#these are the kinds of things you notice when you go through every character's name multiple times

[yuujispunches]

Crumbling down ~ N.K.

Pairing: Noritoshi Kamo x fem!reader

Summary: When Noritoshi comes back from a specially tough mission he can’t hold it in anymore but you’re there to pick up the pieces.

CW (content warning): aged up Noritoshi Kamo, this is slightly angsty, mentions of sex, p in v sex, MDNI (+18), mentions of an injury and blood, allusions to family neglect.

AN (author’s note): Did someone ask for this? No. Did I make this and still go a bit overboard anyways? Yes. There just needs to be more Noritoshi works out there, my boy deserves more appreciation. As always a reminder that English is not my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there are any typos/mistakes. Anyways hope you like it! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send them! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

The door slams behind him harder than he meant it to.

Noritoshi doesn’t speak. He’s soaked from rain and spattered with blood not all of it his. His jaw is locked so tightly you can see the muscle twitch beneath his skin. He’s not looking at you, not really. Just standing there, chest heaving, like if he moves too fast he might break something he can't fix.

You know that look.

“Nori…” You call his name softly. No answer.

He moves to shrug off his coat, but his hands are shaking just a little, barely noticeable but you catch it. He pauses. Still won't look at you. You take a step forward.

“You’re hurt.” You say, it’s not accusatory but you say it firmly.

“I’m fine.” He dismissed immediately.

“Don’t lie.” you short back, voice a bit louder than before, as you look at him a few frown forming on your face.

“I said I’m fine” He snaps, eyes sharp, voice cutting through the air like a blade. And then he flinches. Immediately. Like he regrets it before the sound has even faded.

You reach out, slowly as if you were trying to approach a wounded wild animal, not to stop him, not to fix him, just to touch. And that’s when he finally cracks.

His hand wraps around your wrist and pulls. Not hard. Not rough. But with a kind of quiet desperation that burns hotter than rage. His forehead drops to your shoulder. His breath is unsteady against your neck.

“I almost—” He chokes, voice rough and low. “I couldn't control it. I let my anger win. And I—” An that’s when you knew what had happened.

You thread your fingers into his hair. “You’re not him.”

That stops him.

He stiffens against you then collapses inward, pressing closer, mouth brushing your jaw, your throat. “But I’m trying to become someone he would’ve approved of.”

You tilt his face toward yours. There’s no mask left in him. No noble pride, no perfect posture just a man who’s been unraveling for years and finally let someone see the seams.

“You don’t need his approval,” You whisper. “You need to feel something that’s yours.”

And then you kiss him.

Not soft. Not sweet. But with urgency a shared ache, a wordless plea. He kisses back like he’s drowning, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth so he doesn’t forget who he is. His hands grip your waist, then your face, then your back like he can’t decide which part of you he needs most until he finally lifts you, hands on the back of your knees, making you hook your legs around his waist before he walks you backwards to the bed, and lowers you onto the sheets like you’re the last safe place left in the world.

Your clothes mow off before you can even realise it, scattering all over the bedroom’s floor. When he enters you, it’s slow but not gentle. It’s heavy. Intentional. Raw. His forehead presses to yours, eyes locked to yours, and he doesn't look away not once. Like he’s confessing things he can’t bear to say aloud through every roll of his hips, every whispered breath, every desperate, "Stay with me."

You cup his face as he moves inside you, and for the first time, he lets out a sound broken and breathless.

“I don't know who I am without all of this,” He confesses into your mouth.

You pull him closer, wrap your legs around his waist, and breathe, “Then start with this. With me. Just feel.”

And he does.

He thrusts deeper, harder not to dominate, but to lose himself. To feel. And when you moan for him, when you whimper his name like it’s the only one that matters, he shudders so hard you think he might fall apart right there inside you.

Afterward, his body covers yours completely, hands still trembling slightly as he strokes your skin like he’s not sure you’re real. You hold him through it through the shaking, the silence, the pieces coming back together.

And when he finally whispers, “Thank you,” voice hoarse against your collarbone…

You don’t say anything. You just hold him tighter, your hand on his back as you lazily trace patterns on his skin with your fingertips soothingly.

Because you understand It was never just about sex. It was about being seen. And still being held. He needed someone to see him, not the head of the Kamo clan, not the man that his father wanted him to be but just Noritoshi Kamo, a man than was more broken that he let on, a man that needed someone to stay by his side.

The next morning, light filters in through thin curtains, soft and pale the kind of morning where nothing has to be said right away.

Noritoshi wakes before you. He doesn’t move for a long time. Just lays there, eyes open, one arm slung low around your waist, your head resting on his chest. Your breath is slow and even. Peaceful. He watches your lashes flutter faintly, the soft indent of your cheek against his skin, the bare curve of your thigh over his.

You're real. You’re still here. And that terrifies him more than anything.

Last night plays behind his eyes like a film he isn’t sure he deserves to keep. The way you held him not just physically, but emotionally, like you were willing to carry pieces of him he never let anyone see. It was more than sex. Far more than he intended to give.

And yet… he doesn’t regret a second of it. It’s completely against all that he had believe up until now, un familiar and terrifying like nothing else and yet it felt right.

When you stir, it’s with a soft sound in your throat a sleepy exhale against his ribs. Your fingers curl slightly against his stomach. You shift, eyes blinking open, and find him already watching.

You smile and he swallows hard. That smile feels like sunlight through ice, a warm feeling spreading through his chest at the mere sight.

“Did you sleep?” You murmur, voice still heavy with sleep but not lacking any warmth.

“A little,” He admits.

You trace a lazy circle on his chest. “You stayed.”

“I did.” He murmurs, eyes not leaving your face.

He says it like it’s a fact. But the weight behind it like he’s surprised he could like he’s even more surprised you let him speaks louder than anything.

Your smile fades into something softer. More serious. “Do you regret it?” You’re scared of the answer but you needed to know where you stood now.

He doesn’t answer right away. But he tightens his arm around you.

“No,” he says finally. Quiet. Honest. “But I’m… not used to this.”

“Being wanted?” You ask him, your voice is quiet but he can hear it resonating somewhere deep inside of him.

He exhales, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “Being allowed to want back.”

The silence that follows isn't heavy. It’s full. Like it holds everything neither of you can quite say yet.

You lift yourself up onto your elbows, half over his chest, and tilt his face toward you. Your lips are gentle when they meet his not asking for anything. Just reaffirming. Still here. Still his. Still real. And he melts into it.

For the first time in a long time, Noritoshi Kamo doesn’t feel like a weapon. Or a legacy. Or a curse waiting to happen.

He just feels like a man being loved. Quietly. Without condition.

And he holds your hands firmly, his eyes closed, breath steady like if he can just stay in this moment a little longer, maybe he can learn how to want something for himself.

Maybe he can learn how to stay if it’s by your side.

taglist is open so let me know in case you want to be added for future works! :)

[bleach-smashorpass]

Seireitei Smashability Showdown: (Loser's) Round 1, Match 114

[lokissweater]

you noticed me ⚾︎

{mlb!megumi fushiguro x f!reader}

summary: megumi fushiguro is one of the best players on the major league baseball team, and when you finally spot him on the big screen after practically dozing off at every game you went to with your girl friend? you were absolutely IN LOVE, but IN DENIAL that he could ever like you back… but he does, and bad.

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, NASTY NASTY MEGUMI, oral sex, SMUT, pussy eating in locker rooms HEH, mentions of drinking but like tiny just once, reader is oblivious to the way megumi wants her, DOMINANT AF MEGUMI PHEWW, cursing, flufffff!!, barely any angst, DIRTY TALK, pet names, aged up characters.

word count: 12.1k (IK IM SORRY ITS A CUTE ONE THO)

authors note: you GUYSSSS i love megumi fushiguro i want him so bad and i LOOVEEE this fic!! i worked like a little worker bee for days and i really hope it makes you guys happy :] MWAH!!

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・

megumi fushiguro was the hottest baseball player you had ever seen in your life.

and you didn’t even like baseball to begin with, dozing off at every game your girl friend dragged you to because her boyfriend was on the major league team— but the one time you decided to open your eyes and pay attention to the big giant screen in front of you?

there he was in all of his emo glory.

number eighteen.

focused, half lidded eyes resembling borderline boredom as he waited for the pitcher to throw, his forehead glistening with sweat, flushed red cheeks, and his jet black hair slightly peeking over his forehead from underneath his baseball cap.

“my god—” your hand flew and you gripped your girl friends arm tightly, your jaw to the fucking floor as your eyes were gorilla glued to the screen, her quirking a curious eyebrow at you as she matched your frantic nature.

“what? what is it? who did you see? whats happ—”

you pointed your finger up at the screen, him swinging and hitting a fucking grand slam as he proceeded to get four runs with one hit, the one thing you knew about baseball besides a home run.

“that’s a— that’s a grand slam!” you pointed frantically, probably looking absolutely insane as you stood and screamed your fucking head off.

your girl friend laughed loudly, “you like fushiguro? megumi fushiguro?”

you jumped up and down, your girlfriend astonished and laughing as this was the first time she’d ever seen you energetic at a baseball game.

“he’s friends with yuji!” she yelled over the hollering of the crowd. “we can go to their locker room after and you can say hi! i heard he’s kind of mean though—”

“no!” you spun around, eyes wide and terrified. “i already know he’ll eat me alive then! i’m a loser, i can’t talk to him i don’t have game i—”

she rolled her eyes. “you’ll be fine—”

“no i can’t!” you shook your head frantically. “please he looks like the type to love bomb me and then leave me i don’t think i can handle that—”

she snorted. “are you sure?!”

you hesitated for a moment, biting your bottom lip as your eyes trailed back over to the screen, seeing megumi breathing a little heavy from running the field, his hands on his hips as he scanned the arena.

you sighed through your nose. “yeah i’m sure!”

“suit yourself!”

a year. a year you spent continuing to tag along with your girl friend to their games, staring lovesick and sad at the big screen over megumi, and standing outside far far away from the locker room once they scored another big win and not going in like you used to, waiting for your girl friend to finish up speaking to her boyfriend as you tried your best to avoid the chance of running into megumi.

she finally emerged from the locker rooms one day, a knowing smirk on her face.

“i told yuji.”

you blinked. “told him what?”

“that you like fushiguro.”

“no!” you gasped, a hand flying and smacking over your mouth. “please no im about to experience the biggest heartbreak of my life—”

“oh relax!” she grabbed your arm and practically dragged you towards the locker room doors. “he’s not even here megumi already left, but yuji wants to talk to you.”

“why?!” you exclaimed. “to let me down easy? to tell me he’s sorry on his behalf—”

your girl friend just about threw you in and went in after you as you stumbled, eyes blown wide as the air became humid and heavy, several of the players lounging about and refreshing themselves as the sound of lockers slamming shut echoed through the space— deep, broad voices laughing filling the room as yuji spotted you, his eyes friendly and polite. “y/n!”

you relaxed and smiled, “hi! you guys played really well today!”

“megumi also played really well today.”

“oh my god—” you groaned, throwing your head back as you spun around, heading straight for the exit.

“wait wait!” he laughed loudly, jogging up to you. “sorry sorry.”

“what do you want with me..” you mumbled.

he gave you a half smile. “i wanted to tell you that megumi’s weird.”

you snorted, “elaborate please.”

yuji threw an arm around your girl friend before continuing.

“you know we support your feelings and what you want…” he began.

your eyes narrowed. “why are you guys talking to me like you’re my parents—”

“but—” yuji cut you off. “i’m just gonna be straight with you. i’ve never ever seen megumi interact with anyone, let alone another woman, besides the team.”

“i don’t think i’ve ever seen him have a proper conversation with anyone on the team besides you actually…” your girl friend muttered to yuji.

yuji winced. “yeah…” he turned back to you. “back when megumi and i first got signed, he was really popular and a lot of girls would come up to him after games for his number or just to talk to him.”

“well obviously he’s a greek god,” you grumbled. “this is hurting me man get to the point.”

he sighed. “he basically scared all of them off. didn’t give a single one a chance and was kinda mean... he would either ignore them or straight up just tell them he wasn’t interested without them even being able to get a word in.”

you stared blankly.

“i tried to tell him that he needs to be nicer but he’s just not interested.”

you kept staring.

“that’s why i’m telling you this because we don’t want you to get hurt and i feel like if you try and talk to him he’s gonna be a dick and it might…” yuji looked at you sadly. “it might be a lost cause.”

you blinked.

“y/n?”

“that’s fine!” you squeaked, hands tight at your sides. “a part of me already knew. i read about it in an article, and i’ve seen his interviews.”

your girl friend looked at you with concern filled eyes. “are you okay?”

“yeah!” you waved them off. “why wouldn’t i be?”

“because your eyes are red.”

“ppffttt!” you blew out. “i’m fine! seriously. i never intended to talk to him anyways, i’m too much of a scaredy cat.”

you extended your arms out and engulfed the both of them, squeezing tight. “thank you guys for telling me though, i appreciate it.”

“y/n…” yuji trailed off.

“i’m gonna take off though, i’ll see you guys later, okay?” you waved and opened the door. “love you!”

and you scrammed, your heart in a million pieces.

it’s not like you didn’t already know. you knew, so why were you sad? why did you feel like you just got ran over by a double decker bus? why did you pathetically feel so sad?

this was the reality. you never stood a chance.

so why were you crying?

you continued walking down the hall and towards the main exit, utterly embarrassed at your sobbing and trying your best to hide it as you navigated through several groups of people, your vision entirely blurry as you were basically drowning in your tears.

you had barely escaped the crowd when you spotted a little secluded area in the lobby, trudging over pathetically and plopping down on the coushy seat as you wiped your cheeks, staring at the wall in front of you— a huge glass casing proudly decorated with the teams trophies and awards, gigantic portraits of the players on the team adorning the walls with megumi’s serious beautiful framed face right in front of you just making you feel worse.

you already knew, but regardless of megumi’s stand off ish personality, you liked it. you had curiously browsed his interviews and quotes in articles, and you always laughed at his responses, him almost every time offending the staff without even trying or knowing, and you found it so so funny, it only making you admire him and want to get to know him even more, even if it was just a friendship.

megumi fushiguro was one of the best players on the team in history, and as you closed your eyes, silent pathetic tears still slipping down your cheeks?

he never felt so out of reach.

