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pitlanepeach · 1 month ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Two

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Eek, are we soft for them already?

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

Maths was a unique kind of enemy.

Harper stared at the page, where a tangle of numbers mocked her in perfect, immovable silence. Quadratic equations. Graphs that looked like abstract art. Somewhere in her notes, her own handwriting had turned against her.

Jane was no help. "Look, I'd love to assist, but I operate strictly in the humanities. You want me to write an essay on why algebra is a metaphor for emotional repression? I got you. Solve for x? That's between x and God."

Harper sighed, banging her forehead on the desk.

Which is exactly how Oscar found her after his endurance run, still in his hoodie, hair damp and cheeks pink from the cold.

"You okay?" He asked.

"No," she mumbled into the table. "I'm dying. Death by numbers."

He peered over her shoulder. "Those are easy."

She raised her head and narrowed her eyes. "You would say that." She glared at him.

Oscar laughed and slid into the seat beside her. "Alright. Come on. I'll show you."

At first, it was just him. Patient, steady, explaining with short, clipped phrases and pencil taps. She wasn't sure if it was his teaching style or just the fact that he wasn't condescending that made it slowly start to make sense.

But by the next evening, word had gotten out.

Somehow.

The dorm common room turned into a weirdly specific academic support group. Oscar's roommate Sam pulled up a chair. Then Cal (Oscar’s engineer) FaceTimed in "for moral support"; and then casually mentioned that he has a masters degree in quantum physics.

Then two boys from Oscar's algebra class wandered over with snacks and just so happened to linger.

By the third night, someone had drawn up a "Harper's Maths Survival Schedule" and taped it to the common room door.

It read:

Monday: Oscar Tuesday: Sam Wednesday: Oscar Thursday: Alfie Friday: Matt

Harper laughed so hard when she saw it, she nearly cried.

And weirdly, somehow — it helped.

Not just the maths—but everything. The pressure. The loneliness. The constant feeling that she was a visitor in someone else's life. Here, she wasn't her mother's daughter, or the less-than-perfect student, or a problem to be fixed.

She was just Harper. And they liked her enough to stick around and actually put effort into helping her get better at maths.

One night, after everyone else had trickled off, Oscar hung around a little longer. She was almost too tired to think, her head tipped back on the sofa, eventually lolling over to rest on his shoulder.

"I don't know how you did it," she murmured.

"Did what?"

"Managed to turn maths practice into something I look forward to."

He laughed lightly. "You just needed to stop being so hard on yourself about it."

She looked over at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks, Osc."

He paused for a second too long. "Yeah. You're welcome."

She didn't respond. Just blinked at him, soft and warm.

And when he kissed her, it wasn't shocking.

It just felt... right.

—

Oscar wasn't supposed to be here.

Technically, he could be permanently expelled from the school. Lose his scholarship.

Not that he seemed particularly worried about that as he ducked beneath the low dorm window Harper had jimmied open earlier that week with a pen and a high level of angry rebellion.

"You're late," Jane said from where she sat cross-legged on her bed, dabbing highlighter onto her cheekbones. "Harper said you'd be five minutes."

"I had to wait for your prefect to leave," Oscar replied, swinging a leg inside. "She was sniffing around like a bloodhound."

"You're lucky you're cute," Jane muttered, not looking up.

Oscar took in the room; two mismatched duvets, makeup scattered across the long desk, fairy lights tangled above a heart shaped mirror. The air smelled like vanilla body lotion and expensive shampoo and some kind of spice he couldn't place. Cinnamon, maybe.

Harper was perched on the windowsill, brushing her hair into a ponytail with one hand, holding a lip balm in the other. She was wearing a navy jumper over leggings, ankle tucked under her thigh like she hadn't even noticed he'd arrived—even though the pink high in her cheeks suggested otherwise.

"I feel like I've entered another dimension," Oscar said, warily eyeing an eyelash curler. "What is that?"

Jane brandished it like a weapon. "Beauty, my darling. Don't question the process."

"You're both unwell," he muttered, but he was smiling.

Harper rolled her eyes at him, but had to purse her lips to hide her smile. "You're the one who insisted on coming over."

"Yeah, and now I regret it," Oscar said, perching awkwardly on the edge of Harper's bed. He knew it was hers because her pillowcase was monogrammed with a cursive H. "What are you doing?"

"Makeup," Jane said, blending concealer with terrifying precision. "You should try it."

Harper handed him a compact mirror with a sly smile. "Want some mascara, Osc?"

Oscar caught his own reflection and made a face. "No. I'll stay ugly, thanks."

Harper rolled her eyes at him and nudged him. He noticed that she'd painted her fingernails a glittery pink. He liked them.

Jane tossed an empty crisp packet across the room and it landed somewhere close to the bin.

Harper held up two near-identical shades of what was apparently lip gloss and demanded that Oscar choose.

Oscar chose the darker pink and Harper beamed at him.

Eventually, Jane pulled her riding boots on and announced, "Right. I'm going to grab some water bottles. Don't kiss until I get back — I want to watch."

Oscar opened his mouth to say something — anything, but she was already gone.

And then it was just the two of them, the room suddenly quieter, more tense. Harper turned toward him, one knee bent on the chair, her face lightly painted with makeup, her cheeks flushed from the laughter.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded. "Thanks for coming, Osc. I missed you this weekend."

He stared for a second too long. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. I wanted to come. I missed you too."

She didn't look away, and suddenly he couldn't hold himself back anymore.

He pushed off of the bed and walked over to her, leaned down and cupped her face in his hand and kissed her. Long and soft and perfectly minty — from his gum or her lipgloss, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Teamwork.

When they pulled apart, she exhaled shakily."Okay," she said, so softly it barely existed. "That was nice."

Oscar looked at her for a long moment, his thumb brushing a smudge of mascara off her cheekbone.

Then Jane banged back through the door with a flourish, freezing mid-step at their closeness.

"Oh my God, did you—? You did, didn't you. I missed it again!"

—

Half term at Harper's house felt like walking around in someone else's skin.

Every day was a new performance: a crisp outfit, polite laughter, perfectly timed nods in rooms filled with too-white teeth and names she was supposed to remember. The dining tables were long and silent, the smiles were sharp, and the wine flowed never-ending.

Her mother paraded her through charity galas and luncheons like she was a debutante being rebranded.

"Stand up straighter, Harper."

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"Do not mention anything to do with your schooling. God forbid they ask about your grades."

So Harper swallowed herself down, tucked her sarcasm into her clutch bag, and became exactly the daughter her mother wanted. For six days.

By the seventh, she'd become brittle.

When the train pulled back into the station near school, Harper had barely spoken a word for almost five hours. The Uber to the gates was quiet. Her mother didn't even look up from her phone when she said goodbye.

And then the building appeared—stone and ivy, wind in the trees, the faint smell of grass and cafeteria food.

Home, almost.

She hadn't texted Oscar. So she just walked straight to the common room, her bag still digging into her shoulder, hair pulled into a too-tight twist, like a fingerprint that her mother had left on her.

He was there, leaning against the radiator with his headphones half on, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up once and blinked like he wasn't sure she was real.

"Hey—"

She dropped her bag before he could finish. Crossed the space in three quick steps.

And then she was in his arms, burying her face into the curve of his neck.

No words. No warning.

Oscar caught her without hesitation, his arms sliding around her, his hands settling at her back like they'd been waiting. He held her tightly.

For a long time, they didn't say anything.

Just her fingers fisting in the back of his hoodie. His chin tucked gently over her hair. The low hum of the radiator and the quiet outside, and the way she was shaking, not crying, not quite, but trembling with the pressure of having to be somebody else for too long.

Eventually, he whispered, "Was it that bad?"

She nodded into his chest.

"I missed you," he said.

She didn't answer; just held on tighter.

It was the first time she'd ever let herself lean on somebody like this. Not perform, not pretend—just be held. And she didn't care who saw or what anyone thought.

Oscar had quietly become her anchor. Her soft place.

And maybe that was terrifying.

She was only fourteen, Oscar fifteen — but God, his arms felt like safety. And warmth. And something else that she couldn't bear to even consider yet.

—

Harper's fifteenth birthday wasn't eventful.

She didn't tell anyone. Not because she didn't want them to know—but because birthdays in her world had always come with strings. Lavish luncheons, social climbing events, gifts that felt like bribes.

She just wanted this one to pass through quietly. Like a train through a tunnel.

Jane, of course, knew anyway. She left a pastry and a glittery crown on Harper's bed with a note that said, "You are legally required to feel loved today. I don't make the rules." The crown had little fake gems and kept slipping off Harper's head, but she wore it anyway during breakfast.

Oscar wasn't there.

He was in Italy. Or Belgium. Somewhere with a name that tasted foreign and exciting. Somewhere chasing corners at 120 miles per hour while she spent the morning trying to translate her messy English notes into a coherent essay.

Her and Oscar still weren't... official.

No labels, no silly promises.

Just soft looks and secret smiles, warm palms pressed together in the dark of the common room. Kisses that stretched time. Late-night texts that made her stomach twist in ways she still didn't know how to name.

But still. It was her birthday.

She didn't expect anything.

Which is why, when Jane dragged her back to their room after dinner, she nearly tripped over the package sitting on her desk.

There was no name on it. Just a strip of tape across the top, and the faint smell of engine oil clinging to the paper.

She tore it open slowly, heartbeat ticking louder with each pull.

Inside: a hoodie. Worn-in, navy blue. She recognised it immediately—it was Oscar's. The one he always wore over his racing suit, with his initials inked inside the collar. It smelled like him. Like soap and sun and sweat.

And tucked inside the folded fabric, a card.

H — Happy birthday. Sorry I'm not there. Don't let Jane make you wear the crown all day. Put this on instead. I'll be back before the end of the week. Save a birthday kiss for me. Osc x

She stared at the messy, awful, hardly eligible handwriting for a long time.

Then she pulled the hoodie on and let it swallow her whole.

Later, when they'd crawled back into the common room to watch a movie and everyone was pretending not to watch her phone light up every three minutes, Jane nudged her.

"You know he's basically your boyfriend, right?"

Harper rolled her eyes. "He's not, though."

Jane shrugged. "Oh, puh-lease. You're always wearing his clothes. You look at him like he's the moon and you're the stars. You guys kiss all the damn time — like you've got nowhere else to be."

"I don't need a label." Harper said.

"No," Jane said, smiling. "But you'll have one soon. I'd put money on it."

As if on cue, Harper's phone buzzed.

A photo. Oscar, in his race suit, grinning with helmet hair and grease on his cheek, holding up a little cupcake with a candle in it.

Wish you were here. Celebrating for you anyway. Happy Birthday, sunshine.

Harper didn't reply right away. Just closed her eyes, let the warmth bloom under her ribs, and whispered, mostly to herself, "I wish I was there too."

—

The night was cool and quiet in the early spring, the kind of night where the world seemed to be holding its breath for a warm day.

Harper waited near the edge of the astro turf, shadows stretching long under the floodlights that were turned off but still gave the field a faint glow from the nearby streetlamps.

Her hoodie was too big, but it felt like a shield—and it smelled like Oscar.

She heard footsteps before she saw him, and when he appeared, the grin he gave her was full of all the things words hadn't managed to say.

"Hey," he said, voice low.

"Hey," she replied, stepping closer.

They settled on the edge of the turf, legs stretched out, the grass synthetic but soft beneath them.

For a while, they just sat. Quiet but close. Hands finding each other like magnets.

Then Oscar broke the silence. "So... uh, us," he started, voice hesitant but steady.

Harper turned her head toward him, watching the way his eyes caught the light, shadows flickering like secrets.

"I don't want to mess this up," he said, his lips curled awkwardly. "But I really like you, Harper. Like... so much."

She took a breath. "I like you too," she whispered. "More than friends."

He grinned, that slow, real smile that made everything else fall away. "So—you want to be my girlfriend?"

She stared at him, her stomach warm and twirling, her lips twitching into a fond, sweet smile. "Yeah, Osc. Yeah. I want to be your girlfriend."

—

The track in Essex was wet. Not just damp — soaked. The kind of cold, miserable damp that clung to your bones and turned the air misty around the edges.

Harper stood at the edge of the paddock with Mark, a steaming takeaway cup with hot chocolate cupped between her hands, the sleeves of Oscar's team hoodie pulled down over her wrists. Her boots were already muddy. Her nose was red. She didn't care one single bit.

Because out there — helmet on, eyes narrow, engine growling beneath him — was Oscar. Fast, fluid, terrifyingly good.

Mark watched silently, arms folded, one eye on the stopwatch. "Final lap," he murmured.

Harper didn't answer. She couldn't. Her heart was in her throat.

Then he crossed the finish line — just ahead, by a fraction of a second.

A cheer broke out across the team tent, someone throwing their arms in the air. Mechanics pounded backs. One of the younger juniors swore loudly in delight.

Oscar skidded into the pit lane and yanked off his helmet. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His face was flushed, wild-eyed, grinning.

Harper barely waited. She ducked under the barrier and ran straight into his arms.

He caught her mid-stride, lifting her clean off the ground with a muddy laugh.

"You did it," she breathed, half-laughing, half-crying.

He held her tighter, nose brushing her temple. "I did it."

Their kiss was messy and cold and perfect.

A few feet away, Mark shook his head with a smile and muttered, "Teenagers."

Later, after the podium and the trophy photos and the engine checks and the interviews he barely paid attention to, Oscar found her again — sitting on a folding chair, wet hair pulled into a messy ponytail, her boots still caked in track dirt.

He dropped down in front of her, ignoring the mud. His hands slid around her knees.

"You cold?" He asked.

"A bit."

He peeled off his jacket and tugged it over her without thinking.

She let her hands drift to his collar. "You really are the best boyfriend ever, aren't you?"

He shrugged. His cheeks flushed a little. "I try my best."

They sat like that in the growing dusk, a boy covered in sweat and rubber and a girl who didn't belong in this world — but somehow fit in it perfectly anyway.

They still hadn't said the words.

But everyone around them already knew.

They could see it.

"Bloody young love, eh?" One of the mechanics said to Mark, giving him a friendly grin.

Mark stared at his protege and the girl he was wrapped around. "Yeah. Young love. A hell of a thing."

—

The Monday morning after Oscar's karting championship win was business as usual — at least for everyone else.

The cafeteria stank of burnt toast and unripened bananas. Someone's rugby kit had been left to rot in the corridor again. Teachers were barking about mock exams and how important breakfast was for concentration.

Rain pattered against the high windows.

The whispers had started the moment they walked in — not mean, just curious. A mix of respect and amusement. He's the karting kid who actually did it. And she was the girl who'd been there.

They didn't hold hands in front of everyone, they were both too awkward for that, but they walked close. His bag brushed hers. Their shoulders kept touching. She caught him glancing at her more than once, and she blushed every damn time.

They sat at their usual table; Jane joined them, already mid-rant about the biology quiz, and Oscar slid into the seat beside Harper like it was instinct. A few of his mates clapped him on the back, one of them tossing out, "Bloody hell, Piastri. Gonna forget us little people soon?"

Oscar grinned but didn't rise to it. His hand brushed Harper's knee under the table.

After breakfast, Harper slipped away early. Sometimes, the morning noise was too much. She wandered toward the astro, the damp still clinging to the edges of the pitch, her trainers leaving faint impressions on the stone pathway.

A minute later, she heard footsteps behind her.

"You always going to run off without me?" Oscar's voice, soft, teasing.

She turned and squinted at him. "I wasn't running," she said.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "You okay, babe?"

Babe.

Babe. Babe. Babe.

"No," she said. "Yes. No. I don't know. I just needed to breathe."

He stepped up beside her, both of them facing the empty turf.

"You think my mum's going to be pissed when she finds out?" She asked after a minute.

He glanced sideways at her. "About you going to the race?"

"No. Yes. But I meant more about us."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. "Yeah. She probably will."

She looked at him; saw the mud-streaked, medal-wearing, boy-who-won-the-thing him. The one who kissed her under floodlights and held her on her worst days. The one she'd never trade for any high-brow, suit-wearing finance guy in any universe.

"You really aren't going anywhere, are you?" She whispered. "

He shook his head. "Not unless you're coming with me."

She stepped into his chest and sniffled a little, then looked up and lifted onto her tiptoes to let him kiss her.

—

It started as a joke.

One day in maths, Harper made a face so violently pained at the sight of a clock diagram on a worksheet that Jane nearly fell off her chair laughing.

That evening, Oscar mentioned it to the guys — just casually, in that offhand way that somehow made them all very invested in Harper's educational redemption arc.

By the weekend, there was a printed-out worksheet titled "MISSION: TEACH HARPER TO READ A CLOCK" taped to the common room wall.

It escalated quickly.

Now, every Tuesday evening, the boys' dorm turned into a chaotic, loving, entirely misguided tutoring group.

Like an off-brand of the maths tutoring program they'd thrown together for her — but with more interest.

There was Oscar, naturally, trying to be the patient one. Then Alfie, who thought yelling was teaching. Ethan, who brought snacks. And Matt, who had made a papier-mâché clock face out of a pizza box. With arrows.

Harper sat in the middle of them like a hostage.

"I'm telling you," she said, pointing wildly at the pizza box. "That one's ten. I swear. It's a ten."

Oscar, sitting cross-legged beside her, gently rotated the cardboard. "Harper, the big hand is on the two. That means it's ten past the hour. Not ten o'clock."

"Okay but how am I meant to know which hand is the minute hand? They're both just... hands."

Alfie groaned. "The minute hand is the longer one! Like, always! What do you mean 'just hands'?"

"They're not labelled!" She cried. "If someone handed you two spoons and said one was for soup and one was for jazz, would you know the difference?"

Everyone stopped.

Matt blinked. "Why would I have a jazz spoon?"

Oscar covered his mouth and tried not to laugh.

Ethan passed Harper a cookie. "Here."

She took it. "I'm just saying — numbers on a clock move. They're not meant to move." She grumbled and gave herself a frustrated forehead tap. "God, I'm so stupid."

Oscar leaned his shoulder gently against hers. "No you're not. You know that you're not, Harper. You know you're brilliant at a million other things."

She glanced at him suspiciously. "Like what?"

"You have perfect spatial memory. You memorised my whole kart setup after watching one session. You've mastered a million different coding languages already. You're good with people. You know how to read a room faster than anyone I've ever met. And," he added, deadpan, "you've successfully confused four teenage boys into thinking teaching time is a fun group activity."

She laughed then, warm and tired. "Well. Can't say I'm not a good influence, can the?"

"You're just a bit of a lost cause when it comes to clocks," Alfie muttered, re-taping the pizza clock for the fifth time.

But Harper didn't care about clocks. Not really.

Because she was surrounded. Because they kept showing up — Oscar with his soft corrections, Alfie with his shouting, Jane peeking in with popcorn halfway through every session. They all knew. About the dyscalculia, about the clocks, about her brain doing loop-de-loops over simple sums.

And none of them ever made her feel stupid for it.

Just... loved.

Even if she still couldn't tell the difference between three-forty-five and quarter past the hour (because what the hell did that even mean?).

—

It happened on the following Wednesday.

Halfway through the day, Harper was pulled from class. A quiet word from a teaching assistant, a murmured excuse. No one offered a reason why.

She thought it might be something small. Maybe Jane had accidentally set off the fire alarm again.

But then she stepped into the front office — and saw her mother sitting there, spine straight, legs crossed, lips pursed in thin, unimpressed silence.

Harper's stomach dropped.

"Come," her mother said, standing. "We'll talk in the car."

⸻

The car was parked on the far side of the lot, a sleek black town car that looked like it belonged outside a private gallery in Mayfair. Not a school car park.

Harper slid in, cold air brushing her ankles, heart thudding in her chest like it already knew what was coming.

Her mother didn't speak until the door shut.

"A karting race?" Her voice was like glass. "Karting, Harper?"

Harper blinked. "How do you—?"

"I got a call," she said, cutting her off. "From someone on the board. They saw photos. You, standing in the dirt with oil on your jeans. Smiling like you'd won the lottery. Holding hands with some, boy, in a racing suit. Do you understand how humiliating that was for me?"

"It's not—"

Her mother turned, eyes sharp and glittering. "Do you have any idea how much I've done to protect your name? Your future? And you're throwing it away for... boys who drive go-karts and call it a sport?"

Harper's hands curled in her lap. "He's not just a boy," she said quietly. "And it is a sport."

"Oh," her mother sneered, "is he your boyfriend now? Do you want to bring him to your cousin's wedding in Vienna next month? Shall we seat him between a baroness and a venture capitalist and see how long he lasts before talking about gear ratios?"

Harper flinched. "Stop."

But she didn't.

"You are not one of them, Harper. You are not some muddy little pitlane girlfriend who throws her life away for some boy with too much money and a ridiculous dream. I will not let you become a story people whisper about."

"I'm happy," Harper said, voice rising. "For once in my life, I'm actually—"

"Enough." Her mother's voice was like a slap. "We're withdrawing you at the end of term. I've already spoken to Madame Viard. There's a place for you at Lausanne International. You leave for Switzerland in January."

The silence after was suffocating.

Harper sat frozen, winded, as if someone had punched all the air out of her.

Her mother adjusted a glove, calm again. "You'll thank me someday."

But Harper wasn't listening anymore.

Her mother's jaw was clenched so tightly that a vein twitched in her temple.

"Fine," Harper said, voice low but steady.

The word dropped like a weight in the space between them.

Her mother blinked, surprised by the ease of her surrender.

But then Harper looked up — and there was fire behind her eyes. Her voice was calm, controlled, but every word burned.

"But you should know," she said, leaning forward just slightly, "that when Oscar's driving in Formula One — not if, when — and he's one of the most successful athletes in the world, I won't look back. I won't give you an inch. I'll let you sit in your wrongness and stew in it forever."

Her mother went bright red. "Do you think you're making this better for yourself?"

Harper laughed — a bitter, tired sound. "No. I know I'm making it worse. I'm very aware of how this works, Mum. I step out of line, and you slam the gates shut. But what else can I do?"

She paused, chest heaving slightly now.

"You don't listen to me. You never have. You just tell me what my life is going to be. What I wear. Who I talk to. Where I study. Who I sit next to at dinner parties like I'm some sort of accessory you place on a chair next to a financier's son. You talk through me like I'm not a human being. Like I don't have wants and desires and dreams of my own."

"Harper—"

"No. You don't get to talk now."

She didn't raise her voice — didn't need to. Every word sliced clean and deliberate.

"The worst part? The part that actually makes me want to scream? Is that I know Dad would be so happy I found someone like Oscar. That I found someone who likes me in the quietest, most awkward, most real way."

Her breath hitched — not from tears, but from the pressure of keeping them in.

"He's so bad at it. At being romantic. He blushes when I look at him for too long. He stammers when he's nervous. He opens doors and fixes my hair without saying a word. He doesn't like PDA. He frowns when he's concentrating and forgets to drink water and spends more time worrying about everyone else's lap times than his own."

She looked her mother dead in the eye.

"And yeah — he races karts. But he moved all the way here from Australia on his own at fourteen. He trains his body every single day for hours on end. He's braver than anyone I've ever met. Can you name one of your friends' sons who would've had the guts to do that? Or who would sit with me for an hour to explain how to read an analogue clock without laughing at me? Or who lets me cry without asking questions because he knows I hate explaining myself?"

Silence crackled in the car.

Her mother's lips parted — but nothing came out.

So Harper filled the space.

"You raised me to care more about perception than truth. To be polished. Obedient. Photogenic. And I'm done."

She reached for the door handle, voice like steel. "You want to send me to Switzerland? Fine. But you'll have to drag me there. Kicking and screaming."

She opened the door, letting in the sharp slap of cold air, and turned back one last time.

"Because I've finally found something that's mine. And I'm not giving it up for you. Not this time."

Then she stepped out of the car and walked back to class.

NEXT CHAPTER

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missmadella · 2 months ago

Text

His Jacket, His Girl, His Forever (Mikey x Reader)

Summary: It started with a game. Just you and Emma rating the boys of Toman during a shrine meeting, giggling about who’s hottest and who gives the best hugs. You didn’t expect Mikey to overhear. And you definitely didn’t expect him to throw his jacket over your shoulders like a claim of territory.

Words: 12280

Warnings: Soft possessiveness, clingy Mikey, a few kisses that might steal your heart, and Emma being the best wingwoman.

You met Mikey because he stole your sandwich.

Not in a cool, movie-style theft where your eyes locked across a bustling convenience store or something. No. He just walked up, took one look at your lunch, and said:

"That looks better than mine."

Then he picked it up and took a bite.

It was a Tuesday.

You blinked at him, absolutely stunned. “Excuse me?”

He blinked back, still chewing. “You gonna eat the rest?”

You were standing outside the corner store you always stopped at after class. You didn’t know who he was — not yet — just that he was barefoot for some reason and wearing a school uniform that didn’t match any of the local schools. His face was too pretty for his attitude.

You stared at him. “Did you just rob me?”

Mikey grinned. “Technically, no. You’re still holding it.”

You looked down at your half-eaten sandwich. Then back at him.

“…Are you high?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, hands on his hips like he’d done nothing wrong. “Just hungry.”

You could’ve slapped him. You really could have. But then he tilted his head, sunlight hitting his eyes just right, and he smiled like someone who’d gotten away with worse.

“…You’re insane,” you muttered.

He beamed. “You’re fun. I’m Mikey.”

You didn’t give him your name. Not at first. But that didn’t stop him from showing up the next day.

And the next.

Turns out, Mikey was a bit of a legend — whether you wanted to hear it or not.

“Manjiro Sano,” Emma said when you finally brought it up. “Leader of the Tokyo Manji Gang.”

You nearly dropped your drink. “That’s Mikey?!”

She gave you a look. “You’ve been hanging out with him for two weeks and didn’t know?”

“To be fair,” you said, thinking of how he kept showing up barefoot to random convenience stores, “he doesn’t exactly scream ‘dangerous gang leader.’”

Emma raised a brow. “Tell that to the people he’s kicked unconscious.”

“…Right.”

But it was too late by then. You’d already kind of liked him.

Because Mikey wasn’t what you expected. Sure, he was unpredictable. Occasionally terrifying. Once made direct eye contact with you while eating an entire chocolate bar without chewing.

But he also made you laugh — a lot. He had the worst jokes. The best timing. He asked questions no one else thought to ask, like:

“Do you think ghosts get bored of haunting the same place?”

Or, your personal favorite:

“If I name a goldfish ‘Shinichiro,’ is that disrespectful or kind of sweet?”

Sometimes he said nothing at all. Just showed up, walked beside you, and shared whatever snack he was carrying — even if it was only one bite. (Sometimes especially if it was only one bite.)

And over time, you noticed things.

Like how he always waited for everyone else to eat before he touched his food. Or how his eyes drifted toward the sky when the conversation got too serious, like he was trying not to remember something.

He was strange. And reckless. And a little broken.

But he made you feel seen. And more importantly — he made you feel safe.

You didn’t know when you started holding his hand without thinking. Or when he stopped pretending you were just a friend.

But one night, when you handed him a sandwich without saying anything, he looked at it, then at you, and smiled that same dumb smile from the first day.

“…You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” you said, nudging him in the ribs. “But if you steal mine again, I’m breaking your legs.”

Mikey laughed — a real, unfiltered laugh — and leaned in close.

“Too late,” he whispered, stealing a bite anyway.

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been a few weeks since Mikey had started hanging around you, and things between the two of you had definitely shifted. What started as random encounters — him stealing your food, offering random deep (and often nonsensical) questions, or showing up when you least expected it — turned into something more natural. He’d walk you home, sit next to you at the corner store, and always, always drag you to random places just because he felt like it.

But today, everything changed.

You were walking out of school, talking with Emma about the usual nonsense, when you noticed a guy from your class standing awkwardly near the gate. He was fiddling with his sleeves and looking like he was trying to work up the courage to speak.

You barely had time to process when he finally blurted out, “Hey, uh... I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Would you maybe... wanna go get coffee sometime?”

You blinked. “Um, sure...”

He grinned like he’d just won a prize. “Awesome! How about tomorrow?”

Before you could respond, the sound of roaring engines interrupted the moment. You turned, and there he was — Mikey, effortlessly gliding in on his bike, the wind ruffling his already messy hair as he slowed down in front of you. His eyes locked onto the guy immediately.

“Hey,” Mikey called out, his tone lazy but with a hard edge. The guy visibly tensed.

You watched in mild confusion as Mikey hopped off his bike, walked up to you, and stood way too close for comfort — his shoulder brushing yours like he owned the space between you. “You talkin’ to my girl?” he asked, his eyes flashing toward the guy with that signature smug smile.

The guy blinked, clearly caught off guard by Mikey’s sudden arrival and the intense, almost possessive vibe radiating off him. “Uh, I—”

“No need to answer,” Mikey cut him off, already turning to you with a grin. “I’ll take it from here, yeah?”

You raised an eyebrow, still processing the situation. “Mikey, what are you doing?”

“Claiming what’s mine.” He winked at you, hands sliding into his pockets. “I’m picking you up every day now from today, by the way. It’s a Mikey thing.”

The guy looked between you two, clearly out of his depth, and scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Uh, okay, well... I guess I’ll... see you around?”

You sighed, stepping back as Mikey leaned down, resting his chin on your shoulder like he was too comfortable. “Nope,” Mikey called after the guy, giving him a half-hearted wave before turning his attention back to you. “Now, where were we?”

You were still caught off guard. “What just happened?”

Mikey let out a lazy laugh and nudged your shoulder with his. “Nothing much. Just making sure no one else thinks they can steal you away.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “You’re mine.”

“Wait, really?” You were still trying to catch up, blinking at him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You were already mine the second you handed me your sandwich. Don’t act like you didn’t know.” He grinned at you. “So... how about it? I’ll walk you home, and then I can take you somewhere nice.”

You tried to suppress your smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you love it.”

With that, Mikey draped his arm around you and practically dragged you off, leaving the guy standing there, completely forgotten.

And from that day on, you had Mikey’s attention — a lot of it. In his own unique, clingy way, he was all yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

It was almost sunset when the low rumble of engines echoed through the quiet neighborhood, signaling the approach of the Tokyo Manji Gang.

You were already at Musashi Shrine, standing just off the path with Emma. The air smelled like burnt gasoline and cedarwood. Golden light filtered through the trees, catching on the backs of the approaching riders like something out of a movie.

“Look at them,” Emma said with a smirk, nudging your shoulder. “All dramatic and cool.”

“They’re just boys in matching jackets,” you replied, but even you knew it wasn’t true. There was something magnetic about the way they moved together — a reckless kind of unity.

The boys began filing up the steps toward the meeting spot, lining up in their usual formation. You saw Baji throw a punch at someone for a reason only he understood, and Mitsuya adjusting someone’s collar with tired precision.

And then — like clockwork — he found you.

Mikey didn’t walk. He drifted. One second, he was in front of the captains; the next, he was beside you, arms lazily draped over your shoulders like he was trying to become part of your outfit.

“There you are,” he said, like you were the one who’d been missing.

You blinked. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I know.” He leaned closer, tugging you back a step until your back bumped his chest. “But it feels longer when I’m not touching you.”

Emma made a choking noise beside you. “Oh my god.”

You ignored her and tilted your head. “Mikey—”

“Manjiro,” he corrected softly, so close to your ear it sent a little shiver down your neck.

