribs. You rose from the chair and took a step closer. “I am not telling you to fix it. I am not asking you to make it disappear. I just… I did not want to carry it alone anymore.”

Wordless he closed the distance between you. There was no hesitation this time, no tension, just the steady, unshaking way he folded you into his arms: one hand at the back of your head, the other pressing gently to the middle of your back like he was afraid you might break if he held to tight.

“I am sorry.” He murmured voice low and rough against your temple. “If I had been here—if I had just—” He did not finish. His jaw clenches against the words. “I should have protected you. I should have known.”

You shook your head faintly, your fingers curling into his tunic. “It is not your fault. He is the one who did it.”

“I still left you alone,” he whispered. “And you were already hurting—from me.”

He kissed the top of your head—not rushed or desperate, but slow. Steady. Like something he had been wanting to do for a long time and did not want to do wrong. Then, softer still, “Stay tonight.”

You looked up at him. “Please,” he said. “Just stay. I need to know you are safe. I need to be here when you wake up.”

You did not speak right away. But something in your chest loosened, some old, sharp fear that had been clinging to your ribs for too long. It did not disappear. But it dulled, just enough.

And you nodded without really knowing why. Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was loneliness dressed up as resolve, or maybe it was something you did not have a name for yet. You could not forgive him yet, but Gods you were tired of holding your own weight, tired of sleeping cold, tired of feeling like you were always bracing for impact.

And here ha was, finally reaching back. It was not enough… but it was something. A step. Maybe you were foolish for wanting to try. Maybe you would wake up tomorrow with regret curled in tour chest like smoke. But for tonight, you just wanted quiet. A moment of calm. A place to set your heart down and rest. And for some reason—you hoped he might be that place.

He kissed your forehead gently once more. “Thank you.” He whispered. “And… I am sorry. For all of it. For what I said that night. For the months before. For making you feel like you were anything but wanted.”

You leaned your head against his chest and closed your eyes. This time, when the silence settled between you, it was not heavy with unsaid things anymore. It was true peace.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

After that, the mornings were the easiest, you sat across from each other like two people sharing a long truce, a loaf of bread, and mild confusion about how you got there. At first, they were filled with the soft scrape of plates and the occasional clink of a cup. You would steal glances at him over your plate, and he would pretend not to notice.

One morning you were sipping watered wine while he read parchment over fruits, sometimes glancing up like he had something to say. You caught him watching your hands as you took something from a bowl, but did not ask why. Then, he broke the pattern.

“The cook adds honey now,” Marcus said, gesturing to the same bowl your hand was in a few seconds ago. “He said you liked it that way.”

“Your spoon paused midair. “That is thoughtful I guess.”

“He said it is better for your mood,” he added, eyes flickering upward. “His words. Not mine.”

You snorted, and for the first time in weeks, something like amusement sparked between you. He did not smile right away, but you caught the ghost of one tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Later, he would start taking digestive walks in the gardens. This happened from time to time, until it happened after every breakfast. They became a place strange of comfort where he would walk ahead sometimes, hands clasped behind his back, talking about nothing in particular—history, the state of the vines. You listened without answering, but never left his side.

One day, he had offered you his arm, but you did not take it. You were not quite ready for that. Still, you walked beside him, close enough that your hand might brush his if either of you stopped pretending you did not want them to.

The garden air was cool that morning, still carrying the damp scent of night-bloom flowers. You passed the row of cypress trees where the sun broke in perfect slants—and suddenly, your breath caught. You had walked this same path before. Not long ago. Not with Marcus. With him.

The memory flared like heat against the base of your neck; his voice too close, the press of his hand on your body, the way he looked at you. You could still feel it sometimes. The weight of that night lingering on your skin like dust that refused to wash away.

Your steps faltered. Not noticeably, you hoped. But the General noticed everything. He did not say anything, only shifted slightly closer, as if to shield without smothering. His hand did not reach for your again, but you could feel it hovering, just enough to remind you he was there.

You did not speak of the memory. But the shadow it cast stayed with you for the rest of the walk. And even as the sunlight warmed your face, you could not help but wonder if the past would ever stop bleeding into the new.

“This tree,” Marcus said after a moment, gesturing toward the fig grove, “My mother planted it when I was a boy.”

You blinked. “She had good taste.”

“She did.” He said quietly, letting sadness taking over him for a short second before winning control back. “In trees, at least.”