“here.”

your eyes opened, but you literally could not see jack shit as your tears were still blurring your line of sight, you completely and utterly mortified that a stranger caught you sobbing as you wiped your face quickly in response.

“put on my sunglasses if you don’t want people to see you crying.”

the voice was gruff and lazy, but you could not care less as you took the sunglasses and settled them over your eyes, the lenses so freaking dark that you couldn’t see a single thing— your sight worse than before.

but it relieved you, as you figured no one could see your bloodshot eyes and therefore thankfully not notice you losing your mind over something so stupid.

“thank you,” you mumbled. “sorry.”

“for what.”

you felt the plush of the bench shift next to you, figuring that the stranger man sat beside you as you refused to look in their direction out of embarrassment.

not that you could even see in the first place.

“for looking like a loser.”

the stranger man snorted. “s’fine.”

you wiped your nose with your sleeve, sniffling.

“how do you see in these?” you muttered softly. “they’re making me claustrophobic i can’t see a thing.”

“that’s the point,” he hums.

“how come?”

“i get migraines everyday. they help.”

“oh i see.” you responded softly. “have you ever run into a wall because of them?”

you hear him huff out through his nose. “i did once, when i first got them.”

you giggled gently. “did you bleed?”

“no,” he spoke calmly. “i got a bump on my forehead.”

you snickered, “what? loserrr.”

you stood up and carefully tried to walk around a little, testing out how to guide yourself through the dark lenses and trying to be careful and not bump into a wall (which was literally impossible), your hands out, feeling around.

“jesus christ i’m just kidding now i feel bad. i think im gonna bump myself into a wall too so we can call it even.”

you couldn’t see, but the stranger man’s lips twitched at your comment.

“don’t do that.” he murmured. “sit back down.”

you listened and started making your way over, feeling him reach out and wrap his fingers around your wrist carefully and guide you to the bench, you plopping down on it once you felt it.

“thank you!” you responded sweetly. “…i’m actually glad i can’t see a thing right now.” you perked up, pushing the sunglasses back up over the bridge of your nose.

“why is that.”

“so i don’t have to look at megumi fushiguro’s big portrait in front of my face.”

the stranger man stopped.

“…why?”

“because he indirectly broke my heart.”

you heard a little audible laugh, and you smiled to yourself.

at least someone is having fun right now.

“how did he indirectly break your heart?”

“my girl friend’s boyfriend is yuji itadori. she spilled the beans against my will about how i have a crush on him, and yuji told me that he’s mean and he’ll basically bite my head off and tell me to scram.”

“did he?”

“uh huh,” you nodded. “they were trying to let me down easy, but it’s not like i was gonna try and talk to him anyways. i’ve gone a year without saying anything i can go on and on and on.”

the stranger man hummed.

“he’s so cool though…” you murmured, dazed. “he’s gonna be a hard one to forget about.”

“why do you like him?”

“i feel like im being interrogated,” you giggled.

you felt the stranger man lean back against the wall. “sorry, just curious.”

you copied him and crossed your arms, “mmm… because he’s really good at what he does. i admire that most of all.”

you tilted your head. “everyone berates him for being mean but i like that he’s supposedly mean for some reason…. he’s just serious about his profession and he doesn’t want to waste time. he’s also the hottest man i’ve ever seen so that definitely helps.”

the stranger man laughed a little.

“i don’t know,” you sighed sadly. “maybe i’m just demented. i am demented.”

“if yuji itadori told you the exact opposite about him, would that have encouraged you to go up to him?”

you sat in thought for a moment, but ultimately shook your head. “no. it’s too embarrassing for me and i’m also a big fat wuss so…”

you slid your fingers underneath the lenses and rubbed your stinging sore eyes. “maybe in the next life if i’m lucky, ill be reincarnated as a cool baseball man too and i won’t have to deal with this shit.”

“cool baseball man.” he repeated, tone seemingly amused.

“yup.”

the stranger man sighed. “is this why i found you crying?”

“maayybeee?” you dragged out shyly, your cheeks flushing.

it was silent for a moment, your vision completely black but his on your rosy cheeks, oddly staring that if you could see right now, you’d probably call him a creep.

“i’m sorry i made you cry.”

you jumped back.

“no not you!” you huffed. “have you not been paying attention? catch up man—”

you felt a shadow reach up and tug the sunglasses slightly away from your face, your eyes constricting against the bright lights of the hall as they tried to adjust.

and when they did?

megumi fushiguro was sitting right next to you, a tiny smile on his face dressed in all black with his teams baseball cap on.

your eyes widened dramatically and you slapped both hands over your mouth, beyond horrified as everything you had thought you were telling a stranger about him, you were telling him directly, your brain short circuiting and your body heating up like a fucking hot flash.

“oh my god i’m so sorry!” your voice was muffled, you shaking your head in absolute denial.

you immediately sprung up and grabbed your purse, slowly backing up further and further away from him.

his smile widened.

oh my god.

megumi fushiguro was smiling, a sight you’ve never ever seen during his games, practices, interviews, articles, or magazines as your cheeks increased in shade— wanting to mentally take a picture and remember forever as you knew you’d probably never see him smile like that again.

but he was smiling.

“pretend i don’t exist!” you stammered, “pretend this never happened i’m sorry this is so embarrassing keep winning your games okay and i’ll keep being an idiot far far away from you—”

“where are you going?” he chuckled lowly.

“—you’ll never see me again i’m going home and i’m going on lockdown—”

he laughed through his nose, his lips in an amused smile.

“you don’t have to do that.”

“yes i do—”

“you don’t have to forget me either.”

“that i definitely do—”

you were halfway out of the main entrance doors.

“hold on y/n—”

megumi stood, his long legs walking over to you and you froze.

y/n?

you slowly turned around, your face pale and afraid.

“how do you know my name?” you asked softly.

“your best friend is dating yuji, is she not.”

you nodded, eyes blank.

“i’ve been seeing you inside the locker room after our games for like… two years.” megumi mumbled.

oh.

oh that’s right.

you didn’t actually notice megumi until last year, when you decided to finally open your eyes for once during a game and that’s how you spotted him for the first time on the big screen in front of you, in all of his gorgeous handsome entity.

“oh.”

he raised a hand and pressed his index finger to your forehead, nudging you softly.

“dummy.”

“s-sorry..” you gave him a wobbly bashful smile, your cheeks pinky as you rubbed your red eyes.

his eyes slightly softened and he shook his head. “s’fine.”

megumi continued to stare at you, a stone cold face that always seemed to scare off the teams entire fan base, but only made you feel numb and giddy all over every single time.

you smiled wider then, and megumi’s lips twitched.

cute.

“i’m— i’m gonna go now.”

“do you have a ride home?”

you stopped. “no i was just gonna call an uber—”

he shook his head and walked past you, his shoulder brushing gently with yours with his hands stuffed in his pockets as you turned and stared at him.

he paused and looked over his shoulder.

“you coming?”

your eyes widened. “coming? w—where?”

he rolled his eyes. “i’m taking you home.”

“no!” you shot your hands out. “it’s okay! really! thank you thank you i appreciate it but—”

he stared lazily.

“come.”

you pressed your lips into a thin line and tipped your head down, taking tiny painful steps as you followed after him to the parking lot.

megumi led you from the public parking area to a secluded section around the back of the arena, one you assumed was for players and crew members only as you nervously gnawed on your bottom lip, feeling absolutely sick.

you both continued to walk down until you arrived to a private parking garage, megumi slipping out his keys from the pocket of his hoodie as you approached a shiny black luxurious car sitting neatly in a spot.

his car was really fucking nice, and you figured so being as he was one of the most popular players and probably had more than enough money in the bank— your fingers trembling as you gripped the passenger side door, settling yourself inside his plush cool leather seats and all black interior.

megumi pressed the ‘start’ button and his engine roared to life, the motor echoing through the structure as you clumsily tried to put on your seatbelt, your cheeks growing pinker with each passing second that you just couldn’t get the stupid damn thing to— click—

he reached over across the console and took the seatbelt from you, pulling it over your body and clicking it secure without a word.

“thank you.” you said softly, eyes trained to your lap.

megumi gave you a small nod and backed out of his parking space, driving around a couple of rows before making his way out with the night air softly breezing through your hair as he drove, his dash illuminated with blue lines that ran smoothly across.

“can you put your address in—”

“oh yeah!” you jumped. “sorry—”

you reached over and tapped in your address on his big touch screen, watching the way the gps registered the location and gave him the estimated time of arrival.

forty fucking minutes.

“megumi..”

his eyes looked over at you for a second before turning back to the road.

“hm?”

“i live kinda far from here and i don’t want you to drive the opposite way from where you live.”

you leaned a little, eyebrows pinched. “i can take an uber seriously, this is too much trouble i—”

“you’re already in my car.” he deadpanned.

“i’ll jump out.”

he pursed his lips, trying to suppress a smile.

“i have child lock on.”

“child lock?!” you gawked. “is this what you think of me?”

“you’re a little helpless… and you’re a crybaby.” he mumbled. “child lock stays on.”

you giggled after, your eyes shining and filled with mushy feelings for him as you nodded. “you’re probably right.”

he looked over at you then, and he smiled, softly.

“what do you do?”

you fidgeted. “h—huh?”

“do you um…” he ran his thumb over the top of his gear shift. “do you work? do you go to school?”

he’s asking you?

“i go to school!” you responded shyly but kind. “i go to a college that’s about fifteen minutes from your stadium. i usually go and meet up with my best friend after class if there’s a game.”

he hummed. “are you a big baseball person?”

you grimaced.

do you lie? do you tell the truth? do you roll down his window and attempt to jump out of the car that way?

you played with a strand of your hair. “i— i um—”

he raised an eyebrow.

“i— don’t?”

he cocked his head. “you don’t?”

you shook your head no, completely ashamed of who you are as a person as you covered your eyes.

“i knoww i suuucckkk,” you whined. “the only things i know about baseball are home runs and grand slams— which you did!”

you pointed at him excitedly. “last year! i remember you hit a grand slam! i got so excited that for once i knew what the fuck was going on and why everyone was going crazy…”

you fiddled with your fingers nervously, your eyes trained to the road. “i felt so included.”

he chuckled, and unexpectedly, reached over and gently ruffled your hair.

you then stared at him as he did so, doe eyes wide and cheeks pink.

megumi was truly just beautiful— his smooth face that didn’t have a single blemish on his skin shining under the moonlight, his black spiky hair peeking from under his cap that you had no doubt in your mind was soft and velvety.

you hated that you’d probably do anything for that man.

“i’m sorry i made you cry,” he repeated, you recognizing his words from before.

your eyebrows furrowed.

he was still thinking about that?

you shook your head furiously, “you didn’t! i swear it’s okay. i’m just crazy.”

he huffed out a laugh.

megumi thought you were odd, but in a good way. he thought everything you did was a little funny, as you were jumpy and clumsy and a crybaby and helpless, but he also took note of how polite you were. he noticed how considerate you were of him even though you were really upset, and you were kind of sweet… really sweet actually, your personality something that was totally different from the usual girls that came up to him.

well, the usual girls that used to come up to him back when he first started.

megumi pulled into your driveway and shifted the gear into park, the doors automatically unlocking.

you opened the door and stepped out before leaning down and peeking your head in.

“thank you for the ride!” you said sweetly, a cute smile on your face. “i’m sorry you had to listen to my confession against your will.”

he shook his head. “it’s alright.”

you went in to close the door.

“y/n.”

you leaned back down, “yeah?”

“are you gonna stop coming to our games?”

you gnawed at the inside of your cheek, your eyes darting around the interior of his car nervously.

“i— i don’t think so.”

“good.”

megumi watched you close his door and walk back a bit, him shifting his gear into reverse as the corners of his lips turned a tiny bit upwards.

“i’ll see you then.”

as you watched him pull out and drive away, his engine roaring down the street, you could not stop or simmer down the way your heart raced against your chest, so much so that you were afraid it was going to burst through your chest and literally kill you.

the next time you went to a game, you hadn’t told your close girl friend yet as she led you through the crowd and down to the v.i.p. lower level seats like always, a kind courtesy of yuji’s that he did whenever he could.

as you watched, you embarrassingly spotted megumi almost the minute you arrived, stars and hearts in your eyes as you watched him do his thing and work magic through the field with his absolutely insane batting, strong and purposeful as he barked orders or observed the opposing team for leads.

once his and the opposing team switched sides, megumi looked up as he jogged, his eyes seemingly scanning the v.i.p. front sections until he spotted you.

he raised a hand and gave you a little wave, and your eyes widened as you timidly, hesitantly, gave him one in return— your cheeks turning pink.

“who are you waving at?”

your girl friend pressed a cheek against yours and looked.

“who is- fushiguro?!”

you looked at her sheepishly.

as you recounted the story to her, her eyes bulging out of her sockets and screaming her head off every two seconds, her head snapped to the field.

“i have to tell yuji—”

“no!” you gripped her shoulders. “it’s literally nothing! he drove me home and he probably just feels bad for me.”

“megumi isn’t the type to make a crying girl feel better or drive her home.”

“it’s because he knows that we know yuji.”

“mm i don’t think so..” she scowled, crossing her arms in eventual defeat as she stared straight ahead.

that’s how it went for about a month.

you would come to their games, megumi would wave at you from the field or you would catch his attention and wave at him, and you would briefly speak to him casually just after his games, your conversations with him usually lasting no more than three minutes as he was often pulled by his coach or a crew member.

but even though the conversations were short, they were really nice, and the both of you never seemed to notice the people around you wanting his attention until he physically had to get pulled away.

but you still refused to go inside the locker room, knowing that was surely the place where you had to talk to him for longer than three minutes. you were too scared, embarrassingly so as you bid your girl friend and yuji goodbye from just outside the door before leaving every time, completely unaware of the way megumi would stare expressionless at you from inside.

when your girl friend invited you to the team’s yearly banquet, you flat out said no, decision firm and unmoving as she begged you over and over and over again.