You turned to glance at him, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone. His eyes were half-lidded, that familiar sleepy look — but there was a flicker of something more focused underneath.

“…Manjiro,” you said carefully, testing the sound of it.

His smirk deepened.

Before you could say anything else, he leaned down and pressed a quick, stupidly soft kiss to your lips — right there in front of the whole damn world.

Not rough. Not teasing. Just gentle, quick, and unmistakably his.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He pulled back barely an inch, still close enough that his forehead nearly touched yours. “That’s better,” he murmured.

Emma wheezed. “I’m right here, you two!”

You shoved at his chest, your face suddenly way too warm. “Seriously?! Right before your big gangster meeting?!”

Mikey grinned. “Gives me good luck.”

“You’re gonna make them think I’m distracting you.”

“You are distracting,” he said, absolutely unbothered.

“Manjiro—!”

He kissed your cheek this time, slow and lingering. “Mmh. Say it again.”

“Stop being weird!” you hissed, trying to push him off — but he just hung on tighter, like a very smug, very clingy sloth.

“I like when you call me that,” he said, finally loosening his grip. “Only you, though. Everyone else sounds like a teacher.”

He finally stepped back, his fingers trailing from your hand like he didn’t quite want to let go yet. “Stay where I can see you, okay?”

You rolled your eyes. “Why? Gonna get jealous if someone makes eye contact with me?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked toward the captains, completely casual — as if he hadn’t just publicly kissed his girlfriend like it was a holy ritual.

Emma leaned in with wide eyes. “So. How does it feel being claimed like territory?”

You smacked her arm. “Shut up.”

__________________________________________________________________________

The sun was starting to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows over the shrine grounds as the Tokyo Manji Gang settled into their usual positions. Mikey, ever the casual leader, was already at the center, chatting with Draken and the other captains. The air around them was tense, full of gang business that you really didn’t want to hear about.

You and Emma were sitting off to the side, legs dangling from the stone platform as you watched the boys talk shop. You could barely make out the words — something about territory and rival gangs — but honestly, the topic wasn’t new. It was the same stuff they always talked about.

Mikey, however, had a different agenda.

You were scrolling through your phone, trying to distract yourself, when you felt the familiar weight of his jacket being draped over your shoulders. You froze, glancing up just in time to see him flash a lazy grin at you from across the group.

“What’re you doing?” you asked, blinking at him.

“Making sure everyone knows you’re taken,” Mikey replied casually, shoving his hands into his pockets as he leaned against a tree. “Don’t want anyone getting any ideas.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Mikey’s “possessive” side had always been cheeky, but something about his calm expression and the weight of his jacket made it feel more real this time.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He winked. “What? You’re my girl. I gotta make sure they all know.”

Emma, who was sitting next to you, let out a dramatic sigh. “Mikey’s so whipped. It’s kind of adorable.”

“Emma,” you whispered, nudging her with your elbow, but she was already grinning from ear to ear.

Mikey overheard and grinned back at her, giving a half-shrug. “I’m not whipped. I’m just... protective.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Mikey was unpredictable, a wild mix of playful and possessive, but you liked it. You liked him.

As the conversation droned on, you felt your attention starting to wander. It wasn’t that you didn’t care about Toman’s plans, but right now, it was just a bunch of boys talking in circles about turf wars and rival gangs. You glanced at Emma, who was already bored out of her mind.

“What do you think?” you whispered. “Want to play the game again?”

Emma grinned mischievously. “I’m so in. But let’s make it more interesting.”

You glanced at Mikey, who was still fully engaged in the meeting, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on Baji as he ranted about something. He didn’t notice the playful glint in your eye. Perfect.

“Alright, let’s do it. First question, who’s the most dramatic in Toman?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

Emma grinned mischievously. “Baji. No contest.”

You couldn’t help but agree. “Yeah, he’s always throwing tantrums like he’s the main character in a soap opera.”

You glanced at Mikey again. He was still oblivious, but you could feel him shifting a little closer to you. That clinginess of his was getting real obvious.

“And... who’s the most secretly emotional?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. You weren’t going for anything too serious, just something fun to see how she’d respond.

Emma tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Draken. He’s always trying to hide it, but you know the guy’s a softie.”

You looked over at Draken, who was standing with his arms folded, looking like the stoic rock of the group. “Hmm, you’re right. You can tell he’s got a heart of gold hidden under all that tough guy exterior.”

“Okay, okay,” Emma continued. “Now... who’s the most likely to cry during a movie?”

You glanced at Mikey, who was fiddling with his phone, sitting back on the stone steps like he owned the place. Without missing a beat, you answered, “Mikey.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, amused. “Really?”

You shrugged. “I mean, have you seen him when he watches a movie? He gets emotional over the smallest things.”

Emma laughed. “I’ll take your word for it.”

You leaned in closer, trying to stifle your laugh. “Alright, next one — who’s the worst cook in Toman?”

This time, Emma didn’t hesitate. “Mikey. He can’t even make toast without burning it.”

You couldn’t help but snicker. “He once tried to make instant ramen, and the kitchen smelled like smoke for hours.”

Emma raised her eyebrows, laughing quietly. “He’s definitely not winning any cooking awards. I bet he doesn’t even know how to make eggs.”

You glanced over at Mikey just as he casually draped his arm over your shoulder again, pulling you closer like he was very aware of what you were talking about. “What are you two gossiping about over here?”

You gave him your most innocent look. “Oh, nothing. Just discussing your many... talents.”

Mikey’s eyes narrowed playfully, his lips twitching into a grin. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

You winked at him. “You’re really bad at cooking.”

He feigned shock, but his grin grew. “I can cook just fine, thank you very much. But, I guess if you don’t like my cooking, I’ll just have to feed you from now on.”

“Oh? You’re volunteering?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Mikey’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Of course. I’m a man of many talents.” He leaned in a little closer. “You’re gonna love my cooking... or my effort at it.”

Emma stifled a laugh and glanced at you. “I love how he thinks he’s so charming.”

You smirked. “He’s adorable, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to roast him when it comes to the kitchen.”

Mikey gave you a playful nudge, pretending to be offended. “I’m taking this jacket back, then. No more claiming you in front of everyone.”

“Try it, and I’ll keep it,” you shot back, leaning into him.

Mikey’s eyes flicked over to the group briefly, sensing that the meeting was winding down, and then whispered, “I’m not done yet. You can’t escape me.”

You laughed quietly, shifting your focus back to Emma, who was trying to contain her giggles.

“Alright, last question,” you said, winking at Emma. “Who’s most likely to start a fight over something stupid?”

Emma didn’t think twice. “Mikey. Hands down. He’d fight someone for the last piece of candy.”

You blinked at her. “Wait... really?”

Emma shrugged. “I mean, have you seen him when he's hangry?”

You felt Mikey’s grip tighten on your shoulder, a sly grin forming on his face as he overheard the conversation.

“That’s not true,” he said smoothly, leaning down to kiss your temple, his voice suddenly low and teasing. “I’d never fight for candy.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Oh really?”

He winked at you, voice still soft. “Okay, maybe for candy. Or, you know, you. I’d fight anyone for you.”

Before you could retort, the meeting was starting to wrap up, and Mikey shot one last smug look at the gang. He seemed far more interested in you than anything going on in the meeting.

“Guess we’re done here, huh?” Mikey said, standing up and pulling you with him. “Time to take my girl home.”

Emma rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’m pretty sure you’re the reason the meeting’s done.”

You laughed as Mikey gave Emma a playful, unbothered grin. “She’s right. You’re welcome.”

You snatched up his jacket and stood up, wrapping it around yourself like a shield from the cold. “And here I thought you were the dramatic one.”

Mikey winked, slinging an arm around you as you both made your way down the stairs. “Who else would do it better?”

Emma shook her head but smiled. “You two are impossible.”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning up at Mikey. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The meeting had finally wrapped up, the last bit of gang business taken care of. Mikey, as always, had been the first to disengage, already bouncing on his heels and ready to drag you away. His arm was still comfortably draped around your shoulders, his fingers lightly tracing the fabric of his jacket, which was now wrapped snugly around you.

“So, where are we going?” you asked, teasing him. He hadn’t even asked you where you wanted to go — it was as if the choice was already made for you.

“Wherever I want, obviously,” Mikey replied, giving you a cheeky grin. “I’m the leader, remember?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile on your face. Mikey was so Mikey — goofy, possessive, and absolutely confident. It was hard not to laugh at his antics.

Emma caught up with you both, waving you off with a grin. “I’ll see you two later. Don’t kill each other over lunch or something.”

“You’re welcome to join us!” Mikey called after her, but Emma just laughed and shook her head.

“Nah, I think I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. Enjoy fighting over where to eat.”

You shot Emma a quick look, mouthing “Thanks for the backup” as she walked off, leaving you with Mikey. He was already pulling you in a direction that you couldn’t quite place.

“So, where are we really going?” you asked, a little more curious now.

Mikey just shrugged, leading you through the streets with that same carefree attitude. “Wherever. I don’t know. As long as you’re with me, I’m good.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, looking at him sideways. “You really are impossible.”

He glanced over at you, his eyes narrowing in mock offense. “Impossible? I prefer the term ‘unpredictably fun.’”

You snorted. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Mikey didn’t let up, pulling you into a nearby cafe. It was one of those quiet little places tucked away from the hustle and bustle. He always seemed to know the best spots. Mikey led you straight to the counter, practically ordering for you without asking. The staff knew him by name — of course they did — and they didn’t even bat an eye at his antics.

When you got your food, Mikey insisted on sitting beside you in the most obnoxious, over-the-top way. He draped his arm around the back of your chair like he was marking his territory, then casually placed his drink next to yours, making sure it was as close as humanly possible.

You glanced at him, half amused and half exhausted from his clinginess. “Mikey, really?”

“What?” he asked innocently, as if nothing was unusual. “You’re my girl. I gotta be close.”

You shook your head, but it was impossible to stay mad at him. Even though his possessiveness was overwhelming, it was... endearing. In his own Mikey way, he really cared.

As you ate, you couldn’t help but let the conversation wander back to the game you and Emma had played earlier. Mikey had been half-listening to your banter with Emma, but now he seemed to be picking up on the teasing.

“So, I’m the most dramatic and the worst cook, huh?” he asked, his voice teasing. “I’m hurt.”

You smirked, giving him a sideways glance. “You know, you could’ve at least tried to cook for me.”

Mikey shrugged as he took a sip of his drink. “I’d burn the kitchen down. You’re lucky I just buy you food instead.”

“Well, if you can’t cook, then what is your talent, Mikey?” you teased.

His grin grew wider. “Everything.” He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. “But my real talent is making you happy.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re too much sometimes, you know that?”

“I know,” Mikey replied, his voice a soft hum. He raised his glass and made a toast with you. “But you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You clinked your glass against his, the light reflecting off the surface as you smiled. “Maybe not.”

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying each other’s company. It was one of those moments where everything felt right — where Mikey’s energy wasn’t overwhelming, just... comforting.

After a few minutes, Mikey suddenly leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning to you with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Alright, next round of the game. Who’s the most ridiculous in Toman?”

You smirked, already knowing the answer. “You, obviously.”

Mikey sat up straight, his expression mock-hurt. “Me? Ridiculous? I’ll have you know I’m a pillar of wisdom and sophistication.”

You snorted. “Yeah, sure. You’re like a walking disaster waiting to happen.”

He grinned widely. “Exactly. And you love it.”

You couldn’t argue with that. Mikey had a way of making his chaos seem so charming.

The conversation shifted, and Mikey got more playful, asking questions about who could really take him down in a fight, who would survive a zombie apocalypse, and even who in Toman had the worst fashion sense (to which Mikey had been quick to answer, “Definitely me, because I’m too stylish to even handle.”)

But by the end of the day, as the sun began to set, Mikey had you laughing and smiling in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

His clinginess, his silly personality, and his never-ending ability to make you the center of his world — it was impossible not to fall for him even harder.

“So,” Mikey said as you both strolled back toward the familiar streets of your neighborhood, “about that date... I’m taking you out again soon. No excuses.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re not letting me say no, are you?”

“Never,” Mikey replied, his voice full of conviction. “You’re mine.”

With that, you laughed, feeling the warmth of his presence wash over you again. “I guess I am.”

And just like that, Mikey claimed you, not just with his words, but with his laughter, his quirky charm, and that clingy little streak of his that made him impossible to resist.

___________________________________________________________________________

The moonlight bled through the half-open curtains, painting the room in soft silver. Everything was still — the house, the street, the city. Except for Mikey.

He couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t anything new. Sometimes the quiet felt too loud in his head, and he’d lie there with his arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling and thinking about things he didn’t really like to think about.

But tonight was different. You were there. Curled up in his bed with one of his pillows half-hugged and his gang jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.

He hadn’t meant for you to fall asleep in it. You’d just been hanging around after the shrine meeting, teasing him about his bad cooking and trying to steal the last rice cracker. You’d both ended up watching some old anime on his laptop, but while he was talking at full speed, you’d started nodding off.

Now, the only sound in the room was your quiet breathing.

Mikey turned on his side and watched you for a minute. The jacket looked huge on you — sleeves long enough to cover your hands, the collar a bit too wide, but it was warm and soft and unmistakably his.

A lazy smile crept onto his face.

“You look good in my jacket, y’know that?” he whispered, even though you probably weren’t awake. “Too good, actually. Kinda makes me wanna put another one on you. Just to be sure people really get the message.”

You stirred slightly, murmuring something sleepy and unintelligible, pulling the jacket closer around yourself like a blanket.

Mikey reached out, gently brushing some hair away from your face, voice even softer now. “You’re dangerous, [Name]. You make me soft.”

There wasn’t a trace of teasing in his tone now — just something quieter, more real.

“I could fight a hundred guys with a smile on my face, but the second you look at me like that, I forget how to act.”

His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching, just... close.

“You make this world feel like it’s not so heavy sometimes.”

You shifted again, eyes fluttering open for just a second. “...Manjiro?”

Mikey froze for a second, then leaned in a little with a lopsided smile. “Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You blinked slowly, voice drowsy and muffled. “You’re staring.”

“You’re wearing my jacket,” he said simply, like that explained everything.

You gave him a sleepy look. “...You’re weird.”

Mikey laughed softly under his breath. “Takes one to love one.”

You smiled faintly, eyes already drifting closed again. “You’re clingy...”

“And you like it,” he replied, smug.

Before you could argue, Mikey leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then one to your lips — soft and careful, as if even half-asleep, you were something precious.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Now go back to sleep. I’ll stay up and guard you from the nightmares.”

You mumbled something about “being dramatic,” but Mikey just smiled and pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, letting you melt back into rest with his jacket wrapped tight around you — the clearest mark that you were his.

And in that quiet room, under the weight of moonlight and his own feelings, Mikey finally let himself breathe a little easier.

___________________________________________________________________________

You felt the shift in the bed before you even opened your eyes.

Mikey had moved. Not far, just enough for you to feel the absence of his warmth next to you. The room was still wrapped in shadows, the sky outside that deep pre-dawn blue that only appeared when the world was holding its breath between night and morning.

You mumbled into your pillow. “Manjiro?”

“Right here,” he answered softly from the edge of the bed, where he was lacing up his boots — already dressed in that half-wrinkled, “I woke up like this” biker look he pulled off way too easily.

You yawned and rolled over slowly, still wrapped in his jacket like a cocoon. “Why are you up? It’s not even light out.”

He turned his head slightly, gave you that small smile — the one that looked like he knew something you didn’t. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You blinked at him. “Again?”

He stood up, walked over to your side, crouching by the bed so he was level with your sleepy face. His hair was a little messy, eyes warm but bright with something restless.

“Wanna go for a ride?”

You stared at him, still half-asleep. “Right now?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just you and me. City’s empty this early. You’ll like it.”

You snorted, burying your face into his jacket collar. “You know I was planning to skip school today anyway…”

Mikey grinned like that was exactly the answer he’d expected. “So, that’s a yes?”

You let out a long breath, then dragged yourself upright, hair tousled, eyes still a little heavy. “Yeah, okay. Just let me brush my teeth so you don’t crash the bike from second-hand sleep breath.”

He laughed, actually laughed, and leaned forward to press a kiss to your cheek before you shuffled toward the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting behind him on his bike, arms wrapped around his waist, the wind already picking up even though the sun hadn’t risen yet. The city was dead quiet, the roads almost too open — like it all belonged to the two of you.

You pressed your cheek against his back, still a little drowsy but content.

“You sure you’re not just using this as an excuse to keep me all to yourself?” you asked over the hum of the engine.

Mikey didn’t turn his head, but you could hear the grin in his voice. “Absolutely.”

You chuckled, holding on a little tighter. “Figures.”

As the wind rushed past you and the horizon slowly turned from deep blue to gold, Mikey sped up just a little — not recklessly, but enough to make your heart lift.

The city may have been asleep, but you weren’t.

Not with him.

And in that moment, wrapped in his jacket, hands on his ribs, heartbeat steady against your own — it felt like nothing could touch the two of you.

___________________________________________________________________________

The roar of the engine softened as Mikey finally slowed, pulling the bike to a stop near the edge of the wide riverbank. The sun was just beginning to rise, streaks of orange and pale gold bleeding across the sky like watercolors. The city was still far off in the distance, quiet and untouched.

You blinked against the light, stretching as you climbed off the bike, your fingers brushing against his back for balance.

“Where…?” you started to ask, but Mikey just glanced over his shoulder and gave you a half-smile.

“My favorite spot,” he said. “No one really comes out here. ‘Cept Draken sometimes, but he sleeps more than you do.”

You scoffed. “I don’t sleep that much.”

“You slept through me putting your shoes on,” he deadpanned, clearly amused. “Like a toddler.”

You glared at him, but your sleepy pout only made him grin wider. “Okay, fair.”

The river shimmered under the rising sun, its slow current gliding past with a peaceful rhythm. It wasn’t flashy — just still water, a crumbling concrete ledge, and an old vending machine nearby. But the moment you took a breath and let the quiet sink in, you understood.

There was something healing about it. It felt like time slowed down here.

Mikey sat down on the ledge and patted the space beside him. “C’mere.”

You dropped beside him, pulling his jacket tighter around your frame as the breeze picked up. He was still watching the water, eyes distant but soft.

“This is where I come when everything gets too loud,” he said after a long moment. “Gang stuff, family stuff… even my own thoughts sometimes. Out here, it’s just quiet. Real quiet.”

You nodded, not needing to say anything. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was grounding.

He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “You ever get that too? Just wanna… vanish for a bit?”

You smiled faintly. “All the time. That’s why I said yes to this, even half-asleep.”

He chuckled. “Guess we both needed it, huh?”

Another silence settled in — comfortable, easy — until Mikey turned to face you completely.

“You really do look good in my jacket,” he murmured again, but this time with more meaning behind it. “Like you belong in it. Like you belong with me.”

You tilted your head. “That a confession, Manjiro?”

He grinned. “No, that was a statement. The confession happened when I stole that kiss back at the school.”

You laughed under your breath. “Right. Forgot how bold you are.”

“I’m just honest,” he said, eyes never leaving yours now. “I want you in my life. Every day. In my jacket, on my bike, next to me at meetings — all of it. So yeah, maybe I’m clingy. But I’ve already decided.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused and touched. “Decided what?”

He leaned in just a little, voice low but firm. “That you’re mine.”

There it was again — Mikey’s bluntness. He never said things halfway. But his voice carried something steadier now. No joke, no teasing — just truth.

You looked at him for a moment, heart a little full, then gently rested your head on his shoulder.

“Took you long enough to say it like that,” you whispered.

Mikey let out a soft breath of a laugh, his arm coming around your waist. “Yeah, yeah. I get there eventually.”

You stayed like that for a while, watching the sun rise over the water, wrapped in his warmth, the silence holding you both in place. And even though the world would get loud again — school, gang drama, real life — this moment was yours.

Just you and Mikey, where it was quiet.

Where everything made sense.

___________________________________________________________________________

You were both quiet again, the sun now fully risen and casting a warm, golden glow across the water. Mikey’s arm was still lazily draped around your waist, and your head rested lightly against his shoulder. It was one of those rare, slow mornings where the whole world seemed to hush just for you two.

Then, softly—almost like it slipped out—Mikey murmured, “I wanna marry you someday.”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly to see if he was joking. But he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was still fixed on the water, eyes unreadable for a second. There was no smirk, no laugh waiting behind his lips. Just quiet certainty.

“I mean it,” he continued, a little softer now. “Not right away or anything. Just… I’ve never really thought about the future like that. Not until you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest. He didn’t say things like this often — not without a joke in his tone, not without that cheeky grin. But now he was just... honest. Serious in a way that made your breath catch.

You looked down for a second, cheeks flushing with warmth you couldn’t hide even if you wanted to. Then you smiled, wide and real, and reached for his hand.

“I can’t wait for that,” you whispered, eyes shining. “You, me, someday? That sounds perfect.”

Mikey finally looked at you then — and he beamed. Like he’d just won the world’s biggest prize. He kissed your hand, then stood up and offered his, the jacket falling perfectly into place over your shoulders again.

“Come on,” he said, that teasing sparkle returning to his eyes. “Let’s get breakfast. Or whatever meal it is when you skip school before it even starts.”

You laughed, taking his hand. “Sounds like a plan, fiancé.”

His grin? Dangerous.

“You better not say that around Draken. He’ll faint.”

___________________________________________________________________________

You were walking back through a narrow side street, heading toward a place Mikey swore had the “best melonpan in Tokyo,” when you turned a corner and—

“Oi,” a rough voice called out. “That jacket…”

You both paused.

A small group of older teens — four, maybe five guys — loitered near the vending machines, all wearing mismatched leather and chains. They weren’t Toman. Not even close.

One of them, clearly the leader, stepped forward with a sneer.

“That’s the Tokyo Manji Gang’s uniform, isn’t it?” he said, looking straight at you. “Don’t tell me they’ve got little girlfriends doing their laundry now.”

Mikey didn’t flinch. But he did step just slightly to the side, like he was getting ready to put himself between you and them.

You placed a hand lightly on his arm.

“I got this,” you said calmly.

He blinked. “What?”

You shrugged off his jacket slowly, folded it once, and handed it to him. Then you stepped forward, cracking your knuckles.

The leader scoffed. “What the hell are you—?”

You moved before he could finish the sentence — ducking low, sweeping his legs out with a sharp, practiced kick. He hit the ground with a surprised grunt, and before the others could even react, you’d already dropped two more with precise, fluid strikes.

Mikey stood there — wide-eyed, holding his own jacket — watching as you took out the last guy with a clean elbow to the gut and a twist that sent him sprawling.

You brushed your hands off casually, turned, and walked back to him like it was nothing.

“Sorry,” you said, slipping his jacket back on, still a little breathless. “Didn’t wanna get it dirty.”

Mikey stared at you.

Then blinked.

Then grinned — slow and completely floored.

“…Okay,” he said, sounding slightly dazed. “That was… hot.”

You laughed, grabbing his hand again. “Come on, melonpan, remember?”

He followed you wordlessly for a moment, then muttered under his breath, “I have to marry you.”

You just smiled to yourself, tugging him along.

___________________________________________________________________________

The smell of warm melonpan filled the air as you and Mikey sat down at a small, nearly-empty café just outside the neighborhood. The place had a cozy, nostalgic feel — the kind of place that wasn’t flashy, just serving good food. Mikey slouched a little in his seat, looking content, but there was still something in his eyes — a curiosity that hadn’t left since the moment you’d knocked out those guys in the alley.

You sipped your drink, watching him with a raised eyebrow. “What?”

Mikey leaned forward, his eyes wide with genuine interest. “You really didn’t even break a sweat. And it wasn’t like you were messing around either. You took ‘em down like… you’ve done it a thousand times.”

You bit your lip, setting your cup down. “I’ve had my share of… situations. You know, self-defense stuff.”

He nodded slowly, his face softening. “Yeah, but... why didn’t you tell me?”

You smiled a little, leaning back in your chair. “I guess I didn’t think it was that important.”

“Important?” Mikey leaned in, voice getting a little more intense. “You kicked their asses! You’re not just some random girl in my life, [Name]. You’re, well, you’re my girl and I… don’t like people messing with you.”

You felt your heart flutter a bit at the possessiveness in his voice. Even if it came across a bit bluntly, you knew it came from a good place.

“Don’t worry, I can handle myself,” you teased, “But I’ll keep the really big fights for you.”

Mikey paused for a moment, his eyes softening, and he grinned. “I’m still amazed. Like… that was amazing. Seriously, I wasn’t even expecting that.”

You laughed, feeling a bit embarrassed, but also proud of your skills. “You never asked, Mikey. You just assumed I couldn’t take care of myself.”

He pouted for a second, clearly teasing. “Well, I’m a little slow sometimes.”

“Just a little?” You raised an eyebrow, and Mikey burst out laughing.

“Okay, okay, a lot. But still, that was so cool,” he said, still looking at you in awe. “I gotta say, I like knowing you’ve got my back, even when I don’t see it coming.”

“Well,” you smiled softly, “we’re in this together. Always.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The shrine was the usual spot for Toman meetings — surrounded by the tranquil beauty of the stone steps and the rising mist from the morning dew. The gang was already gathering, sitting on the steps and the edge of the stone platforms, awaiting Mikey’s arrival.

The air was cool, the distant sound of city life buzzing in the background, but at this time of morning, the world felt quiet. Almost serene, in a way.

You had arrived with Mikey, still wearing his jacket, your presence drawing a few curious glances from the gang as you approached.

Mikey seemed unbothered by it. If anything, he was grinning, his arm slung casually over your shoulder. His pride was practically radiating off of him, and you could tell he was practically bursting to share what had happened earlier.

“Alright, alright,” Mikey began as you both reached the group, a playful edge to his voice. “So, before we get into anything important… I gotta say something.”

Draken, sitting at the top of the stairs, shot Mikey a look. “What now?”

“I’ve gotta introduce you guys to the best fighter in the gang.” Mikey’s grin was mischievous. “The one who wiped the floor with five random punks today. [Name].”

There was a beat of silence before everyone burst out into laughter. Takemichi, ever the worried one, was the first to speak.

“You’re joking, right? There’s no way—”

Mikey’s grin only widened. “No joke. She took them down like she was born for it.”

The others turned to you, eyes wide with disbelief, and you could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. “It wasn’t a big deal, guys. Just some guys talking crap.”

Draken, not one to back down from a challenge, raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re telling me you just knocked out five guys?”

You shrugged, feeling the nervous tension of all their stares. “I’ve had some training, that’s all.”

Emma, who had tagged along after your girls’ trip, chuckled as she leaned against a nearby pillar. “She’s being modest.”

“Self-defense, huh?” Mitsuya asked, clearly intrigued, eyeing you with a mix of respect and curiosity. “That’s impressive.”

You gave a slight nod. “Yeah, well, I’ve had to learn a few things. Just in case.”

The air shifted slightly — more respect, more admiration — and even Draken gave you an approving nod. “Guess we’ve got a real badass on our hands.”

Mikey, still standing next to you, looked absolutely thrilled. His eyes sparkled as he turned to the group. “You guys know how I like my gang, right? Strong, loyal, but also…” He let the words hang in the air, his grin widening. “...Not afraid to kick some ass. And now we’ve got a legit fighter on our side.”

The boys seemed impressed, and as the conversation moved forward, Mikey’s pride never seemed to wane. He kept leaning closer to you, occasionally nudging you with his elbow or stealing a glance at you, like he couldn’t stop showing off his girl.

It wasn’t long before Mikey finally sat down, pulling you onto the step beside him.

The gang had fallen into their usual chatter, but Mikey’s attention was still on you, his fingers lightly brushing against your hand. You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You’ve really been riding the high from this, huh?”

Mikey grinned, looking almost like a kid on Christmas. “You’re my girl. Of course I’m proud.”

You rolled your eyes, though your heart was warm from his excitement. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.”

“Well, you didn’t have to,” Mikey said, his voice low but with that familiar cheekiness. “You’ve already impressed me.”

Before you could respond, Draken walked over, looking between you both with that big, knowing grin on his face.

“Alright, Mikey,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve got your fighter. Now we just gotta keep her from running the whole damn gang, huh?”

The others, who had gathered near the steps, started chuckling.

Mikey just smirked, his eyes never leaving you. “Nah. She’s just gonna make sure no one messes with us.”

You shot Mikey a playful look. “You’re really not going to let this go, huh?”

“Not a chance,” Mikey said, squeezing your hand gently.

___________________________________________________________________________

As the meeting began to progress, more questions started popping up. The group was still buzzing about your fight. You hadn’t expected this kind of attention, but it was fun to see everyone’s reactions.

“Alright, but seriously, what kind of training are we talking about here?” Takemichi asked, leaning in as if trying to figure out your secret. “You can’t just become that good overnight.”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Boxing, some martial arts… a little bit of everything. Just wanted to make sure I can protect myself.”

Emma, always the one with a mischievous edge, nudged you with a smile. “You know, Mikey’s a little territorial, huh? Think he’ll keep the boys in line for you?”

“Stop it, Emma,” Mikey grumbled, though his eyes were still twinkling as he shot a look at you. “I don’t need to keep anyone in line. Not when she’s got it handled.”

Draken just shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “You guys are something else. Never thought I’d see Mikey all proud of his girl like this.”

Mikey puffed out his chest, not in arrogance but in pure pride. “She’s not just any girl. She’s my girl.”

The entire group seemed to settle into a comfortable quiet, respect mingling with that familiar teasing atmosphere. Mikey wasn’t just proud of you for your strength. It was everything you were — the way you fit into Toman, how effortlessly you blended into their chaotic world, yet still stood out. And Mikey? He was absolutely, unapologetically in love with that.

You leaned into his shoulder, letting the peaceful quiet settle around you again.

"Guess we're all in this together now," you murmured, a slight grin tugging at your lips.

"Always," Mikey said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Now, let’s get this meeting over with.

__________________________________________________________________________

The meeting had officially fallen apart.

It started small — just you and Emma whispering to each other at the edge of the group while Draken tried his best to keep the meeting serious. But then you laughed. Loud enough that heads turned.

That’s when Mikey narrowed his eyes.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, lounging beside you but already suspicious.

Emma leaned over, hand cupped around her mouth. “We’re playing ‘Toman Superlatives.’”

“...What?”

You grinned. “It’s like… ‘who would survive a zombie apocalypse,’ or ‘who has main character energy.’ That kinda thing.”

“You’re doing this during my meeting?”

“It’s Draken’s meeting,” Emma corrected.

Draken, overhearing, raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want it either.”

“Carry on,” Mikey said, waving a hand like a bored emperor — but leaning closer like he very much wanted to hear your answers.

Emma smirked. “Okay, okay—next one. Who’s most likely to cry at a sad movie?”

You pointed. “Takemichi.”

“WHY ME?!” Takemichi shouted from the sidelines.

Everyone nodded.

“Okay but true,” Chifuyu said, patting his back. “You cried at Spirited Away, bro.”

“It was emotional!” Takemichi protested.

Emma grinned. “Alright, who gives the best hugs?”

You tapped your chin, eyes flicking across the group. “Draken. He’s tall and warm. I feel like he smells nice.”