That earned a dry look from you, and a corner-smile from him. A truce, again.

One afternoon, you found him in the book room—not a place you often wandered anymore. The air was cooler there, quieter in a way that felt sacred, like even the dust had agreed not to stir. The sun cut through the tall windows in golden angles, bathing the room in soft light that spilled across the mosaic floor and pooled at Marcus’ feet. He sat like a statue half-forgotten by time, a figure caught somewhere between war and rest, the curve of his brow relaxed, the corners of his mouth just slightly unguarded.

He looked younger in the sun, or maybe just.. less worn.

You hovered in the doorway for a moment, unsure. But something about the angle of his shoulders, the quiet scratch of turning page pulled at you. So, you stepped inside, each footstep hushed by the plush runner beneath your sandals, and sank onto the second lounge opposite him, a respectful distance away.

He did not look up, but you saw his hand pause on the page. His voice was low, smooth like poured bronze. “Did not expect you in here.”

“I thought you might be hiding something scandalous in the scrolls.” You said lightly, teasing—trying, gently, to find your place in this new softness between you.

A faint exhale escaped him, amusement, maybe. “Just Caracalla, Geta and the city’s water systems. Scandalous, indeed.”

You smiled. Just barely. But it stayed. The silence returned, though this time it settled like a comfort rather than a wall. You let your gaze drift lazily over the room: the shelves stacked high with neat rolls of parchment, the thick scent of ink and old vellum, the soft creak of his chair as he shifted. Somewhere outside, birds chirped in the olive trees. It was peaceful in a way that made your bones feel heavy.

At some point—without quite meaning to—your head tilted back against the lounge. Your lashes dipped. The words in your mind began to blur. And then, with the gentlest of exhales, you gave in to sleep. You did not notice sleep had claimed you, not until something warm and light was laid across your shoulders.

Your eyes fluttered half-open, just enough to catch the shape of Marcus’s figure standing near. His shadow passed over you as he draped a blanket—soft wool, faintly scented of him—across your arms. He did not speak. Did not linger.

He only returned to his seat, the material of his chair groaning faintly beneath him. The scroll reopened, the words read again. But his gaze did not stray far. Every so often, between one paragraph and the next, his eyes lifted toward you. There was something unspoken in the way he looked at you. Not hunger, not longing, but a kind of... awe. Or maybe confusion, that you were still here. Still trying. Still close enough to reach if he only dared.

And so, he did not reach. But he watched. And that, for now, was enough.

On another day, in the quiet shade of the peristyle, you stood beside him as the birds dripped in and out of the courtyard fountain, scattering droplets like glass. The afternoon air was warm but mazy, the hush of the villa stretching between columns and falling into a rhythm all its own.

You were not looking for him at first, you told yourself you were only wandering, restless and uncertain, your thoughts knotted after to many night of still pretending not to care. But something pulled you toward the baths. Something quiet, curious, and perhaps, a little foolish.

You pushed the door open without thinking. The air inside was thick with steam and warmth; perfumed faintly with rosemary and heat-soaked stone. At first, you did not see him. Only the curve of the pool, the golden ripple of water. Then—

There he was.

Marcus.

Leaning back against the stone edge, eyes closed, dark hair slicked from his face. He looked less like the General then, less like the man with the burden of Rome on his shoulders. He looked… peaceful. Almost.

Your breath caught.

You should have left. Should have turned on your heel and walked straight back out the door. But your feet did not listen. Something strange and warm and deeply unsettling pulled you forward, not quite longing, not quite anything you had admit to. You stepped quietly across the tiled floor and sat on the rim of the bath, just beside him, careful not to let your dress touch the water.

He did not open his eyes.

Your pulse quickened—Gods, what were you doing ? The heat from the bath curled around your legs, climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled where the steam kissed it, and your palms pressed flat against the stone to keep them from shaking.

You were not even sure why you were there. Only that the closeness made your thoughts blur, and your body had grown traitorously warm. You looked at him and something unfamiliar bloomed in your chest, heavy and heady and hard to name.

You had sat beside him before, but never like this. And never with your breath this short.

You should not have stayed. You knew that. But your body had made the decision long before your mind could catch up. He was still. His chest rose and fell with the steady breath of someone who had not yet realized he was being watched. Or maybe he had. Maybe Marcus always knew more than he let on. Maybe he was letting you look.

You did.

Gods, you did.