“please please you have to go! you can’t avoid megumi forever!”

“what is the purpose of me going though?” you sighed, shaking your head with a smile at the sight of her dramatically on her knees over you. “for you it makes sense because you’re with yuji but what’s the excuse for me? i’m not anybody’s plus one.”

“yes you are,” she got back up on her feet and wiggled her eyebrows, “you’re megumi’s plus one.”

“bye i wish,” you mumbled, plopping down on your bed.

“okay you’re my plus one, or yuji’s! so he has two plus ones!”

she walked over and sat down next to you, resting her head against your shoulder as she sighed. “please come. you don’t have to talk to megumi okay? fine. but just come with me, i’ll have a better time if you do.”

you gave her a silly smile and thought for a moment, her sad tone swaying you as you finally gave in.

“only if you swear you won’t force me to talk to him.”

she nodded eagerly.

“i swear!”

so you stood there, nervous and biting your thumb as you frantically looked around, dressed in a pretty black off the shoulder mermaid style gown with a high slit exposing your leg— fiddling with your styled hair as you waited and waited and waited for your girl friend to come back from the dessert table with yuji.

you hadn’t seen megumi yet as you were trying to keep on a look out, because the moment you did see him all dressed up? you were sure you were going to start pathetically bowing for him on your knees in front of all these people and end your social life forever.

finally, she came back and handed you a little pastry, you thanking her kindly and taking a small bite.

“wait no!” she gasped, turning her pastry around. “fuck, i got the wrong one. i meant to get the vanilla one this is coconut.”

“i can get it for you this time.” you smiled kindly, her looking at you gratefully as you patted her shoulder, making your way over to the dessert table.

your eyes lit up like stars at the sight of it, grand and luxurious as any kind of pastry you could ever possibly think of was present— neat and gourmet-like, each adorned with elegant toppings as multiple huge chocolate fountain stations ran from the sides.

“hi.”

you jumped and looked to your right, megumi standing there beside you with a bored expression, clad in a polished black button up and slacks, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

you gulped.

“h—hi.”

“i didn’t think you’d come.”

he lazily picked up a tiny slice of chocolate mousse cake and looked at it.

“i was dragged by my best friend,” you puffed out a laugh. “she said i was her and yuji’s plus one or something like that.”

he nodded, biting his cake slice and swallowing.

“you stopped coming inside the locker rooms.”

you faltered.

he noticed that?

“oh yeah! i just—” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “i’ve been really busy with school so i study right after…”

for some reason megumi eyed you carefully, and your cheeks grew pinker the more he blatantly stared at you as you fidgeted.

“are you—”

“fushiguro!”

you both turned your heads to the source, and you spotted an unfamiliar guy, one who you assumed was on the team with them, smiling enthusiastically and throwing a heavy arm around megumi’s shoulder.

“who’s this? i’ve never seen you talk to anyone besides us!”

megumi only spared him a nonchalant glance before he looked back over at the dessert table.

the unknown man extended a hand out to you, and megumi’s eyes snapped to it.

“hi! i’m takuma!”

you cheerfully took his hand. “y/n!”

“are you megumi’s girlfriend?”

you gawked, guilt and embarrassment already filling your body at the thought of megumi finding that comment uncomfortable and being uncomfortable because of you.

at his own banquet.

“n—no!” you shook your head, eyebrows pinched. “i came with my best friend and yuji.”

takuma unhooked his arm and let it rest beside him. “oh nice! you know yuji as well?”

you nodded, “mhm!”

the rest of the crowd began to take their seats for the awards ceremony segment, and the three of you walked over to your designated table by yuji and your best friend, who’s eyes widened at the sight of you next to megumi.

you all sat, and takuma pointed to the empty seat next to you.

“is anyone sitting here?”

“oh no!” you smiled politely. “it’s empty you can—”

“take mine ino.”

megumi pulled out the chair next to you and plopped down on it, scooting up. “it’s closer to the front.”

huh?

“o—oh!” takuma scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “okay! thanks fushiguro.”

he only nodded in response and stuck his face in his champagne glass, sipping.

and he was right. you watched as takuma navigated through the circular tables before sitting in a seat that was right smack dab in the front.

“that’s really nice of you megumi!” you chirped. “he has such a good view now!”

“mhm.”

your best friend smacked a hand to her forehead with a shake of her head, and you looked at her quizzically.

the awards ceremony was the most fun you’ve ever had, as you were over the moon for all of the players that were awarded prestigious titles and recognitions, and even more excited for yuji and megumi, the both of them combined taking award after award that by the time the event was done, your table was filled to the brim with frames, medals, and trophies.

your doe eyes glowed over megumi’s earnings, pride and admiration bubbling in your chest as you took in the result of his hard work, feeling like he was the most talented person you ever had the privilege of knowing.

he stared at your enamored look.

“you’re so cool, gumi..” you gushed, not even noticing the little nickname you gave him.

but he did.

“cool baseball man?” he responded softly, referencing your words from when you first met.

your eyes snapped to his and you gave him the shiniest smile, nodding quickly. “yeah! cool baseball man.”

megumi looked down at his awards, and after a couple of seconds, picked up a shiny gold medal hung on a baby blue striped lanyard, holding it out for you.

“here.”

your eyes traveled down.

“what?”

“for you.” he pushed the medal forward.

shock crossed your face, and you frantically shook your head, pushing the medal back to him. “no! no megumi that’s yours you earned it—”

megumi rolled his eyes and held on to the edges of the lanyard, effortlessly setting it over your head and around your neck, the medal clinking and twinkling against your chest.

“i have four others. it’s fine.”

“no but—”

he carded his thumbs underneath your hair and gently slid your hair out from beneath the lanyard, setting it delicately over your bare shoulders.

yuji and your best friends jaws were on the floor, but you didn’t notice, too busy ogling over the fact that megumi fushiguro was the kindest person you had ever met, utterly amazed that he selflessly gave you something so precious. you.

your gaze trailed down to the medal, and you softly touched it with the pads of your fingers.

“t—thank you gumi…”

his lips twitched.

you realized then that the music had started and the crowd had already dispersed to celebrate, some dancing in the center while others mingled on the sidelines or hogged the dessert table.

and you spotted your best friend with yuji, the both of them smiling adoringly at each other, laughing and dancing— something bashfully wished for yourself as you grinned softly at them.

megumi followed your gaze, and he huffed an amused small laugh through his nose.

“they met at a party didn’t they?”

you looked to him and nodded, “uh huh! i was with her. she was so scared to talk to him and i literally had to throw her in.”

he scratched his cheek. “i remember. i was there.”

your jaw dropped. “you were?!”

he nodded. “and i remember you too.”

you sat there in silence.

how long had megumi been around in your life without you knowing? how didn’t you ever freaking notice?

before you could press any further, megumi squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his forehead in pain, groaning softly.

you jumped, “are you okay? what’s wrong?”

he shook his head. “migraine. the lights are fucking with me a little.”

“oh!” you frantically looked around the table and around him. “where are your sunglasses? the dark ones the ones you ran into a wall with!”

megumi snorted and shook his head again, eyes peeking at you a bit. “it’s fine. i left them at home.”

your eyebrows rose, “you left them?”

he nodded and dropped his hand, sitting up straight and trying to open his eyes fully to seem normal, but his lids only dropped again and his forehead fell to rest against the table.

“i’m sorry,” he mumbled. “just give me a minute.”

“don’t be sorry gumi…”

you figured the rest of the night was going to be like this, and if megumi stayed, he was going to end up dealing with the dull ache in his head for hours on end and not enjoy his banquet.

but you wanted him to enjoy it. this was his night, and you didn’t want him to spend it pissed off and writhing in pain.

“do you want to leave?”

he turned his head to the side and looked at you.

“we can um—” you fiddled with the medal around your neck. “we can go outside? or we can go for ice cream…”

you tilted your head to the side cutely, and you were oblivious to the way megumi’s cheeks went a little pink at the sight.

“ill pay though!” you smiled sweetly. “it’s the least i can do for the medal you gave me.”

he gave you an endearing half smile and nodded.

your eyes lit up. “really?! okay!— wait let me just say bye to my best friend and let her know—”

you quickly stood and walked over to the dance floor, megumi watching after you before picking up his black blazer and holding it underneath an arm, wondering how the fuck he was gonna pick up all of his awards himself.

“y/n!” your best friend gushed. “you’ve been talking to megumi for hours what the fuck is going on—”

you laughed. “nothing! it was nothing but i’m gonna go get ice cream with him!”

“what?!” her and yuji said in unison.

“did he ask you?” yuji pushed.

“no!” your eyes narrowed. “of course not i’m a big fat loser why would he? i invited him because he has a migraine so—”

your best friend hummed, a smirk on her face. “oh i see... use protection.”

“huh?!” your jaw dropped. “no! that’s not—”

“y/n!”

you turned and saw takuma walk over to you, a big smile on his face. “you enjoying the banquet?”

“oh yes! it’s really great!” you smiled kindly. “the dessert table is absolutely insane.”

“right?!” takuma stepped closer to you. “they go all out every year, it’s what everyone looks forward to.”

“i can definitely see why!”

he chuckled and nodded but then turned to you, speaking quieter. “listen um… i was wondering if you were uh— well if you wanted to dance? with me? y’know… maybe get to know each other better and then—”

yuji shoved his lips to your best friends ear.

“he’s stealing megumi’s girl.”

“i know!” she whispered harshly. “what the fuck do we do—”

“i don’t know!”

“well call megumi over—”

suddenly, a tall broad figure walked in between you and takuma, your vision blocked by his back.

“sorry ino,” megumi stepped to the side a little and placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you towards the exit. “we were just leaving.”

yuji and your best friend gave each other a low high five before their eyes darted around, putting on false ignorance.

“sorry!— it was nice meeting you takuma!” you called from over your shoulder before the both of you stepped out of the venue and into the cool night air.

megumi’s car was parked right out front, him unlocking the doors with a button just like he had done the last time, you noticing how all of his awards were set neatly in the back seat.

“oh i’m sorry gumi! did you carry these over by yourself? i was gonna help you—”

you sat yourself on his passenger side seat, the leather creaking with every movement you made.

he shook his head. “i had my publicist team do it. it’s fine.”

“oh okay…” you mumbled, still feeling a little guilty that you didn’t help him.

you went to reach for your seatbelt when megumi’s arm flew in front of you and grabbed the strap, pulling it over your frame and clicking it securely before his hands wrapped back around the steering wheel, just like he had done a month prior.

you couldn’t make out his expression, as it was blank and stone-like and not a word was coming out of his mouth as he backed out from the parking space, but you smiled at him cutely nonetheless and thanked him.

the nearest ice cream shop was literally down the road from the venue, and the drive took less than three minutes before megumi pulled in and parallel parked on the side of the street.

you both stepped out and walked inside, the shop colorful and vibrant as what looked like twenty different assortments of ice cream were on display, your eyes launching across each flavor excitedly.

“i haven’t had ice cream in a fat minute…” you murmured as you pressed your hands against the glass.

“me neither.”

“which flavor do you want megumi?” you asked him sweetly, your eyes still glued to the flavors that it made him chuckle.

“um…” he stepped forward and scanned the different colors. “i’ll take whatever you get.”

you looked at him and your eyebrows softened, “are you sure? what if you don’t like it?”

the corner’s of his lips turned upward, the sight making your heart skip a beat.

“it’s okay. i trust you.”

you ended up getting your all time favorite flavor that you never skip— cake batter, one that tastes different depending on who’s palette it is, and something you anxiously thought over as you gnawed on your bottom lip and stared, waiting for him to try it as you both sat on a park bench not too far from the shop.

“why do you look like you’re about to cry.” he snickered lowly.

your eyes snapped to his and you giggled. “i might if you don’t like what i picked out.” you plopped a little spoonful in your mouth, the cold ice cream melting and spreading over your tongue as you swallowed. “cake batter is a hit or miss for different people…”

he hummed, “how come?”

“it’s either too sweet or just nasty.”

“i have a sweet tooth.���

your eyes lit up, “so do i! i’m a big sweets person. i love love desserts and chocolate and ice cream… but i’m not the biggest fan of candy.”

“you’re not?”

“i love candy but not how i love sweets… and i wouldn’t randomly pick it out like at the store because i wanted to. most likely i would get a cookie.”

megumi liked how much you talked.

“have you always had a sweet tooth?” he pressed on, looking at his ice cream cup.

you nodded. “have you?”

“not really,” he shook his head. “i didn’t pick it up until i met—” he stopped. “…my dad.”

met his dad?

megumi spotted your confusion and continued.

“my actual dad disappeared. dunno where he’s at. all i’ve heard is that he had a bad gambling addiction so i’m guessing it had something to do with that.”

your eyes softened.

“gojo is kind of like my dad…” he mumbled. “he’s supported my sister and i financially ever since i was maybe five or six.”

“you have a sister?” you murmured, eyes big.

he nodded. “i do.”

he scooped a bit of cake batter ice cream up with his spoon and plopped it into his mouth, smiling softly. “gojo gave me a sweet tooth. he can’t go a day without it.”

you’d never heard megumi open up so much before, and you felt incredibly lucky and special to be the one to hear about his family and share a precious moment with him over eating ice cream, something you wanted to treat delicately and remember for as long as you lived.

“do you like it?” you asked softly, gesturing to his cup.

“i love it.”

you beamed, and he took in your cute smile for a minute as you ate some more on your end.

“i’m sorry about your actual dad… but i’m glad you and your sister got the support you needed when you were young.”

he nodded.