Draken blinked. “...Thanks?”

Mikey’s head whipped toward you. “Excuse me?!”

“You don’t smell like anything, Mikey,” you said sweetly.

“I smell like power and mystery,” he deadpanned.

“Power and mystery smells like gasoline and melon bread,” you teased.

The gang cackled. Even Draken cracked a smile.

Emma was dying, holding onto your arm. “Okay, okay—this one’s good. Who would be the most dramatic if their crush didn’t text back right away?”

Everyone pointed at Mikey.

He looked personally offended. “ME?! I don’t even text! I show up.”

“Exactly,” you said. “You showed up at my classroom window once because I didn’t answer.”

“You left me on read,” he said defensively.

“It was five minutes, Mikey.”

“Too long.”

More laughter rippled through the gang, and for once, even Mitsuya chuckled behind his usual calm smile.

Emma leaned in again, eyes twinkling. “Who’s most likely to flirt without realizing it?”

“Smiley,” you and Emma said in sync.

“He absolutely knows what he’s doing,” Mitsuya added. “He just pretends he doesn’t.”

Smiley raised his hands innocently. “I’m charming. It’s a problem.”

Mikey leaned toward you again. “Okay, your turn. Who would you call first if you were in trouble?”

You paused.

The teasing faded for just a second. You looked at Mikey — the way he was watching you, clearly waiting for the answer.

Your smile softened. “You.”

He blinked. “Me?”

“You’d be there in a second,” you said. “No questions asked. No matter what.”

The silence that followed was warm. No one teased. No one joked.

Mikey’s expression relaxed, his cheeky energy softening just enough to let the affection shine through.

“Damn right,” he said quietly, reaching out to tug the sleeve of his jacket up on you again. “That’s what you’ve got me for.”

Emma leaned against you, smiling. “Okay, but you still didn’t pick him for hottest.”

“I am the hottest,” Mikey muttered.

“Still Mitsuya,” you said under your breath.

“I heard that!”

The boys laughed again, and you nestled into Mikey’s side, his arm curling around your waist like it was second nature.

The meeting may have started serious, but this — these moments, with jokes, teasing, and your fingers brushing against his — this was what family felt like in Toman.

And you were finally, completely part of it.

___________________________________________________________________________

The meeting finally broke apart, boys peeling off in pairs, loud voices fading into the evening air as they headed toward their bikes. You and Mikey lingered behind, walking down the long stone steps with his hand loosely curled around your wrist.

He hadn’t said much since the game ended.

That should’ve been your first clue.

You glanced at him — he wasn’t pouting exactly, but his mouth was pressed in that little line it made when he was pretending something didn’t bother him. His eyes were fixed ahead, lashes low, but you could feel the shift in energy like static.

“…You good?”

“Yep.”

Liar.

You stepped in front of him, halting him just before the last step. “You’re mad I didn’t say you were the hottest, aren’t you?”

He looked away with exaggerated disinterest. “I said I’m fine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Manjirō.”

He finally looked at you — pout fully formed now. “I’m your boyfriend and you said Mitsuya.”

You tried not to smile. “Because Mitsuya is handsome.”

“Yeah, but I’m me,” he said, as if that alone should’ve won every category. “Your me.”

You laughed softly, stepping closer and brushing his hair back from his eyes. “You want me to kiss it better?”

His ears turned pink. “...Maybe.”

So you did.

Right there on the bottom step, you leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his pouty mouth — then another, right on his lips. Slow and warm and full of something that made his hand tighten around your wrist again.

When you pulled back, his cheeks were a little red.

“Better?” you whispered.

He hummed. “One more. Just in case.”

You laughed again, but gave it to him — and this time, he pulled you with him as he turned and walked toward his bike, hand still wrapped firmly around your wrist like he wasn’t letting go ever again.

His motorbike was leaned against a tree near the edge of the shrine path, moonlight glinting off the chrome. You’d barely turned your head to look at it before Mikey tugged you in, sitting on the seat and pulling you between his legs with ease.

You rested your hands on his shoulders. “We’re not going yet, are we?”

“Nah,” he mumbled, arms sliding around your waist. “Just wanna sit with you.”

He leaned forward, head pressing to your stomach, sighing like he’d finally gotten what he wanted. Your fingers threaded through his hair automatically, soft and slow.

“You’re really that offended?”

“I’m not offended,” he muttered into your hoodie. “I just wanted you to say I’m hot.”

“You’re hot,” you said without missing a beat.

“Too late.”

“Mikey.”

He looked up, chin resting against your ribs. “I forgive you,” he said seriously. “But only if you ride with me tomorrow.”

You grinned. “Was planning to.”

His smile softened, hands still locked around your waist, holding you there like you might float away.

“You look good like this,” he said quietly. “With my jacket. With me.”

Your heart stuttered — again. He always did that. Just when you thought he was done being serious, he slipped in something so soft it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“I like being yours, y’know,” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

You bent down, kissed his forehead gently. “Yeah.”

He looked like he was trying not to smile too wide — but failing.

“Then stay a little longer.”

You didn’t need to answer. You just curled into his lap, his jacket big enough to cover you both from the cool night air, the sounds of engines echoing in the distance, and the warmth of Mikey’s arms around you making the shrine feel like your own little world.

___________________________________________________________________________

The sky was still painted in sleepy pinks and quiet oranges when your phone buzzed.

[Mikey💀] "Outside. Get on. We’re skipping school."

You blinked at the message, then peeked out your window.

There he was.

Leaning against his prized motorbike, arms crossed, the wind tossing his blond hair slightly, looking way too proud of himself for someone who probably hadn’t slept more than four hours. His uniform jacket hung lazily off his shoulders, and his helmet dangled from two fingers like a promise.

Of trouble. And something softer.

You didn’t even hesitate.

By the time you slipped out your door, Mikey’s eyes lit up like you were the sunrise itself.

He held out the helmet immediately. “You took too long. I almost came up and carried you out.”

“You would’ve,” you said flatly.

“I should’ve,” he said, helping you clip the strap under your chin, his fingers brushing your jaw like he had to touch you.

“Where are we going?”

He smirked. “Wherever you want. But first, we ride.”

On the Road – Wind and Freedom

There was something about riding with Mikey that didn’t feel like real life. Maybe it was the way he drove — fast but sure, reckless but safe in his own weird way. Maybe it was the way the city blurred past, or how your arms fit perfectly around his middle, your cheek pressed against his back.

But most of all, it was the silence between you — warm, unspoken understanding that didn’t need filling.

The city faded. The buildings shrank. And then you reached it.

The Waterfront – His Favorite Place

The same quiet spot from before — the wide edge of the river where the world seemed to pause. The water stretched out smooth and silver under the early morning light, and the breeze was gentle, lifting Mikey’s hair as he cut the engine.

He parked, leaned the bike gently down, and held your hand as you hopped off — not letting go even when you were both standing.

“This place’s been mine forever,” he said softly, tugging you with him toward the edge. “But now it feels like it’s yours too.”

You smiled. “You always bring me to the quiet places.”

He looked at you — really looked. “You’re my quiet place.”

Your heart squeezed.

Then, as if he realized how serious that sounded, he added quickly, “And because you're hot. I wanna keep you where no one else sees you.”

You shoved his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours,” he said smugly, sitting on the concrete ledge and pulling you into his lap without even asking.

You settled there, warm in the morning sun, his arms wound lazily around your waist again.

“You’re clingier than usual.”

He nodded against your shoulder. “Didn’t get enough time with you last night.”

You tilted your head. “We sat on your bike for almost two hours.”

“And it still wasn’t enough.”

You kissed the top of his head, your fingers playing with his hair.

He tilted his head back, eyes half-lidded with sleep and affection. “Marry me.”

You blinked. “You’re doing this again?”

He grinned. “I meant it. Sooner or later, I’m locking you down.”

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure — then pulled back just far enough to whisper, “Then I hope it’s sooner.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The breeze rolled in gentle waves, brushing across your skin like a whisper. Mikey rested his head on your shoulder, legs dangling over the concrete ledge where the river lapped below. For a long moment, he was quiet. Not out of awkwardness — just content.

But you could feel something stirring beneath the stillness.

He was thinking.

You didn’t rush him. Not with Mikey. When he was ready, he spoke.

“…Y’know when I was a kid,” he started, voice low, “I thought I had to be the strongest person alive.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes on his profile.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“I thought if I wasn’t strong… I’d lose everything. My brother. My gang. My people. So I decided I’d never show fear. Never slow down. Just keep pushing.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak. Letting him be.

He shifted slightly, arms still around your waist but his hands resting in his lap now.

“But you…” he said, almost like he was thinking out loud. “You don’t ask me to be strong. Or scary. You don’t even look at me like that.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

“Like the rest of them do,” he said, glancing at you. “Like I’m some kind of unstoppable thing.”

You tilted your head. “You are strong, Mikey. But you’re also… kind. And funny. And stubborn. And incredibly dramatic.”

He smirked a little at that.

“And when you’re with me,” you continued, brushing your thumb across his knuckles, “you don’t have to be anything. Not the Invincible Mikey. Not the leader. Just… Manjirō.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned in slowly and pressed his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“That’s why I wanna marry you someday,” he murmured. “Not just ‘cause I love you. But ‘cause with you… I’m not afraid to just be me.”

The weight of his words settled between you like a second heartbeat.

You kissed him, soft and slow and full of every unspoken promise.

When you pulled back, you smiled against his lips. “Then I’ll wait for that day. As long as you want. I’m already yours, Manjirō.”

His arms slid tight around you again, pulling you flush against him as he buried his face into your neck with a sigh.

“Can we stay here a little longer?” he mumbled.

You rested your chin on his head. “Yeah. As long as you need.”

And so you sat — wrapped in each other, in the quiet, in the safety of being seen — as the river flowed and the morning sun painted the world golden.

___________________________________________________________________________

It had been quiet for a while.

The kind of warm, sleepy silence only people who are deeply comfortable with each other can share. The sky was fully awake now, soft blue stretching above you, while the city remained distant, forgotten.

Mikey still had you wrapped up in his arms on his lap, chin tucked onto your shoulder like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

And then, out of nowhere—

“Okay. So if we had twins…”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Mikey said, completely casual, like you’d been having this conversation. “If we had twins. A boy and a girl.”

You turned to look at him. “Where is this coming from?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “I think we’d make cute babies. It’s a valid thought.”

Your face burned. “Mikey—”

“Manjirō,” he corrected smugly.

You lightly smacked his chest. “You’re skipping way too many steps.”

He leaned his chin in his hand dramatically. “Don’t act like you didn’t just promise to marry me.”

You laughed, trying to hide your flustered smile. “Okay, fine. Twins. What are their names?”

“Glad you asked,” he said, sitting up straighter like he’d been waiting for this. “For the boy—Shin.”

“…Shin?”

“After Shinichiro. But just ‘Shin.’ Cool and strong. Simple. Like, ‘Oh no, Shin’s mad again.’ That kind of vibe.”

Your heart clenched a little at the mention of his brother, but the fondness in his voice made you smile.

“That’s actually… really sweet.”

“I know.” Then he grinned. “And for the girl…”

“Oh no.”

“Her name’s gonna be Pudding.”

You choked.

“Mikey—!”

“Manjirō,” he said again, grinning wider.

“You are not naming our child Pudding.”

“Why not?” he shrugged. “It’s cute. She’d be cute. Everyone loves pudding.”

You gave him your best unimpressed stare.

“…Fine,” he said with a fake sigh. “I’ll compromise. Her nickname can be Pudding. Her full name can be something like… Hikari. Or Yuzu.”

You blinked. “Yuzu’s really cute…”

He lit up. “Right?! Yuzu and Shin. Boom. Perfect.”

“Shin and Yuzu,” you repeated under your breath, testing the way it sounded. “That’s actually… adorable.”

Mikey leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky with the most self-satisfied smirk on his face. “Told you. I’m a genius.”

You glanced at him, at the messy hair and the way the morning light caught on his lashes, at the soft curve of his grin and the boyish glint in his eye.

“…You’d actually be a good dad,” you said, quieter than you meant to.

His smirk faded into something gentler.

“Only ‘cause I’d have you,” he said.

And just like that, the teasing melted back into something warmer. Realer.

He pulled you back into his lap again, hugging you like you were already his future, not just his present.

And maybe… you were.

___________________________________________________________________________

The same riverbank.

Years had passed, but Mikey still liked to come here. Still parked his bike at the edge of the slope, still kicked back with his hands behind his head, like he was king of the world and the sky existed just to amuse him.

But now, the boy was a man.

Still lazy-eyed and sun-touched, still with wind in his hair and that devil-may-care smirk — but something in him was more solid now. A spine of quiet strength. Eyes that had seen a little more but lost less. This time, he’d held onto what mattered.

And what mattered… was currently leaning her head on his shoulder, laughing at one of his stupid jokes.

You.

“You remember the first time I dragged you out here?” he asked, voice low but grinning.

“Dragged? I remember you begged me for a bike ride because you couldn’t sleep.”

“I did not beg,” he scoffed. “I persuaded.”

“Sure, Manjirō.”

He smirked, then nudged your temple with his own. “You were so nervous that night.”

“You tried to name our imaginary daughter Pudding.”

“She’s still on the list.”

You laughed, and for a while, you both just watched the river shimmer. The way it had back then. Before everything got bigger. Before Toman became a name whispered in every back alley with both fear and awe. Before Mikey became a living legend.

But with you, he was still the same dork who stole your fries and your heart.

So when he shifted beside you and said, “Close your eyes,” you did.

No questions. Just trust.

You felt him move. Heard the rustle of fabric. Then silence.

And then:

“Okay. Open.”

You turned — and your breath caught.

Mikey was sitting cross-legged in front of you, holding a ring between his fingers like it wasn’t heavy with meaning. Like it was just a ring. But his eyes… told a different story.

He wasn’t nervous.

He was glowing.

“I’m not gonna do some long speech,” he said. “I think you already know.”

He reached forward, gently taking your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he was trying to memorize them again.

“I love you. Like, idiotically much. Always have. Always will. I wanna eat breakfast with you every morning, and argue about baby names, and hold your hand when we’re eighty and I’ve got bad knees and saggy cheeks.”

You let out a teary laugh, but he was dead serious now.

“I wanna be your husband,” he said. “Not someday. Now.”

Then, softly:

“Marry me.”

The words settled between you like sunlight — warm and real and undeniable.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes. Manjirō… yes.”

And that was it. He slipped the ring on like he’d always known where it belonged. Then pulled you in, kissed you like the world could end right there and he’d still be smiling.

Afterward, still holding you against his chest, he whispered:

“You’re gonna look so good in my last name.”

___________________________________________________________________________

If you thought being Mikey’s girlfriend was eventful, being his fiancée was like trying to plan a royal wedding during a gang meeting.

Which, unfortunately… was kind of exactly what it turned into.

You told Emma first — of course you did.

The moment you showed her the ring, her scream echoed across the café.

“HE FINALLY DID IT?!”

You barely had time to nod before she threw her arms around you, squealing like she’d just won the lottery. Which, to be fair, she kind of felt like she had.

“I’m going to plan everything,” she declared, already grabbing napkins to sketch ideas. “No—Mitsuya and I are going to plan everything. You’re going to have the most beautiful wedding Tokyo has ever seen.”

“Emma, I love you, but I don’t want to wear something with feathers and glitter—”

“Tasteful glitter,” she corrected.

Later, you told the rest of Toman at a casual gathering Mikey claimed would be “lowkey.”

Spoiler: it was not lowkey.

Mikey, with his usual subtlety, dropped the news mid-lunch like, “Oh yeah, I proposed. She said yes. Pass the soy sauce.”

Takemichi nearly choked on his noodles.

Smiley and Angry immediately started arguing about who would cry first at the wedding.

Draken just smirked and clapped Mikey on the back. “About time.”

Mitsuya pulled out a notebook. “When’s the fitting?”

You turned to Mikey. “You didn’t even ask if I wanted a big wedding.”

He shrugged, completely shameless. “Didn’t think you’d say no. Besides, if you did, we’d just ride off somewhere and do it alone.”

Everyone laughed—except you, because you knew he meant it.

__________________________________________________________________________

Your phone buzzed that night. A text from Mikey.

“You still wanna do this, right?”

You smiled, heart warm.

“Absolutely. Why?”

“Dunno. Just… can’t believe I get to marry you.”

You bit your lip, feeling the butterflies stir.

“You’re soft.”

“Only for you.”

“Go to sleep, Manjirō.”

“Can’t. Too excited.”

You stared at his last message for a moment. Then texted back:

“Me too.”

___________________________________________________________________________

The sun was golden over the shrine, soft and slow as it spilled across the worn stone steps. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, the air filled with faint traces of incense and the rustle of silk. It was traditional, timeless — just like Mikey wanted it.

Just like he always dreamed.

He stood with his hands tucked in the sleeves of his black montsuki, embroidered in silver with the Tokyo Manji insignia hidden within the family crest on the back. His hair was loose today, a little windswept, soft strands falling over his eyes.

He looked calm. He looked ready.

But his thumb was brushing circles against the inside of his sleeve.

Draken leaned in from behind him. “You nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” Mikey said.

“You’re twitching.”

“I’m not twitching,” he said. Then blinked. “…Okay. Maybe a little.”

Draken smirked. “Good. Means you actually care.”

Mikey rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

He was nervous.

Because you were everything.

___________________________________________________________________________

You were standing in front of the mirror as Emma adjusted the delicate hairpin at the side of your head, a deep breath caught somewhere in your chest.

“Okay, look at me,” she said, stepping back. “You are… breathtaking.”

You turned, eyes wide and shimmering. The white uchikake you wore shimmered with a subtle pattern of cranes and chrysanthemums — hand-sewn by Mitsuya, of course — and your obi was fastened in a delicate lotus bow, soft pink threading woven into it for good luck.

“Emma,” you whispered. “It’s really happening.”

She smiled, misty-eyed. “I know. He’s really doing it. You broke the curse, you know?”

You blinked. “Curse?”

“The Manjiro ‘never-gonna-marry-because-he-says-he’s-married-to-his-bike’ curse. You shattered it.”

You both laughed, clutching each other’s hands tightly.

Then, the doors opened.

The shrine was quiet — not tense, just reverent.

Toman members lined both sides of the main path in formal black. No one cracked jokes. Even Smiley looked serious. Even Baji’s ghost, if he were there, would’ve stayed quiet out of respect.

Because when Mikey turned and saw you walking toward him — radiant, sure, the very image of love and calm and everything he’d never deserved but somehow got — the whole world stilled.

His breath caught.

His heart ached in the best way.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Draken nudged him.

“You look like a kid who just got all the candy.”

He ignored him.

Because you had reached him. You were standing in front of him. You were about to become his wife.

And Mikey, for the first time in a long time, didn’t feel like the leader of anything.

He just felt yours.

The priest read the words. You exchanged sake cups. You bowed together before the altar.

And when Mikey turned to face you again, his voice was soft — but his words landed like thunder.

“I was a storm before you,” he said, not caring about tradition. “But you… you make me want peace. Every day. And I’ve never wanted anything more than I want this.”

You didn’t even try to stop the tears. You smiled through them.

“I already feel like your wife,” you whispered. “But I’m so, so happy to be it in name too.”

He kissed you then — traditional timing be damned — and the crowd broke into quiet, reverent cheers.

Toman, at his back.

His future, in his arms.

___________________________________________________________________________

The room was quiet.

Not silent — the sound of water in the garden beyond the sliding doors still trickled peacefully, and the soft rustle of silk and linen moved as Mikey sat behind you, undoing the intricate layers of your wedding attire with slow, careful hands.

Neither of you had spoken much since the reception ended.

He didn’t need to.

The moment you stepped through the door of the traditional inn he’d chosen — away from the speeches, the dancing, the playful shouting of drunk Toman boys — Mikey had taken your hand and held it like it was the only thing grounding him to the earth.

“You’re really mine now,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder.

You turned in his arms, hands against his chest. “I was always yours, Manjirō.”

He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe it. Like even now, after everything, you were a dream he hadn’t quite earned. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away the last traces of makeup, the last glitter from Emma’s wild ceremony touch-ups.

“You looked beautiful today,” he said. “But not as beautiful as you do right now.”

You smiled, eyes shining. “You said that during the vows.”

“I meant it then, too.”

And then, softly:

“Can I hold you? Like… really hold you?”

You nodded, and the two of you lay down together on the futon. No rush. No urgency.

Just the weight of forever, finally within reach.

He kissed you slow. Not like the goofy kisses he’d steal at the shrine, or the teasing ones on your neck during bike rides. This was different. Intentional. Reverent.

He kissed you like a vow.

Fingers laced with yours. Arms around your waist. His voice in your ear, quiet and slightly rough:

“You’re my home.”

Morning came gently.

He was already awake, blinking at the ceiling with your hand resting over his bare chest, thumb twitching slightly in your sleep.

He glanced at you.

His wife.

His light.

His everything.

“Still here,” he murmured, smiling faintly.

You stirred, squinting at him. “Where else would I go?”

Mikey grinned, leaning in to steal a lazy, sleepy kiss. “Just checking.”

The years ahead stretched out wide and open — with Toman standing strong, with people he trusted at his side, and with you curled up next to him in his arms. For once, the future didn’t look heavy.

It looked like peace.

It looked like breakfast together in oversized shirts and soft hair and his jacket hanging next to your coat on the wall. Like you teasing him for talking in his sleep. Like picking baby names again on the balcony in the evening. Like safety.

And every now and then — when the world outside got loud — he’d pull you close and murmur in your ear like he did on the first night:

“Say it again.”

And you would.

“I love you, Manjirō.”

Always.

752 notes · View notes

sophiethewitch1 · 1 year ago

Text

What We Want - Chpt. 6 - Round Two. Fight!

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

Damn. Your indulgent TV stalking of the Wayne’s really doesn’t hit the same once you technically knew them. And you were hiding inside one of their bedrooms, inside one of their clothes, using their TV subscription. It just didn’t feel right. Morally, of course, but that wasn’t what you were talking about. No, you were just pissy your favourite pastime was basically ruined. You shovel another spoonful of cookie dough ice cream into your mouth, glaring through tired eyes at the screen.

There’s an up-close shot of Dick Grayson’s abs. The presenter ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over his physical form, and you have to agree. You wish you had abs like that. Unfortunately, you did respond to most unwanted experiences with stress eating. As always with these celebrity figures, you can’t really tell if you want to be Dick or be with Dick. Your butt is nowhere near the level his is at.

While you hadn’t really set out today looking for shirtless pictures of the Waynes, it wasn’t like you were going to say no to them. So, when the gossip channel had switched from the reactions of the Waynes to last night’s fiasco to… this… you’d just kept watching.

You wonder if you should stop doing this. It’s definitely kind of creepy, and now you’d technically once been his… step-sister. What a mind fuck. You’ve been crushing on these dudes for a while, and now they were your ex-step siblings. This was like the start of a bad porno, but you knew you were not that lucky. And it wasn’t like you were going to start thinking of him as a brother any time soon. You hadn’t even met the guy. No, he was still firmly in the ‘celebrity crush’ section of your mind. Pretty and untouchable. The way things are supposed to be.

Which was also bad because you would probably have to meet and interact with him at some point. Probably in the near future. God knows you’d absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the fucking Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne,. Twice, in fact. You didn’t even want to think about the display you’d shown for Bruce Wayne or Damian Wayne.

You didn’t really know what to do with your slightly obsessive crushes. And you could see it definitely being a problem in the near future.

…You decide that what you do in your private time is absolutely nobody but your business, and keep watching. It’s a mix of bitter spite and genuine mental breakdown levels of desperation that leads you to that decision. You feel like you’re a child with their toy being taken away, and it’s making you mad. And sad too. Even if you shouldn’t do this anymore, you still want to keep the habit. You’d mentioned before your creature comforts were one of the few things that kept you going. And while you were mostly very good at not being the jealous, heinous creature you really are, you knew you wouldn’t be giving this up.

They’d have to tear your gossip channels from your cold dead palms. You weren’t giving them up, not without a fight at least. Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed determined to wrestle away literally everything you loved.

Guilt’s for tomorrow. Today is for ice cream and purposefully ignoring everything. Speaking of which, you can not remember the last time you had a good Ben & Jerry’s. They were so expensive these days, as all groceries were. You simply couldn’t afford it. The Waynes, of course, had multiple tubs in multiple different options. Alfred had seemed delighted that you’d taken the ice cream, for which reasons you could not perceive.

Oh, yeah! His name was Alfred. Very butler-y. You’d remember it this time, he was a very nice man. And he called you ‘young miss’ which earned him points. He also didn’t seem to hate you on sight or treat you like a two-headed freak, like some of the other people in this household. Not naming names. Yeah, fuck that noise, Damian Wayne obviously has issues and it’s much less attractive in real life.

The woman drones on, and your eyes flick to your phone. Yup, she’s still yapping. It’s not like you don’t appreciate Dick’s abs or anything, it’s just that you think she might’ve been talking about this one specific photo for over half an hour now. Lady should get a hobby. Wait, wait, this is her job. Maybe you should start a podcast where you rant about the Wayne’s exercise regimes. It seems to be quite a lucrative field.

You shriek when the door slams open, nearly tumbling backwards off the bed. Hands manage to grip the bedcovers before you tip over, not making a complete fool of yourself. As it goes, you lose your spoon to the carpet. Bits of cookie dough spread over the floor in a divine sacrifice. And you lose your sanity to the man standing in the doorway. To be fair, he looks just as confused as you feel.

You blink at the physically perfect form of Dick Grayson and then turn your head to the TV to look at the other physically perfect form of Dick Grayson.

…You really wish you had a good explanation for this.

He mutters out your name, lips parted. Dick Grayson seems absolutely shocked to find you here. His eyes flick around the room and eventually land on the TV. Said baby blues widen to the size of saucers when the reporter makes a really, really unnecessary comment.

“And in news that broke the hearts of both ladies and gentlemen everywhere in Bludhaven, Dick Grayson has announced he will be returning to Gotham to assist his family in this difficult time. My cousin in the Blud is probably crying right now. There’s no ass out there quite like his, and there’s no replacement for Bludhaven’s favourite young rich bachelor,” she winks at the camera, and then the shot of his toned stomach phases forward to take up the entire screen.

Well, there’s a lot to say about that. First of all, fuck. Second of all, shit. Third of all, she really couldn’t have said that part about Dick coming back to Gotham sooner? Perchance, before you’d found yourself in this situation?

You said you weren’t that lucky, you meant it.

“But still, ain’t that lucky for us Gothamites? I myself have spent a lot of time on Dick’s Tiktok and Instagram, and his acrobatic videos have been used in a lot of my personal-”

You snatch the remote from the sheets and pause it right there. The silence is tense. You wait for him to say something, but he just stares at you. Completely stunned, mouth-catching flies. You want to pull the covers up and hide under them, but you don’t think that’d make him leave.

“I couldn’t find my room,” you finally manage to say. It’s the worst excuse you’ve ever heard, sounds like a complete lie. And yet, unfortunately, it is the truth.

Dick’s eyes drift to the TV, which you still haven’t unpaused. You can’t tell if it would be worth it, just to get rid of his golden brown abs staring at you judgementally, even if you’d have to deal with the extra embarrassment of the dialogue over them. Maybe if you muted the TV? It wouldn’t make up for the insult of his paparazzi photos on a widescreen.

It takes you even longer to come up with an excuse for… that.

“I was checking the news about last night,” you continue, the panic in you rising like a tea kettle left on the stove for too long. You might start shrieking like one too.

You don’t think he believes you. He looks down at the Beatles shirt you’re wearing. You know what he’s going to say before he does, but you still dread it.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” he mutters, his voice awed.

You want to say, ‘Nooo! No, no, no! Don’t do this to me, damn it! Not anymore! No more, please! It’s enough, enough suffering! This is genuinely ridiculous, damn you!’ but instead you reply with a shaky, “…Didn’t have any of mine.”

Also, you’ve been huffing Eau de Dick Grayson? That’s definitely in character for you. You want to beat your own head in with a stick.

“And I couldn’t find my room, and uh, thought this one wasn’t being used,” you continue, daring a glance back at him. He still looks completely stumped.

“It wasn’t,” he answers, but it sounds like he’s a thousand miles away.

You know, Dick Grayson was supposed to be a lot more charming than this. You’re almost proud you managed to stun the man into near speechlessness. Almost, almost. Almost not going to kill yourself once he leaves.

If he leaves. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up. You eye the gap between you and the door. Your animal brain is telling you to just run for it. But Dick has Olympic level athletics, and you don’t doubt he could catch you if you ran. Would he try though? That’s the deciding factor here.

He doesn’t seem like he’s actually going to fucking do anything though. He just keeps staring, like if he looks for long enough, it’ll all start to make sense. Which, you wish.

“Do you know where my room is? I couldn’t… remember…”

He nods, instead staring at his own abs on the TV.

“Can you take me to my room?”

He nods again. Still doesn’t look back at you.

“…Mr. Grayson?” you say, and almost immediately regret it. ‘You’ wouldn’t have used his last name, even though you might’ve. ‘You’ had been a casual person, as far as you could tell. That was the kindest way you could say it, at least.

His head snaps to you. He somehow looks more confused. You wonder if you should pinch him or something, god knows you’ve done your fair share of pinching yourself recently.

“Yes, right, sorry. Let’s… go,” he gives you a cheery smile, shaking his head, but it seems quite strained. You’re probably matching. This is the most humiliating moment of your life, and of course, it’s with the most beautiful man on earth right beside you.

A break. You want a break.

The two of you quietly shuffle out of the room, and when he guides you forward, you follow him obediently. Your head naturally bows, shame making it hard to look at him. You stare at the wooden floors as you walk. Watching it shine in the morning light that filters through the windows.

Eventually, he comes to a stop in front of a door that has obviously been avoided. Though it’s as clean as every other inch of this house, there are no marks in the rug from the door opening and closing. And even then, it seems… well, it sounds silly, but the door seems sad to you. Too many things seem sad to you these days.

Your thoughts must show on your face because Dick clears his throat and gives you a worried look. Is it rude to say you’re sick of those sorts of looks? That they just make you feel sick and burdened these days? It’s not like you could bring your family back from the dead, or convince your cheating boyfriend to not be a piece of shit. It was out of your hands.

“…Are you alright?” he asks you, blue eyes sincere. You tilt your head to the side.

“No?” you say, but it sounds more like a question. No, you are not alright. Yes, you will be okay. It’s the only option. It’s one of your rules. You have to be okay. You just have to.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” this time your voice is firm, confident. Dick seems like he’s going to push it, but something in your eyes makes him stop. You give him a forced smile and say goodbye, closing the door gently in his face. Once you do, you crouch down and once again, press your face to your knees. Then you press your hands to your mouth and let out a scream that had been bubbling up for a while. After that, you feel you can live with the humiliation that is your existence without jumping out the three-story-height window.

You stand up, turning to the room. The first thing you notice about it is that there’s dust in here. Same as Dick’s old room. Now that you think about it, Alfred doesn’t seem the type who’d randomly leave certain rooms uncleaned, so it must be something he does out of respect for the tenants of Wayne Manor. Or maybe the old you requested it? God knows.