Your eyes drifted down—over the water beading on his collarbone, the way it ran in lazy rivulets across the planes of his chest, sinking into the hollow beneath his throat. His arm rested on the edge, strong and relaxed, muscles softened by heat but still unmistakably powerful.

You thought, absurdly, of how those hands would feel on your skin. What it would be like if he turned his head and looked at with that quiet, unreadable gaze. If he said your name in a way he never said before: low, and without armor.

And then, your thoughts grew bolder.

The things he could do to you.

With those hands. That mouth. That voice—firm and low, made for command and confession alike. You imagined his breath hot against your neck, his weight pinning you to something that was not cold marble for once. His voice in your ear—no orders, no cruelty, just need.

Worse still—or better—you imagined the things you could do to him. The slow drag of your fingers down the scar at his side. The way he might shudder under your mouth. How his control—so prized, so carefully guarded—might crack when you whispered that you wanted him.

You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together before you realized what you were doing. He still had not opened his eyes as you bite your lower lip hard, trying to calm the feeling growing in you. And maybe that was a mercy. Because if he had, if he had looked at you in that moment, and seen the thoughts unraveling in your mind like silk slipping from a spool, you were not entirely sure you would have stopped yourself.

Not this time.

Not when the heat between your legs burned hotter than the bath itself. Not when his nearness made you forget all the reasons you were supposed to hate him. And Gods help you—not when you did not want to anymore.

You were not sure what prompted it—the tilt of his head in the light, maybe, or the way his fingers absently traced the rim of the marble basin, steady and unthinking, like he had forgotten you were there. There was a gentleness to him in that moment, unguarded and rare.

And without much thought, your hand reached up—slow, hesitant—and brushed your fingers against the faint scar that curved along his temple. It was not deep, just pale and thin, nearly lost in the bronze of his skin. But you had seen it a hundred times and never once touched it. Never dared.

The moment your skin met his, he flinched. Not violently—not like someone bracing for pain—but quick, instinctual, like a breath drawn too sharply. His shoulders stiffened. His jaw set. And when his eyes snapped to yours, there was something unreadable in them. Caught between memory and alarm.

You pulled your hand back at once, heat rushing to your face. “Sorry,” you muttered, trying to laugh but failing. “I did not mean to— I was just curious.”

His expression did not soften. If anything, he seemed to withdraw into himself, folding shut like a gate. “It is nothing.” He said, voice suddenly colder, clipped. “Old wound.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the shift. The sunlight did not feel quite so warm anymore. “Right,” you said, folding your arms, letting the sarcasm slip out like defense. “Of course. I forget you only bleed strategically.”

That made him look at you—sharply, this time. But he did not speak.

You felt ridiculous. Embarrassed. Small. “If you are going to act like that every time I touch you, then maybe do not let me stand so close.” You added under your breath, more wounded than you meant to sound.

A pause followed. Long enough that you regretted speaking. Long enough that you wanted to disappear entirely. Then—“No.” He said, quieter now. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… pained. “Do not apologize.”

You glanced up. He was watching you, the tension around his mouth loosened, though his eyes still held something tight. Fragile. You looked at him. Really looked.

The years hung on him in ways he did not try to hide, not anymore. There were faint lines at his brow that had not been there when you first met. His eyes held shadows even when he smiled. That scar, and a hundred others you had never seen, told stories he rarely let escape.

“I never asked where it came from.” You said softly, meaning the scar but not only that.

He shook his head, gaze sliding back to the birds. “Does it matter ?”

“Maybe not,” you murmured. “But I still wonder.”

He turned his head and watched you. Not with the cold stare he wore in the Senate or when rebuffing servants. No, this one was quieter, patient, amused. You froze, heart thudding like a hammer against your ribs.

“Why do you look at me like I have wronged you again ?”

You bristled. “I am allowed to have feelings.”

“I did not say you were not.”

There was silence again, he did not look away—and that was the worst part. He saw you, all of you, even when you tried to hide behind clipped retorts and crossed arms.

Then—without warning—he reached out and took your wrist.

“Marcus—”

“Come here.” He said, and tugged. Not roughly, not demanding. But firmly enough that resistance meant nothing.

You stumbled forward, nearly slipping, your foot hitting the shallow step of the bath. “I am clothed.” You hissed, voice low with mortification.

“I do not care.” His other hand rose, brushing damp hair from his brow. “Touch my scar again.”