“did he encourage you to do baseball? or was it you?”

“he did initially.” he shook his head. “he was annoying at first, was a cheerleader at every game and was so loud.”

you giggled.

“but i grew to like it… and that’s what i wanted to do for a career. if it wasn’t for gojo’s funding i wouldn’t have been able to.”

you hummed, savoring the ice cream a bit before swallowing. “that’s really nice, gumi. i’m really happy you got the opportunity to grow your skill out like that…” you swirled the ice cream around your cup with your spoon. “what you have is a solid gift, and i would hate to see it not get the recognition it deserves when you’ve worked so hard to make it what it is now.”

you looked at him. “so i’m really, really glad that it does get it.”

megumi stared at you, face blank and a scoop of yet to be eaten ice cream on his spoon, his cheeks growing hot.

“i don’t know why you think so highly of me.” he murmured.

everyone thinks he’s rude.

your eyebrows furrowed. “i don’t think megumi, i know. you’re not a mean person, you’re honest and serious about the important things in your life. and if the medal around my neck that you gave me selflessly doesn’t tell you otherwise? i might have to kill you.”

he laughed, loud, his eyes sparkling. “you might?”

you bit your lip to refrain yourself from freaking out over his smooth laughter. “i might.”

you subconsciously rubbed your hands over your chilling arms then and megumi eyed it before he put his cup down, reaching next to him for his blazer and opening it up as he gently placed it over your shoulders.

you looked at him like he was the world then, doe eyes big and round and shimmering, and megumi felt like he could do anything with that look as long as it came from you— a permanent red tint on his cheeks that was entirely your doing.

“thank you..” you mumbled shyly, your eyes glued to your now empty cup of ice cream on the bench as you clutched the sides of his blazer, the smell of him wafting in your nose that made you absolutely weak.

megumi timidly, slowly, reached up and moved a strand of hair from your eyes then, and you looked up.

“pretty…” he murmured, dazed even.

his hand fell and landed gently on your exposed thigh from the slit of your dress, but instead of moving it, he let it stay there, his hand smoothing over your plush soft skin as he was completely entranced by your heavenly face, his body pulling his lips closer to yours as megumi’s breath quickened with absolute need the higher up his hand trailed up your yummy thigh.

you couldn’t say a word, he practically didn’t let you as his lips pressed delicately and timidly against your plush ones, his mouth moving so slowly and his tongue parting your wet lips for the purpose of devouring more of you, all while his fingertips reached and felt the side straps of your panties— the material alone making him erratic and desperate while his other hand gripped your waist tightly.

your mouths moved faster now, the sounds of wet smacking and lips separating to reconnect with more greed than before muffling your ears as he breathed heavily through his nose, his eyebrows pinched together in pent up everything as he finally had you with him after months of you avoiding him.

and then you pulled away with a wet pop.

“i—i’m sorry!” you covered your mouth. “i didn’t mean to kiss you!—”

what?

megumi’s eyebrows furrowed, both of your chests heaving as his cheeks and lips were blushed red.

he shook his head, “no i kissed you—”

“don’t cover for me gumiii,” your shoulders slumped, your brain so in denial that he could ever like you back that it tricked you into thinking you were the one kissing and all over him. “fuck i’m sorry… that was so disrespectful and— and weird of me and i—”

megumi’s hands slipped away from your body and he shook his head, his eyes dead locked on yours with his eyebrows pinched together. “y/n no you’re not understanding—”

“i’m the biggest creep on the planet man i understand if you don’t ever want to speak to me again—” you covered your face and leaned forward.

megumi stared at you astonishingly as he listened to you ramble apologies and dramatic insults for yourself continuously, his shoulders slowly relaxing and his lips turning into a soft knowing smile, your random speech starting to make absolutely no sense at all and his heart aching at the fact of how naive you were.

“y/n.”

you stopped. “what.”

he reached over and pulled your hands away from your face. “you’re helpless, you know that?”

“helpless and a creep.”

he laughed and shook his head. “stop it.”

he stood and offered his hand out for you.

“it’s getting late, i’m driving you home.”

megumi decided he would properly speak to you about it the next time he saw you… except he didn’t.

you started avoiding him like the plague again, horrendously horrified about what you believed you had done, thinking that it was better if you stayed away from him and fulfilled your initial task of forgetting him, no matter how much it hurt you.

you didn’t want megumi to ever be uncomfortable or experience what you believed he experienced with you. he didn’t deserve that. he didn’t deserve a pathetic little fan girl that never left him alone and hindered his work on the field, even though you wished so badly you could see him again, as the taste of his lips and mouth never left your fuzzy mind.

you kissed megumi fushiguro.

“oh my god y/n, you’re so stupid.”

“no i’m not! do you really believe megumi could ever like me back? no! absolutely not. i kissed him and i fucked up and that’s it. i’m staying away from him.”

your best friend ran her fingers through her hair and almost tore a chunk out in frustration. “it sounds like he kissed you! he had his hand on your thigh—”

“that was for stability! he—”

“no it was to feel you up!”

you shook your head side to side with your arms crossed. “nope nope nope nope—”

“y/nnnn!”

as for megumi, the next game he had he looked for you while on the field like he always did, looking forward to seeing your precious face and giving you a little wave… except he couldn’t find you. after the game, he went around the stadium and towards the locker room, inside and back out, the parking lot, his parking lot—

and he couldn’t find you.

this went on for a full three weeks of game after game nearly every day him doing the same exact thing— him getting increasingly more confused and a bit upset at your disappearance, going as far as to staying hours after his games still in his sweaty baseball uniform and cap with hopes that you’ll turn up.

except you never did.

and at the end of the third week, he had had enough.

“oh hey megumi!” your best friend greeted him, her hand fixing around yuji’s hair in the locker room after a game.

“hi.”

he stood there and said nothing, and your best friend eyed him skeptically. “…yes?”

megumi shifted awkwardly. “have you um… have you seen y/n?”

she sucked in a breath. “uh yeah. i saw her this morning.”

“this morning?” his eyes narrowed. “is she okay? why hasn’t she been coming to our games with you?”

“because—” she stammered. “well because—”

“is it our place to say?” yuji muttered.

“is it our place to know?” she whispered back harshly.

“i don’t know!”

“let’s just tell him!”

“but what if!—”

megumi rolled his eyes and huffed. “nevermind. please tell her to come tomorrow, i need to talk to her.”

your best friend gulped and nodded, both her and yuji watching the way he walked away and snatched his cap off, throwing it inside his locker and slamming it shut with his foot before picking up his duffel bag and leaving, not even bothering to change out of his dirt covered uniform.

“i’ve never seen him so stressed,” yuji commented.

“it’s because he likes her and she’s being an idiot…” your best friend sighed sadly.

so when she came to you the next day and told you megumi needed to speak to you, she amplified how upset he was to get you to feel bad and feel the urgent need to come to the game tonight, which you of course did.

and you were worried. so so worried and scared that he was finally going to tell you off for kissing him, to tell you that you sucked and that he never ever wanted to see you again in his life and that you were a disgusting human being—

but the roar of the crowd pulled you from your thoughts, the team winning once again as many began to pack their things and take their leave. you were completely and utterly shitting yourself, petrified and already heartbroken over the fact that megumi was officially going to cut you off as a friend when you hadn’t even had the chance to try and win him over yet.

and the way he played on the field tonight was way more aggressive than normal. he was louder, meaner, and didn’t take his eyes away from the ball or his opponents as he nearly got into a fight with another player, yuji and a few others needing to pull megumi apart and set him aside to cool off— the cameras and reporters having a field day in regards to him.

and that bothered you like nothing else. why the hell were they so excited over him getting angry? to amplify the brand that he upholds as the teams meanest player? as if they’ve never had a bad day a day in their lives? what was the point?

and it was all because of you, you realized.

you made him upset.

you covered your face with your hands and groaned, feeling like you wanted to cry.

“y/n…” your best friend patted your back. “it’ll be fine… he just needs to talk to you! you don’t even know what it’s about.”

“i can take a wild guess.”

she looked at you worriedly before picking up her things. “whenever you’re ready babe… i think he’s in the locker rooms by now.”

she left you there to gather yourself, and you sat there for a couple of more minutes before finally getting up and making your way to the locker rooms.

most of the fans had cleared out by now, and the sun was beginning to set as you passed and squeezed through crew members and news reporters, gnawing at your bottom lip as you turned a corner and spotted the locker room, many of the players already leaving.

just as you had reached your hand up to open the door, a firm voice called out to you.

“y/n.”

you froze, retracting your hand as you turned to look.

megumi stood there at the end of the hall, his baseball uniform still on and his cap dangling from his belt loop, hands in tight fists with his chest rising and falling, an agitated look on his face that you had never seen before.

“h—hi-”

“are you trying to forget me? is that what’s going on?”

your eyebrows furrowed.

“what?”

megumi took stride full steps towards you. “you finally talk to me, you confess to me, you disappear for a month, i wait for you, you finally show up at the banquet looking like the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen in my fucking life—”

he stopped in front of you. “takuma tries to steal you from me, i get pissed off, i fall for you at the park, i kiss you—“ he threw his arms up. “and you disappear again!”

your eyes bulge out of their sockets.

fall?

“you what?—”

“so i’m asking you again,” megumi bent his knees to look at you at eye level, his hands coming up to cup your pink cheeks and his face so close to yours you can make out the exact color of his eyes.

“are you trying to forget me? like you said you would?”

you fidgeted.

“i— i was doing it for you—”

“why for me? i never said—”

the feeling of his big hands on your cheeks was making your heart do backflips and trick shots as your wide doe eyes looked at him.

“because when i kissed you i made you uncomfortable and i don’t ever want you to be so i thought it’d be best if i left you alone—”

“okay let’s fix that right now,” his hands tightened slightly around your cheeks and he readjusted his footing, knees still bent. “i kissed you. if anything i should be the one worried if i made you uncomfortable because i put my hand on your thigh like that and for that i’m sorry.”

“no but—”

“yes y/n. i kissed you because you’re polite and you’re sweet and you’re funny, and you don’t see me as rude like everybody else does. and even though you’re naive and helpless sometimes, i like that you are. i like you.”

“but you’re megumi fushiguro…” you squeaked.

“so?”

“and i’m a loser.”

he laughed so cutely and shook his head, his pearly whites fully shining at you so big that it took you back to the first time he smiled in front of you.

“no you’re not you big dummy.”

he let go of your cheeks and placed his palms flat against the brick wall behind you, cornering you in as he let his head hang low, the top of his spiky black hair the only thing in your line of vision.

“i don’t know how else i can make you see…”

he sounded so exhausted, and your heart clenched.

“was it—” you timidly placed your hands on his shoulders. “was it actually you that kissed me?”

he nodded, head still hung.

“and do you actually like me? like— like more than a friend…”

“way fucking more,” he mumbled.

you bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to contain yourself from screaming.

you couldn’t believe it. the megumi fushiguro, number eighteen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen and the kindest one you’ve ever met… liked you.

“i could’ve sworn i kissed you..” you spoke softly, trailing off.

“you didn’t.” his voice was firm. “i kissed you and i put my hand up your thigh…” his forehead lifted to rest on the crook of your neck as he sighed a deep breath.

“i told— i told takuma to scram at the banquet because i got jealous that you were talking to him more than me. i saw you crying in the hall that first time we spoke and i recognized you and i went up to you because finally—”

he picked his head up slowly, eyes serious. “finally, you noticed me.”

he was so close that your nose brushed gently with his.

“you’re so dense y/n…”

megumi’s eyes flickered to your lips, “i’ve wanted you since the party.”

“the party?” you murmured.

he nodded. “the party where your friend first met yuji.”

your breath hitched as you felt his hands slide down the wall and snake over your hips, holding you tightly against him as the shock of his words made your body numb and tingly.

since the party?

it all seemed to click into place then, every single moment megumi tried to get you to look at him, to talk to him, in his own discreet way that you were completely oblivious to. and you were so fucking caught up in this fog of denial, that a person like megumi could never be interested in a person like you, that it made you push him away for the longest time without even giving yourself a chance.

you were so fucking stupid.

your arms slowly wrapped around his broad shoulders, the rough feeling of his baseball uniform underneath your fingertips and arms as you pressed your nose up against his shoulder shyly, feeling so incredibly bad for avoiding megumi for so long.

“i’m sorry…” you mumbled. “i’m sorry i was so oblivious gumi.”

you felt him shake his head from the crook of your neck silently, the vibration of his heart beating rapidly against you making you sweat and melt at the same time.

“don’t be.”

“i just—” you struggled. “i just thought you didn’t like me like i liked you and i wanted to respect your space…”

“i understand,” he muttered. “but i don’t want you to respect my space anymore.”

you held him tighter.

“and—” your voice was slightly muffled by his shoulder.

“hm?”

“i liked it when you put your hand on my thigh…”

megumi stilled, you playing the night he kissed you over and over in your head again like you’ve done since it happened— the thought making you nervous and timid.

he gripped you tighter.

“did you?”

you nodded, “mhm.”

megumi without parting from you, slipped a hand under your shirt and soothed his fingers over the bare skin of your torso, your breathing stuttering, his rough hand radiating warmth.

“what else do you like.”

you gripped the fabric of his uniform.

“i like… i like the way you kissed me. and how you touch me… like right now.”

your voice was so so soft, practically a whisper as he seemed to shiver under your words, wanting more.

“what else.”

“you,” you mumbled. “your body… your hair… your face… your hands… the way you talk to people.”

“you want me?” he murmured breathlessly.

“more than anything.”

“what else do you like?”

you leaned your head back a little and pressed your lips to his ear. “the way you play ball.”

he hummed, “you like the way i play baby?”

you nodded, your heart hammering.

he lifted his face from the crook of your neck and shamelessly pressed his lips to your cheek, murmuring.

“you wanna see what else i can do?”