Sitting down on the old bed, your eyes rove around the room. It’s well decorated, as the rest of the manor is, but you can’t see anything that would make it your room. There’s none of the novels you’d collected from the used books store, no dorky little items you impulse bought, no pictures of your family. The apartment hadn’t had those either.

‘You’- she- seemed like a ghost to you. While you’d often felt like you’d barely been alive, simply going through the motions, this girl seemed like she hadn’t even been conscious half the time she was doing it. It made your stomach swim, your face pulls taught.

While you’d had few things holding you afloat, it’d been enough to keep you alive. Molly, your co-workers, the need to work so as to not starve to death. She hadn’t had anything like that. No liferaft. You’d been sputtering and gasping your way through life, and she’d been drowning. Maybe already dead, at the bottom of the sea, hair tangling with the seaweed.

This room feels like a coffin, and this manor like a cemetery. It makes you physically sick.

Showing off your fickle-mindedness, you realise that despite this being the Wayne manor filled with all your idols, you actually don’t want to fucking be here. You need space to clear your head, and the creaking floorboards that echo down the creepy hallways just don’t offer that. The atmosphere at your too-modern, too-minimalist apartment is leagues better than the atmosphere at this gorgeous old house which you’d usually love spending hours getting lost in.

Usually. Unfortunately, this place was more suffocating than the workplace when you knew you were about to get fired again. And you weren’t getting paid to stay here, so why the fuck would you?

Once you realise you’ve decided to run, you’re quick to pack up your shit. There’s not much in the room you need. A pair of sneakers, because you would rather die than put those heels on again. And you’ll grab some shirts because they’re comfy and remind you of home. Hopefully, it’ll make everything… grate… a little less. All of this is thrown in an old ratty backpack, which is then tossed over your shoulder. Shoes slipped on, and tapped against the floor so they’re on comfortably. And then you’re ready. Ready as you’ll ever be. With one hand on your phone, you take a peek outside the door. Coast is clear.

You press call for ‘The Wicked Witch of the West’. Jeanine picks up on the third ring.

“Hello, Jeanine Ryans here,” she says, her voice all business.

“Jeanine, I need an evac, stat,” you whisper to her, creeping down the hallway of the manor. The floor is unbelievably creeky, so it’s pretty fucking difficult to be stealthy about it.

“…What?”

“Get me out of this fucking manor, please,” you beg, now going down the stairs. Almost out, almost out.

“Right, on it. I’ll have a car outside in ten minutes if that’s alright?” Jeanine replies, immediately on the case. It almost makes you cry. You know she’s being paid for this, and very desperate for the job for some reason, but it’s still a hail mary that you are so grateful for.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say, turning a corner and-

Oh, fuck. Damian Wayne glares down at you, green eyes cataloguing every single guilty piece of you in existence. He sees your hand tighten around your backpack, hears Jeanine telling you not to worry through your phone, and probably notices the way your eyes desperately flicker behind him to the door. To your goal, to the exit to this labyrinth.

You can practically hear the wind blowing, see the tumbleweed drift by.

And then, he moves past you, twisting his body so no part of it touches you. There’s a moment where your brain freezes, something spicy smelling (cinnamon, maybe?) flowing past you, and by the time you turn around, he’s gone. Your deer-in-headlights tensed-shoulders look falls, leaving you confused in the foyer. He didn’t even say a word to you. You felt like you just got passed over by a boss from a Dark Souls game.

…Well, you’ll take the wins where you can find them! Quickly, you hurry out the front door, skittering down the steps like some sort of rat. It’s a long walk to the gates, and you don’t really know how to open them to let the car in, so you decide to take your time and enjoy the walk. The early morning dew apon the clean-cut blades of grass glint and sparkle, the gravel on the road crunches under your technically-not-stolen sneakers, and even if it’s a miserable life, it’s a pretty day. From the hill the manor lives upon, you can see Gotham’s tall skyline, cloaked in its characteristic fog.

Eventually, you find yourself in front of the gate, where you can see Jeanine waiting with a black car on the otherside. There’s a big green button next to the side gate, which you press, and it clicks open. There’s a moment where your neck tingles, and you glance up at the camera pointed down at you. The red flickering light beside it holds your attention. You can see your bedraggled reflection in its lense.

Shaking your head, you move on, greeting Jeanine. She gives you a quick bow of the head and opens the door for you. You hike the bag over your shoulder, give the Wayne manor one final, lingering look and then you step into the car. Jeanine starts speaking to you about some future appointments you have, and you’re too tired to understand a word of what she says. She realises you’re not processing anything she says, and hands you a pair of headphones with a wire adapter.

You could kiss her right then and there. You don’t because that’d be weird, but you definitely think about it. Headphones on, you watch the rolling hills and luxurious manors turn into highways and honking traffic, to finally the upside part of town which was now apparently where you lived.

Eventually you find yourself being delivered in front of your swanky new apartment. With a passing goodbye, Jeanine tells you that she’ll be busy for the rest fo the day so if you need anything to call the number on the card she hands you. You tuck it in your pocket, certain you’ll lose it like every other business card you’ve ever been handed.

The elevator ride up to your room is contemplative. The music is boring, your reflection is bedraggled and tired, and the gentle feeling of gravity under your feet tugs at you. You rock slightly when you finally reach your floor. The doors open, but you don’t make any move to leave. They shut again, and you’re left staring daggers at your mirrored self.

You’d woken up, still here. It wasn’t a dream. It was reality. And more than that, it seemed more and more like you’d be staying in this reality. You didn’t think you could go home. Sure you were rich but… but your home. Your few things you’d managed to save. Your meagre group of friends and your hard-sought job. It made you nauseous. Where had you lost it all? Why were you here now? Why did you keep having to lose everything?

You manage to snap yourself out of it before someone else calls the elevator. Striding out of the space, you look to the right where you remember your apartment coming from. It’s not hard to find the unit, as there are only three on the entire floor. Rich people.

The door closes with a satisfying thud behind you, and you nearly melt with exhaustion.

This apartment is the ninth circle of hell for you. Scrambling around on your knees, you’re desperate to find the damn phone that won’t stop ringing. You can’t understand where the sound is coming from.

Under your bed? You shine your other’s phone’s light under it. Nope. Behind the dresser? Nada. You search inside the drawers and then peek inside the fancy lamp. Absolutely nothing. You’re ready to tear your hair out when you spot something… odd.

There’s… You think there’s something stuck in your floorboards. You dig at the space with your fingernails and the piece of wood pops open. Inside is… a cardboard box. An awfully familiar cardboard box, actually. The sight of your Mum’s old keepsake box makes you cry out with joy, lifting it from its little enclave. You’d lost a lot in the past few days but at least the old you knew how to keep your family’s stuff safe.

This apartment looks brand new. And apparently the past you dug into it to hide her stuff. You can’t really judge, you have a hidey-hole back at your apartment. It was a brick that had already been loose in the wall, so it didn’t feel quite as criminal as this.

The ringing is coming from inside the box. When you pull the lid up, you find a keepsake box a little different from yours. While yours only ever had your family’s old passports and photo albums, this one had a sleek phone sitting on top of all the mementos. It’s an exact copy of the phone on your bed- or well, it would be, if you hadn’t dropped it.

Two phones? This bitch was greedy. And so are you, eagerly sweeping the expensive item into your gremlin hands. Your thieving high is instantly quashed when you see who’s calling.

Of all fucking… George.

You roll your eyes before hanging up, tossing the phone to the side as you start rifling through the old keepsake box. You flip through family photo albums and lovingly cradle old stuffies. The phone buzzes. You ignore it. You find one of your mother’s old necklaces, and because you’re desperate for anything that can ground you, slip it over your head. The cool heart locket rests just under your collarbone, and you clutch it with one hand as you keep exploring. The phone keeps buzzing. It’s only almost half an hour later when you realise something about this is strange.

Why is George… not blocked? You glance down at the vibrating object like it’s radioactive, a despairing frown pulling at your face. Cautiously, you pick it up, making sure not to open the notifications lest it tell George you read any of his messages.

He’s… apologising for not being there for your birthday. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. And it’s not even a proper apology, it’s one of those ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings’ bullcrap. He keeps spamming you, and eventually, you realise that he’s not going to just stop.

You decide to nip this in the bud quickly because even remembering his cheating face makes you feel like throwing up.

‘You’: Why are you contacting me?

‘George <3’: Seriously? Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. I was busy, you know that.

Stupidly, you reply:

‘You’: ‘No, seriously, why are you contacting me? I’m done with you.’

You wonder how you ever loved this jackass. Even if he was obviously more of a jackass here, than where you’d come from. He was just better at pretending there. You keep scrolling, ignoring the new texts that pop up. Your stomach sours at the number of texts he himself had ignored, of the amount of ‘sorry baby, can’t come tonight’, the begging, the pleading.

No, he wasn’t worse at pretending. He just didn’t care.

You wonder if this could have been you, further along down the line. Abuse happens slowly, right? Like a frog in a pot. You’d have forgiven and forgotten, written away his worse behaviours till you couldn’t anymore. Till you couldn’t leave, till you were trapped.

You think George Lancaster would’ve tried to. He would’ve isolated you from everyone you had left if he hadn’t screwed up and got caught.

You realise now there were a lot of red flags in your relationship with George. Molly always hated him and he hated her. He’d constantly complain about how much time you spent with her, spamming you with texts when you went out.

You were only… only two days since you’d actually broken up with him. Which was sort of crazy to think about. You feel like you’ve lived eons since then. Like that one traumatic incident aged you thirty years. Anyway, you still hadn’t processed the whole George thing. You’d been sort of busy fighting for your life.

‘George’: I’m here, can you at least open the door so we can talk face to face?

Freeze. A knock sounds, and your head snaps up to the front door. You don’t move. You just wish it away. The knocking only gets louder and louder.

You feel like a dumb girl in a horror movie as you walk towards the door, unlocking it and creaking the knob open. George Lancaster stands on the other side, and before you can slam it in his face, he grabs you by the arm and yanks you out of the door. And then he’s pulling you to the elevator, even as you try and get your bearings, get yourself away from him.

“You can’t just ignore me like this,” George says, pissed off to high hell, “We’re going to miss the reservation I booked specifically for you. I told you it was happening today and-”

There’s white noise between your ears, you can’t hear what he’s saying. Told you? It wasn’t in any of the texts. He’s still talking even as the elevator dings, even as he shoves you in a white sports car that’s half parked on the curb. Even as he drives his way through Gotham’s streets, he won’t fucking shut up.

Why are you letting this happen to you? Why aren't you fighting back, wrenching yourself from his grasp? He takes you into a restaurant, one so upscale that normally you wouldn’t be able to get in for months, and your head snaps from staring socialites to watching politicians to gawking celebrities. You have the eyes of the world on you right now, and they’re all watching George yell at you.

And you can’t find your voice.

It's like a scab you can't stop picking at. Like you think this is what you deserve or something. And it's not. You know it's not. And yet you follow obediently, chastised and embarrassed, as he pulls you through the restaurant. When he picks a table in the centre of the room, you don’t protest. When he chooses your meal for you, even though it’s not to your taste, you don’t protest.

Looking at George, scrolling lazily on his phone, your hands clench against the table. They’re sweating, shaking, nails digging into your palms.

You… you didn’t have to break up with him again, did you? You realised it earlier, but you didn’t- it didn’t really sink in. Your first breakup with George Lancaster was a miserable traumatic experience, and it had been in the solitary streets of Gotham’s Narrows. This one, this one would be seen by literally everyone.

Nauseous. You feel so damn nauseous, your mouth dry as you swallow down bile. This was ridiculous. You couldn’t stand seeing his face. Was he texting her right now? God, did she even know? You’d just stormed out that night, running from what you’d seen.

George had chased after you. Had he left her there? Your stomach churned at the idea. You had to hate her on principle but, well, you also had to sympathise with her. Contradictions, that was the average you. You didn’t want to help this random girl. Didn’t want to have to ever think of her again.

…Staring at George, a definitively awful person, you can’t do it. Can’t just leave her to it.

“I’m breaking up with you,” you say.

“What?” George replies, not even looking up from his phone.

“I’m breaking up with you!” you shout. It’s not even intentional, just a result of being pushed too far, of breaking too easily.

The restaurant goes quiet. Guess you’re up for another scandal then. Whatever, it wasn’t like you would’ve lasted much longer anyway. This was all too complicated for your recently traumatised mind to handle. And it was just too damn stupid to bother with anyway. All of this was fucking stupid.

You included.

Just pull the bandaid off, right? You could already see how this version of you had so many scandals to her name. You probably should start giving a shit. Or at least trying to. You don’t think you want to, though.

George puts his phone down face down on the tablecloth, giving you a calm look. That slightly pitying stare activates something in your brain you didn’t really know was there. It’s a type of rage you haven’t known since you were a kindergartner and one of the other girls said you couldn’t play princesses. Since your first service job where your manager felt you up. Just pure, petty, anger. The type of anger ready to burn the world down as long as it burns whoever pissed you off as well. He opens his mouth, probably to say something condescending, and your hand whips out and snatches his phone.

“Hey!” George says instead, his eyes widening.

You turn the phone back on. Hm, passcode. You flip it around and use facial recognition to open it. Despite the fact that George wears the most comically shocked expression, with saucer-wide eyes and a mouth open to catch flies, it unlocks. Nice.

“Hey! What are you doing?” George demands, reaching over the table for his phone.

You twist away from his reach. Password. You flip the phone, and despite George’s comically shocked expression, it still unlocks. He shouts again when it does, probably realising that you might be taking this seriously. That he might actually be in trouble. That his sugar mummy might not take too kindly to the numerous texts to other women on his phone.

…You really can’t believe you’re a sugar mummy. And for George of all people. What a horrendous waste of money, it’s fucking tragic.

He’s got the texts with someone known as ‘Pizza Hut’ pulled up, with some very flirtatious messages. You scroll up furiously, ducking under George as he gets up from the table and tries to get the phone. Still, backing up, the sight of a very poorly shot dick pic of George’s has you grimacing. Your focus on the picture, trying to decide whether his penis looked so unappealing before you’d learnt of his betrayal, has you distracted when one of the servers come around.

And, well, shirt, meet soup. Very, very hot soup. Everyone? Meet a screeching, klutzy moron.

George takes the chance to advance on you, snatching his phone from you. He doesn’t even seem to care you’re currently getting third-degree burns. The sting scorches through the thin fabric of your dress shirt, burning your skin. George grabs you again, his grip harsh enough this time you know it will bruise, and you can’t really say why you do what you do at that moment.

Your aunt used to have a chihuahua. It was an ugly, grumpy thing. She’d rescued it late into its life, and it had been treated poorly beforehand. It didn’t like to be touched at all and used to run from anyone who tried. And if you tried to touch it? Cornered it?

Well, of course, it started biting.

George’s howl is the most satisfying thing you’ve ever heard. His squeal of “bitch!” might be even more so. He slaps you away from him, and the sound echoes in the restaurant. Your face stings. When you land ass first in the puddle of still-too-hot soup, you wonder if you might try and bite him again. You don’t think you even broke the skin, considering you can’t taste blood. The other patrons stare on in genuine horror, like they’ve never seen a messy breakup before. One woman raises a hand to her mouth, and gasps-

You find yourself staring up at a furious George, one with a menace in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You wonder, idly, if he’s ever hit you before. Well, not you, but ‘you’. You realise now that he has the capacity for it, that he probably always did.

“What the fuck!?” he hisses, angry eyes darting from side to side, “Biting me?! In fucking public?! Have you lost it, you crazy bitch?! And you got my phone fucking soaked in soup!”

“Did you buy it?” you ask, wiping your mouth with your sleeve to get George’s dirty taste out of your mouth.

He blinks, confused, thrown off by your question, “Huh?”

“Did you buy that phone?” you repeat, your staring starting to turn into a furious glare.

You don’t think he did. Your George had never been able to afford those sorts of things, he’d been as broke as you were. Of course, you’d seen him lust over those items, but you’d always managed to convince him not to go into debt over silly things like sports cars and fancy phones. And even then, you’d been the one to buy him a PS5.

He looks down at the phone and back at you, and you can see his jaw tick.

“I bought it. That’s mine.”

“It was a gift. You’re going to be such a bitter bitch to take back everything you gave me? Gonna leave me out on the fucking street?” he says, spittle flying with angry words.

This was escalating fast. Maybe before you’d have been cowed by his words, but you were genuinely off your rocker by now and were very much willing to tango with this bastard. Like yes, he did terrify you, but so did everything else. You could handle this much at least. You weren’t ready to back down.

“And if I did? What then George? What could you even fucking do?” you throw back, voice rising to match his.

“It’s not your money either, it’s theirs, you little leech!” says the pot.

“Does it matter?” replies the kettle.

Pushing to your feet, you find George without another answer. He stands between you and the exit. With the plain murderous rage on his face, you think he’ll try to grab you again if you run past. He wouldn’t bite you back, but he might slap you or something. So instead, like any good coward does, you run straight to the girl’s bathroom. It hasn’t failed you yet, and you doubt it will today.

You shove into the bathroom, past a woman doing her makeup. Her head bobs up and down as she takes in your seemingly infamous face, and your stained shirt. You stride as far away from her as possible, darting into the last bathroom stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. You pull your knees to your chest and hiss out a sound of frustration when that presses the sticky liquid against your chest and pants. Not your brightest idea, but you were sort of running on fumes right now.

The bathroom stall is extremely clean. One thing you were quickly realising about rich people is they didn’t have to suffer shitty public bathrooms. You didn’t think they deserved it. Like customer service jobs, and traffic, they built character.

What were you doing? Right, trying not to cry. You’re doing much better than yesterday. Still, sitting on top of the toilet’s closed lid, your phone pressed to your face, you wouldn’t say you’re doing ‘good’.

But because you knew George was too much of a pussy to ever enter the woman’s bathrooms, you refuse to move a single inch. You don’t want to go out there. At all. At all, at all. You’d tried to call Jeanine, but she hadn’t answered. Some P.A. she was. You still weren’t going to fire her. Then you remember that she told you she was going out later, and that she’d left a card with you. Digging through your pocket, you decide it’s finally time to die when you realise you lost the card somewhere along the line.

So, she wasn’t going to come save you as your knight in shining armour.

You can’t remember Molly’s number. Who did these days? That was your phone’s job. So you were left with… this. You were left with this. Four blocked numbers and a third had sent an automatic reply because he was driving. Alfred was probably busy. Weren’t butlers always very busy?

…Rich people weren’t often very busy. They had butlers and assistants to do all their chores. You unblock all four of the Waynes that you have on your phone.

The first thing you notice is the amount of texts between ‘you’ and Dick. Scrolling and scrolling, you find most of them are him checking up on you and one-word replies from the old you. He’s friendly and accepting, even when you respond in cruel and aggressive tones. The further back you scroll, the kinder your replies are. At one point it seems like the two of you had a good relationship.

You check the other chats. Tim’s message log is filled with coffee requests sent back and forth between you, Damian’s is completely empty, and Bruce’s has had no response from your phone in years. But eventually, you scroll back far enough that you find an actual conversation instead of just ‘Call Alfred’ repeated every few days.

‘You’: I miss them.

‘Bruce Wayne’: I know. I miss them too.

You press the back button, sighing. That felt like you’d seen something you shouldn’t have, like you’d peeked into someone’s diary. Which was unbelievably stupid. All of this is unbelievably stupid. You should just leave, you should just be brave. Two days ago you faced off against one of your worst fears, but today you couldn’t even handle George Lancaster.

You want someone to rescue you. You know no one will unless you ask. It makes you choke on your own self-disgust. This is the second time in one day. God, maybe you should just do it yourself. It’s not like you couldn’t pay for your own Uber.

And still, you find yourself clicking on a name and begging. Skin crawling, you type and retype the text probably a hundred times. You go from long apologies to begging to rants you never intended to send in the first place. Tap, tap, tap, and then you delete, delete, delete.

What you settle on is simple.

‘You’: hey. can you come pick me up? thx

Maybe a bit too simple. You cross your arms and tuck yourself in the good ol’ fetal position. You feel like you’ve spent half your time holding yourself like this the past three days.

‘Dick Grayson’: I’ll be there in five.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

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wendichester · 2 months ago

Text

🐇.•*¨`*•. easter blessing,

summary. you're working a case with the brothers. it gets festive.

pairing. sam + dean winchester x reader genre. crack

wordcount. 599

notes / warnings. happy easter babies 🐰🗿

You’d like to say this is the weirdest hunt you’ve ever been on.

But it’s really not. Which might be worse.

“So let me get this straight,” you say, squinting down at the crime scene. “We’re hunting... the Easter Bunny?”

Sam, bless his over-researched soul, doesn’t even blink.

“Technically? Probably a pagan fertility god that predates Christianity by like a few thousand years. But yeah. Bunny.”

Dean makes a face and kicks a trail of shredded pink plastic eggs off the sidewalk.

“This is a new low,” he mutters. “I didn’t survive hell to get murdered by some pastel-colored Bugs Bunny ripoff.”

You don’t point out that the corpse in front of you has literal jellybeans spilling out of its mouth. Or that the bite marks on the neck are unmistakably rodent-shaped.

The victim’s last expression is... haunted.

Sam flips through a lore book like it’s a normal Tuesday.

“Looks like Oschter Hase,” he mutters. “Old German folklore. Bringer of fertility, eggs, springtime.”

Dean snorts.

“Bringer of death now.”

You nudge a marshmallow Peep out of the gore with your boot. It's still warm.

Disgusting.

Fast forward to nightfall.

You’re in a graveyard (classic), surrounded by cracked eggshells and tufts of fur, holding a flamethrower.

Because, apparently, bunnies from hell don’t like fire.

Sam’s reading Latin out loud. Dean’s loading silver buckshot into a sawed-off. And you’re wondering if you can ever eat a Cadbury Creme Egg again without getting war flashbacks.

“I see it!” Dean shouts suddenly.

You turn.

And there it is.

Bounding toward you with bloodstained fur, beady red eyes, and an oversized wicker basket slung over its back like some kind of festive serial killer.

“That is not a bunny,” you hiss.

“Technically—” Sam starts.

“Shut up, Sam!”

The bunny shrieks. Shrieks. Like a banshee doing an exorcism. It launches straight at Dean, claws out, teeth bared, ears flapping like demonic wings.

Dean yells something that sounds like “SON OF A B—” and goes down hard under a pile of fur and rage.

“DEAN!”

You turn the flamethrower on and dive into the fray.

The bunny rears up like a fluffy demon spawn just as you pull the trigger. Fire roars. Fur ignites. Sam’s still chanting. Dean’s swearing. Somewhere in the chaos, jellybeans explode like tiny grenades.

The smell is horrific.

The thing lets out a final ungodly screech before collapsing in a pile of flaming tinsel and fur.

“I think that’s it,” Sam pants, stepping over the burning corpse like he hasn’t just witnessed seasonal trauma incarnate.

Dean rolls over and groans.

“Did anyone get the plate on that satanic thumper?”

You grin, a little breathless, a lot singed.

“Happy Easter, boys.”

An hour later, you’re at the diner down the road. Covered in soot, minorly concussed, and all staring at the very suspicious chocolate bunnies in the display case.

“So,” you say, sipping burnt coffee. “We’re never doing this holiday again, right?”

“Agreed,” Dean grunts.

Sam hums.

“Well, there’s still Beltane in a few weeks—”

“NO,” you and Dean both snap.

Dean raises his glass of whiskey like a toast.

“To never trusting rabbits again.”

“Or Sam’s German pagan crap.”

“Or candy.”

“Okay, not candy,” Dean amends quickly, grabbing a pack of mini eggs off the table. “I’m still emotionally attached to sugar.”

You lean back in the booth, bruised, exhausted, and vaguely traumatized.

But alive.

And kind of weirdly proud.

Because you, Sam, and Dean just saved a town from a deranged ancient fertility god disguised as the Easter Bunny. With Latin, fire, and questionable decision-making skills.

Just another day in paradise.

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alchemistc · 3 months ago

Text

Technically a continuation of the make them communicate series I keep getting more inspo for.

two-way contract

"I need some advice," he says, the moment they're settled, and Tommy stares forlornly at the slab of salmon that is definitely not going to be the right temperature in however many minutes. It takes him a moment to register what he's being asked, and it takes a concerted effort to keep his cool once he draws a conclusion.

Evan has a roster, Tommy knows. A specific set of people he reaches out to for specific areas of expertise, and Tommy, for all that they've been working on things, has never been a part of that.

He thinks of hearing that Evan admired him, once upon a time, and wonders if the Tommy hearing that had ever considered he might one day shift into the roster. It's not a promotion he's entirely prepared for. He hasn't trained for this.

"Okay," Tommy says.

"So there's... this guy," Evan says, and the irritation hits Tommy's spine before he can stop it. Not a call-up, after all.

He's trying to work through this stupid urge to be Everything All The Time for Evan, but it's work. It's still work.

"Is this guy ...handsome?" Strike two for the both of them. Straight to the flirt. Or, if Evan's feeling snippy, a direct line to the jealousy and accusations.

Evans brow furrows in confusion. "Tommy, what does his attractiveness have to do with -?" He veers. "I have to start again or I'm gonna lose my train of thought."

Strike three before Tommy's even learned This Guys name.

"There's a guy, from 137," Evan starts again. "You can eat, this is gonna take a minute."

Christ, add a 3-6-4 double-play by the opposition to the list.

The warmth hits his spine as Evan lays out the absolute stupidest turf war known to man, and the fellow firefighter who keeps flirting with him at scenes they both show up at.

"Like I'm free game, Tommy. Like every civil servant in the city isn't well aware I'm dating that crazy pilot from 217?"

"That's what they call me now?"

"So not the point, Tommy."

Evan drops Tommy's name like an endearment, like a sacrament, like an expletive. Tommy's never appreciated his name before he heard Evan Buckley use it like a prayer.

Crazy Pilot isn't the worst thing he's ever been called. He doesn't see anyone else out here attempting to get closer to Those Batshit Freaks At The 118. They might have a point.

"What... do you need my advice for?"

Evan rolls his eyes. "Tommy." A plea, this time. "I don't know how to let a dude down gently. Not on purpose, anyway."

("Oh, TK thought I was asking him out," on a random Tuesday morning while Tommy was doing his best work right around Evan's belly button.

"Can you please stop bringing up all the men you didn't know you wanted to fuck while there's a perfectly serviceable one right here?"

"You're more than serviceable, Tommy.")

He's been trying to stop seeing everything as a test, too, and that little nugget is rearing it's ugly head at the moment.

It takes him a long moment to realize Evan's framed this whole thing in a way that blazed right fucking past Tommy's jealousy issues.

"What did Maddie say?"

Evan's brow creases. "I haven't talked to her about it."

Oh.

Fuck.

He's gotta get past the giddy feeling bubbling up before he blows this. They can talk about that later.

"Is gentle the right move, here?" Evan blinks. "If you're sure he knows about me, maybe tossing the code of conduct with a highlighted sexual harassment section through his window one night is a better move."

"I know you're being facetious but the only reason I'm not doing that is because he'd find something flattering about me knowing where he lives."

The surge of protectiveness isn't new, but it feels like a new branch has grown off that tree. Not the point. Not the issue. But it's there all the same. "So he's been aggressive about it."

"He sent me flowers at work."

Better than home.

"C shift thought they were from you until I threw them in the trash."

Worse than home, actually.

Tommy doesn't have a solution. Tommy has the reminder of a man who'd clocked him in his late twenties before he'd figured himself out and scared Tommy into dating women for half a decade.

"I don't know if gentle is the right move," Evan says, and Tommy knows they aren't getting to dinner for a while. "I just know if the rumor mill gets hold of this they're gonna start calling you Crazy Cuck instead and then I'm gonna break my hand on their face."

Tommy snorts a sip of wine through his nose when he fails to hold back a laugh

#bucktommy #bucktommy ficlet #make! them! communicate!

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byhuenii · 21 days ago

Text

Everywhere

Pairing Bucky Barnes x Barista!Reader

Synopsis A soft, slow-burn romance where coffee is warm, the music is vintage, the regulars include Earth's mightiest heroes, and love shows up quietly — until it’s everywhere.

(Inspired by 'Everywhere' by Fleetwood Mac)

Word Count 3.6k

Tags + Warnings Excessive domestic sweetness, Mentions of blood, Low angst / High Comfort

— Everywhere “I wanna be with you everywhere.” — Fleetwood Mac

It started with a coffee. It started quietly.

Not a mission. Not an emergency. Just a coffee.

Well, technically it started with Sam forgetting his wallet, and Bucky being forced to cover the tab. You’d been behind the counter at the café, rolling your eyes affectionately as Sam grinned and fled the scene, leaving his grumpy best friend to pay for two overpriced lattes and a kale smoothie he claimed to “hate on principle.”

That first day, Bucky didn’t say much.

But he came back.

Again.

And again.

You didn’t even realize what was happening at first. The way your days began to orbit his without your permission. It was like a song on repeat — not loud, not obtrusive — but gentle. Familiar. Lingering in the background, even when it wasn’t playing.

The café was your escape — your little piece of normal in a world that rarely allowed for it. You weren’t an Avenger, not technically. But you were close to the chaos. Close enough that when Steve came in on Wednesdays and Natasha and Wanda stole pastries on the way to sparring, you didn’t blink.

Bucky showed up with Sam one Tuesday. You didn’t think much of it — until he came back. Alone.

No super soldier swagger. Just a hoodie, headphones around his neck, and tired eyes that never quite stopped scanning the exits.

But you saw the way his shoulders eased when he sat down. When you smiled. When you remembered how he liked his coffee — no sugar, extra hot.

You made a playlist one night while closing up. A quiet mix of songs that made you feel the way he made you feel — unsure, warm, maybe a little lost. Everywhere was the second track. You didn’t think anything of it.

Until the next time he came in, and asked, “What song was that playing earlier?”

You’d never seen Bucky so alive as when he was in a car with the windows down, Fleetwood Mac spilling out of the speakers, and city lights flickering past like stars.

You were both late for dinner at Sam’s. He offered you a ride on impulse — he always acted like he was making decisions last-minute, but you knew him better now. He thought about everything. Quietly. Deeply.

As Everywhere came on, you reached to skip it, flustered.

“Wait,” he said, catching your wrist gently.

You froze.

“I like this one.”

You let it play. You didn’t speak the entire song.

You swore you felt the air shift between you when the chorus hit.

“Oh I... I wanna be with you everywhere...”

You glanced over. His hand was still on your wrist. Neither of you moved.

–

“Why are you smiling like that?” Wanda asked, stirring sugar into her tea in the Avengers' kitchen one rainy afternoon.

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just… thinking.”

“About Barnes?”

You blinked. “What? No.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “You’re humming Fleetwood Mac. Again. You always hum that song when you’re thinking about him.”

You froze. She was right. Everywhere was floating on your tongue again, unbidden. A soundtrack to the quiet little rhythm that had started to beat beneath your skin since Bucky Barnes first walked into your life.

It was never supposed to be dangerous. Just recon. Sam came back fine. But Bucky didn’t.

You saw him two days later. Bruised. Bandaged. Stubborn as hell.

“Thought you weren’t talking to me anymore,” he said quietly, standing at your door in the middle of the night.

You stepped back to let him in without a word.

“You disappeared,” he said.