You blinked. “What ?”

He tilted his head, the faintest ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “You touched it before. Do it again.”

“I am not going to—”

But then you were already closer, your knees pressed to the edge, his legs brushing yours under the water. The heat of the bath—or maybe just him—was getting to you.

“Marcus—”

He shifted again—and suddenly, with practiced ease, he pulled you fully onto his lap.

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale. The water soaked into your dress at once, turning the fabric heavy against your skin. Your palms flattened instinctively on his bare shoulders to steady yourself, and Gods, there was nothing between you but wet cloth and silence.

He did not gloat. Did not tease. Just looked at you, steady and open.

The water clung to you like a second skin. You shifted slightly in his lap, acutely aware of the way your soaked dress now pressed against your body—thin and near-transparent, clinging to every curve. It offered no protection, no mystery. Not there. Not with him.

And he was still naked beneath you.

You could feel him, his warmth, the sheer size of him, the strength held barely in check. It jolted something in your memory. That first night. The stretch, the heat, the way he had filled every part of you lie he had been made for it.

Your breath hitched.

You cursed your own thoughts, trying to still the sudden thrum in your veins.

Marcus noticed.

His eyes dropped with a slow, reverent calculation that made your skin prickle. His gaze swept over the soaked linen plastered to your chest, then darted back up, locking on yours. His jaw tightened, but he did not say anything. Did not move. He was letting you decide. And it made everything worse. Or maybe better. You were. Not sure anymore.

You tried to speak, to reclaim some kind of composure. “This is inappropriate,” you muttered, not quite able to meet his eyes. “I am—I am practically indecent.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. “You are beautiful.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Not because of what he said—but because of how he said it. Like it was not a line. Like he was not trying to win anything. Just stating a truth he could not help but see.

You swallowed, pulse loud in your ears. “Stop that.”

“Why ?”

“Because I do not know what to do if you are kind.”

He did not smile. But his hands, large and warm beneath the surface of the water, tightened gently around your waist, then his fingers found your wrist with a gentleness that almost undid you. The kind that said he knew exactly where the hurt was. He lifted it slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and then bowed his head. His lips brushed over the fading bruise there, warm and deliberate. Once. Then again. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just… careful. As if he could take the ache into himself if he kissed it enough. As if he was sorry in ways he hadn’t found words for yet. “Then do not do anything.” He said. “Just stay.”

Your fingers curled into his shoulders again. You did not trust your voice, but you did not move either. Maybe this was foolish, but in his arms, for one quiet moment, it did not feel like a mistake.

“Do you always ask for the impossible ?” You murmured.

He exhaled through his nose. “Only the things I hope you will give.”

And somehow, just like that—without apology or command—your walls faltered. Just a little. Just enough to stay there, soaked and silent, your heart a fluttering thing in your chest.

There were other moments too. Smaller ones. Quieter than breath. The kind you almost missed if you were not paying close enough attention.

Passing him in the corridor—your arm brushing his by accident, or perhaps not entirely. His hand would linger, just barely, fingertips grazing the inside of your wrist like a question he did not dare ask. He never said anything, but he always looked back. Just once. Just long enough to make you wonder if he felt it too.

There were the near-collisions over wine at dinner—your hands both reaching for the same carafe, fingers brushing. A static moment that always hung a beat too long before either of you moved. You would pull back with a muttered ‘sorry’ and he would offer the faintest smile, as though that brief contact had said more than words ever could.

And sometimes, when he was not looking, you watched him. From the edge of the garden, half-hidden by the cypress trees. From the far end of the dining room where the candles did not quite reach. From shadowed hallways where he passed like a figure carved from marble—all broad shoulders and unreadable calm—except when he did not think anyone could see him.

Then, he was different. Less like a statue. More like a man.

You did not know why you still wanted to try. Why, despite everything—the fights, the silences, the bruises that were not his doing but still lived under his roof—you found yourself hoping.

Why your heart had the audacity to beat faster when he laughed—not that dry, curated chuckle meant for senators and generals. No. The real one. The rare, startled kind that cracked through his composure when you said something genuinely stupid or clever or both, and he forgot to be perfect for just a second.

Maybe you were a fool.

Maybe you were just lonely.

Or maybe—Gods help you—some quiet, buried part of you had started to believe that even a man made of stone could learn to hold warmth in his hands.

And maybe, if he did, he would learn how to hold you too.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

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