“what— what else?”

megumi’s face remained pressed against your cheek as he let both of his hands now snake underneath your shirt and upwards, slowly but roughly groping the cup of your tits over your bra, feeling you up as you gasped.

“uh huh..” he pressed an open mouthed wet kiss to your pink fuzzy cheek. “‘cause i can do a lot more than just be your cool baseball man.”

he roughly spun you around and pushed you up against the wall, his hands coming back up to your breasts to grope you as he shoved and rubbed his hardened clothed dick against your perky ass, your tiny skirt riding up and revealing your pretty pink panties that made him absolutely feral.

“gumi!” you gasped. “s—someone could see—”

“i don’t fucking care.”

megumi buried his nose further into the back of your neck and your hair, him being a little pervert in the most delicious and intoxicating way possible.

he dragged his mouth up against your skin and latched on to the nape of your neck, sucking and biting sloppily against it as he marked you aggressively, no doubt in your mind that a purple bruise would follow soon after as his hands slipped under your bra now, pinching your hard nipples meanly and laughing when you jumped.

you moaned and whined against the wall, your body trembling as you felt your slick arousal slip from your hole and dampen your panties, choked up embarrassment coating your face as he shoved his fingers down your skirt without warning.

“you’re soaked baby…” he whispered. “and all because i grabbed your tits?”

“megumiii…” you whined, and you squeaked as he quickly slipped his fingers in between your pussy lips and pinched your clit.

“gumi,” he corrected. “fix it.”

“g—gumi—”

“good, pretty baby...” he praised, his dick rock fucking solid against your ass at the way his fingers slipped and slid in between your lower lips without much effort, both of your chests heaving and panting as your brains frazzled erotically.

the sounds of footsteps echoed from the end of the hall and you both immediately froze, a gasp slipping past your lips before megumi quickly covered your mouth with the same hand that was just fingering you.

“shh.” he kissed the back of your head.

if anyone were to walk in and see the sight before them— megumi with his crotch pressed up against your ass, a hand pushing your top and bra up, squeezing your bare puffy tit and the other covering your mouth?

they’d drop dead.

without another moment wasted, megumi uncovered your mouth and turned you around, his tongue darting out and licking the patch of wet on your cheek from his fingers before shoving them in his mouth, sucking up your left over juice as he bent down and wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder.

megumi was freaky.

your eyes widened as he walked to the double doors of the locker room and kicked it open with his foot, turning around to lock them shut before walking to a corner and setting you down gently on a bench, his palms flat beside you on the smooth wood as he towered over you.

“is— is everybody gone?”

“long gone.” he nibbled at your cheek.

“but— but what if someone wants to come in?—”

he pulled away and got down on his knees. “i’ll tell them to fuck off.”

you panted as he pressed his hands against your thighs and squeezed, spreading them apart slowly with his eyes trained to your drenched cute pink panties.

he slid his hands underneath your thighs and lifted, bending you and pressing your knees closer to you as your back hit the lockers behind you, your hands gripping the bench for dear life.

“has anyone ever seen your pussy?” he gruffed, licking his lips.

you shook your head, embarrassed. “n—no.”

“has any other man touched you the way i’ve touched you?”

“m—maybe in high school?—”

megumi sunk his teeth into your inner thigh and bit you as you yelped.

“thought you liked me.”

“i do!” you sputtered.

“clearly not if you’re being a little whore and letting other filthy men on you.”

your hole clenched.

“that— that was before you!”

he stuck his tongue out and pressed it flat against your pussy covered panties, dragging it slowly and agonizingly up until the tip of his tongue passed and flicked up against your clit, the tip moving around and around your little nub as your thighs shook.

“doesn’t matter.” he let a string of drool fall from the corner of his lips and over your ruined underwear, your eyes fluttering as you felt his warm saliva ooze in between your lips.

“and what about takuma, hm?”

you tried to open your eyes. “ta—takuma?”

“mhm. he was all over you.”

you hiccuped as he wrapped his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulled them down.

“i—”

“bet he wanted to do to you what i’m doing right now…” he hummed. “would you have let him?”

he stuffed his nose into your bare pussy and inhaled deeply, your jaw dropping as you squeezed your eyes shut.

your lack of response caused him to pull away and bite your thigh again, harder.

“would you?”

“n—no!” you shook your head quickly, strands of your hair lightly grazing your face. “i wouldn’t—”

“so who then?” he licked over his bite mark. “who would you spread your legs open for like this and let them see what a nasty fucking girl you are…”

“you gumi!” you hiccuped. “just you—”

“just me?”

megumi finally let his tongue slither itself in between your folds, slowly running over your flaps and clit as your hole continued to squelch out your arousal, pooling on the bench beneath you.

“y—yes!”

he slobbered and spit over your pussy like a starved dog, his face glistening like sugary glazed sweets.

“that’s what i fucking thought,” he hummed. “you gonna try and forget me again?”

“no!” you shook your head. “never! i can’t!”

he gripped your thighs tighter as he absolutely violated your folds then, wet sloshing and slurpings filling the air as he spat and shook his head side to side rapidly on your clit, you squealing and attempting to snap your thighs shut in response, his strong grip not letting you even if you tried.

“i—i can’t!” you cried. “gumi slow please it’s too much—”

“be a pretty baby and stop complaining.” he ran his slimy tongue over your pussy entirely before shoving it inside your hole.

you choked and clasped a trembling hand over your mouth, tears of ecstasy spilling from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut.

you whimpered and moaned and cried so pathetically, so cutely in his ears that he grinned as he pumped his tongue in and out of you filthily.

“you’re so fucking sweet—” he slapped your cunt and you jumped. “good thing i have a sweet tooth.”

your legs shook violently as you began to see stars, your tight hole clenching and sputtering around nothing as you felt your release approaching.

“gumi—” your hand flew back to the bench and you gripped it. “m’gonna cum! i’m— i’m gonna make a mess—”

megumi’s hand shot up and wrapped around one of your thighs so the tips of his fingers met your clit, his digits proceeding to rub and flick it as you climbed and reached your high, a high pitched scream echoing through the steamy locker room as your pussy leaked your sweet cum on his tongue.

you shuddered and jumped at the way he cleaned up your release and swallowed it, running his tongue soothingly over the bite marks on your thighs before coming back up and wiping his glistening face with his sleeve.

megumi leaned in and pressed a gentle loving kiss to your lips, a complete turn around from the feral beast you had in between your legs— you kissing him back with just as much feel and affection.

he pulled back and got back up on his feet, you watching him ditzy as he jogged over to his locker and turned the lock until it clicked open, him rummaging inside for a little before he shut it and came back with a fresh pair of gray sweatpants.

“put these on baby,” he murmured.

you nodded sweetly and took them from him, you slipping off your skirt and pulling his sweatpants over as you watched him bend and look over corners.

“what are you looking for?” you asked softly.

he perked up then and stuck his hand under a bench, pulling out your wet ruined pink panties and holding them up high like a trophy.

“oh my god—” you covered your mouth in embarrassment. “give me those!”

“nope.” he shook his head and walked over to his duffel bag on the floor, unzipping it before stuffing your panties inside. “these are mine now.”

megumi came back up and wrapped his palm underneath your chin, tilting your face up softly before planting a sweet kiss to your swollen lips.

“and so are you.”

and that you were.

you went on many many dates with megumi after that, each and every single one so incredibly lovely and fun, a genuine connection you felt with him and each other that you had never ever felt before in your life, absolutely enamored by the way he gently treated you and made you feel like the only one that mattered in his life.

your best friend was obviously over the moon for you, squealing like a maniac at everything you told her, and always teased megumi about his lovesick face whenever you came to his games or appeared in the locker room to help him change, sort his clothes, or fix his hair.

“megumi…” she snickered. “your cheeks are a little red! are you like— sick?”

he scowled at her and turned the other way, wiping his sweaty forehead as he watched you bounce down the steps cutely and onto the field after one of his practices, a huge smile on your face that replicated on his.

the minute you jumped into his arms, he peppered your little cheeks with kisses as you giggled and ruffled his spiky hair, asking him how he felt about practice and other things after he set you down.

without anyone noticing, a journalist was on the field, and at the sight of megumi fushiguro’s beaming toothy smile as he watched you run to him, they quickly snapped a photo and published it.

one was a perfect portrait photo of his shining white smile (that later became his signature picture) and the other was a photo of his arms out for you as you ran, the both of them causing an absolute uproar that altered megumi’s image from that day forward.

megumi fushiguro was thought to be the meanest player on the team since the day he got signed.

but when he started taking more pictures with fans, kind of stopped offending the people around him, signed more autographs, and smiled occasionally at the paparazzi— all while your pretty self stood right next to him?

megumi fushiguro was sometimes the meanest player on the team.

————————————————————————

want more? you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 7: September 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was bright and quiet, the kind of designer-calm that was more aesthetic than practical. Polished concrete floors, oversized pendant lights, art books stacked just so. Everything looked effortless.

Except for Isabelle.

She sat at her desk, scrolling through final renderings for a residential project in Nice—light oak built-ins, linen upholstery, exposed stone. Her headphones were in, her tea long cold, her focus sharp.

And still, she could feel them.

The looks. The half-paused conversations. The way the room always seemed to hush just a little when she walked by.

It had started a few months back—right after she had started working on Max’s penthouse. 

After “The Verstappen commission,”

Which, yes, was massive. Private penthouse in Monaco. Full control of design. The budget so generous it felt like cheating.

But it wasn’t why her colleagues looked at her like that.

No, that was because of the last name.

Leclerc.

At first, it was subtle.

“Oh, Max Verstappen, huh? Funny coincidence.”

Then came the lingering glances. The comments that weren’t really jokes.

“Must be nice to have connections.”

 “Clients like that don’t just walk in the door.”

 “I mean, your brother is in F1, right?”

They never said it outright.

But she heard it. Felt it.

The implication that she hadn’t earned it. That she hadn’t spent years working late, poring over lighting plans, chasing perfection in the grain of walnut veneer. That she hadn’t clawed her way into an industry where quiet women were often passed over for louder, flashier names.

She was good at her job. Isabelle knew that. She was good. 

Good enough that her clients rarely asked for changes. 

Max’s design brief had been short and to the point: 

“Make it feel like home.”

And she had.

Still, the office couldn’t let it go.

Even now—months later—she could hear it in the voice of her coworker, Camille, who leaned against the edge of Isabelle’s desk with faux friendliness.

“Is that the Nice project?” Camille asked, eyeing her screen.

Isabelle slid off her headphones. “Yes. Final layout before the client walk-through.”

Camille hummed. “You’re getting all the high-end clients lately. It’s impressive. I guess once you do one Formula 1 driver’s penthouse…”

Isabelle smiled politely. “I still have to earn every brief.”

“Of course,” Camille said, all syrup and knives. “It just helps when people know your last name.”

Isabelle looked back at her screen. “Or your work.”

Camille blinked. “Sorry?”

“I said the client liked my work. He saw it before he saw my name.” She didn’t look up. “But thanks for the reminder.”

Camille stood there for a beat too long, clearly debating whether to keep the fight going.

Then she smiled, brittle and bright. “Anyway. Let me know if you need a second set of eyes.”

Isabelle nodded. “I will.”

She wouldn’t.

Camille walked away. Isabelle exhaled.

Never mind that she’d been designing clean, grounded spaces with layered textures and a focus on subtle light since she was twenty-one.

Never mind that she had graduated top of her class at Sorbonne. Never mind that she had won awards for her work. 

Never mind that just last week, she’d redesigned the entire layout of an apartment, hand-sourced reclaimed timber from an antique dealer in Northern Italy, managed three contractors across two countries, and did it all on time and under budget.

None of it mattered.

Not to them.

They saw the name. They made their assumptions. They smiled, thin-lipped and cold, when she walked into a room.

No one said it outright, of course. That wasn’t how this studio worked.

It was in the “accidental” exclusion from meetings. The last-minute presentation changes that stripped her name from the credits. The way Léa always called her Charles Leclerc’s sister when speaking to clients, like that was more relevant than her entire résumé.

And Isabelle… she swallowed it. Like she always did.

Because fighting it felt worse. Like it would just confirm what they already believed: that she was here because of someone else. That she had something to prove.

So she nodded. She worked. She smiled.

There was such a gap between the life she had at home and the one she had at work. 

One full of careful love and quiet safety. One where someone saw her, really saw her, and chose her without hesitation.

And one where people looked at her and saw an advantage. A connection. A shortcut they assumed she’d taken.

No one here knew she’d just moved in with Max Verstappen.

No one knew that the penthouse she designed now held her books. Her blankets. Her favorite brand of tea, tucked next to his energy drinks in the cupboard.

No one knew that she woke up on mornings that he was there to him pressing a kiss to her temple and mumbling, don’t forget your scarf, it’s windy today, like she was something precious he’d wrapped his life around.

Her private life was a dream.

It was slow breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen. Laughter tangled in late-night Netflix documentaries. Max standing behind her at the sink, arms around her waist, whispering that he loved the life they were building.

But her professional life?

It felt like it was crumbling beneath the weight of other people’s expectations.

Not good enough to be here on her own.

 Too quiet to demand credit.

Too privileged to complain.

She clenched her teeth. 

She wasn’t going to let them shrink her. Not again.

Not after all the ways she’d already been made small.

Because the truth was: her name had opened zero doors.

But her work?

That spoke for itself.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Hey Isabelle—random question. You have a minute?

Isabelle: Of course. What’s up?

Victoria: I’m redoing the kids’ room, and I’m going to lose my mind.

Victoria: So, Luka wants a car-themed room.

Victoria: Lio wants a dinosaur room.

Victoria: And I love them, but if I let them pick everything, my house will look like a Hot Wheels museum and a Jurassic Park gift shop had a child.  

Victoria: No one else I’ve talked to gets why I don’t want neon walls and tire-shaped beds.

Isabelle:  Because you have taste. And also because you care about designing something they can grow into.

Victoria: Yes, exactly!! I don’t want to be a sad beige mom, but I don’t want three hundred Lightning McQueen stickers either. 