“You almost died,” you shot back. “And you didn’t even tell me you were leaving.”

Silence stretched between you, raw and awful.

“I didn’t want to... worry you.”

You laughed bitterly. “Too late.”

He looked down. Then, softer: “I listened to that song. On the way back.”

“What?”

He swallowed. “Everywhere. I put it on. On repeat.”

The pause between you ached.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. But the way he looked at you — like he’d been waiting years to come home — said everything.

–

The rooftop of the compound became your quiet place. He started joining you. At first, he sat five feet away. Then three. Then one.

You watched storms roll in and stars break through clouds. You didn’t always talk.

Once, during a thunderstorm, he said, “Sometimes I think I’ve lived so many lives, I forgot how to want something normal.”

You looked over. “And now?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then:

“I think I want to know what it’s like to be loved. Not for what I can do. But just… for me.”

You didn’t touch him. But your pinky brushed his on the cold concrete.

“Then stay,” you whispered. “And let me show you.”

There was a party at Tony’s. It was too loud, too flashy, too much — but you were there. That was enough for Bucky.

You found him in the kitchen, away from the crowd. You handed him a drink. He took it like a lifeline.

“I hate parties,” he muttered.

“I know,” you said, smiling. “But I’m glad you came.”

Steve put on a record in the next room — retro, scratchy, vinyl gold. You heard the first notes and froze.

Fleetwood Mac.

“Should I skip it?” you asked, already reaching for the player.

But Bucky was already holding out a hand.

“No. Dance with me.”

You stared at him. “Now?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

The song swelled. The world faded.

“Can you hear me calling Out your name? You know that I'm falling And I don't know what to say...”

You stepped into his arms. And for the first time, you felt like you’d stopped running from something you didn’t even know you feared.

He whispered, barely audible, as the chorus echoed through the room:

“I wanna be with you everywhere...”

“I think I’m already there,” you whispered back.

—

You noticed it before he did.

The shift in his presence. The way he lingered longer than he meant to. How his coffee order never changed, but his posture did — shoulders gradually uncoiling like a spring someone had wound too tightly for too long.

And the way he smiled. Rare. Soft. Only for you.

He came in earlier than usual.

It was raining, the kind that turned NYC sidewalks into mirrors. You were halfway through setting out the morning pastries when the bell over the door chimed — and there he was. Wet hair. Hoodie damp. Hands shoved deep into his coat pockets like he hadn’t planned to come in, but somehow ended up there anyway.

You blinked. “You’re early.”

He looked mildly startled. “Uh. Yeah. Sam... canceled. Or forgot. I don’t know. Thought I’d stop by.”

Your smile tugged. “You want your usual?”

He hesitated. Then: “What’s good today?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’ve had the same order for three weeks.”

He stared at the pastry case, then pointed without looking at you. “That one.”

You blinked. “The apple danish?”

He nodded with too much intensity.

You boxed it up, passed it to him, and tried not to laugh.

“Anything else, mystery man?”

He paused, like he was debating world peace. Then, deadpan: “Did you know Fleetwood Mac has a live version of Everywhere that’s better than the studio?”

Your heart skipped. He was trying. He was flirting. Badly. But it was adorable.

“Is that your way of saying you’ve been listening to the song?”

He glanced down, then up. His voice dropped slightly, softer. “It reminds me of here.”

Of you. He didn’t say it, but it hung there, humming beneath his words.

A week later, he brought you a pastry.

Well — not just a pastry. A flaky French croissant, still warm, in a little paper bag from a bakery in Paris.

You squinted. “Did you just... casually grab this from France?”

He shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Recon mission. Not classified. Saw a line. Thought of you.”

It wasn’t smooth. But the heat behind your cheeks wasn’t from the espresso machine.

You bit into the croissant. “It’s perfect.”

He grinned, satisfied, and took his seat at the usual window. The one that caught the morning light just right.

You watched as he pulled out a little sketchbook. You didn’t mean to look — but there, faintly etched in pencil, was the side profile of a face.

Yours.

You didn’t say anything. But that song started playing over the speakers again — your playlist, your café, his chair.

“I wanna be with you everywhere...”

Things changed the day he showed up after a mission.

You were closing up the café. The lights were low, music playing softly — yes, it was Fleetwood Mac. You were wiping down the counter when the bell chimed. And there he was.

Drenched. Bleeding a little. Looking like he’d walked through hell and back. But still… there.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse.

Your heart stuttered. “Jesus, Buck, are you okay?”

He nodded. “Just needed somewhere quiet.” He looked at you, really looked. “Needed… you.”

You stepped out from behind the counter. “Sit down. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

He didn’t sit. He just stared. “Do you ever think about it?”

“Think about what?”

His jaw tensed. “What it’d be like if things were different. If I wasn’t who I am. If you weren’t caught in all this Avengers stuff.”

You took a breath. Walked closer.

“You are who you are,” you said softly. “And I’m here. With you. That’s what matters.”

He looked down, like he wasn’t sure he believed he deserved that. But when your fingers brushed his, he held on like a lifeline.

—

You had a late closing shift, It was just you two.

He hadn’t meant to stay. You’d already flipped the sign to “closed.” He was still in his chair, legs stretched, hoodie sleeves pushed up, scrolling on his phone — like this was normal. Like he belonged here.

“You should go home,” you said gently, wiping down a table.

“I’m already there,” he said.

You froze.

He looked up like he hadn’t realized what he said out loud. “I mean... here’s nice. It’s quiet.”

You studied him. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Bucky.”

“I’m not pretending,” he said, standing up. Slowly. Carefully. “I’m trying.”

He took a step closer.

“I don’t really know how to do this. Be... this guy. But every time I think about going back to how it was, before I met you—”

Your throat tightened. “Don’t.”

His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t want to.”

Outside, rain began to fall again — steady, soft, like a lullaby.

You reached for the speaker knob. The playlist looped, and Everywhere began again, like the universe was cueing it.

You held out your hand.

He looked down at it, like it was a precious thing.

“No one’s watching,” you said. “Just us.”

So he took it.

And you swayed there, between stacked chairs and the smell of coffee grounds, as Stevie sang the words neither of you had said yet:

“I wanna be with you everywhere...”

—

It had started raining around 3 PM. By 7:30, the power was flickering. At 8:12, Manhattan went dark.

You were alone in your apartment, candles lit, phone battery dying. You weren’t scared — just annoyed. You had just gotten cozy, made tea, pulled up your blanket, and—

Your phone buzzed once.

[BUCKY]: you ok? [YOU]: yep. power’s out tho. you? [BUCKY]: same. your street still flooded? [YOU]: probably [BUCKY]: …can i come over?

You stared. The words stared back.

Then, with a thudding heart, you typed:

[YOU]: door’s open.

You barely had time to relight the last candle when there was a knock. Not loud. Just… him.

You opened the door. And there he was — hoodie pulled over damp hair, wind-chilled, holding a grocery bag.

“Brought snacks,” he said gruffly, like that made it casual.

You took the bag with a smile. “You walked through a blackout to bring me Cheez-Its?”

“I’m romantic like that.”

You let out a quiet laugh and stepped aside.

He shook off his jacket, water droplets scattering across your rug. “Sorry.”

“It’s just a rug.”

He looked at you — really looked — and something in his chest softened. “I like your place.”

“It’s small.”

“It’s... peaceful.”

Like you. Like everywhere he’d ever wanted to be, without knowing it.

You sat on the floor. Candles flickered between you. His shoulder nearly touched yours. The bag of snacks sat open, mostly untouched.

“Used to hate silence,” Bucky said quietly.

You looked over. “Yeah?”

“After Hydra. The quiet made me... hear things. Think too much.” He looked down at his hands. “Now it’s different. Now it feels like breathing.”

You didn’t speak. You just reached over and slid your pinky toward his on the floor — a repeat of the rooftop, just barely grazing his skin.

This time, he curled his finger around yours.

You handed him a towel after he showered. “I can find you something dry.”

“You sure?”

You rummaged through your drawer and tossed him a hoodie. Your hoodie. Oversized. Faded.

He emerged a few minutes later in it — sleeves a little short, jaw clenched like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

You tried not to stare. You failed.

“You look cozy,” you said, voice light.

He gave you a look that said, I would wear this for the rest of my life if you asked me to.

You both fell asleep on the couch.

It wasn’t intentional. You were watching an old movie on your laptop (you’d charged it that morning), leaning against his side. One moment he was mumbling something about the cinematography, and the next, your head was on his shoulder.

When you stirred later, it was silent. The screen was black. His arm was around your waist.

You turned just enough to see his face. Soft. Untroubled. The lines that usually lived in his brow smoothed out by sleep.

You whispered his name once. Not loud enough to wake him.

“I wanna be with you everywhere...”

You didn’t need the song. The lyrics were already beating in your chest.

—

When you woke, sunlight was bleeding through the blinds.

Bucky was still there. Still holding you.

He opened one eye, then the other. Sleep-rough, voice rasping: “You drooled on me.”

You gasped. “No, I didn’t.”

He smirked. “I’m kidding.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, hiding your face. “You’re the worst.”

But he didn’t let go of your hand. In fact, he held it tighter. Twined his fingers through yours like he didn’t plan on letting go at all.

“Hey,” he said quietly, seriously this time.

You looked up.

“I know I’m slow. I know I’m weird about saying things.” He paused. “But if I ever got the chance to say it right…”

Your heart skipped. “Yeah?”

He brushed his thumb across your knuckles.

“I’d tell you I think about you everywhere. Even when I’m not here.”

Your breath caught.

“Then stay,” you whispered. “And maybe one day you’ll hear me say it, too.”

He smiled — soft, real — and rested his forehead against yours.

The power was still out. But the room had never felt brighter.

—

It happened on a Tuesday. Just after close.

Bucky had stayed late again — you were pretending not to notice that “accidentally” being around after your shift had become a routine. The air smelled like cinnamon and rain.

You were wiping down the counter. He was leaning on the other side, watching you like you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

You looked up and smiled. “You gonna help or just stare at me like I’m in a museum?”

He shrugged. “I like museums.”

You tossed a dish towel at him.

He caught it. Tossed it back. Moved around the counter, closer. Close enough to smell the coffee on your skin and the candle you always burned when it got quiet.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly serious.

“Yeah?”

“I need to try something. Might be terrible at it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”

Then he leaned in.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the kind of kiss that felt like someone exhaling after holding their breath for too long.

Soft. Careful. Sure.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t want to.

After that, he started showing up before you even unlocked the door.

Sometimes with pastries. Sometimes with that look in his eyes — the one that said I don’t know how I got here, but I know I’m supposed to stay.

“Are you living here now?” you joked one morning.

He just sipped his coffee and said, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

You caught him humming to Everywhere once. Didn’t even realize he was doing it.

That’s how far you’d sunk into each other.

Sam walked into the café with that grin — the one that said he was up to no good.

He eyed Bucky’s hoodie (clearly yours), the two mugs already out, the way Bucky’s arm brushed yours when you passed him the cream.

Sam raised both eyebrows. “So. This is what retirement looks like for you, Barnes?”

Bucky glared. You blushed.

Sam just laughed. “I give it three weeks before I catch y’all making out in the back.”

You shoved a muffin into his hand. “Out.”

But later, Bucky murmured, “I wouldn’t mind getting caught.”

It was supposed to be a low-risk recon mission.

When he didn’t text that night, you told yourself it was nothing. When he didn’t show up the next morning, you nearly burned the espresso machine.

By the second day, you were pacing. Eyes on the door. Phone glued to your palm.

When the bell finally chimed, you froze.

There he was. Bruised. Exhausted. Alive.

You rushed him. Hugged him before he could speak. Fisted your hands in his jacket and buried your face against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around you and didn’t let go.

“Sorry,” he whispered, lips near your ear. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied. “I was just... worried the pastries would go stale.”

He laughed, but it was raw. Shaky.

“I thought about you the whole time,” he said. “Every second. Every step.”

“I wanna be with you everywhere...”

He looked at you like he was already saying it — even if he hadn’t used those exact words yet.

And you knew, deep in your bones, that you were the thing he came back for.

—

It happened slowly.

A hoodie left behind. Then two. Then a drawer. Then a cabinet in the bathroom with his razor, his aftershave, his lavender-scented body wash you had definitely not expected but now totally associated with him.

He never said, “I live here now.” He didn’t need to.

His favorite cereal showed up in your pantry one week. His socks ended up in your laundry basket. One day, you opened the fridge and realized the cold brew, the oat milk, and the exact brand of fruit cups he liked were lined up beside your stuff — like it had always been that way.

And on the bathroom counter: A blue toothbrush beside yours. His mouthwash. A backup of your toothpaste because “you always run out and forget.”

It was a quiet, slow claiming. Not of space — of belonging.

The coffee shop was closed on Mondays.

So Mondays became your days. His days. No missions. No Avengers calls. No obligations.

Just the two of you. Your shared little world.

You’d wake to the sound of the kettle whistling and the smell of toast. Bucky would already be in the kitchen in sweatpants, hair a mess, feeding Alpine with one hand while flipping through the newspaper with the other.

Yes — you got a cat. A furry white queen who absolutely hated everyone but you and Bucky. Natasha had tried to pet her once and nearly lost a finger.

“She has good instincts,” Bucky said with a smirk.

You caught him once napping with her on the couch — both of them curled into the same warm patch of sun. Alpine on his chest. His fingers absently stroking her fur.

He didn’t even notice you standing there, smiling like your heart might burst.

He bought it on a whim — an old vintage turntable from a Brooklyn thrift shop.

The first night he brought it home, he set it up with too much focus, brows furrowed. You handed him the first vinyl sleeve he ever picked out:

Fleetwood Mac – Tango in the Night Side B, Track 1: Everywhere

He placed the needle like it was sacred. And when those first notes started playing — that bright synth, the soft echo of Christine McVie’s voice — he turned to you, eyes a little glassy.

“This is what it felt like,” he said. “When I met you.”

You didn’t speak. Just crossed the room, wrapped your arms around him, and swayed.

The record cracked and hissed gently as the song spun. Alpine meowed once from the armchair. The lights were low. The air warm. The moment perfect.

There were nights he didn’t sleep — not because of nightmares, but because he just wanted to be awake here. In this quiet. With you.

You caught him one night standing by the window, shirtless, mug in hand, Alpine weaving between his legs.

“You okay?” you whispered, stepping beside him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Just... breathing.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder.

“This place,” he said, “feels more like home than anywhere I’ve lived in the last seventy years.”

You wrapped your arm around his waist. “That’s because it is.”

He looked down at you. Eyes soft. Heart open.

“I love you,” he said like it was nothing. Like it was air. Like it had always been true.

You smiled, kissed him slow.

And when you pulled away, smiling ear to ear, he looked at you like you hung the stars.

“I know,” you whispered. “I love you, too.”

The needle lifted at the end of the record.

And silence, for once, felt full.

(You've got mail!) I love this song sosoosossossososoosos SO MUCH. I dont think yall understand and i fear i haven't wroten like fluffy fluffy bucky without any angst i dont know why but yesssssss. ENJOY ENJOY i was cooking up something (along with a longer angsty fic that will be out soon)

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@herejustforbuckybarnes @bbsbrina

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honeyncherry · 1 month ago

Text

all good things ii - joe burrow

summary you thought you'd mastered the art of letting go, turns out you'd just gotten really good at looking the other way

content angst, fluff, idk what im talking about in half this

part one

"Why are you here?"

You don't look up from the glass you're drying when you ask it, but you can feel him settling onto the barstool across from you. Same spot as always—third from the left, close enough to the corner that he can see the door but far enough from the other customers that conversation stays private.

"For a drink," he says, and there's that familiar hint of amusement in his voice, like he knows you already know the answer but enjoys the routine anyway.

Without thinking, your hand finds the bourbon, muscle memory from months of the same dance. The bottle feels heavier tonight, or maybe it's just you. Maybe it's the report waiting on your laptop at home, or the way certain thoughts have been circling back when you least expect them.

“How was Denver?” you ask, sliding the glass his way.

He catches it without looking, thumb brushing along the rim before taking a sip. “Great. Got a good win.”

You lean in, resting your elbows on the bar, giving him your full attention now. "Yeah? How good are we talking?"

"Really good." He grins, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look younger than he is. "Like, career-defining good.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the pride bubbling up quicker than expected. “That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”

He drops his gaze a little, almost shy about it. Compliments still make him weird. But you can tell it means something—coming from you, maybe, or maybe just being heard out loud.

“Actually,” he says, reaching into his jacket, “I got you something. Well, two things.”

That makes you pause. He's holding out a small wrapped box, the kind that comes from hotel gift shops or airport stores. The paper is slightly wrinkled, like it spent the flight home pressed against other things in his carry-on.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He places it on the bar top between you and then grins. "But I saw it and thought of you. Plus, I have some news." There's something sweet about it, the casualness of the gesture with no hidden agenda.

You peel the paper back carefully, and inside is a snow globe, tacky and perfect in the way only tourist gifts can be. Denver’s skyline is centered in the middle, suspended in that fake snow that never quite swirls right.

“It’s terrible,” you say, but you're already smiling.

"Absolutely hideous," he agrees, sipping his drink. "But you collect weird shit, so I figured you'd appreciate it.”

He’s right. Your apartment’s full of it—odd little trinkets that don’t belong anywhere but somehow belong with you. Salt shakers shaped like ducks. Postcards from places you’ve never been. That cracked ceramic owl from your grandma that you still won’t throw out.

"Thank you," you say, setting the snow globe on the shelf behind you, next to the register where you can see it while you work. "Okay, so what's the news?"

"Remember that California project I mentioned? The sports coverage thing?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see the excitement barely contained behind his eyes. "I got you the spot."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"I put in a word with the hiring manager. Told them about your work, how good you are with people." He leans forward slightly. "They want you to fly out next week. Production assistant role, technically, but it's exactly the kind of experience you need."

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. You're going to California." Quinn's fingers drum once against the bar, a nervous habit you've taken note of over months of Thursday nights. Sometimes Tuesdays too, when his schedule allows it. He'd started showing up around the time you stopped flinching every time you heard calls of a certain name, when you could make it through a shift without checking your phone for messages that never came.

That was just over a year ago now, right when everything felt like it was crumbling—when you'd left that hotel room and came home to an apartment that felt too quiet and a life that suddenly seemed smaller than it had before. You'd been serving drinks like you were underwater, going through the motions of existing without really living in any of it.

The first few times, Quinn was just another regular. Bourbon, two fingers, splash of water. He was the best tipping regular you’ve ever had and never lingered too long. But then one night you'd been particularly frustrated, slamming glasses a little too hard after another rejection email, and he'd asked if you were okay.

"Just job hunting," you'd said, the bitterness leaking through despite yourself.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything that uses a communications degree, apparently." You'd laughed, but it came out hollow. "Four years of college to be really good at serving drinks."

He'd been quiet for a moment, then: "My company's always looking for interns," he'd said, casual as anything. "Might be good experience."

That conversation lives in your mind now, growing roots in the spaces between doubt and possibility. Three months of showing up to offices that smelled like expensive coffee and ambition, of learning that your degree wasn't worthless after all, just misplaced. Quinn had opened a door you didn't even know existed, and now here he is, trying to push it wider.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll pack a bag." He finishes his drink and leaves cash on the bar, always exact change plus fifty percent, never more or less, and stands to go. "They'll email you the details tomorrow."

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and heads for the door.

"Thank you," you call after him. "Really. This means everything."

"You earned it," he calls back over his shoulder. "I just made sure the right people knew."

When he's gone, you’re left with the rich smell of bourbon and the snow globe that glimmers under warm spotlights. Underneath it all lies the strange, fluttering feeling that comes with being cared about in small, uncomplicated ways.

───

The folder hits your hands like something dropped from a height, thick enough that the pages buckle under their own weight. Sarah's already talking, words streaming past in that efficient way people have when they've explained the same thing a dozen times before.

"So you'll be handling athlete transport today," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the folder while her attention drifts to her phone. "Everything's in there—pickup times, studio assignments, the usual."

You flip the cover open to pages of schedules and headshots, names printed in blocks that your eyes catch without really processing. Sarah keeps talking about the logistics and backup plans, but her voice becomes mumbled as you scan down the list.

Micah Parsons - 9:30 AM pickup, Studio A

Lamar Jackson - 10:45 AM pickup, Outdoor Setup

Cooper Kupp - 12:15 PM pickup, Studio A

Tua Tagovailoa - 1:30 PM pickup, Studio B

Names that mean little to you, faces that melt together in professional headshots. You're half-listening, trying to make sense of time slots and meal breaks, when Sarah's voice sharpens.

"—and Quinn should be here any minute with an early arrival."

The sound of voices approaching makes you glance up from the folder. Quinn appears in the doorway, that easy smile already in place, talking to someone just behind him. You look back down automatically, eyes finding the next line on the schedule.

Joe Burrow - 3:00 PM pickup, Studio B

Your stomach drops like you've missed a step in the dark. The letters blur, then sharpen, then blur again. You blink hard, certain you've misread, but the name sits there like something burned into the page.

When you look up, he's standing three feet away.

And he's already looking directly at you.

The folder stays open in your hands, but the words might as well be written in a language you don't speak. Everything else in the room—Sarah's voice, the hum of equipment being tested, the distant sound of someone setting up lights—fades into white noise. There's just him, standing there in dark jeans and a jacket that probably costs more than your rent, looking exactly like he does in your memory of that morning in the hotel room, except somehow more solid. Real this time.

His expression doesn't change when your eyes meet his. No surprise, no recognition he'd let anyone else see. Just that steady, unreadable look that used to make you feel like he could see straight through you.

"Perfect timing," Quinn says, completely oblivious to the way everything seems to have tensed up around you. "This is our impromptu production assistant I was telling you about." He gestures toward you with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to disappear. "She'll be handling your schedule today, making sure you get where you need to be."

Quinn turns to you, still smiling. "Joe got here early—his flight landed ahead of schedule, so I figured we'd get him checked in now instead of making him come back later. Hope that's okay?"

You force yourself to close the folder, to stand up straighter, to remember that you have a job to do. That you're not the same person who used to fly across the country for crumbs of attention.

"Of course," you manage, extending your hand in what you hope looks like professionalism and not the careful choreography of someone trying not to fall apart. "Hi."

Joe's eyes flick down to your outstretched hand, then back to your face. For a second, you think he might not take it. That he'll let you stand there with your arm extended like an idiot while Quinn watches.

But then his hand closes around yours, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Nice to meet you," he says, voice perfectly polite like you're a stranger. As if he's never traced the curves of your body with his tongue in the dark.

The handshake lasts exactly as long as it should and no longer, nothing that would make Quinn raise an eyebrow or Sarah look up from her phone. But his thumb brushes across your knuckles once before he lets go, so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

"She's fantastic," Quinn continues, either missing the tension entirely or choosing to ignore it. "Really knows her stuff. You're in good hands."

The irony of that statement sits heavy in the space between you and Joe. You've been in his hands before and you know exactly how that story ends.

"Alright," Sarah pops her head up suddenly from beside you. "Let's get you set up for hair and makeup first, then we'll run through the shot list." She's already guiding Joe toward the door with the kind of practiced authority that doesn't leave room for argument.

Joe follows, but his eyes find yours once more before he disappears into the hallway. The look lasts maybe two seconds, but it's long enough to remind you of every sleepless night you spent wondering if he thought about you at all.

"Ready for Micah?" Quinn asks, already checking his watch. "He should be set by now." You nod, grateful for something to focus on. Something that doesn't involve navigating the minefield of seeing Joe again.

Quinn studies your face for a moment, "you good?"

"I'm good," you say, forcing a smile that feels more convincing than it probably looks.

"Good. Because we had to shuffle things around. Lamar's flight got delayed, so we bumped Joe up to right after Micah." He pats your shoulder in that paternal way that makes you remember why you trust him. "You've got this, kid."

───

Micah Parsons turns out to be exactly the kind of interview subject that makes your job easy. Charismatic without being overwhelming, thoughtful in his answers, the kind of natural storyteller that probably makes every journalist he talks to feel like they're getting something special.

You escort him from hair and makeup to Studio A, making small talk about his off-season training while mentally taking in the way he carries himself—confident but approachable, the kind of details that might matter for the piece you're supposed to be writing.

Because that's the thing Quinn arranged that makes this more than just a production assistant gig. You're not just managing logistics; you're also shadowing the main journalists, taking notes that will help with a behind-the-scenes article to accompany the video content. It’s what manages to turn this little side gig into real experience that could actually matter for your future.

It had been Quinn's idea, pitched to his partners as a way to get more comprehensive coverage without stretching the budget. "She's sharp," he'd told them, according to what he'd shared with you later. "Give her the PA duties but let her gather material too. Two birds, one stone."

He'd stuck his neck out for you in a way that meant something. Which is why you're sitting in the back of Studio A with a notebook, jotting down observations about Micah's interview style and the way he deflects certain questions with humor while being surprisingly vulnerable about others.

Quinn had been right—you were good at this. At reading people, at catching the moments between the soundbites that revealed who someone actually was.

Which is exactly why seeing Joe again feels like such a potential disaster.

By the time Micah wraps up, you've filled three pages with notes and feel like you're truly starting to understand the rhythm of this kind of work.

"Joe should be ready now," Quinn says, appearing at your elbow as you escort Micah to his next location. "Studio B."

Your stomach tightens, but you nod. This is your job. This is the opportunity Quinn fought for you to have and you can't let seeing Joe ruin it.

The walk to Joe's dressing room feels dreadful. Each step is like walking through quicksand, carrying you toward something you're not ready for but can't avoid. When you knock and push the door open, he's sitting in the chair by the small mirror, scrolling through his phone with careful focus.

"Ready?" you ask, the word coming out more clipped than you intended.

He looks up, nods once, and stands with no acknowledgment beyond basic professionalism.

The hallway to Studio B stretches ahead of you both, and the silence that follows is different from anything you've experienced today. Not comfortable like it had been with Micah, who'd filled the space with easy conversation. This quiet feels intentional. Measured like you're both working very hard not to disturb something that might break if handled wrong.

"Studio B," you say when you reach the door, gesturing unnecessarily.

"Thanks."

He disappears inside, and you take your position in the back corner. Notebook ready, pen poised. The same setup as for Micah's interview; professional and focused, gathering material for the article.

But something shifts the moment Joe starts talking. His voice carries that familiar cadence, the one that used to lull you to sleep during late-night phone calls when distance felt manageable. You find yourself leaning forward, pen moving across the page in ways that have nothing to do with journalism.

The little things catch your eye. The way he touches his jaw when considering an answer. How his shoulders settle when he's comfortable with a question. The pause before he responds to anything about pressure, weighing what's safe to share versus what's true.

You catch yourself, redirect your attention to actual content. This is work. Quinn's faith in you made everything tangible, you can't let this pull toward someone who used to matter ruin what you've been given.

But it's difficult to ignore the familiarity, the way certain moments remind you of hotel rooms and conversations that felt bigger than they were.

This is likely the only time you'll see him again. A one-off encounter that doesn't have to mean anything beyond coincidence. You've made progress, moved forward. You can't let a single afternoon undo the work it took to get here.

When the interview wraps, you've filled two pages with notes—half meaningless observations about Joe rather than context about the content. You close the notebook as he thanks everyone with practiced grace, then finds you in the corner.

"All set?"

"All set."

The walk back is similar to the walk there in every way. By the time you reach his dressing room, you're almost convinced you can end this cleanly. You open the door and stand to the side.

"You're done for the day. Someone will coordinate transport when you're ready."

Joe settles back into the chair by the mirror, phone already in hand. You should leave now. You've completed your assignment, same as with Micah. But professional courtesy demands you ask. The same question you'd posed to Micah, the same standard you'll maintain.

"Is there anything else you need?"

Joe hums to himself then looks up, and for the first time all day, really looks at you. Not the careful glances he's been offering, but the kind of direct eye contact that used to make your heart race.

"Just curious," he says, voice level but edged with something sharper. "Are you supposed to say that, or am I just special?"

The question hits hard. You feel it in your stomach first, then spreading outward, a slow recognition that you're not getting out of this room without acknowledgment.

Because that’s the thing: he was special.

In the way you still dream about his voice. His hands.

In the way you never really got around to donating the shirt he left behind, even though it stopped smelling like him months ago.

In the way you still scan for his face on the screen when a game is on at work, even when you tell yourself you’re not supposed to.

Something shifts in your face, you can feel it happen. The twitch of your eyes, the press of your teeth into the inside of your cheek, just a second too long. Like your body is betraying the careful neutrality you’ve been maintaining all day.

He catches it, of course he does.

"Just part of the job, Mr. Burrow." The formality tastes wrong in your mouth, but you need the distance it creates and the reminder of where you are, what this is supposed to be.

You're already turning away before the words fully settle, hand reaching for the door handle like it might save you from whatever comes next. "Have a good rest of your day."

───

The wine tastes expensive in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything. From the conversations flowing around you that you can't quite step into, to the way everyone else seems to belong here without thinking about it.

"Market yourself," Quinn had said earlier, straightening his tie in the mirror of his hotel room. "There are some serious people here tonight. Network. Make connections. This is how careers get built."

Easy for him to say. He moves through crowds like he was born into them, shaking hands and remembering names and making everything look effortless. You feel like you're wearing a sign that says imposter in flashing neon letters.

The venue is exactly what you'd expect from Quinn's company—all exposed brick and elegant lighting fixtures, floor to ceiling windows, the kind of casual that costs more than most people's rent. Servers weave between clusters of well-dressed people holding wine glasses that catch the light just right.

You take a sip of wine and scan the room for someone who might seem approachable. Someone who won't immediately see through whatever facade you're trying to maintain. The conversation nearest to you is about market projections and quarterly reports, which makes your experience feel even more inadequate than usual.

"Why are you standing by yourself?"

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. You don't have to look to know who it is, you've been hyperaware of his presence since the moment he walked in twenty minutes ago.

"I'm supposed to be marketing myself," you say, not turning toward him, voice dry with the kind of sarcasm that feels bitter. "Networking. Making connections."

There's a pause. You can feel him looking at you.

"Well, you shouldn't have any problem doing that looking like that."

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass. The comment slides under your skin in a way that makes you feel uneasy. It’s like you're back in some hotel room where his opinions about you mattered.

You turn to look at him and something in your expression must give you away because his face changes immediately.

"No, no, that's not—" He stops and runs a hand over the bottom half of his face, looking genuinely panicked. "That came out wrong. I just meant you look good. Like, really good. Not that—fuck. That was all wrong."

And despite everything, despite the way your jaw is still tight with irritation, you have to bite back something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. Because Joe Burrow, who takes hits from three-hundred-pound linemen without flinching, who never seems rattled by anything on or off the field, is standing here stammering like a teenager who just got caught red-handed.

You compose yourself, finding that professional tone again. "Okay. Well, thank you." You set your wine glass on the nearest table, already turning away. "Have a good night."

His hand catches your wrist before you can take a step, gentle but insistent enough to stop you. "Wait." You follow his gaze to a quieter corner near the windows, away from people.

“Can we talk?”

Part of you wants to say no, to keep walking and maintain whatever distance you've managed to create. But a bigger part knows that if you don't do this now, you'll spend the rest of the night, maybe longer, wondering what he would have said.

"Okay," you say, and let him guide you toward the windows.