Victoria: HOW do I make it nice? Like, actually nice. Not themed-party nice.

Victoria: Aesthetic. Calm. Maybe even cohesive??

Victoria: Is that possible??

Isabelle: It definitely is. The trick is color palette + subtle accents.

Isabelle: For Lio: a neutral base. Soft greens and sandy taupes for the walls. Dino Silhouettes, a custom mural, or maybe wallpaper. More storybook style than cartoon. Texture it up with wood shelves, natural materials, and some cute storage baskets that don’t scream plastic chaos.

Isabelle: For Luka: Think more along the lines of vintage race cars. Maybe white with some slate grey? More graphic than literal? Maybe we could find a tire print bedding…  also vintage racing posters, or maybe wallpaper. 

Victoria: You’re kidding. That sounds… beautiful. Isabelle. This is amazing.

Isabelle: It can be cute and timeless. Trust me.

Victoria:  Can I actually hire you for this? Like, for real?

Isabelle: You don’t have to hire me. I’ll help because I want to. But thank you for asking.

Victoria: No, thank you.  You’re brilliant.  I’ve looked at a million Pinterest boards, and none of them had this.

Victoria: Max is a nightmare to impress, and even he won't stop bragging about how you designed the penthouse.

Isabelle:  I’ll put together two mood boards for you—one for each theme: subtle, elevated, and adaptable. You can mix and match, and I’ll help make it look amazing.

Victoria: You’re amazing. Truly. 

***

Isabelle was in the studio early—like always—finalizing fabric pulls for a coastal villa project when she opened the project file and found everything… gone.

Her digital mood boards? Wiped.

The CAD revisions she stayed up late fixing? Replaced with an earlier, incomplete draft.

At first, she thought it was a mistake. Maybe she’d forgotten to save her edits. Maybe the cloud hadn’t synced. Maybe—

“Hey, Isabelle,” said Léa, voice syrupy-sweet from her desk across the room. “Your name’s all over the drive this morning. Everything okay?”

Isabelle turned, trying to keep her voice steady. “Someone deleted my work.”

“Oh?” Léa blinked. “Maybe you just didn’t save it?”

“I did.”

“Well, these things happen. Tech is finicky. Or maybe it was a permissions issue?” She smiled, sharp and condescending. “You’re still getting used to the system, right?”

Isabelle said nothing.

It wasn’t the first time. Last week, someone had “accidentally” removed her name from a client presentation. The week before that, she'd been left out of a team brainstorming session for a luxury development she’d pitched.

Now this.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

But she did.

So, so much.

***

Max heard the door open and shut softly. He glanced at the clock—past midnight. Again.

Isabelle walked in, kicking off her heels and sighing as she dropped her bag on the floor. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped with fatigue.

Max crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “You know,” he said, “there’s an easy solution to this.”

She raised an eyebrow, already knowing where this was going. “Oh?”

“You quit your job,” he said simply. “Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.”

Isabelle snorted, shaking her head as she walked toward him. “Max.”

“I’m serious,” he said, watching her. “I don’t like seeing you like this. You work too much.”

She sighed, rubbing at her temples. “I know. But I don’t like depending on anybody.”

Max frowned. “It’s not depending on me, it’s—”

“It is,” she cut in gently. “I’ve spent my whole life making sure I can take care of myself. I never want to be in a position where I have to rely on someone else to be okay.”

His expression softened, and he reached for her hand, pulling her closer. “You wouldn’t have to. But you could if you wanted to.”

She exhaled, leaning into him slightly. “I know. And that’s why I love you. But I need this, Max. I need to know I can stand on my own two feet.”

Max sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Fine. But at least let me buy you dinner when you come home too late to eat.”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist. “That, I can agree to.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen 

Victoria: Do you still want to help with the final installation for the boys’ rooms?

Isabelle: Of course!  Just say when.

Victoria: Next weekend?

Victoria: Luka’s been asking when “Tante Belle” is coming back to make his race cars zoomier.

Victoria: And I promised him wallpaper would happen soon, or I’d never hear the end of it.

Isabelle: I can fly in Friday night. Max has a race weekend, so I’ll be solo anyway.

Isabelle: Want me to bring anything?

Victoria: Your magic brain.

Victoria:  And maybe the strength of ten men for this wallpaper. Think we can manage?

Isabelle: If you hold it straight, I’ll climb the ladder. We’ve got this.

Victoria: That’s the spirit.

Victoria: Also—want to do a decor run Saturday morning?

Victoria: I thought I had taste, but apparently, everything I pick is “too boring” or “not sparkly enough.”

Isabelle: Consider it a mission.

Isabelle: But honestly… I might just order half the internet to your house before I get there.

Victoria: Dangerous. I like it.

Isabelle: Just let me know what color Lio’s “not jungle but jungle” theme has become this week.

Victoria: I think we’ve settled on “treehouse with optional dinosaurs.”

Isabelle: That’s a mood.

Isabelle: Thank you for asking me to come. Really.

Victoria: Belle.  You’re family.

Victoria: And you’re good at this. That combo is rare and very needed.

Isabelle: Now you’re going to make me cry over wallpaper.

Victoria: You’re allowed.

Victoria:  Just not on the ladder.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen 

Isabelle: Victoria invited me to come for the weekend. 

Isabelle: To help with the boys’ rooms. Final install.

Max: That’s great! She loves your designs. I knew she’d want you there for it. You said yes, right?

Isabelle: Of course.

Isabelle: I mean… I think I did?

Isabelle: I panicked a little and offered to book a Friday evening flight and overnight half of Zara Home to her house.

Max: Sounds like a yes.

Isabelle: It’s the first time someone in your family’s invited me like that. Just… as me.

Max: That’s because they love you.  I knew they would.  You’re impossible not to love.

Isabelle: You’re biased.

Max: I’m correct.

Max: You’re going, right?

Isabelle: Yeah. I want to.  You’ll be gone anyway. Race weekend.

Max: Good. I like it when you’re with them.

Isabelle: Thank you.

Max: For what?

Isabelle: For never making me feel like I’m just passing through.

Max: You’re not. You’re home.

***

Instagram Stories: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen 

Max: Thanks again for inviting her this weekend.

Victoria: Don’t be ridiculous. She’s brilliant.  And the boys adore her.

Victoria: Luka yelled, “ISABELLE’S HERE!” like she was Santa.

Max: I think she was really nervous.  She hasn’t been… included like this much. Not by family.

Victoria: I picked up on that. She was so polite it almost broke my heart.

Max: Yeah.  That’s kind of her default.  Be small, be quiet, and don’t get in the way.

Victoria: Not in this house.

Max: Thank you.

Victoria: You don’t have to thank me for loving someone who clearly loves you.

Victoria: I see the way she looks at you, Max.

Victoria: Like she’s finally allowed to breathe.

Max: That’s how I feel when she walks in the room.

Victoria: Then we’re all exactly where we should be.

Victoria: I’ve got her. Go win your race.

Max: Trying. For both of you.

Victoria: We’ll be watching. Luka’s already decided that if you win, it’s because Isabelle helped pick the right snacks.

Max: He might be right.

Max: Thank you, Vic. Really. 

Victoria:  She’s family.  I just hope one day her brothers realize what they’ve been blind to.

Max: I hope so, too. But until then—she’s got us.

Victoria: She always will.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridwives: I’m gonna need someone to explain why Isabelle Leclerc is calmly shopping with Victoria Verstappen like it’s not news?!

↳@/softpitstop: I think Isabelle is helping Victoria with her sons’ rooms. ↳@/sleuthsinmonaco: Do you think Max gave Victoria an interior designer tip?!

@/lightsoutgirlies: This is my Roman empire: Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle leclerc

@/wagsandwhiplash:  Wait, wait wait—are Luka and Lio getting room makeovers??? And Isabelle Leclerc is doing them?? Like designing them???

@/thepaddockprince:  Okay, but I’m sorry, WHERE is Charles in all this? Isabelle’s out here designing Verstappen bedrooms, and he’s just... letting that happen?

@/f1fanficfuel: i need 4k behind-the-scenes content. I need the mood boards. I need the receipts. I NEED TO KNOW WHY ISABELLE LECLERC IS DECORATING THE VERSTAPPEN FAMILY HOME.

@/danielricchaos The funniest thing about all this is that none of them are explaining anything.Victoria just tagged her.  Isabel didn’t repost. Max hasn’t said a word, and now I’m insane.

@/leclercstanaccount: me trying to figure out how Charles’s invisible sister ended up doing a home makeover with victoria verstappen: ?!?!

@softlaunchcentral:  Ok, but why does Victoria’s entire weekend story arc feel like a soft launch of a new family member?  Isabelle Leclerc walked in with a tape measure and iced coffee and took OVER

@/babyverstappens: No, but genuinely: How do Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc know each other?! Who organized this crossover episode? Was it Fred Vasseur? Is this ferrari pr? Are we being gaslit?

@/plsnotanothersecretwedding: Isabelle Leclerc shopping for race car wallpaper and stuffed dinosaurs was not on my 2025 Paddock Bingo card. But I’m invested now. 

@/wagsfc: are we… soft-launching Isabelle Leclerc as victoria’s best friend?? is this happening?? 

@/formulaclarles: Why is Charles Leclerc’s sister shopping for Victoria Verstappen’s kids’ rooms???

@/dinosanddrs: The Verstappen toddler has a Leclerc choosing his wallpaper. F1 lore has never been deeper.

@/paddockpoetry: Watching Victoria and Isabelle together today just made me realize that… they both have brothers who risk their lives every weekend. Not a lot of people understand what that does to you.

@/f1bloom: Victoria and Isabelle are from two different worlds but somehow the same one:  like who else really understands that fear? Of watching the person you love fly at 300km/h and having to smile through it?

@/slowpitstoppoet: Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc are watching the race together while wrangling toddlers like it’s a normal Sunday afternoon… There’s something really tender about that.

↳@/paddockthoughts It’s easy to forget sometimes that these guys are brothers and sons and uncles—not just drivers.

@/theracedaypoet: Two sisters. Two very different men behind the wheel. One Red Bull. One Ferrari. And somehow, they meet in the middle of a living room, with juice boxes, toy dinosaurs, and silent prayers. That’s what hit me about Victoria’s stories today.

@tracksideemotions: Charles Leclerc. Max Verstappen. Two of the most elite drivers in f1. Their sisters? Sat on a couch this afternoon, raising small kids and holding juice pouches and watching people they love do something terrifying. I don’t know. That’s kind of beautiful.

@/gridgirlsundays Not to get sentimental, but Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc watching the race together? That’s actually so beautiful??? Two women who know exactly what it’s like to love someone who goes 300 kph for a living

@/gridgirlsunite: Seeing Victoria and Isabelle watching the race together, surrounded by kids and calm chaos… and realizing both of them have brothers in those cars. That hit.

@/chaoticenergyf1:  We always talk about the WAGs.  But the sisters? The ones who grew up with karting fumes in their hair and have to smile through every post-race debrief because no one really asks if they’re okay? Victoria and Isabelle deserve more credit.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Isabelle: My car won’t start.

Isabelle: Can I borrow one of yours for a few days?

Charles: No.

Arthur: HAHAHAHAHAHA. No. 

Lorenzo: Absolutely not.

Isabelle: …Are you kidding me? I have no way to get to work.

Arthur: Take the train?

Isabelle: It’s too far, and there’s no direct route.

Charles: The bus?

Isabelle: I’d have to leave in five minutes to even make it work.

Lorenzo: Taxi?

Isabelle: I can’t afford a taxi every day, Lorenzo.

Arthur: Maybe this is a sign you should finally buy a new car.

Isabelle: Oh yes, let me just manifest thousands of euros out of thin air.

Charles: You should have planned for this.

Isabelle: My car was fine yesterday, Charles! I didn’t exactly expect it to die overnight!

Arthur: Sounds like a you problem.

Isabelle: You problem?? My car just DIED. I didn’t plan for this!

Lorenzo: Maybe you should’ve.

Isabelle: HOW DOES ONE PLAN FOR THEIR CAR DYING OVERNIGHT?

Charles: By not driving something from 2010.

Arthur: Isabelle, your car was basically a tin can on wheels. It was only a matter of time.

Lorenzo: Yeah, at this point, it was a mercy killing.

Isabelle: Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we all had Ferrari sponsorships. Let me just drop six figures on a new car real quick.

Arthur: You don’t need six figures. You just need something that isn’t held together by hope and desperation.

Isabelle: I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.

Isabelle: One of you just lend me a car. For TWO DAYS. I promise I won’t even breathe near the paint.

Charles: Isabelle, you can’t just borrow a Ferrari like it’s a spare phone charger.

Isabelle: I wasn’t asking for your Ferrari specifically, Charles! Any of you must have something I can use.

Lorenzo: You’ll survive.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: Hey, you okay? Haven’t heard from you today.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. Just dealing with a disaster.

Max: …What kind of disaster?

Isabelle: My car is dead. Like fully dead. It made a noise that I’m pretty sure meant it was dying, started smoking, and then it wouldn’t start.

Max: That’s… not great. Did you have it towed? 

Isabelle: It’s at the garage now. The mechanic basically said it’s on life support and not worth fixing.

Max: So take one of mine. You know where the car keys are. 

Isabelle: Excuse me?

Max: So just take one of mine. You know where the car keys are. what’s the problem, schatje?

Isabelle: …You say that like it’s normal.

Max: It is normal? We live together? You need a car? I have cars? Just grab a key and take one?

Isabelle: …I asked my brothers if I could borrow one of their cars while I figure things out. Lorenzo ignored me. Arthur laughed. Charles said that I should have planned for this. 

Max: Your brothers are useless.

Max: Take any one of the cars.

Isabelle: Max. Be serious.

Max: I am serious.

Isabelle: What if I crash it?!

Max: Then I worry more about you than the car.

Isabelle: What if I scratch something??

Max: Then it gets fixed.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Isabelle.

Max: Just take one. I don’t want you dealing with this.

Isabelle: I cannot believe this. My own brothers wouldn’t even consider letting me borrow a car, and you—

Max: I’m your boyfriend. This is normal.

Isabelle: Is it???

Max: Yes. Now go pick a car before I get somebody to drive you everywhere.

Isabelle: You wouldn’t.

Max Verstappen: Schatje, they are just cars. You are making a big deal out of nothing. Pick whichever one you want.

Isabelle: I just… I can’t believe you’re okay with this.

Isabelle: You are actually insane.

Max: No, I’m practical. You need a car, I have cars. Problem solved.

Isabelle: Fine. Which one do you care about the least?

Max: None of them are as important as you.

Isabelle: That’s not what I—Max. Which one??

Max: …The Porsche?

Isabelle: I cannot take your Porsche.

Max: Okay, then take the Aston.

Isabelle: That is worse.sss

Max: Take the Audi, then. Or one of the Ferraris.

Isabelle: You are not helping.

Max: I’m literally giving you a solution, schatje. Just pick any of the cars. I don’t care which one you use. I have to get ready for qualifying. Take a car. Be safe. And text me when you’re home. Love you. 

Isabelle: Love you too, you ridiculous man.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You are NOT going to believe the absolute nonsense I just went through.

Emilie: Oh, this is already promising. Go on.

Isabelle: My car? Dead. Like full-on smoking and now won’t start. So I asked my dear, wonderful brothers if I could borrow one of their cars.

Emilie: Oh, I know this isn’t going to end well.

Isabelle: Lorenzo said ABSOLUTELY NOT. Arthur laughed. Charles told me, and I QUOTE: “Isabelle, you can’t just borrow a Ferrari like it’s a spare phone charger.”

Emilie: I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet.

Isabelle: I was fuming.

Emilie: So what’s the solution? Are you getting a rental?

Isabelle: I WAS. And then Max texted me because I hadn’t answered him all day. I explained the whole thing, and do you know what he said??

Emilie: …I am both excited and terrified to find out.

Isabelle: “Just take one of mine.”

Emilie: …

Emilie: Of course he did.

Isabelle: I told him that was INSANE. Like, shouldn’t racing drivers be obsessed with their cars? Worried I’ll scratch them? Do you know what Charles would do if I so much as LOOKED at his Ferrari keys too long??

Emilie: Have a full-on cardiac episode.

Isabelle: EXACTLY.

Emilie: And Max?

Isabelle: Told me to just grab a key and drive whichever car I wanted.

Emilie: …He really just handed you the keys to the kingdom, huh?

Isabelle: I told him I could CRASH it, and do you know what he said??

Emilie: Oh, I cannot wait.

Isabelle: “Then I worry more about you than the car.”

Emilie: …

Emilie: This man is going to MARRY you.

Isabelle: SHUT UP.

Emilie: I WILL NOT. That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever read.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: So… what are we thinking for a new car?

Isabelle: Something used. I don’t need anything fancy.

Max: Used?

Isabelle: Yes?? I’ll be throwing horse stuff in there anyway. No point in getting something new just to cover it in mud and hay.

Max: No.

Isabelle: …No?

Max: No. You’re getting something safe.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Isabelle.

Isabelle: You are being ridiculous.

Max: For wanting you to be in a car that won’t fall apart if someone breathes on it? Yeah, I am so ridiculous, you wouldn’t believe it.

Isabelle: It’s not going to fall apart, Max. I’ve had my car for years.

Max: And look what happened to it.

Isabelle: …Okay, fair.

Max: So. Something safe. Think about the children.

Isabelle: …What.

Max: When we have kids, you’re going to be driving them around.

Isabelle: Excuse me???

Max: What?

Isabelle: WHEN we have kids???

Max: Yes??

Isabelle: You’re already thinking about that??

Max: Of course.

Isabelle: Oh my god.

Max: I thought you’d already thought about it.

Isabelle: I have, but you thinking about it is a whole different thing!!

Max: Why wouldn’t I? I want a family. With you.

Isabelle: …

Max: Schatje?

Isabelle: I need a minute.

Max: Okay. Take your minute. But after that, we’re getting back to the car discussion because you are not getting some half-broken used car.

Isabelle: You just casually dropped “when we have kids” into a conversation about cars like it was nothing.

Max: It’s just… something I’ve thought about. A lot.

Isabelle: A lot??

Max: Yes? I want to spend my life with you. So obviously, I think about that.

Isabelle: Oh my god.

Max: And you’ve thought about it too.

Isabelle: I— okay, maybe, but that’s different!

Max: How?

Isabelle: Because I didn’t expect you to think about it!!

Max: …Schatje.

Isabelle: What.

Max: I love you.

Isabelle: …I love you too.

Max: I want to build a future with you. A family. I don’t know when that will happen, but I know that when it does, I want you to be the mother of my children.

Isabelle: …

Max: You’re being very quiet.

Isabelle: …Just processing.

Max: Take your time. 

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. Emergency.

Emilie: What did Max do?

Isabelle: We were talking about CARS. Just cars. Like normal people.

Emilie: Uh-huh…

Isabelle: And then out of nowhere, he’s like, “Well, think about the children.”

Emilie: …WHAT.

Isabelle: EXACTLY.

Emilie: WHAT.

Emilie: And what did you say???

Isabelle: Nothing! My brain short-circuited! He just kept talking like it was totally normal!!!

Emilie: Belle. Be honest. Are you freaking out because it was unexpected or because you really liked hearing him say that?

Isabelle: …I met his nephews.

Isabelle: Emilie. They’re tiny Maxes. Like. Exact replicas. The genes in that family are scary.

Emilie: YOU’RE GONE.

Isabelle: I’M IN DANGER.

Emilie: No, you’re in love.

Emilie: Belle. I love you, but you’ve always been that girl. The type who had a secret wedding Pinterest board at sixteen and a list of baby names hidden in your notes app.

Isabelle: …Shut up.

Emilie: Am I wrong?

Isabelle: …No.

Emilie: EXACTLY. And now you have a boyfriend who also thinks about those things. I’m so happy for you.

Isabelle: But like. He said it so casually. Like he just knows it’s going to happen. No hesitation, no panic. Just “Think about the children.”

Emilie: He’s in love with you, Belle. Obviously, he’s thinking about the future.

Isabelle: Yeah, but. That far ahead?

Emilie: Let’s be real. You love that he’s thinking about it.

Isabelle: I do. I really do.

Emilie: So. What are we naming my future godchild?

Isabelle: EMILIE.

Emilie: Just saying, you should prepare. Because if you do have a kid with Max Verstappen, it’s definitely going to be a mini Max.

Isabelle: I KNOW. That’s the problem. His genes are terrifyingly strong.

Emilie: You’re already picturing it, aren’t you?

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: You’re so gone for this man.

Isabelle: I KNOW.

Isabelle: I mean, logically, I knew Max was serious about us. But hearing him say something like that so casually? Like it’s just… a fact?

Emilie: Because to him, it is a fact. Belle, you are it for him. You really think Max Verstappen does things halfway?

Isabelle: No…

Emilie: Exactly. This is a guy who commits fully to everything. You think he wouldn’t be the same about you? About your future together?

Isabelle: I guess I just never thought someone would… want that with me, you know?

Emilie: Oh, Belle.

Isabelle: Like, I love my brothers, but I’ve spent my whole life feeling like an afterthought. Charles, Lorenzo and Arthur had their thing, their path, their goals. I was just… there.

Emilie: You were never just there.

Isabelle: It felt like it. Like I was always waiting for someone to see me. And now here’s Max, just—knowing. No hesitation, no doubts. He just knows.

Emilie: And that scares you?

Isabelle: No. That’s the thing—it doesn’t. It should, right? I should be panicking because it’s too much, too soon. But I’m not.

Emilie: Because deep down, you’ve already thought about it too.

Isabelle: …Yeah.

Emilie: So what now?

Isabelle: I don’t know. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Text him like, “Hey, I’d love to ruin my body for you, let’s make a Verstappen baby”?

Emilie: STOP! I just choked on my drink.

Isabelle: You asked!

Emilie: Okay, but honestly—do you want that? Not just in theory. Not just someday. With him.

Isabelle: …Yeah. I do.

Emilie: Belle. That’s huge.

Isabelle: I know. But it’s also terrifying.

Emilie: Why?

Isabelle: Because what if I let myself want it too much? What if I start dreaming about it and then something happens? What if it doesn’t work out?

Emilie: Okay, but what if it does? What if you and Max get everything you’ve ever wanted?

Isabelle: …Then I think I’d be really, really happy.

Emilie: Then maybe it’s time to start letting yourself believe in it.

Isabelle: Yeah. Maybe it is.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Hypothetically, what would you name our baby?

Max: Really, hypothetically? Or are you testing me?

Isabelle: Just answer the question, Verstappen.

Max: Fine. I like names that sound strong. Nothing too complicated.

Isabelle: …That’s not an answer.

Max: You answer first.

Isabelle: No, because then you’ll just pick one of mine to agree with.

Max: That is not true.

Isabelle: Prove it.

Max: Okay. If it’s a boy… maybe Noah.

Isabelle: Huh.

Max: You don’t like it?

Isabelle: No, I do! I just didn’t expect that.

Max: What did you expect?

Isabelle: I don’t know… something more Dutch?

Max: Like what?

Isabelle: I don’t know, Willem.

Max: …That’s literally the king’s name.

Isabelle: And your name is literally Max Emilian, you’re acting like you don’t sound like a prince in a European history textbook.

Max: Says the girl with four names. I refuse to name our kid Willem, by the way. 

Isabelle: Okay, fine. What about a girl?

Max: I always liked Zoe.

Isabelle: …

Max: Why are you silent?

Isabelle: I just. Didn’t expect that either.

Max: You’re testing me, aren’t you?

Isabelle: Maybe.

Max: Isabelle.

Isabelle: Okay, fine, I was curious.

Max: And?

Isabelle: And now I know that you’ve actually thought about this.

Max: Of course I have. I told you—I don’t do things halfway.

Isabelle: …

Max: What?

Isabelle: Nothing.

Max: Isabelle.

Isabelle: It’s just… I like Zoe.

Max: Yeah?

Isabelle: Yeah.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Hey, I need car advice.

GP: For yourself?

Max: No, for Isabelle.

GP: What happened to her current car?

Max: It died. Fixing it would cost more than it's worth.

GP: That sounds about right. So, what are you thinking?

Max: Something safe for the kids.

GP:

GP:

GP: WHAT KIDS?

Max: ???

GP: MAX.

GP: ISABELLE IS PREGNANT???

Max: No??

GP: THEN WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT "SOMETHING SAFE FOR THE KIDS"?

Max: Oh. I meant, like, future kids.

GP: Max.

GP: You nearly gave me a heart attack.

Max: Why would you immediately assume she's pregnant?

GP: BECAUSE YOU SAID "FOR THE KIDS."

Max: Yeah, but future ones. Obviously.

GP: Nothing about that was obvious, Max.

Max: …So do you have a car suggestion or not?

GP: Max. MAX. You’ve been dating for—what—five months?

Max: Almost six.

GP: AND YOU’RE ALREADY THINKING ABOUT KIDS??

Max: I mean, yeah? Why wouldn’t I?

GP: Because most people don’t plan future car safety for hypothetical children six months into a relationship??

Max: Well, when you know, you know.

Max: Anyway. I’m thinking of an SUV. Maybe a Mercedes. Isabelle wants something practical, but I don’t trust her to pick something actually safe.

GP: What does she want?

Max: “Something cheap that won’t make her cry if a horse destroys it.”

GP: And you?

Max: Something that won’t crumple in a crash. Something safe. Something that—

GP: Can carry future Verstappen babies, I got it.

Max: You’re catching on.

GP: You are so lucky I’ve known you this long because if anyone else told me this six months into dating, I’d assume they were insane.

Max: I am insane.

GP: … Fair.

GP: So, does Isabelle know you’re out here planning a future family car?

Max: Not exactly.

GP: Oh my god.

Max: We were just talking about what kind of car she should get, and I may have casually mentioned thinking about safety for future kids.

GP: And?

Max: She kind of short-circuited.

GP: No kidding.

GP: So, what’s the plan?

Max: I’m going to “help” her pick something.

GP: Meaning?

Max: Meaning she thinks we’re going car shopping, but really, I’m going to steer her toward something I already picked out.

GP: You are so manipulative.

Max: Smart. I’m smart.

GP: Does she know that you’re just going to buy it for her?

Max: No, and she’ll fight me on it, but I’ll win.

GP: How?

Max: I’ll just tell her it’s a gift, and if she doesn’t accept it, I’ll be very sad.

GP: Max, that only works because you have the face of a golden retriever.

Max: And I use it.

Max: So, what car should I buy her?

GP: You want me to help you pick a car for your girlfriend, who has no idea you’re about to buy her a car?

Max: Exactly.

GP: Do I look like a car salesman?

Max: You look like my race engineer, which means you’re good at analyzing data and helping me make smart decisions.

GP: That is such a stretch.

Max: Come on. What would you get if you were picking a car for your girlfriend?

GP: Something reliable. Safe. Not too flashy—

Max: Boring.

GP: Practical.

Max: I don’t want Isabelle driving something boring.

GP: Because you’re planning on borrowing it?

Max: No! Because she deserves something nice.

GP: But she doesn’t want nice, she wants practical.

Max: I can do both.

GP: Max—

Max: What?

GP: Just buy her a Volvo.

Max: A Volvo?

GP: Safe. Reliable. Built to last.

Max: But—

GP: Also one of the best crash-tested brands in the world. You did say you were thinking about kids, right?

Max: I hate that you know me this well.

GP: That’s my job.

Max: …Fine. I’ll look at Volvos.

GP: Good. Just… next time you text me something like that, lead with the fact that she’s not pregnant.

Max: I think it was funnier this way.