The space feels more intimate immediately, the noise of the party fading to background hum. Joe runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you remember, and looks out at the city lights for a moment before turning back to you.

“I was an asshole,” he says. The bluntness of it surprises you, how he doesn’t sugarcoat it or try to spin it. "This afternoon, I mean. And just now. I was just—I was doing what I always do, being defensive because seeing you here threw me off, and I didn't know how to handle it."

You wait for him to continue, watching the way he struggles with words that don't come as easily as the ones he uses for interviews.

“I was hurt,” he says, a little softer now. “When you left. Not just because you did. But how fast it felt. Like one second we were figuring things out and the next... you were just gone.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you says anything. You’re not sure what breaks you down first—his voice or the fact that it’s not angry in the way you last remember it.

“I didn’t leave because of that night,” you say eventually. “If anything… I stayed because of it.”

Joe finally looks at you and your hands tighten around your arms.

“I meant what I said,” you continue, slower now. Like the words are heavy in your mouth. “I believed you. What you said. How it felt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that before.”

The words keep coming even though your mind is already starting to regret opening your mouth. You should stop. You should just stop.

“I think part of me was already bracing for the quiet,” you say. “For things to go back to normal the next day. I don’t know. It’s like… the moment was everything I wanted, but it didn’t feel safe.”

You see the flicker in his eyes. You almost backpedal, almost say never mind, but you’ve already gone too far.

“It's not that I didn’t trust you,” you continue. “I just didn’t trust that version of us to last. And I didn’t want to stay long enough to watch it fall apart again.”

Joe’s silent. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel, how fast your heart is beating now that the words are out there.

“I didn’t stop feeling it,” you murmur, eyes darting toward the window. “That was the problem. I finally let myself feel all of it. And once I did, it felt like too much to carry alone.”

He exhales slowly, like your words knock the wind out of him.

“So it wasn’t just the night,” he says eventually. “It was everything before.”

You nod. “Yeah. It was the before. The buildup. The silence. The feeling like I was always one step ahead of you.”

There’s a pause. Then, almost like a reflex, you add, “I know you meant what you said. I really do.” He looks at you then, something raw behind his eyes. “But I think I’d spent so long waiting for you to mean something,” you say, voice tightening, “that when you finally did, I was already halfway through learning how to let go.”

“I get that,” he says. You nod, surprised by the relief you feel at being understood. "So you left because you had to," he says, not a question.

"Because I had to."

The silence that follows feels different from all the others today. Not loaded with tension or unspoken accusations, but something closer to understanding. Like you aren’t standing on opposite sides of it anymore.

Joe straightens up slightly, and something shifts in his expression, still serious but with a hint of something lighter around the edges.

"So," he says, extending his hand toward you with a small, almost shy smile. "Hi. I'm Joe."

The gesture is so unexpectedly dorky that you feel a laugh bubble up before you can stop it. "Are you serious right now?"

"Starting fresh," he says, hand still extended. "New note."

You look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face, and despite everything—despite the history and the hurt and the complicated mess of what you used to be—you find yourself smiling.

"This is ridiculous," you say, but you take his hand anyway. "Hi, Joe,” you introduce yourself in the same manner.

The handshake lasts longer than necessary this time, in comparison to the one you shared earlier. When you finally let go, your fingers feel warm where his touched them.

"Much better introduction than this afternoon," you say, and Joe laughs—a real one this time.

"Yeah, well, I was trying to play it cool earlier."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Terribly," he admits, grinning. "Clearly not my strong suit when it comes to you."

"Well," you say, and there's something softer in your voice now, something that feels like a door opening instead of closing. "There's plenty of time to get better at it."

The words hang between you, simple but loaded with possibility. Not a promise or a plan, just an acknowledgment that time exists now where it didn't before. That this new beginning, this fresh start, doesn't have to be figured out tonight.

Joe's smile changes, becoming something quieter. "Yeah," he says. "I think there is."

In that moment you realize the difference between starting over and starting fresh. One erases everything that came before; the other builds something new on a foundation that was always there, just waiting for the right moment to matter again.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you #joe burrow fluff

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sunkissedscribbles · 1 year ago

Text

Mattheo Riddle's Guide To Win Y/N's Heart

pairing: mattheo x fem!reader (house not clarified)

genre: fluff

tw: my bad writing

word count: 1532

summary: mattheo's desperately trying to lure you in by using psychological tricks on you.

a/n: okay, this one might not be the best, but it's sweet. also, i wrote this in the middle of the night lol

masterlist

dividers by @chachachannah

It all started a week ago when Mattheo strutted into the Great Hall in the morning with that stupid, confident grin plastered across his lips.

“It’s 7:30. In the morning,” Theo raised an eyebrow at him as to why he was in a good mood so early for his liking.

“I have the master plan to get Y/N to date me,” Mattheo stated proudly, to which Enzo and Theo shared a look, and the latter snorted a laugh.

“And how are you gonna do that, Casanova?” Pansy chimed in too.

“Psychology,” Mattheo shrugged simply, deeply believing that his master plan would work perfectly.

He read in Enzo’s book that if you want to be appealing to a woman, you should sit across her at a table and if about to win a man’s heart, you should sit right beside him. So, the first trick he tried was sitting across you at the table in all cases, even if it meant two people — including you — sitting on the one side and five people squeezed together on the one across because Mattheo wanted to sit across you with millimeter accuracy. First, you didn’t understand it one bit. You only sensed Mattheo growing weirder by the day and your friends having more fun directly proportionally and putting two and two together, you realized these two are actually related.

The next thing was wearing red. Now this one was a hilarious one; on Tuesday afternoon when you, Enzo, and Mattheo were due to study together for Arithmancy (which, may I mention, Mattheo only took up because you did so too), Mattheo slumped down on the chair across you at the table in the library, wearing a Gryffindor hoodie.

“What on earth-“ Enzo shook his head in disbelief but you had to fight back a loud outburst of laughter.

“Hi, Y/N,” Mattheo grinned confidently but you shook your head with a grin still lingering on your lips.

“Whose is this?” you nodded in the direction of the hoodie hugging his upper body.

See, the problem with wearing red was that he didn’t own a single clothing piece of the colour, so he had to think outside the box and be creative for this one.

He looked down nonchalantly and shrugged with that familiar smirk. “Longbottom’s. I’m sure he doesn’t mind.”

Enzo buried his face into his hands next to you, trying to hold a groan back from escaping as your mouth hung open and your eyes widened. “He doesn’t know?”

“His door was open…”

You, knowing Mattheo, lifted your eyebrows in disbelief as he clearly didn’t tell the exact truth.

“Well- it wasn’t open, but soon it opened magically and I took it as an invitation…”

“You Alohomora’d his door to get a burgundy hoodie for Merlin-knows-what?”

“Well, y- wait. Burgundy? This is red,” Mattheo shook his head as he stiffened. He was convinced it was pure red — boys and their eyes for colours, huh?

Enzo snorted a laugh finally, knowing exactly Mattheo was trying to use the ‘red makes you appear more attractive’ law of psychology on you and he technically failed.

“No, darling, this is burgundy,” you chuckle which by the way, Mattheo found adorable, even in the middle of his embarrassment, plus, you called him darling — so he took it that you actually fell for his trick and, well, for him too.

But of course, there were things in Enzo’s psychology book Mattheo didn’t even think of doing. This was, for one, playing hard to get. Because he knew his eyes would have failed him every time he’d tried to close you out, and he knew exactly how well you were able to see right through him. You being concerned about him was also a problem with this because as Pansy once absent-mindedly drew his attention to how you noticed people’s energies shift pretty quickly, he had to close this option out completely.

Another one was putting on a cocky, intimidating, or prideful look because of the same reason; you noticing the energy shifts, and because no matter how hard he’d tried, that stupid grin had grown on him and your sight only fueled it.

He tried mirroring your body language, too. You were leaning forward at breakfast, tiredly resting against the wooden dining table? He was sitting opposite you, sitting as if he was actually in your mirror. You ran a hand through your hair? Guess what, he had to scratch his head. Even when your leg was bouncing nervously under the desk in History of Magic, he sure mirrored it.

You weren’t oblivious to this either, and you knew something was up — but you simply thought he was playing a prank on you. And your friends being awfully quiet whenever you brought up how weird Mattheo was being around you only added to your suspicion.

“I see” was a common way for him to start whatever he had on his mind. Because, research by MIT showed that women were more attracted to men who used the phrases “I see,” “Okay,” and “Yep.” And for him, he used them until he’s grown sick of them.

But of all the things he’d tried, his favourite — and yours too — was touching. Touching you had always lightened his day, even if it was just a tap on your shoulder to enquire about the time. And his touch provided reassurance for you, whenever he touched you for even a split second you knew you had someone to count on, someone to be comforted by. When you were tired in class he had a shoulder to offer for you to rest your head on (not Theo though because he could go fuck himself rather than sleep on his best friend’s shoulder, respectfully, in the best friend in question’s opinion.) When you were anxious, he chose to put his quill down and not take notes, rather have his hand comforting you by rubbing little circles on your thigh just above your knee (and sometimes a little too high), having his arm around you or playing with your hair, saying he’d borrow your notes later to catch up, which he never did.

However, things haven’t changed for two more weeks. And, as time went on, Mattheo grew more and more desperate, seeking the moment he could finally hold you in his arms and kiss the life out of you. He was waiting for the moment when he could confess his love to you — or, which would have been more convenient, and a whole ego boost for him, to have you come crawling by yourself, singing odes about him. But he realized it was a rather unlikely scenario that lived rent-free in his head.

“That book sucks,” Mattheo complained to Enzo one evening in the common room frustratedly as he sank into the green velvet material of the couch.

“Why so?” Enzo didn’t even look up from his Transfiguration essay he was desperately trying to put a dot on the end of for an hour.

“‘Cause I tried everything! And Y/N still doesn’t have a clue how I love her,” he let out a grunt as he let his head fall back against the backrest of the sofa and rubbed his closed eyes tiredly. “She’s still not into me.”

“I am into you,” your voice came down on him like a rain of cold ice. After nagging for two whole weeks, Pansy agreed to fill you in about what Mattheo called his master plan, and you finally understood what it was all about.

Mattheo’s eyes shot open to see he hasn’t hallucinated your reassuring words in that sweet tone you always talk to him with, and to make sure you are very physically standing there. He quickly got up from where he was and sat on the couch next to Enzo, who seemed to be in a completely other world with how concentrated he was on his Transfiguration homework.

Mattheo quickly made his way over to you, standing just a few feet apart with that stupid grin already growing on his lips as he took you, your gorgeous figure, bright smile, and shiny eyes in. “Are you now, princess?” He asked in a tone sweet like honey while tugging a strand of hair behind your ear.

You rolled your eyes at him before taking a step closer to the point that your chests were grinding against each other, to Mattheo’s biggest pleasure. And before he knew it, your lips came crashing against his in a long-awaited kiss and his arms slithered around your waist so naturally like they were made to be resting there. However, you pulled away after a few seconds before it could’ve got a little too carried away. “Did you really steal Longbottom’s hoodie so that I’d find you more attractive?” You chuckled with a touched but still a little mocking smile.

“Borrowed it. I returned it after you told me it wasn’t the right colour,” he rolled his eyes at you too, but he was the happiest guy on earth right then and there because he had all right to wrap his arms around you like a shield, protecting you from the world and its horrible people.

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starset21 · 1 month ago

Text

Plot Twist |IH6|

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x reader

Summery: You’ve been dating Isack for well over a year, and he knows you write fanfiction. What he doesn’t know is that you write fanfiction about him. Using his real name. And one night he finds out.

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: I've seen a few others do this and thought maybe I'd jump on the train here's my first Isack fic <3

You’d always told yourself it wasn’t really lying.

Yes, you were dating Isack Hadjar. And yes, you wrote fanfiction. But it wasn’t like you lied to him about it. You just... never exactly told him what — or who — you were writing about.

It started innocently, before you ever even met. Just a silly crush on a talented, scrappy young driver with a sharp tongue and kind eyes. You wrote a few soft imagines on Tumblr under a fake name, and somehow, it took off.

Then, against all odds, you met. You hit it off. You started dating.

And the fanfic?

Well… it never stopped.

Even after things got serious. Even after you moved in. Even after you started borrowing his hoodies and waking up in his hotel beds, you still wrote your silly little stories about Isack Hadjar and the girl he’d do anything for.

You just didn’t think he’d ever read them.

It happened one quiet Tuesday night. You were back in France between races, curled up on the couch in one of Isack’s oversized Red Bull hoodies, eating cereal straight from the box while he sat beside you, scrolling through his phone. He was quiet — half-watching something on TV, half-dozing off — when a low sound escaped him.

“…Huh.”

You glanced over. “What?”

He tilted his phone toward you, brow raised.

“I just saw a tweet about fanfiction. Someone tagged me in it. Thought it was another thirst edit or something, but…”

Your blood turned to ice.

He tapped the link.

No. No. NO.

There it was. The blog post. Your blog post. A fic you’d published just days earlier — one that had already gained hundreds of reblogs — with the title:

“Stay the Night (Again)” — Isack Hadjar x Reader

He stared at it. Then at you.

You tried to play dumb.

“Huh. People write a lot of fanfiction, right?”

But it was too late.

He opened it. He scrolled.

And when he hit the line where you (well, technically, “reader”) whispered “You’re the only place I feel safe,” in his arms on a Monaco hotel balcony — which you had actually said, in real life, six months ago — he paused.

“Okay,” Isack said slowly. “So this is… incredibly specific.”

You stared ahead, wide-eyed, silently begging for the earth to open up and swallow you.

He turned to face you fully, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Chérie,” he said, voice calm but clearly amused, “you use my real name?”

Your voice came out a full octave higher. “...Define ‘real.’”

“Not like… ‘Zack.’ Or ‘an F2 driver who’s definitely not me.’ You wrote ‘Isack Hadjar,’ full name, and then described my hotel room layout and the exact way I kiss you when I’m tired.”

You groaned and covered your face with both hands.

“Are you mad?”

He blinked. “I’m… not sure yet.”

“Okay. Valid.”

He kept reading. “Did you write this one before or after we went to Monaco for our anniversary?”

“…After.”

He put the phone down and gave you the flattest look you’d ever seen.

You cringed. “In my defense, it got over 20,000 notes.”

He just stared.

“I said in my defense!”

“You wrote a scene where I give you a back massage after Quali and then say ‘I could win or crash out and you’d still be my favorite feeling in the world.’ I don’t even talk like that.”

“You said something close once!”

He looked absolutely betrayed. “I was half-asleep!”

You groaned again and sank deeper into the couch.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled into the throw pillow. “It started before we got together, and I didn’t want to stop. People liked it. It felt like mine. No one knew it was me — or you — not really.”

Isack watched you, expression softening. A beat passed.

“Wait,” he said slowly, voice full of dawning realization. “That NSFW Alphabet one… was that—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

His mouth curled into the most devilish grin you’d ever seen.

“Oh, you wrote that.”

“I hate this timeline,” you muttered, dragging the pillow over your face.

He was already pulling the blog back up.

“‘K is for Kitchen: where he makes you beg quietly because the wall’s too thin.’ That’s literally my apartment!”

You flailed an arm out and smacked his leg. “Stop reading it out loud!”

Isack cackled, holding the phone just out of reach.

“You’re unbelievable,” you groaned.

“I’m flattered, actually,” he said, nudging your knee. “I mean, who needs PR when I’ve got my girlfriend anonymously publishing erotica about me on the internet?”

You peeked out from under the pillow. “So… you’re really not mad?”

He smiled, a little softer this time.

“No. Not mad.”

You bit your lip. “Embarrassed?”

He grinned. “No”

You tilted your head. “Then what?”

“I’m a little… intrigued.”

You blinked. “Intrigued?”

He leaned in. “So let me get this straight: while I’m out here giving interviews and prepping for quali, you’re writing little scenarios about me — using my real name — where I kiss you like we’re in a movie and whisper things in French?”

You nodded slowly. “Yes?”

He smirked. “And these have, what, thousands of readers?”

“...Tens of thousands,” you admitted.

He whistled. “So I’m basically F1’s main character.”

“In the fic world? Kind of, yeah.”

He hummed. “It’s weird. But mostly just because I had no idea. You’re so quiet about it in real life. Meanwhile, online you’ve got me reciting French poetry in the rain and undoing bra straps like I’ve got a degree in it.”

You laughed, cheeks flushed.

“I take creative liberties.”

“You give me main character energy, chérie.”

He paused. Then, eyes twinkling:

“…Can I request a fic where I win in Monaco and we make out behind the podium?”

You gaped at him.

“Are you seriously making fic requests right now?”

He leaned over, resting his forehead against yours.

“Seriously. I want bonus points if I say something emotionally repressed and French.”

You smiled, your heart still pounding.

“Okay. But only if you stop reading the NSFW Alphabet out loud.”

“No promises.”

Later that night, as you curled up in bed together, he scrolled through more of your blog while you tried — and failed — to take his phone away.

“I knew I recognized this dialogue,” he said smugly, showing you a screenshot. “This is word-for-word what I said when I kissed you after that sprint race in Spa.”

“God, you remembered?”

“Of course I did. I just didn’t think you were going to immortalize it on Tumblr.com.”

You buried your face in his chest and groaned.

“You’re never letting this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

He kissed the top of your head, laughing softly.

“I guess this makes me your muse now.”

You sighed dramatically.

“You always were.”

Isack looked down at you, one brow raised.

"Say that again," he murmured.

You blinked up at him, startled. “Say what?”

He leaned in, voice lower now. “That I’m your muse.”

You swallowed. “...You’re my muse.”

He smirked. “And all those scenes — the ones where I can’t keep my hands off you, where I make you forget your own name — those were based on real stuff too, yeah?”

You hesitated. “Some were... inspired.”

You felt his fingers trail along your waist, under the hoodie. Your hoodie. His hoodie.

He dipped his head, brushing a kiss against your collarbone.

“Then let’s make sure your next fic is even more accurate.”

Your heart practically stopped.

“Isack—”

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Think you can remember the details, chérie?”

You swallowed, heat pooling under your skin. “Vividly.”

He smiled against your jawline, then lifted you effortlessly into his lap, his hands splayed across your thighs like he already knew the next scene.

And you thought to yourself:

Well. There’s your next chapter.

#starset writes #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #isack hadjar #isack hadjar x reader #isack hadjar x you #f1 x you #f1 x reader #isack hadjar imagine #ih6 x you #ih6 x reader

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sunday-bug · 2 months ago

Text

Their Little Spitfire

Pairing: Avenger!Steve Rogers x Avenger!Bucky Barnes x female Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Content: suggestive behavior, will update as needed

A/N: This doesn't follow a particular timeline. Just for shits, giggles, and self-indulgence.

Synopsis: Steve & Bucky take an interest in the new girl. And she's full of surprises.

Part one | Part two | Part three in progress

“Someone looks like a little slut today,” Bucky says under his breath as he refills his coffee mug.

You scoff, feigning offense, clutching your hand to your chest in mock horror.

He takes a sip from the steaming cup with a smirk. Steve walks into the kitchen at that moment and eyes you curiously. “What’s the occasion? Trying to seduce a warlord?”

“This old thing?” You tease, gesturing to your ivory silk negligee. “I sleep in this all the time. You two have just never paid attention.”

“Well, we’re paying attention now,” Bucky jokes darkly, looking at Steve with a laugh. Steve chuckles back, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. You open the fridge and purposely bend over further than necessary to reach the milk. Steve inhales sharply at the sight of you without underwear while Bucky swallows too much coffee.

“You boys okay?” You ask with a smirk, knowing they just got an eyeful.

“We’re fine. Nothing we haven’t seen before,” Bucky says stoically.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re both, like, old men,” you say with a look of disgust, adding milk to your coffee.

Steve speaks up first, “Physically, we’re in our prime. Technically, yes, we are older, but…”

“Dirty. Old. Men,” you repeat, sipping your coffee with a raised brow.

Bucky puts his mug in the sink, “Seems like you wanted us to see, honey…”

You glance down at Bucky’s grey sweats, “And it seems like you enjoyed looking.” You wink at them both and saunter off toward your room, looking forward to a hot shower. You hear them both talking in the kitchen as you retreat, but can’t make out what they’re saying.

After your shower, you get dressed in your workout gear and head downstairs to the gym. It’s Tuesday - hand-to-hand combat day. You are still getting used to the schedule and team dynamics here in the tower being the newbie, but you feel confident and strong as you walk into the gym. The bulletin board to the right has fresh combat assignments pinned to it. You’re assigned to Wanda… and Bucky. Ugh.

Steve and Bucky step into the ring first and you watch as they go toe-to-toe. Sweat drips down Steve’s temple and Bucky smiles as he lands a punch to Steve’s ribs. Steve grunts and hits him back in the side. After a while, Steve is declared the winner by a small margin. You watch Nat and Wanda fight next, and Nat takes her down swiftly and surely.

“You ready, trouble?” Bucky asks from the ring, eyeing you.

You roll your eyes and slide in under the ropes, giving him a challenging stare.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on ya,” he says with a smug grin.

“You wouldn’t dare, Barnes,” you seethe, stepping up to him so you’re chest to chest.

“I’d snap you in half in a second,” he whispers down his nose at you.

“At least buy me dinner first,” you tease as you land a sharp elbow into his stomach. He steps back, a challenging look on his face.

“Fine, half pint, but you asked for it,” he says as he flips you over on your back and walks around you puffing out his chest. You lie there for a moment catching your breath and decide to play dirty.

“Ow, ow… I think you hurt me,” you whimper, holding your shoulder like it’s injured.

He leans down so he’s on his knees beside you and his eyes grow wide and concerned, “Shit, you okay? I’m sorry.”

You grin at him devilishly before taking him down onto his back in one motion, pinning his arms up and away from his body under your knees, “You gotta be quicker than that, baby.” You stand up and catch Steve gazing at you darkly. He starts to clap.

Bucky stands up and huffs, smoothing his shirt. If looks could kill…

“Good job,” Steve says from the gym floor. “Sorry, Buck, but she got you.”

Bucky walks by you and whispers under his breath, “Rematch tonight. I’ll find you.”

You shiver at the thought and exit the ring with a shit-eating grin. You’d bested Barnes.

Later that night after a team dinner, you go for a run around the compound, needing to blow off some steam and have some time to yourself. Your headphones are blasting your favorite playlist and the earth feels solid and steady under your feet as your lungs fill with fresh air. A flash of white passes you and you jump, but then realize it’s only Steve, lapping you for the first of countless times. He slows down and circles back to you, waving. You take out an earbud.

“Hey,” you say through a deep breath, starting to walk.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” he offers, a blush creeping into his cheeks.

“Oh? Why?” You ask curiously.

“It wasn’t respectful. The comment I made about you seducing a warlord,” he explains.

You laugh, “Well, maybe I was about to. You don’t know who my targets are all the time.”

He laughs and runs a hand over his neck, “Well, either way. We’re part of a team, and I just wanted to apologize.”

“No apology needed,” you wave it off. “Let’s run.”

Steve nods and slows down his pace so you can run together. When you finish up you both walk back into the main living area of the compound together. Your face is flushed and your breathing is heavy. You spot Bucky immediately on the couch wearing athletic shorts and nothing else. He sits up a bit as you walk in.

“You start without me?” He asks, looking at Steve. You watch Steve’s eyes widen as he shakes his head.

“What’s that?” You ask Bucky. “Start without you?”

“Yeah… it was just a joke,” he shrugs, looking down.

“Yeah? Explain it,” you say, crossing your arms.

Steve and Bucky both look at each other but remain silent. You watch Bucky shift on the couch, lightly tugging at his shorts and it clicks into place. You look around the communal room and see that you’re the only three here at the moment.

“Oh, I think I get it!” You say with a fake giggle. Bucky and Steve still don’t say anything, but they both look at you.

“Doubt it,” Bucky retorts, rolling his eyes.

“You boys want to fuck the new girl, huh?” You ask, taking your hair from the ponytail and shaking it loose.

“Woah-we…” Steve starts, but you cut him off and look at Bucky.

“Barnes?” You ask. “Am I right? You two old guys want to take turns with me?”

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, raking a hand through his hair.

“Yes,” Bucky finally spits out.

“Thank God. I thought you’d never ask,” you reply with a wink to both of them. Bucky stands up from the couch immediately and walks over to you and Steve before leading the way up to his room.

His room is dark - like him. Dark bedding, curtains drawn, and a closet full of black.

“Listen,” Bucky starts, closing the bedroom door behind him, “we’re in charge here.” He gestures to him and Steve.

“Oh, you boys are cute,” you muse, kicking off your shoes. “I’m going to use your shower. Why don’t you guys warm each other up? I’ll be out in a few.”

Bucky’s jaw drops and he looks at Steve, whose eyebrows are on their way to the ceiling. They both watch you walk to Bucky’s bathroom and shut the door behind you.

Check out part 2 here.

Taglist:

@ruexj283

@sebastianstan0813

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #steve rogers #chris evans #stucky fic #stucky x reader #stucky #steve x bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction

234 notes · View notes

harmonyrae · 4 months ago

Text

Vow

Synopsis: You're so careful, so calculated, but one bad investment could ruin you. A leather-clad knight on a Harley has a solution to your problems, but are you brave enough to take the risk?

AN: Inked Sequel. The “FMC” was technically in Inked, so she has a set hair color. That is the only physical feature that has any relevance to the plot. Cover images from Pinterest.

Content Warnings: A LOT OF PLOT & angst, smut is coming soon & it's juicy (prepare yourself), explicit language & sexual themes, alcohol consumption, vehicle accident & serious injuries, blood/vomit mentioned, needles & medical procedures (stitches), masturbation (f), 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 14.8k

It’s cold. So damn cold. Is your evol acting up again? You feel something wet coating your leg, it’s warm and it hurts. Fuck, it hurts a lot.

Your eyes flutter open as the warmth spreads from your shin to your thigh and continues up your right leg. You slowly turn your head and feel a dull ache along your upper back. It’s so dark, why is it so dark? Your hands reach up to rub your eyes, but come in contact with your helmet. You struggle to unhook the strap, panic slowly bubbling to the surface, and nearly cry out when you finally pull your helmet off. The helmet falls to the ground beside you and you tug your gloves off with your teeth.

“Where the hell am I?”

You try to sit up, gritting your teeth to distract yourself from the searing pain shooting across your back. When you finally look down at the damp spot on your jeans, you roll to your side to vomit. Blood. Your pants leg is completely soaked in blood. Wiping your mouth with the backside of your hand, you squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

“You’re a fucking doctor, pull it together.”

You know how shock works and that the sight of blood wasn’t what turned your stomach. You see more blood than this on regular Tuesday, it’s just your body responding to the trauma. You push yourself upright and reach down to try and tear away the bloody fabric. Before you can make any progress you hear a loud rumble behind you. You stop to look around, your eyes burn as the wind whips across your face. You finally realize what happened and where you are.

You look over your shoulder and see your bike on the side of the road, tires popped, the body scratched and broken and a streak of blood leading down to where you’re sitting. You try to look for any sign of what caused the crash, but you’re too far down the ravine. There’s another loud pop and rumble. You scramble to place yourself behind the tree next to you, biting your lip to suppress a scream. Your hands sting from the sharp rocks and sticks slicing through your skin. You lean back against the trunk and wheeze, trying to catch your breath.

What if it’s a cop? Or someone who knows you from the city? Your bike is registered with the police as belonging to a racer, and your attire wouldn’t help your case. They’d have to arrest you and then you could kiss your career goodbye. The hospital would have to fire you, you’d lose your apartment… What would your family think of you? What’ll happen to Ollie?!

You’re on the verge of a complete breakdown when you hear the low roar of, what you think, might be another bike. Something big by the sounds of it. You wrap your arms around yourself and hold your breath, trying to become invisible. Boy, that’d be a handy superpower right about now. The bike slows and the brakes whine as it comes to a full stop. The rider dismounts and walks through the broken glass to your bike. Just as you’re about to lean over for a peek, you spot your helmet, discarded on the ground a few feet in front of you. You have no time to consider your options, the snap of a twig alerts you to the rider's new location.

“Hello?”

A man, his voice deep and smooth as silk, cuts through the frigid night air. Another twig snaps, he’s closer. There’s nowhere you can go, but you’ve somehow convinced yourself that if you remain perfectly still, maybe he won’t keep looking for you or –

“Oh, hello there.”

Well fuck.

You glance up at the mountain of a man before you and instantly recognize his signature leather jacket and custom helmet. The brilliant red dragon hand painted with wings that turned to fire along the edges glimmers in the moonlight. Ryūō. You want to let out a sigh of relief, but he still had his helmet on, you didn’t, he’s seen your face.

A gloved hand reaches up to slide the visor up and reveal his eyes, his stunning eyes. You’ve never seen someone with ruby red irises before. And the longer you look into them, the more you feel like you’re falling. Usually having red eyes would be a cause for concern, but for him… they’re beautiful, ethereal, even. He gives you a once over before looking back at your helmet. When his piercing gaze returns to you, his eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Yuki onna. As I live and breathe.”

Wait, he remembers you? He crouches down and examines your leg. He unzips his jacket and pulls a switchblade from an inner pocket. You shift, trying to create distance and he raises his hands, the blade balanced between two fingers.

“Just wanted to see how bad it is. May I?”

You stare at him for a moment. You don’t have many options at the moment, so you nod, letting him proceed with opening the knife and cutting away the stained fabric from your ankle to your knee.

“Are you cold?”

Your eyes snap to his and you open your mouth to respond, but the sound of your teeth chattering shuts you up. You shake your head. He shifts, letting one of his knees drop to the ground to sit back on his heels. His expression laced with doubt, or at least you think it is from what you could see of his face.

“I’m just in shock. It makes you shake, I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, his brows knitting together.

“You a doctor?”

You nod and his brows unfurl to rise.

“Okay then, tell me what to do. Should I –”

“Don’t call an ambulance! I can’t… I can’t go to the hospital.”

He clears his throat, his eyes narrowing.

“I wasn’t going to suggest that. I have someone I can take you to, but I don’t want to make this worse before we get there.”

You push your shoulders back and suck your bottom lip into your mouth in an attempt to stop it from trembling.

“Oh…”

He points at your leg with his blade.

“So, tell me what to do doc.”

You rest your head against the tree and close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

“Okay, umm, is it an open wound?”

He shifts, leaves crunching under his weight.

“Yes.”

“Is it still bleeding?”

“It is.”

“Great… okay, I need you to cut the rest of that fabric away. Then make another cut to it, to make a long strip, you need to tie it around my thigh to slow the bleeding.”

The sounds of a knife cutting through fabric fill the space around you. His steady breathing, muffled by his helmet, is strangely comforting. You flinch when you feel his hand against your thigh. His steady hands pause for a moment, waiting for your permission to continue. You open your eyes, blinking back tears, and nod. He gently lifts your leg to pull the fabric underneath, lifting the strands on both sides.

“You need to make it tight.”

“How’s this?”

He ties the makeshift tourniquet securely and you groan, the fabric squeezing you to the point of discomfort.

“Perfect.”

“Do you have any other injuries?”

You rotate your shoulders and shake your head. He retrieves your helmet and carefully places it on your head. You’d usually protest, your hands are fine, but your adrenaline is wearing off. He secures the strap and leans down to look at you directly.

“Can I pick you up?”

Your stomach flips and you’re almost afraid you’ll vomit again. Swallowing hard, you nod again. He wraps an arm around your waist and tucks the other under your knees, lifting you off the ground with ease. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck and let your head rest against his shoulder. He carries you out of the ravine to the road where his massive Harley is parked next to your poor Katana. He carefully sits you down and props your feet up on the foot pegs.

“One sec.”

He walks over to your bike, pulling it off the ground and dragging it to the bushes. As he walks back, he fishes his phone from his pocket, presses a button and tucks it back into his pocket. He swings his leg over and sits in front of you.

“Luke, I have a bike I need you to pick up and deliver to the shop. Ping my location. And bring Kieran to clean up. Make sure he checks the ravine. Call me when it’s done.”

He lifts the kickstand with his heel and walks the bike backwards a few steps. He shoves the key into the ignition and the engine roars to life. His hand pats his side and you lean forward slightly, holding onto his waist lightly. You can hear his soft chuckle as he shakes his head.

“You know better than that Yuki.”

The bike lurches forward as he takes off and you squeal at the sudden jolt. You’re forced to lean forward and wrap your arms around him. His firmness grounds you, the way his abs tense when he leans taking a turn becomes damn near hypnotizing. You close your eyes and focus on following his lead.

“Hey, I need you at the clinic. Injured biker. Maybe a broken leg? Yeah, be there in 5.”

“You never said who you were taking me to.”

He lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

You wait for him to continue, but he remains silent.

“Well?”

“Don’t worry Yuki, he’s a good doctor.”

You scoff and squeeze your arms together making Ryūō laugh harder. You don’t have to live in suspense for too long, he pulls into the parking lot for a small apartment building after a few minutes. He parks his bike and dismounts, he gently lifts your bad leg and brings it over the seat. He takes off your helmet before leaning forward, expecting you to wrap your arms around him again. You roll your eyes, but comply. He picks you up and carries you into the building and straight to the elevator.

The inside of the building is opulent, with gold sconces and chandeliers, and art pieces look more expensive than your entire apartment. Looking over his shoulder, you realize the glass doors and windows are one-way glass. This doctor must value his privacy.

You watch the numbers above the elevator doors rise, pointedly avoiding the heat of Ryūō’s gaze. Which you can feel burning into the side of your face. The elevator finally stops at the top floor and you're carried into the penthouse. A comfortable living space, large kitchen, sliding doors leading to a balcony - nothing special. And then you’re brought to a room that makes you nearly swallow your tongue.

The dimly lit room is a fully stocked operating room. Machines lined neatly against the wall, cabinets you assume are full of supplies, an industrial refrigerator sits in the corner humming softly. You’re carried through another door into what looks like a recovery room. A soft bed, a vitals monitor, an ensuite bathroom, shelves stocked with surgical gloves, blankets and rolls of gauze. Ryūō sets you down on the bed and props your leg up.

“The bed I –”

“We have replacement sheets and mattresses, don’t worry.”

You shut your mouth and finally let your body relax. Every muscle screaming, every nerve completely shot. You close your eyes and hear Ryūō walk to the door and open it, stepping through to talk with someone on the other side. You lift your head and stare at the door - like staring at it will help you hear them better. A familiar muffled tone reaches your ears and you sit up, your hands braced behind you.

“She was nearly at the finish line too. I don’t know why no one else stopped, her bike was right on the side of the road.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you did or she may have bled out. She’s in recovery?”

There’s no way.

The door opens and Ryūō walks in, but the man behind him makes you want to scream.

“Zayne?!”

Zayne’s shoulders tense as he looks up at you. His eyes widen and his body becomes rigid. But just as quickly as the panic settles, it vanishes and he stalks over to the bed. His expression alone made you wish you had bled out on the side of the road.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Angry Zayne usually amused you, but being on the receiving end was not so fun. You glare at him and cock your head to the side.

“I could ask you the same question.”

His brows furrowed and he steps back, taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. Ryūō approaches and leans against the wall next to your bed. His eyes lit up with curiosity.

“You two know each other?”

Zayne looks over at him and sighs. He puts his glasses back on and turns to face you again.

“Sylus, this is my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

Ryūō, or rather Sylus as Zayne referred to him, undoes the straps of his helmet. With his real name used, he doesn’t see a need for it anymore. As soon as he pulls it off, you wish he hadn’t. His eyes were stunning, but now seeing them with the rest of his face… You almost forgot about the pain in your leg. The sharp line of his jaw, his prominent nose, his heart-shaped lips set in a smirk - he’s devastating. He removes his beanie and runs a hand through his hair, the same silvery white as your own. He looks too young for it to be natural, but then again, so do you.

Sylus raises a brow and you realize you’ve been caught staring. You return your focus to Zayne.

“Zayne, what are you doing?”

He shifts uncomfortably, but then he catches sight of your leg and his anger melts into concern.

“Questions later.”

He motions for Sylus.

“We need to get her into the OR.”

“Zayne, you’re not going to perform surgery on me in an apartment, are you?!”

Sylus picks you up and you yelp. He smiles down at you and looks to be thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He walks back into the makeshift operating room and sets you down on the raised bed. Zayne washes his hands at the sink in the corner and puts on a fresh pair of gloves. He begins to examine your leg, completely ignoring your influx of questions.

“The skin is broken, but it’s just a cut, not a compound. Zayne, talk to me.”

Zayne puts pressure on either side of the wound and a trickle of blood oozes from the wound, dripping down your leg. You gasp and Zayne looks at you over his glasses. Typical.

“Zayne, seriously, you’re not –”

“Wouldn’t be the first surgery I’ve performed here.” He interrupts. “I won’t operate if I don’t have to, but I need to know how serious this is.”

You groan, wincing with every poke and prod.

“She needs an x-ray.”

Sylus is picking you up again before you can even comment. There’s no way they have an x-ray machine here, impossible. Sylus seemingly reads your mind.

“We have an MRI too. Impressive, right?”

He carries you into a room with a whole ass x-ray machine, the wall nearby lined with aprons. Sylus places you on the table and moves to let Zayne work. He drapes an apron over your stomach and hips, carefully straightens your leg, moves the detector under your leg and the collimator overhead.

“You know the drill.”

You cross your arms and look at the wall in the opposite direction. Zayne’s footsteps, joined by Sylus’s, exit the room and after a few minutes you hear the machine turn on. You force yourself to stay still and try your best to calm your racing mind. Zayne is the head of the Cardiothoracic department, why is he working as an underground doctor on the side?

“Turn to the right, if you can.”

Zayne’s voice echoes from a speaker somewhere in the dark room. You carefully rotate and let your leg rest on its side. Another brief moment of silence before the machine whirs. The machine shuts off and he and Sylus re-enter the room to collect you. Once you’re in the “operating room” again, Zayne leaves to get the x-ray results and Sylus goes into the recovery room and closes the door partially. You’re left alone with your thoughts for a moment and it takes all your willpower not to spiral.

“Is it done?”

Sylus’s muffled voice grabs your attention and you look up to see him in the partially opened doorway. You silently pray he doesn’t look over, because you’re absolutely staring now. He pulls his sweater over his head and tosses it in front of him as he talks on the phone, your mouth starts watering. Jesus, you really need to get laid or something, this is embarrassing.

His bare torso is like a canvas at an art gallery with all the ornate tattoos etched into his smooth skin. His arms were covered in what looked like traditional Yakuza tattoos, but they were somehow… softer. The lines are delicate, faded, merging to create something beautiful. The arm you could see has traditional Japanese waves and bright red maple leaves. When he turns, the lines of something almost geometric etched along his back, like wings, come into view. As he slides a t-shirt over his head, you spot the body of a dragon weaving down his side and over his stomach, disappearing at his waistband. You have a single moment to get your shit together before he re-enters the room and approaches you. You keep your eyes locked on your hands, picking at your fingernails.

“So, what should I call you?”

You force yourself to look up at him, putting on your best poker face before you give yourself away. But before you can speak, you see another tattoo and your brain shuts down. His sweater and helmet covered most of his neck, so now you can see it clearly, especially with how close he is to you. Down the center of his neck a traditional katana striking through the mouth of the lower half of an Oni mask. The mask is a gorgeous scarlet, surrounded by matching spider lilies.

“Like what you see?”

Shit.

You clear your throat and meet his eyes.

“Just admiring the tattoo… It’s nice.”

He smiles and dips his head to level with you.

“Just call me Yuki.”

Sylus opens his mouth to respond, but Zayne cuts him off.

“You’re extremely lucky.”

He holds the film up to the light and points to the hairline fracture along your tibia. You let out a relieved sigh. Zayne sets the film down and pulls his chair over to the table before carefully laying out a suturing kit.

“I still need to suture this and I recommend using crutches, but knowing you, a boot will suffice.”

He turns to wash his hands, slowly rolling up his sleeves. If you had a dollar for every time you’re rendered speechless tonight, you’d have enough to buy multiple overpriced coffees at the hospital coffee cart.

“Zayne?! What the fuck?”

Zayne dries his hands and wrists before grabbing a pair of gloves. He returns to the table and opens a new syringe to prepare the local anesthetic. Your eyes are locked on his wrists and forearms, you’re barely able to form a sentence.

“When… when did you… wha…”

Zayne looks at you, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He injects the anesthetic and begins to clean the surrounding skin.

“When did you get tattoos?”

He chuckles under his breath and sits back in his chair, looking down at his nearly blacked out forearms. Patterns of icicles and snowflakes stand out against the dark ink. The tattoos continue up to his elbows and, you assume, beyond. But his hands are completely bare and the starting line is perfectly lined up with the ends of his sleeves. How many other tattoos does he have hidden?

“A few years ago.”

You reach out to hit him, but he rolls his chair backwards to grab more gauze.

“Did you have them when I got my first one?”

He hesitates before rolling back over. He refuses to meet your eyes and you grab the pillow behind you, launching it straight for his head.

“And you let mom and dad lecture me about tattoos being ‘inappropriate for the workplace’ especially ‘within the medical community’ - and you said NOTHING!”

Sylus laughs, clearly enjoying the argument.

“No one knows. I don’t show them to anyone.”

“I know.”

Sylus’s shit-eating grin almost makes you forget yourself.

“Of course you know. You were there when I got them.”

Your eyes widen and you look between the two men.

“Wait, how long have you two known each other?!”

Zayne gently taps the skin around the wound and you shake your head. He begins threading the needle and conveniently ignores your question to focus. Sylus, on the other hand, is more than happy to give context.

“About six years ago now, right doc? A little incident helped our paths cross. Since then we’ve been associates, maybe even friends.”

Zayne glares at Sylus over his glasses.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Sylus gasps dramatically.

“Oh, I’m hurt, I thought we had something, doc.”

Zayne shakes his head and begins suturing the wound closed. His steady hands threading the skin and carefully pulling it closed. While you know it’s numb, you still wince at the sensation of something lightly pricking at your skin. Zayne keeps his focus on your leg as Sylus crosses his arms to watch him work.

“Tattoos, a clinic on the border to the N109 Zone, an illegal one at that. Who are you?”

Zayne’s jaw twitches, his movements remain slow and steady. He finishes a perfect line of sutures and looks up.

“I’m not the only one with secrets. You’re a racer? Illegal bike racing? If you get caught you can kiss your residency at Akso goodbye, and your career for that matter.”

You rub your hands down your face and shrug.

“Guess we both have alter egos then.”

He scoffs and stands to grab a roll of gauze. He bends your knee and places your foot flat on the bed and does one final clean before wrapping your leg.

“What were you thinking… you could have died.”

Zayne’s voice is clipped, but you can feel his concern. Your chest aches and you dig your nails into your thighs, none of this should be happening to begin with. With your adrenaline level and your wound addressed, the metaphorical fog clears and you remember what’s at stake.

“No no no no… fuck… I’m fucked…”

Zayne stops wrapping your leg to hold onto your knee, attempting to steady you. Your body shakes violently.

“Is she in shock again?”

Sylus hurries to your side and looks to Zayne for answers. Zayne presses the back of his hand to your forehead and reaches up to hold your face in his hands.

“Hey, hey, breathe, what’s going on?”

The time for shame was long gone, your career was hanging by a thread and now your life might be as well. Sylus leans on the bed and looks down at you, his stoic expression softened with concern.

“I… I owe someone.”

Sylus and Zayne share a look. You flop back onto the bed and cover your eyes with your arm.

“I started racing a few years ago. I was doing so well in amateur races that I got invited to the professional, high stakes ones.”

“The buy-in for those races… how did you afford that?”

Zayne was all too familiar with the financial struggle of residency. He not only lived through it, but started the Residency Relief program at Akso to help struggling residents.

“I did… really well in the amateur scene.”

“You gambled.”

You prop yourself up on your elbows, glaring at Zayne as he tapes over the gauze.

“And I made enough money to pay off my student loans and cover the downpayment for my apartment. The rest I invested in my bike and it paid off.”

“So what went wrong?”

You lock eyes with Sylus, his finger rhythmically tapping his cheek as he listens.

“There was a competition and I… I made a bad investment. I didn’t even place. When I found out who I really made the deal with… it was too late, I’ve been trying to pay him back.”

“How much?”

Zayne removes his glasses and crosses his arms. God, he looks like dad when he does that - it’s terrifying.

“I bet $250k…”

Zayne’s mouth drops open and Sylus chuckles.

“And let me guess, the bastard slapped a loser's fee and interest on top.”

You side-eye Sylus, of course, he would know the ins and outs of racing bets.

“The total came out to a little over $600k.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Zayne collapses back in his chair as Sylus whistles.

“How much have you paid back?”

You cover your face, you never thought shame or embarrassment could kill, but here you are, barely hanging on.

“He doesn’t do payment plans.”

“Who?”

Sylus’s voice is rough, darker than before. You drop your hands and look up at him. He doesn’t look away, his eyes burn straight through you. You barely know who Sylus is outside of who he presents himself to be as Ryūō. He rests his knuckles on the bed and leans forward, his nose almost brushing yours.

“Who?”

You clear your throat and try to maintain eye contact.

“Volkova.”

Sylus smiles. A sinister, venomous smile that sends a chill down your spine.

“I had nearly $500k saved and today’s race was supposed to be the last one. I was so careful, planning everything, I’d only have to make one double or nothing bet and I’d have enough to pay off Volkova and get caught up on bills. Maybe even have a little extra to chuck for savings. It was a track I’ve done before, turnout was lower than predicted, I was so goddamn close.”

“And then you crashed.”

You can’t stop the tears from spilling over. Sylus stands and crosses the room to look out the window. Zayne stands and rounds the bed to sit beside you. His arm wraps around your shoulders and he pulls you into a hug.

“I lost everything… I can’t pay… He’s going to…”

“He’s not going to do anything, I’ll write a check.”

You push against his chest so you can look him in the eye.

“No, you can’t. He’ll see your name and… he’ll come after you. Writing a check for that much, for me?”

“You’re worried he’ll extort me? I can give you cash.”

“He’s tracking my bank statements, he’ll see a massive cash out and realize I lost a bet. And then if I suddenly pay him in full he’ll be suspicious, he’ll find out, I know he will.”

“Did he give you a deadline? Maybe we can stagger the deposits?”

Your chest caves as you fall forward, Zayne catches you and holds you close.

“It’s… in a week. I’m… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… god…”

Sylus’s voice startles you, the timbre of his voice making you shiver.

“I’m guessing he didn’t tell you exactly what will happen if you fail to pay?”

You peek over Zayne’s shoulder at him. He sways gently, his hands tucked in his pockets. His strong features bathed in moonlight. When you don’t respond, he continues.

“He’ll probably use you. If he knows you’re a doctor, he’ll probably make you his private, personal and permanent physician. Forcing you to be available to him at any given moment.”

You shiver at the thought of being dragged into some dark warehouse to dig bullet fragments out of wounds or ordering you to steal medicine from Akso.

“I have a solution for you.”

Both you and Zayne sit up and look over at Sylus, who finally turns to face you.

“Marry me.”

“What?!” You and Zayne shout in unison.

Sylus laughs, he rubs the back of his neck as he walks over to the side of the bed. You expect his expression to change, to make it clear his offer was a joke, but his jaw is set, brows relaxed - he’s serious? He places a hand behind you and leans down.

“We’d both benefit.”

Zayne stands and yanks Sylus back. He meets his gaze as an unnatural chill settles between them. You look over Zayne’s arms, the dark ink doesn’t hide the veins of ice forming, they spread down his wrists and over his hands. You see Sylus eyeing the crystals of ice forming on his sleeve where Zayne holds onto him.

“Doc, I assure you, it’s a business arrangement, not a plot to get into your sister’s pants.”

Zayne’s eye twitches as snowflakes start to subtly fall around the men. You shift to the side of the bed and try to stand up, indoor flurries are never a good sign, he’s about to snap. When your feet hit the floor, you stumble, your legs are weaker than you expected.

“Shit!”

The sensation of falling only lasts a moment before you are weightless, streams of black and red circle around you keeping you upright. The threads pick you up effortlessly and sit you back on the bed. Zayne rushes to your side and holds onto your shoulders, forcing you to sit back as he guides your leg back up on the bed. Sylus remains stationary, but you feel his eyes on you.

“What was that?”

“It’s his evol, are you okay? What were you doing?”

You shove Zayne back.

“Stopping you from making him into a popsicle!”

Zayne glares at you, he tucks his hands under his arms to hide the frost, even though he knows you’ve already seen it.

“Don’t tell me you’re considering it?”

“I don’t think I’m in any state to consider anything!”

Zayne’s expression softens, he knows you’re right. He hasn’t even addressed your blood loss or potential road rash across your back. He uncrosses his arms and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, gently holding your face for a moment.

“You’re right. I’m going to get an IV from the kitchen, we’ll talk about all of this once you’ve rested.”

Your brows knit together and you open your mouth, but Zayne already knows your question.

“Don’t ask. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves and you make a mental note to ask about the kitchen IVs later. You sense Sylus' approach, and you slowly look over to him.

“I’m serious, by the way. Think it over. I’ll be in touch.”

He turns to leave and you reach out to grab onto his arm. His muscles twitch and he stares at your hand before dragging his eyes up to meet yours.

“My… my bike?”

Sylus places his hand over yours. His warmth spreads through your fingers, up your arm and straight to your head. Your cheeks flush as he rubs his thumb over the back of your hand.

“It’s been delivered to the shop. And the crash site has been cleaned. No blood, or vomit, left behind.”

You pull your hand back, god, you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Sylus’ raspy laugh doesn’t help things, your head spins just from his touch, and he wants to marry you? For business, of course, but… no, you can’t really be considering this? Right?

“Talk to you soon, Yuki.”

You’re dissociating again. Everything feels far away, sounds, smells, even your vision - it’s like you’re looking through a tube. Your nerves are so fried when a hand touches your shoulder you jump.

“Oh, sorry! Your eggs are burning hun.”

Yvonne’s soothing voice slowly draws you back to this plane of existence. Looking down you see your eggs are sticking to the pan in dark clumps. You jab at them with a spatula and it dawns on you, you didn’t put butter down first. You pick up the pan and carry it to the sink, dropping it into the empty side with a loud clatter. You turn on the water and a huge plume of smoke billows upwards as the cool water hits the hot pan. You cough, swinging your hand wildly.

“Shit…”

Yvonne rushes to the balcony door and slides it open before grabbing the newspaper off the kitchen table to fan the smoke outside. Ollie, your rambunctious Maine Coon, rushes out the door and jumps up on the railing.

“Ollie! No!”

You abandon the smoking pan to run after him, he’s too clumsy to sit on the railing like that. You approach him with your hands on your hips and he dips his head. He’s the perfect mix of black and white, his green eyes blinking slowly as he tries to guilt trip you into letting him stay. Not today. You pick him up and he stretches his front legs around your neck, his hugs will always soothe your soul.

“Come on ya big baby. You can be outside if you use your tower, not the railing.”

You plop him down on the top level of his cat tower and hurry back inside. Greyson is at the sink addressing the mess you made. He looks over his shoulder and gives you his best attempt at a scowl.

“What is up with you lately? You didn’t even turn off the stove!”

“I’m sorry… I’ve just… Not being at work has been messing with my head.”

Zayne convinced, or rather forced, you to take at least 3 days off to let the swelling in your leg go down before returning to work. No one questioned his approval for your time off and Greyson and Yvonne have been hesitant to ask what really happened to your leg. Your story about falling down the stairs at the gym was… less than convincing.

“Well you get to go back tomorrow, yeah?”

You nod and sit down at the kitchen table. Yvonne places a bowl of cereal in front of you and you give her an apologetic smile. She runs her hand through your hair and looks over at Greyson.

“How about we bring home dinner tonight? We can play jeopardy, Greyson, you still have the board from last time, right?”

He nods, carrying the pan to the garbage can to scrape the burnt egg into the trash.

“Yeah, I’ve written up some new prompts too.”

Greyson prides himself on the jeopardy game he created to help residents study for the boards. Even Zayne was impressed with the level of detail.

“Okay then! We’ll see you tonight. Call me if you need anything, promise?”

You smile up at Yvonne, she’s been your best friend since the very first day of your residency. This soft spoken, tiny woman was a powerhouse when she needed to be. She had worked at Akso as a nurse for about 3 years before taking an extended leave to attend medical school. She’d earned her place in the residency program before she even graduated. Greyson, an attending, had started dating Yvonne when she was still a nurse. They’ve been together ever since. Moving in with them was an… interesting decision, but you’ve never once regretted it.

“Shit, we’re gonna be late.”

Greyson rushes out of the kitchen and into his and Yvonne’s shared bedroom. Yvonne giggles and pats your shoulder.

“With how he drives, there’s no shot we’re late.”

You laugh while she follows him into the bedroom to finish getting ready. Ollie jumps up on the table and lays down in front of your bowl. He might have been the runt of his liter, but when he stretches he’s still extremely long, almost the width of the table. He gives you the saddest look and you know what he’s asking for. You finish your cereal and dip your finger in the milk, extending it to him so he can lick it off. His little chirp of satisfaction brings a smile to your face.

Greyson and Yvonne leave a few minutes later and you’re on your own. During your time off, you’ve tried studying or reviewing old case notes, but your current predicament was too distracting. How are you supposed to focus on your boards when your life hangs in the balance?

Ring Ring

Your cell phone chimes and your stomach drops when you see the caller ID. The only unknown caller you’re used to getting calls from is Volkova. And he called yesterday… Did he find out about the accident? Does he know you lost all the money you’d saved?

“Hello?”

“Good morning Yuki, how’ve you been?”

A voice deeper and rougher than Volkova’s flows through the phone. Your breath catches in your throat for a moment as you search for the right words. You hadn’t expected to hear from Sylus so soon.

“I’m… umm… I’ve been better.”

“I assume you’ve heard from Volkova?”

You grunt as you stand from the table to shuffle over to the couch. You flop down and cover your eyes with your hand.

“I – oof!”

“What happened?”

You start to laugh as you look down at Ollie who jumped up on your chest. He crouches down and tucks his front paws under, the ultimate loaf. You rub his ears and his motor starts, you’re sure even Sylus can hear him purring.

“It’s nothing, just my cat. Wasn’t ready for his chunky butt to land on my chest!”

Sylus chuckles, he sounds almost… relieved?

“But yes, I’ve heard from Volkova.”

“Four days, right?”

Goosebumps spread over your body. The threat Volkova made is still fresh in your mind.

“Yes, and according to him, I won’t like what happens if I don’t have the money.”

Sylus pauses. A tear drips down your cheek and you close your eyes to slow the flow.

“Have you considered my offer?”

You let out a shaky breath and hold onto Ollie, the steady rumble of his purring grounds you.

“I don’t get it, how does marrying you fix anything? I mean, I assume you have some kind of power if you think Volkova wouldn’t fuck with me if I’m with you. But then – I mean, what’s in it for you? I’m just a doctor! Not even an official doctor, I’m a resident. I don’t understand how –”

“Woah, slow down there sweetie. I can only answer one question at a time.”

His sudden switch up in nicknames renders you speechless. You close your mouth and wait for him to start filling in the blanks.

“You assume I have some kind of power?”

“Yes.”

“How familiar are you with the N109 Zone?”

“Not very, I mostly just know the city layout thanks to races.”

Sylus laughs, the sound is infectious. It’s a carefree laugh, you’re a tad envious.

“What do you know about Onychinus?”

“The gang?”

“I prefer ‘criminal organization’.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the only sound that escapes is a squeak. Ollie’s ears twitch and his eyes open half-way, he stares at your mouth as if waiting for a mouse to crawl out. You lift your hand to rake through your hair.

“Surprised?”

You nod, realizing a few seconds later that he, in fact, cannot see you.

“Ye-yeah. You… you’re…?”

“The N109 Zone has been relatively peaceful under my control, but now Volkova has weaseled his way into the racing scene. And apparently, is taking advantage of young women who’ve clearly never made high-stakes bets before.”

“Hey!”

“So you were aware he would charge you an outrageous losers fee and stack unrealistic interest rates?”

You can’t argue with him there. If you had known, you never would have made the bet.

“Volkova’s been in the game long enough to know a novice when he sees one. And you’re not the only one he’s doing this to. He’s crossing lines and staking a claim. In my territory. And that… just can’t happen.”

“So marriage…?”

“Marrying me puts you under my protection. You won’t be paying him a penny and unless he has a death wish, he won’t come after you. He needs to learn his place. And you need time to rebuild after the accident.”

“Rebuild?”

“I can offer you protection and stability while you get back on your feet, both physically and financially.”

“And I’m just supposed to be a pawn in your game with Volkova?”

“You’re already a pawn, I’m offering you a chance to become the queen. Protecting you from him is just one way you’ll be helping me regain control of the Zone.”

“What else do you expect from me then?”

“You’re a doctor, with a completely clean record. I have legal businesses who want to work with Onychinous but won’t sign a contract with my name on it. They’re worried it might ruin their reputation. You, however, can present yourself as an up-and-coming surgeon who wants to make the N109 Zone a ‘better place’ - they’ll sign in a heartbeat.”

“And no one will question why this completely clean ‘up-and-coming surgeon’ married the notorious leader of a ‘criminal organization’?”

“Of course they will, but if they know what’s good for them they’ll keep their mouths shut. And if you’re worried about your hospital friends, my public persona in circles where my real identity is a mystery, I’m just the owner of a successful Winery.”

“A Winery?”

“Who lives at his vineyard in the N109 Zone.”

Ollie’s automatic feeder turns on and the sound of his food trickling into the bowl wakes him up. He leaps onto the coffee table and sprints for the kitchen. You stand up and limp out onto the balcony. His plan is solid, his offer makes sense… no matter how many times you review it in your mind, you can’t find a reason to turn it down.

“Still with me?”

“Yeah, yeah… I just… I don’t want it to seem like… ugh…”

“It’s not about the money. I’m not buying you and you’re not a gold digger. We’re partners in this, business partners.”

The tension in your shoulders fade, the knot in your stomach uncoils, and you can finally take a deep breath for the first time in weeks. You’ve always been independent, determined to take care of yourself with zero help from anyone. Sylus wasn’t offering to fix it for you, you’d be helping each other. You’d never even considered getting married, your career was more important. But this was a business deal, logical, realistic, beneficial for multiple parties. It wouldn’t intrude on your career plan.

“Okay. Let’s do it. On one condition.”

“And what is that Yuki?”

“We revisit this arrangement yearly. If it’s no longer beneficial for both of us, we part ways. I’ll sign a prenup or whatever else you want if you agree that we’re not going to take advantage of each other.”

“Deal.”

You stare at your hands.

“So what now?”

“Give me a day to make arrangements. We won’t do anything ostentatious, it’ll draw too many wandering eyes. But we’ll want Volkova to hear about it and see us together, just so the message is clear. I’ll call you tonight. I suggest talking to your family, whatever story you come up with I’ll play along.”

“Okay, yeah…”

“Talk to you soon.”

He hangs up and you stare at your phone. When you decided to get into racing you never thought you’d end up here. You know would-ofs and could-ofs are pointless, but your whole life is about to change. You pull up Zayne’s number. Your parents have become more easy-going in their old age, they won’t like the idea of a shotgun wedding, but you doubt they’ll cut you off because of it. You’re their baby girl, they’ve always been a little softer with you. Zayne, on the other hand…

“Hello?”

“Hey Zayne!”

“Are you okay? Did your stitches rip?”

“No no, I’m okay. I need to talk to you. Could you come over for lunch?”

Zayne is silent for a while. You’re tempted to repeat the question, but he clears his throat.

“I can. I’ll put Greyson on call for me.”

“Okay, yeah! Umm… I’ll make some…”

You stand up and waddle into the kitchen, which still smells like burnt eggs.

“Actually, I’ll order something. Does noon work?”

He hums in agreement. Before you can say another word you hear the tell-tale sound of his pager. He gives you a hasty goodbye and hangs up, probably running down the hall to the OR by now. The possibility of Zayne being angry with you turns your stomach. He’s the most important person in your life, you can’t lose him.

Meow!

Ollie strolls into the kitchen and rubs against your boot. You stumble as you shift your leg away, he clearly doesn’t care that you’re unsteady because he just turns to rub your other leg. You bend over and pick him up, his legs wrap around your neck and you shove your face into his fur.

“Don’t worry buddy, you’re still my baby boy. Nothing will change that.”

He purrs and rubs his face into your hair. At least you’ll always have Ollie.

You’ve just set down the last box of takeout when your doorbell rings again. You shuffle over to the door and peek through the peephole. Zayne stands on the other side with a small box in his hands, his hair wet from the rain that started just moments ago. You swing open the door and invite him in.

“It was just sunny out 15 minutes ago! Where did this storm come from?”

Zayne sets the box on the entry table and shrugs his coat off, hanging it on the hook by the door. You pick up the box and lift up a corner. You see two cupcakes, decorated with a thick layer of chocolate frosting. Zayne smacks your hand away and takes the box back.

“The Italian bakery across the street from Akso added new items to their menu.”

He walks past you and sets the box down amongst the takeout boxes. You follow him and push a container towards him.

“Well, I got onigiri, udon and curry rice from Katei ryōri, they opened up a new location closer to us so Greyson and Yvonne have been ordering a ton. I had coupons for free nama donuts cause they’ve been ordering so much. So you can pick and choose, whatever you want, totally up to you and –”

“You’re rambling.”

Zayne sits down and opens the udon to put in a bowl. You sit across from him and pick at your fingernails. He watches you as he makes himself a plate of curry rice.

“I assume you wanted to talk to me about the Volkova situation?”

You nod.

“So, you’re accepting my help, yes?”

You shake your head. He sets the container of rice down, takes off his glasses and tucks them in his breast pocket. He links his fingers together and rests his arms on the table, leaning forward to stare at you.

“Zayne…”

“Please tell me you’re not considering Sylus’s offer.”

You bite your lip and dig your nails into your palms.

“I already agreed to it.”

Zayne’s face goes from stern to shocked to angry in rapid succession. He pushes his chair back and stands. He walks toward the door and takes his coat off the hook. You quickly stand and run - well more like quickly walk - to stop him. You grab his coat and hold it tight against you.

“Zayne please…”

“You’ve already made up your mind. I’m not sure why you couldn’t have told me this over the phone.”

His tone is eerily calm.

“Because you would have hung up on me and avoided me for weeks. I know you think this is a bad idea, but…”

“It is a bad idea.”

“I haven’t been able to think about anything else since the accident. I’ve tried to figure out a way to deal with this and Sylus’s offer makes the most sense.”

“How can you possibly think that? You don’t even know who he is!”

“I do! He told me. And this arrangement is beneficial for both of us, it’s like a business deal! It’s the most logical –”

“A business deal? You’re marrying him. You’re making vows. How can you think this is the best option? I’m right here, offering you a way out and you’re trusting him over your own brother?”

He reaches for his coat, but you hold tight. He rubs the bridge of his nose and retrieves his glasses, sliding them on before grabbing the door handle. He only opens the door a crack before you step in front of him and press your back against it, slamming it shut.

“Zayne please! I… I need to do this. You don’t have to like it, but I’m begging you, please, please don’t walk away.”

Zayne’s image becomes blurry as your eyes fill with tears. Your big brother has always been there for you, if he walks away now you’re not sure how you’ll handle it. He turns and walks into your living room, sitting in the armchair by the window. Ollie jumps up on his lap and he doesn’t even try to push him away.

“What will mom and dad think?”

You sit down across from him and quickly swipe a tear away as it falls.

“I’ve already talked to them.”

Zayne looks up with wide eyes. Ollie chirps as if he’s responding in kind.

“I told them I met someone and I didn’t mention being in a relationship because I didn’t think it would last given the pressure of residency. That he proposed and we don’t want to waste time or money on a big wedding. Mom’s surprised but happy and dad’s just glad he doesn’t have to pay for anything.”

“And what do they think he does?”

“Sylus told me he has a persona that owns a Winery. That his vineyard is in the N109 Zone and he’s very private.”

“And what are you going to tell mom when she asks about grandkids?”

“She’s always known I put my career first. That won’t change.”

“So you’re just going to marry him and what? Live a lie?”

And with that, your last shred of self-control disappears.

“You can’t say shit about living a lie! You have secrets that I still can’t wrap my head around! Tattoos? A secret clinic or, actually, a whole ass secret hospital that you use to treat racers and whoever else Sylus might bring to you! You can’t be serious, Zayne!”

Zayne looks down at Ollie on his lap. His nimble fingers stroke the center of his forehead, making Ollie’s eyes close.

“Sylus helped me a few years ago. I wouldn’t be a doctor if he hadn’t stepped in. I doubt I’d be alive. And you’re right, I do have secrets. I never wanted you to get too close because you have your whole career ahead of you. But now…”

He finally looks up at you, his anger long gone, replaced with fear. You’ve never seen him look afraid. He was always your brave big brother. Helping you manage your shared evol, teaching you how to use it to keep bullies away when you entered high school, protecting you from Wanderers or creeps on the street. But now, he’s afraid, and you don’t know why.

“Now you’re facing something equally as dangerous and I… I don’t want you to throw away your future.”

You lean forward and take his hand, ignoring Ollie’s disgruntled growls as Zayne stops petting him.

“I’m not. I’m making sure I still have one and that I’m the one in control of it.”

“And you think Sylus can give you that?”

“I do.”

Zayne sighs. When he looks up at you again, his fear has been locked away.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea, but… I will support you. Just don’t come running to me when you realize what a pain in the ass Sylus is!”

You giggle and stand to wrap and arm around him. His stiff posture relaxes and he pats your shoulder.

“Let’s eat, I have a left ventricular remodeling in an hour.”

When Sylus informed you the wedding would be on Saturday - literally 2 days away - you may have panicked just a bit. And by a bit, you may have spiraled while on the phone with him and he had to talk you through some breathing exercises.

“We’re scheduled with Judge Bishop for noon. We’ll get the vows and paperwork out of the way and then around 5 the reception will start.”

“The reception?”

“Since we’re doing a private ceremony, a public reception is the best way to get the news out. It’ll also be a chance for you to celebrate with your friends and family - I don’t want our arrangement to drive a wedge in your relationships.”

You lay back on your bed and pull your blanket up to your chin. Ollie chirps at the sudden change in his sleeping arrangement. He quickly readjusts, curling into a ball against your back.

“Okay, vows at noon, reception at 5.”

“Tell you what, how about we meet for dinner on Friday night. We can go over the details in person. I have a few more things to finalize anyway.”

“Uhh dinner? Wh-where?”

Sylus is quiet for a moment.

“I’ll pick you up after work and we’ll go wherever you like.”

Work was unbearably slow - which is objectively a good thing in the medical field - but you’re miserable. Ever since you told Greyson and Yvonne about the wedding, they’ve been distant, even at work. When Yvonne finally stopped giving you the silent treatment, she nearly cried arguing with you over why you kept your “relationship” a secret from her. While she forgave you, you know she’ll be hesitant to trust you for a while.

Friday afternoon held the same pattern, the ER was slow, your appointments were postponed thanks to your leg and Yvonne and Greyson avoided you for the most part. Thankfully they sat with you at lunch to discuss the reception happening the following evening. And by the time your shift was over, Yvonne was hugging you and squealing about being invited to the vow exchange. She would be your maid of honor if you’d done things the traditional way, so she deserved to be there.

While you thought ahead and brought a dress to change into, you were almost tempted to just wear your scrubs. Why were you trying to dress nicely for him? He wasn’t marrying you for your looks - it shouldn’t matter. Right? Against your better judgement, you peel off your scrubs and carefully pull on a pair of thick black tights, adding a pair of leg warmers to protect your bandages from your walking boot. The black oversized sweater dress you toss over your head is one of the few dresses you own that you actually wear. Your phone buzzes on the bench next to you and you nearly drop your lipstick.

Sylus 𝘐’𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵, 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

Me 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥.

You stuff your scrubs in your backpack and pull on your denim jacket. The walk to the front entrance from the locker room wasn’t far, but you hoped you wouldn’t run into anyone who cared enough to ask why you were so “dressed up.”

The gust of cold air that hits you when you open the door makes your eyes water. Winter is fast approaching and you’ve barely had time to enjoy it. You even missed the first snow of the season thanks to an MCI that kept you in the operating room nearly 12 hours past the end of your shift. But it’s fitting, you getting married during the winter.

When you don’t see Sylus’s bike in the parking lot you stare at your phone, your finger hovering over the call button. Before you get a chance, he calls you.

“I’m not on my bike.”

“Oh, wait why?”

“I didn’t think you’d be too comfortable on a bike with that boot on your leg. I’m pulling up now.”

The call disconnects and you look up to see a blacked out Escalade pull up to the curb. The driver's door opens and you see the top of his head over the roof of the car, his hair nearly glowing under the fluorescent lights lining the entrance. He rounds the car and approaches the passenger side, opening the door for you. As you approach you notice there’s something different about him, and then you catch it, the sparkle of steel.

His ears are lined with various studs and small hoops, an industrial bar crossing the top of his left ear. A small septum hoop hangs above his lip, which holds two piercings of their own. Two silver studs sit on the outer edges of his lower lip. He raises a brow, bringing your attention to the piercing there as well. You can feel your mouth run dry.

“Is there something on my face?”

You roll your eyes to match his teasing tone.

“I just didn’t realize you had piercings…”

“I take them out when I’m racing, more comfortable. Now, after you…”

He motions towards the car and extends his hand for you. Accepting his help, you step up to the car. He places a hand on your waist and guides you onto the seat, bending to lift your bad leg into the car. He closes your door and returns to the driver’s side. Ignoring your pounding heart, you buckle yourself in.

“So where would you like to go?”

Sylus turns on the heat and you feel your legs warm. Heated seats? In a custom Escalade? Jesus. Suggesting a cheap burger feels out of the question.

“Uhh… well I don’t know what you like.”

“I’m not picky.”

“Well, maybe…”

You’ve only been to a handful of fancy restaurants in Linkon. And always as a result of a work related event: an employee appreciation dinner, the first year residency celebration and a Christmas banquet. Only one name comes to you and you pray you can remember what you ordered.

“The Linkon Grille?”

Sylus nods and pulls away from the hospital entrance. As he drives, you take this opportunity to examine him out of the corner of your eye. Sleek black suit pants, a red dress shirt with the collar open to showcase a stack of silver necklaces and his signature leather jacket. You’ve always wanted to ask why he wore a jacket with, what looks like, red and white lightning strikes when it didn’t quite match his alias.

“Is the lightning intentional?”

You’ve always wanted to ask, you had no intention of ACTUALLY asking, oh god. Sylus smiles.

“Not really. I liked how it looked, so I bought it.”

Might as well keep the conversation going.

“You wear it when racing, does it… relate to Ryūō somehow?”

“No. My helmet has Ryūō artwork, my jacket is just a jacket.”

“Oh…”

Okay, no more attempts at small talk, you suck at it. Thankfully, you arrive at the restaurant before you have to explain your silence. The valet approaches and Sylus hops out to open your door. He helps you out and hands the keys to the young man.

“Shit… I’m not sure if this place requires reservations…”

“How many times have you been here?”

You stare at the ground as you walk. Sylus laughs, but doesn’t stop. He opens the door for you and rests his hand on your lower back to guide you inside.

The interior was outrageously ornate - dark wood, armchairs instead of dining chairs, waiters wearing gloves carrying boxes of cigars to each table. You’re out of your depth here.

Sylus approaches the hostess and you don’t miss how she gives you both a once over and scowls before speaking.

“Hello! Do you have a reservation?”

You stare at your feet to hide your embarrassment.

“It’ll be under Ony.”

You look up at him to find him smiling from ear to ear. The hostess pauses for a moment before looking at her book. Her expression changes to sheer terror a moment later and her entire demeanor changes.

“Oh, Mr. Sylus! I apologize, I didn’t recognize you! Would you like your regular table?”

“That’s fine. Shall we?”

He extends his arm and you hook your hand around it. You follow the hostess to a private table at the back of the restaurant. Sylus helps you out of your coat and pulls your chair out for you. He hands your coats to the hostess who apologizes once again before rushing through a nearby door. A minute later a man in a three piece suit arrives with a bottle of wine.

“Mr. Sylus, I do apologize for Regina. Please accept this Pinot, free of charge.”

Sylus takes the bottle and traces his finger over the label. He smirks and hands the bottle to the man with a nod. He opens the bottle and pours two glasses.

“Just let me know when you’re ready to order and I’ll make sure Osvaldo prepares it personally.”

He sets down the bottle and bows before taking his leave. Sylus chuckles and you realize you’re completely zoned out, just staring at the bottle of wine.

“Maybe I should have mentioned I am an investor at this location.”

You pick up your glass and down the wine in one go, grabbing the bottle for a refill without hesitation. Sylus picks up his glass, twirling the stem between his fingers before taking a sip.

“I’ve been here once. I have no idea what to order and oh my god, this wine is expensive!”

You look at the label and recognize the brand. Just one bottle would set you back two months rent. You set the bottle down and push your glass away. Sylus leans forward and fills your glass himself.

“Please, indulge.”

“I can’t… I can’t afford this.”

“Sweetie… When you’re with me, you’ll pay for nothing. That’s part of our business arrangement.”

“Since when?”

“Right now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’re a caviar and oyster girl.”

You wince, your last experience with oysters had not ended well. You shake your head.

“How about I order for you? If you don’t like it, I’ll order something new until you find something you like.”

Your cheeks warm, surely it’s just the alcohol. You nod.

“Benji, we’re ready.”

You look around, wondering who he is talking to and gasp when you turn around and see the man who brought the wine appear out of thin air. Sylus swirls the wine in his glass and keeps his eyes locked on you while he orders.

“We’ll both have the lamb chops over lobster mash with honey glazed carrots. And tell Osvaldo to make some fresh espresso, we’ll be having tiramisu for dessert.”

The man nods and rushes away. Just the thought of tiramisu makes your mouth water. You pick up your glass and take a small sip, taking a moment to savor it this time.

“So… tomorrow…”

Sylus smiles, he’s clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

“Yes, tomorrow. Paperwork at noon, reception at 5. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask?”

“Yes… a ton actually… uh…”

“We have all night, sweetie. Take your time.”

You forgo your tiny sips and down the rest of your second glass. You reach for the bottle to refill while considering which question you want to ask first.

“The reception, where will it be held?”

“I own a club along the border to the zone.”

“A club?”

“Paradise.”

“You own Paradise?!”

“Is it really that shocking?”

“No, I just… I’ve heard about it from my colleagues and it’s… impressive.”

“I take it you’ve never been?”

You take another sip of wine, your body slowly relaxing as the buzz from the alcohol settles in.

“I don’t really go to clubs, or parties for that matter. My weekends are for sleeping and studying.”

“You and Zayne are very similar then.”

“Aha… yeah, now you’ll say I copied my big brother in becoming a doctor, right?”

Sylus frowns, he taps his wine glass.

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

You clear your throat and stare at your wine glass, wondering if you’ll be officially drunk if you chug this third glass.

“Is that what most people say? That you copied your brother?”

You nod and place your glass on the table, forcing yourself to make eye contact with your future husband.

“I skipped the same grades, went to the same medical school, was offered the same residency at Akso, where he works. I mean, we even have the same evol. It’s like I’m a carbon copy.”

“I disagree. You don’t look like him, that’s one difference.”

“I used to, when I was a kid. People thought we were twins.”

“Is that why you changed your hair?”

You tuck a strand of your ivory locks behind your ear, subconsciously twirling the end over and over.

“I… didn’t…”

His brows drew together and you chuckled.

“I have pernicious anemia. Basically, my body doesn’t produce the protein needed to absorb B12. Usually, the lack of B12 would cause hair loss, but in some rare cases it can cause premature graying. My hair started turning white when I was 10, but I had been dealing with symptoms for a year before that. I missed a lot of school because I couldn’t stay awake and I’d faint from dizzy spells. I was in the hospital for almost a month between figuring out what was wrong with me and then trying to get stabilized enough to go home. My hair has been white ever since.”

Sylus nods, his expression turning somber.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s okay! I mean, that time in the hospital is what made me want to become a doctor. My parents are both doctors, so I spent a lot of time in hospitals anyway, but as a patient I got to see the other side. I was like a puzzle. Watching everyone trying to figure it out was fascinating.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Oh yeah, I take vitamins and get B12 shots when I need to. It’s completely manageable. Just a horror show when you’re a kid, you know?”

He nods, but he doesn’t look up from his glass. You spot Benji rounding the corner and start to clap, making Sylus jump. He smiles as he watches you bounce in your seat as the food arrives. You almost whine when he pulls the wine bottle to his side of the table to keep you from grabbing it.

The tender lamb sits on a bed of lobster mashed potatoes, the honey glazed carrots perched on top with a healthy sprinkle of decorative herbs. The lamb is perfectly cooked, falling off the bone to swim in the savory potatoes. You can barely contain yourself, sighing loudly as you devour your meal.

“Oh… I like carrots!”

“That’s… great.”

Sylus sits back to watch you as you lift a carrot on your fork to look at it.

“Zayne doesn’t like them, I do, that’s another difference!”

He smiles, finally understanding your outburst.

“So I explained my hair, what about yours?”

Sylus runs a hand through his hair. He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist.

“What about it sweetie?”

“Why is it silver? And white? Silvery white. You’re too young for it to be natural.”

“My job is pretty stressful, it could be.”

You shake your head and squint at him.

“No, no. I can tell.”

“Well, I don’t know, if I’m honest. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.”

“What about your parents? Will they be there tomorrow?”

Sylus’s smile falters and he looks down at his plate, lining the carrots up in a row with his fork.

“My parents are… gone. It’ll just be me and the twins tomorrow.”

“Twins! Oh… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… uhh… wh-who are the twins?”

His gaze softens and he lifts a finger. You look over his shoulder to see Benji rush into the kitchen.

“Luke and Kieran. They work for me. They’ve become… like family, in a sense.”

“I look forward to meeting them.”

Benji reappears and sets two plates of tiramisu on the table.

“I can make a to-go box if you like ma’am?”

“Oh that would be lovely, thank you!”

He takes your plate and Sylus’s and disappears through the door once again. You reach for the plate closest to you, but Sylus pulls it away. You look up to glare at him.

“I thought we could practice for the cake cutting ceremony.”

“Oh! Uhm… okay… wait, there’s gonna be cake?”

“Of course. Chocolate with white icing and red roses. I thought it best to keep it classic. Unless you want something different?”

“That… that sounds beautiful. I… I honestly never thought about what kind of cake I would want. I never thought I’d get married.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Just… never thought about it. My career has always been my focus.”

Sylus places a plate between you and holds out a knife.

“Well, I hope you enjoy what I have planned for tomorrow regardless.”

You reach out and wrap your hand around his. You both guide the knife through the soft layers. You let go and pick up a dessert fork, watching him pick up a forkful first. You scoop up a bite and lean forward. Sylus moves the plate out of the way and extends his arm towards you. You carefully take the fork into your mouth while feeding Sylus his serving. The bitter espresso soaked ladyfingers melt on your tongue, the sweet cream so fluffy you could barely keep your eyes open.

Then you feel the fork in your hand move slightly. You finally break eye contact and look at his mouth, the corner tilting up into a smirk. You can feel his tongue circle the utensil, making sure every ounce of the delicious dessert is consumed. Your heart pounds in your chest and you lean back until the fork slips out of your mouth. He does the same and you stare at him for a moment, unsure what to say or do.

“You’ve got a little…”

He leans forward again and brushes his thumb over the corner of your mouth. You freeze, almost afraid he’ll feel how hot your skin is, or how your entire body is pulsing with your heart beat. He pulls his hand back to reveal a bit of cream on his thumb. You open your mouth to thank him, but you’re rendered speechless as he sticks his thumb in his mouth to suck the cream off.

“I think that went well, we just have to do it in front of a crowd tomorrow.”

You sit in silence, staring at his mouth. He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and you watch the silver studs rotate slowly. He’s definitely aware you’re staring and doesn’t seem to give a fuck. He releases his lip and extends his hand to gently take hold of your chin. He tilts your head up until you meet his eyes.

“You think you can handle that, sweetie?”

You blink rapidly, trying to pull yourself out of your drunken, horny haze to reply.

“Yeah… yes. For sure.”

“I think you may have had too much to drink.”

You try to shake your head, but his fingers holding your chin keep you still.

“How about I get us a room? I don’t think I should drive.”

Your bleary eyes clear slightly and you sit back, pulling your chin from his grasp.

“You barely drank!”

“I have a relatively low tolerance. Buzzed-driving is still drunk-driving, you know.”

Benji approaches the table with your to-go box and gives Sylus a pat on the shoulder.

“Osvaldo is thrilled you ordered the tiramisu, he sends his thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you two tonight?”

“Yes, can you prepare my usual room and –”

Before Sylus can finish you wave your hands, attracting both Benji and Sylus’s attention.

“I… we are not… I’m not getting a room with you, I don’t… we shouldn’t…”

Sylus looks at Benji with a knowing smile.

“If you could replace the twins beds with a queen, I doubt she’d be very comfortable on a single.”

Your eyes widen as you slowly realize your mistake. You sit back in your chair and fold the napkin on your lap into a tiny square. You hear Benji’s footsteps fade and Sylus clear his throat.

“Sweetie? Did you not realize this restaurant is part of a hotel?”

You shake your head without looking up.

“I have a suite on stand by with a separate room for the twins when we stay here. I wasn’t going to force you to sleep with me.”

You quickly look up at him, embarrassed and unsure.

“No, I didn’t think… I… I’m not a prude I just…”

“I don’t expect anything from you. And I will never force anything on you. I want that to be perfectly clear. You never need to worry about that when you’re with me.”

Your throat stings as you try to keep yourself from crying. Damn, you’re emotional when you’re drunk. You grab your glass and down the rest of your wine, wincing at it burns the back of your throat. Sylus' smile returns.

“What about tomorrow?”

Sylus stands and extends a hand to you. After a moment of consideration, you take it. He helps you stand and places a hand at your waist to steady you. He walks slowly, making sure you don’t trip over your boot.

“I’ll wake you up with plenty of time to get ready. Don’t worry.”

He ushers you into the elevator and presses the penthouse button, of course it’s the penthouse. You roll your eyes and a wave of dizziness hits you. Sylus leans back against the wall and you lean with him, your back resting against his chest.

“I had your leftovers sent to the minibar, if you wake up and want a midnight snack. There’s also spare clothes in the wardrobe if you’d like to sleep in something more comfortable. Just call the front desk if you need anything else.”

You look over your shoulder at him and melt under his heated gaze. You find yourself staring at his lips again. Would it be uncomfortable to kiss with those piercings? Or would it feel… thrilling? The ideal mix of hot and cold with his tongue in your mouth and the cold steel on your lip. You rest your head back on his chest and sigh, you just want a taste… one… little… taste…

Ding

The elevator reaches its destination and silently swear, you had almost worked up the courage to close the distance. Sylus takes a step forward, forcing you through the door into the large penthouse entryway.

He guides you through the suite, pointing out the kitchen, the living room, the laundry closet and the door to the balcony. He stops in front of a set of doors and slides them open to reveal a small hallway. He points to the room on the right.

“That’s my room, if you need anything just knock.”

He opens the door on the left to reveal your room for the night. Sure enough, a queen bed was delivered and made up with a luxurious comforter and nearly a dozen pillows. He leads you inside and opens the door to the bathroom, a clawfoot tub catches your attention. If it wasn’t for this damn boot and stitches, you’d soak in that tub for an hour.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He lets go of your hand and waist and you instantly miss his warmth. You watch him leave, disappearing behind the door to his room across from yours. You hurry across the room to close the door and lock it. You’re flinging your sweater dress over your head onto a nearby chair and kicking your shoes off, using only a tiny bit more caution with your injured leg. Your tights follow and then your underwear.

You lay back on the bed and shiver as the silky blankets cool your bare skin. You pull the blanket to the side and slide under, propping your feet up to keep your legs spread. Your body moves on instinct, your mind is too fuzzy and filled with the filthiest images, you need to release the tension, now.

Your fingers slide down your naked body, pausing over your chest to roll your perky nipples between your fingers. One hand slides further, dipping between your folds and spreading yourself open. You shiver at the thought of Sylus’s fingers replacing yours. Those long fingers tracing your clit and sliding into your pussy with ease. You close your eyes as your fingers start to work your clit with urgency. His thumb wiping that cream off of your mouth, fuck, you wish you had grabbed his wrist and pulled him to you. To watch him stare at you with those hungry crimson eyes as you close your lips around his thumb and suck. You lift your other hand to your face and stick your thumb in your mouth, imagining it’s Sylus’s.

Your fingers dip into your throbbing pussy, which almost immediately sucks them in deeper. You pump in and out, rubbing against your clit with the palm of your hand. A strangled whimper escapes your throat as your tongue circles around your thumb. You’re so close, and you’ve only been at it for a minute. You imagine his lip rings brushing against your nipples as he kisses down your chest. Does he have piercings anywhere else? What if he does, what would they feel like? You bite your thumb as you come undone.

You lay there, sweating and sticky, letting your mind wander. You haven’t been attracted to someone for a long time. You’ve never let yourself get into a serious relationship. One night stands in college? A fuck buddy in medical school? Sure. But a relationship? Someone you see and talk to everyday? And yet, here you are, getting off to the guy you’re going to marry after knowing him for a week. What are you getting yourself into?

You went to sleep later than you intended, you wanted to wash your bedding - no way you’re letting the hotel staff find your mess and it somehow gets back to Sylus. You also took the time to shower and wash your hair. You were planning on doing a full body shower at home to prepare for the wedding, but the bathroom here had everything you needed.

When you finally fell asleep your dreams were full of Sylus. He wore a fitted tuxedo, his hair slicked back, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. You saw yourself in the mirror, a gorgeous white wedding dress, lace, tulle, the works. He handed you the flowers and adjusted your veil, twirling his fingers through your curls. Black and red roses lined the aisle of the church. Rubies hung from the ceiling, shimmering in the sunlight to cast intricate patterns on the walls. His voice calls out your name and the world stops spinning, it’s just the two of you. He holds your waist and you press yourself against him.

A series of knocks at your door bring you back to reality. You quickly get out of bed and wrap a plush white robe around you. Hobbling over to the door, you unlock it and open it a crack. To your surprise, it’s not Sylus.

“Hello Miss. I’m Veronica. Mr. Sylus wanted me to deliver these dresses. Tanya is here with your breakfast as well.”

You look over your shoulder at the clock on the wall, 7 am, you have plenty of time to go to your apartment and get the outfit you originally planned to wear. But you’re curious, what did Sylus get for you? You open the door and let the women in. Veronica wheels in a clothing rack, setting up in the corner next to the bathroom. She unzips each garment bag and pulls the dress out so you can see it fully. You sit on the bed and stare at the spectacle unraveling before you. The dresses, a small table unfolded and covered in plates of food. Tanya smiles at you every chance she gets and you try your best to return the pleasantries.

“I brought you a variety, you can pick and choose. Quiche, french toast, crepes, a fruit platter, coffee, juice - if there’s anything else you want, please just call the front desk. I’ll bring it right away!”

Tanya gives you one last smile, her eyes full of tears. She hurries out of the room and closes the door. Veronica laughs.

“Sorry about Tanya, she’s always wanted Sylus to get married, she treats him like a son. She’s a little emotional today.”

She picks up a bag off the bottom of the rack and pulls out a large makeup bag and curling iron.

You glance over at the makeshift vanity she’s setting up and quickly put down your glass of juice. You rush over to her before she can unload any more equipment.

“Wait, wait… Sylus, he… uhm…?”

Veronica places her delicate hands on your shoulders.

“Sylus hired me to help you get ready. He told me you might not want any help, but to offer it just in case. If you already have a dress, I can send someone to pick it up. Or you can choose one of these. They should all match the measurements I was given.”

You look over at the dresses then back at Veronica.

“Wait, how’d you get my measurements?”

Veronica smiles, her eyes sparkling.

“Sylus has a knack for that kind of thing.”

You wrap your arms around your waist and look around the room, trying to balance on your good leg. Veronica continues setting up her station and gives you space to think. You glance over at the clothing rack and decide looking can’t hurt. Up close, the dresses are divine - silk, chiffon, organza, lace, anything you can imagine.

“Feel free to try them on. Sylus asked for long dresses, but I can pin them up if they’re too long.”

You smile to yourself. Long dresses to hide the boot. He really thought of everything it seems.

You look through the dresses and find one that you love. While you can’t imagine yourself wearing it you decide to try it on. You take the dress into the bathroom and slip your panties on. Suddenly very thankful you decided to wash your intimates after the bedding was finished. You carefully drape the dress over your head and try to zip it up. When you’re finally done criticizing your short arms you open the bathroom door to seek Veronica’s help.

“Hey Veronica, do you think you could –”

You stop short when you realize Sylus is sitting at the breakfast table Tanya set up. His eyes light up when he looks at the dress you’re wearing and the butterflies in your stomach swirl once again. Veronica comes up behind you and zips your dress closed and ties a bow to secure the halter neck. She holds your arm and leads you to the full length mirror, which is right next to the breakfast table.

“You were right, this one does look spectacular on her.”

Veronica steps aside and you finally see your reflection. You’ve spent years laughing at those bridal shows and rolling your eyes at brides who cry over their weddings, but now you feel a little guilty for the mockery.

The soft white silk feels heavenly against your skin, the halter neckline is flattering to both your chest and shoulders. You turn to look at the back and smile as you spot your tattoo framed within the open back design. The dress is the perfect length, hovering off the floor so you don’t trip, but long enough to cover your unsightly boot. It’s not fancy or frilly, it’s no ball gown, but it makes you feel like a bride, even if it is just for a courthouse wedding.

“Do you like it?”

You run your hands down the front of the dress and sway, watching the mermaid base swish around your ankles. Sylus steps up behind you, his clothes from the previous night slightly wrinkled. You look at him through the mirror and he smiles, his eyes dropping to your back. You feel the ends of the bow shift away from your skin.

“It’s beautiful.”

You feel your cheeks flush and when you check in the mirror, sure enough, your cheeks are nice and rosy. You clear your throat and put your hands on your hips, feeling the fabric stretch over your curves.

“It’s a snow leopard, right?”

You nod, your smile widening.

“Yeah! It took me years to find the right hyperrealism artist and then I was hung up on what color blue I wanted for the background. Three six hour sessions later, I have my spirit animal with me forever.”

“Your spirit animal?”

You cross your arms and glare at him.

“Do I not give off vicious snow leopard vibes?”

He laughs, that same carefree laugh that makes your heart skip. He steps closer to you, his hands moving to rest on your shoulders.

“I’m not sure yet. What I do know is you look like an angel right now.”

You scoff, your bedhead and bare face could hardly be considered angelic. His hands squeeze your shoulders.

“I mean it. You look incredible.”

Your eyes stay locked on him as he circles around you. He stands before you, his hands sliding down your arms to hold your hands.

“This might be a business arrangement, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t feel like a bride on your wedding day. And you’re certainly…”

He lifts one of your hands to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on your knuckles.

“... the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

You let out the most outrageous giggle, your hands instantly moving to cover your face in embarrassment. Sylus grabs your hands and stops you, so you quickly change the subject.

“Isn’t it bad luck for the groom to see the bride on their wedding day?”

He rubs his thumbs over your fingers, slowing down when he reaches your ring finger.

“Well, we’re hardly doing things the traditional way. But… I will leave if you want me to.”

He lets go of your hands and you reach out for him, grabbing his wrist.

“No… stay.”

Now it’s his turn to blush, his ears turn the lightest shade of pink and you silently celebrate not being the only one flustered in this encounter. He sits down at the breakfast table and puts a quiche on his plate.

“You should try on the reception dresses I picked out, so V can make alterations this afternoon.”

You look over at Sylus and then to Veronica, who casually walks out the door into the hallway.

“Reception dress?”

Veronica rolls another clothing rack inside and starts unzipping the garment bags. Compared to your wedding dress, these are… bold. Red velvet, purple lace, black silk. Long skirts, once again, to hide your boot, but a variety of necklines and cut-outs. Your wedding dress was intended to be classy and subtle, these… These are sexy.

“Sylus… I… these are…”

“All going to look incredible on you.”

You stare at him for a moment. Is this your life now? Designer dresses, penthouse suites, making grand appearances at his club while holding onto his arm? Not that you’re complaining, but compared to the life you expected… you're…

“Overwhelmed?”

Sylus’s voice cuts through the noise. His eyes shine as if they’re burrowing into your soul and you don’t look away.

“My world is complicated, sometimes messy. I’m sure being a doctor is like that as well.”

You nod, your fingers mindlessly tracing the lace pattern on the dress in front of you.

“What do you do when you’re overwhelmed in the operating room?”

“I… imagine I’m floating. On a cloud, just… blue sky, sunshine, a soft cloud under my feet. Everything is quiet, clear… peaceful. I just float.”

“Okay, then for today, let’s float together. No expectations, no danger, just… float.”

You turn back to the dresses in front of you and take a breath. You look at the dress you’ve been holding, a red velvet off-the-shoulder number with a black lace corset and lace gloves. If you’re going to step into this new world, you might as well step into it looking fucking hot.

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Also, for funsies, this is what Sylus looks like in this fic. (The one on the right I made in Canva it's rough lol)

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