GP: I hate you.

***

"You’re being weird."

Max glanced at Isabelle as they walked into the dealership, his face a perfect mask of innocence. "I’m not being weird."

"You are," she insisted, narrowing her eyes. "You hate car dealerships. You said, and I quote, ‘Why would I subject myself to this when I can just order a car online and have it delivered like a normal person?’”

"Well," Max said smoothly, "this is different. This is your car."

Isabelle was still suspicious but let it go. For now. She’s just grateful he came with her. She might love shopping, but car shopping? Absolutely not.

A salesman approached, all too eager when he recognised who had just walked in. "Mr. Verstappen, it’s a pleasure! How can I help you today?"

Max didn’t even hesitate. "We’re looking at SUVs."

Isabelle stopped in her tracks. "We are?"

"Yes," Max said, completely unfazed. "Something safe. Reliable. Good for long drives and carrying things."

"Like hay and tack and muddy boots?" she deadpanned.

The salesman, sensing an easy sale, grinned. "I’ve got some great options! Any particular brands in mind?"

Max gave him a look. The look. The one that meant he already had one car in mind and would not be swayed.

"Show us the Volvo XC90, please."

Isabelle blinked. "A Volvo?"

Max nodded. "Volvos are the safest cars on the market."

"You sound like a commercial."

"It’s true."

"I thought you were going to make me test drive something ridiculous, like a Ferrari SUV."

"No," Max scoffed, as if the mere suggestion was offensive.

The salesman led them over to a sleek, black Volvo XC90. Isabelle, despite herself, was intrigued. It was nice. Comfortable. It had all the modern safety features Max has probably memorized.

She ran her hand over the hood. "This is… actually not bad."

Max gave her a satisfied look. "GP thought you would like it."

Isabelle frowned. "Wait. GP was involved in this?"

"Of course. He and I had a whole discussion."

"About my car?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Max shrugged, playing innocent. "I wanted his opinion. He agreed it was a good choice for you."

Isabelle crossed her arms. "So you two picked this out before we even got here?"

"Not exactly—"

"Max."

"Okay, yes."

Isabelle gaped at him. "So this whole ‘shopping’ trip was just a performance? A setup?"

Max looked far too pleased with himself. "Well, I couldn’t just tell you to get this one. You’d have fought me on it."

"Of course I would have! You can’t just decide for me!"

"But you like it, don’t you?"

She hesitated. Damn him. She did like it. But that wasn’t the point.

"You’re insufferable."

Max grinned, leaning against the car. "Yet, here we are."

The salesman, wisely staying out of this, cleared his throat. "Would you like to test drive it?"

Isabelle sighed. "I guess."

Max nudged her. "You’re welcome."

"I didn’t thank you."

"You will," Max said smugly.

And annoyingly, she knew he was right.

***

Max had never been one for extravagant birthday celebrations. He much preferred a quiet evening, good food, and the company of someone he actually wanted to be around. Which was why, when Isabelle asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, his answer was simple:

"Just dinner. At home. With you."

So that was exactly what they did.

Isabelle had insisted on cooking, despite his half-hearted protests that they could just order something. But she had shot him a look—one he knew well by now, the kind that dared him to argue—and so he had wisely backed off. Instead, he stood at the kitchen island, sipping a glass of wine as he watched her move around the kitchen with quiet efficiency.

"You know," he mused, "this is a pretty good birthday already."

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the small smile she tried to hide. "I haven't even finished cooking yet."

"Doesn't matter. You’re here. That’s enough."

Her hands stilled on the cutting board, her grip tightening slightly before she exhaled and resumed slicing the vegetables. She had never been great at accepting compliments, but Max had learned to give them anyway.

Dinner turned out perfect—simple, comforting, and exactly what he wanted. After they had eaten, they lingered at the table, talking about everything and nothing at all, her fingers occasionally brushing against his. When they finally moved to the couch, he pulled her close, letting out a content sigh.

"Happy birthday, Max," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He hummed in response, his arms tightening around her. "It is."

Max hadn’t wanted a big celebration. No parties, no cameras, no over-the-top surprises—just a quiet evening at home with Isabelle. And honestly, that was all he needed.

He smiled, tightening his hold on her. “It is.”

The quiet hum of the city outside their apartment barely registered as Max sat there, content with the warmth of Isabelle tucked against him. He had spent birthdays in Monaco, in fancy restaurants, surrounded by people who barely knew him beyond his racing. But this—just the two of them, no distractions—was his favorite.

She shifted slightly, tilting her head to look up at him. "You’re really that easy to please?"

Max smirked. "When it comes to you? Yeah."

A faint flush rose on her cheeks, and he resisted the urge to tease her for it. Instead, he traced a slow line along her arm, feeling the way she relaxed under his touch.

After a while, Isabelle sat up, reaching for something on the coffee table. It was a small, neatly wrapped box—he hadn’t even noticed it before. She hesitated before handing it to him.

"I know you said you didn’t want anything," she said, suddenly looking a little nervous. "But—well, I wanted to get you something anyway."

Max took the box, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he unwrapped it. Inside was a simple metal bracelet. But what caught his attention was the engraving on the inside—subtle, almost hidden.

"Vitesse et cœur."

Speed and heart.

His chest tightened.

"It’s nothing big," Isabelle said quickly. "I just—I know racing is everything to you, but I also know you drive with more than just skill. You drive with everything you have." She exhaled, fingers twisting together. "I just thought it fit."

Max stared at her for a long moment before carefully sliding the bracelet onto his wrist. It fit perfectly.

He didn’t say anything right away—just pulled her close, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

"You know me too well," he murmured against her skin.

She huffed a quiet laugh. "I’d hope so, considering I’ve been secretly dating you for months."

Max chuckled, his grip on her tightening. "Best secret I’ve ever kept."

***

[mononijikayu]

ni yao de ai — ryomen sukuna.

“We saw you look up at your girlfriend after that game-winning spike. What was running through your head?” And Sukuna, grinning like a fool. “Ahhh, just hoping she’s proud of me, you know?” Then it became bigger and bigger. One after the other, he could not shut up. He was, after all, too damn in love. “Your girlfriend’s reaction went viral after your match. Do you watch those clips together?” And Sukuna, without missing a beat. “Hell yeah, we do. I send her all my favorite edits. Couple goals, you know?”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Volleyball! AU;

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Babe, My Love, Baby, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Comfort/No Hurt, Established Relationship, Lovers, Dating, Feeling, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Teasing, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Volleyball Pro! Sukuna, Astrophysicist! Reader, Boyfriend! Sukuna, Girlfriend! Reader;

Words: 6k words.

Note: i'm working on the actor nanami fic, so here is something for you to enjoy while you wait for that. also, i keep thinking about how sukuna would have been like pro-hero bakugo had he not been dating reader. like, he would be so good at volleyball, but he would be so eager to be blunt about absolutely everything and just be so crass, you know??? anyway, our sukuna managed to not be like that, cause he's #1 lover boy first. enjoy this!!! see you in a couple days!! i love you!!! <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

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THIS WAS NOT OUT OF THE ORDINARY NOWADAYS, FOR YOU TO SIT HERE. Your long-time boyfriend, professional volleyball player Ryomen Sukuna, has always been a bit of a big deal. Well, you try to not make it to be but you both know that it is.

He was undeniably talented, incredibly confident, and dangerously charismatic. But it wasn’t until this past year, when he officially made Japan’s national team and became their standout player, that his star practically exploded.

And with that… came you.

You didn’t ask for it at all. The attention, the headlines, the fan-cams. However, by virtue of loving Sukuna, you had become a fair bit of a participant in his stardom. And it wasn’t like Sukuna did it on purpose. 

Well, actually he kind of did. Because if there was one thing about your boyfriend, it was that he never shied away from publicly loving you. In fact, he leaned in. Hard.

And you?

You could never say no to him when he asked. Ever. Because you loved him as he is, and that includes loving you. And if supporting him meant occasionally being pulled into the spotlight alongside him. Well… you’d do it a million times over. That’s how much you loved him. 

It started small at first.

Little moments here and there.

Well, he tried to ease you into it.

Like when Sukuna played his first international match for Japan, and you sat quietly in the front row with his family. You thought you were being lowkey, just there to support your love. But the cameras caught you. Multiple times. Your face blown up on the jumbotron — smiling, proud, hands clasped in silent prayer every time he served.

Sukuna noticed you on the screen mid-game, and instead of ignoring it like any normal athlete would. And then he would go on and smirk. Then almost like he can’t help it, he winked at you. On live television. You damn near sank into the earth.

The clip instantly blew up on Twitter. 

Everyone on the internet lost its mind. 

Suddenly there were viral captions like:

“When the national team’s ace makes eye contact with his girl mid-game and winks?????”

“The way he’s SO unapologetically in love I’m crying.”

“The girlfriend has MAIN CHARACTER ENERGY I’m obsessed.”

And you? You just wanted to disappear.

Ryomen Sukuna, on the other hand, ate it up.

“You see how they love us, babe?” he grinned later that night, scrolling through TikTok edits of you two.

“My love, I was literally just sitting there.”

“Nahhh, you were the cutest girlfriend alive.”

“Stop watching the videos, I look like I was going to hurl because of nervousness.”

“Nope. I’m obsessed with us. Sorry, babe.”

But then it started escalating. Almost too quickly. The more Ryomen Sukuna won on the national stage. And the more the media realized he could not shut up about you. The more you started to become a topic. At first, it was small questions during post-game conferences.

“We saw you look up at your girlfriend after that game-winning spike. What was running through your head?”

And Sukuna, grinning like a fool. “Ahhh, just hoping she’s proud of me, you know?”

Then it became bigger and bigger.

One after the other, he could not shut up.

He was, after all, too damn in love.

“Your girlfriend’s reaction went viral after your match. Do you watch those clips together?”

And Sukuna, without missing a beat. “Hell yeah, we do. I send her all my favorite edits. Couple goals, you know?”

And suddenly you were trending on Twitter at every single match. 

People started calling you “Japan’s National Team Girlfriend”. 

There were TikToks like “POV: You’re dating an Olympic-level volleyball player and he’s obsessed with you”. Someone even made a fan account dedicated to you. Some people are making fan accounts about the two of you. It was just insane.

You were horrified about it.

You never expected this.

Sukuna, however, was thriving.

“Babe, you’re famous now.”

“I am just—this is crazy, my love. I didn’t think this for myself.”

“Too bad. You’re dating a national treasure. That makes you one too.”

“You're the only national treasure here, not me—”

“Wrong. We’re a package deal. We always have been, babe.”

“Well, fuck. Looks like I gotta know how to deal with this.” You sighed, leaning into the couch. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

“I love you so much.” He says, looking at you with those warm loving eyes. “Very much.”

You sighed, moving close to lean into him. “I love you too. Very much.”

And then, of course, came the Vogue interview soon after that.

Sukuna got asked to do a pre-Olympic feature for Vogue Japan. It was going to be a full-blown video interview and magazine spread to highlight him as the country’s volleyball superstar heading to his first Olympic Games. 

You didn’t think much of it at first—until Sukuna casually mentioned. “They wanna do a segment with you, too.”

You froze. “Wait. What?”

“Yeah, you know….like those….interviews we watch.” Sukuna said it, like it was the most casual thing. “Like a couples segment. You know. Cute shit.”

“Okay, but this is insane. I don’t think I’m good enough to be interviewed for a magazine like Vogue.”

“Yes, you are. You’re the most beautiful and smartest person in the world, like the coolest. How could you not be in the magazines?”

“You’re just saying this cause you’re biased.”

“So?” He snickered, leaning closer to you like a cat to his owner. “Isn’t my opinion the only thing that matters?”

“My love, please—”

“Babe, come on. It’ll be fun. Just some quick questions. I’ll be right there with you.”

“Are you sure you want me there?”

“I always want you with me.” He whispers to you, eyes adoringly looking at you. Almost begging. “Please come with me.…I’ll make it worth your while later.”

You can’t say no to him. Not like this. Not ever. You sighed. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

And so, here you are now, right beside your boyfriend, in this studio.

The massive studio hummed with quiet energy. You could feel the subtle buzz of camera equipment, the low chatter of the production crew, and the muffled thuds of footsteps as people flitted around making last-minute adjustments.

Despite the growing tension in the room, there was one person who looked like he couldn’t be less bothered and that was Ryomen Sukuna himself. Your beloved Sukuna is now Japan’s top star volleyball player right now.

The man who was about to debut in his very first Olympic Games. And yet he sat there like he was in his living room, entirely unruffled by the cameras or the fact that the world was about to have their eyes glued on him.

To him, this was just like any other day. It was nothing special, nothing worth that much of a fuzz. It’s media day. Well, of course he was with you. That was always something that made him happy.

But the occasion in itself just as it was, like on all work days.

It truly did make sense for him to be like that.

After all, Sukuna had been through enough media circus for the past few years. With all the pre-game conferences, after-game interviews, constant media coverage during training camps.

By now, cameras had become like background noise to him. Even though he wasn’t the most camera-savvy person, he had long accepted that it came with the job. As much as you have.

Though, you know it was just still so insane. This level of fame was not something you expected to see. But well, what can you do? Your boyfriend is an ace at anything he does, and he always will be.

So here he was now, gold chain glinting under the bright studio lights, his long arm draped casually behind your chair as if he had all the time in the world. His thumb, rough, calloused from years of playing was tenderly brushed the curve of your shoulder absentmindedly, warm and familiar. His long legs were spread obnoxiously wide, his knee brushing against yours like it belonged there.

You, however, were fighting down a giggle like you did when you were both younger. It wasn’t fair how good he looked in front of the camera. Your Sukuna was in his official team Japan tracksuit, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, exposing his tattooed forearms.

His messy pink hair was styled back, just enough for his sharp jawline to be obnoxiously prominent and his signature smug grin made it look like he had already won gold before even stepping onto the court.

And then like he could feel you staring, Sukuna leaned toward you. 

You raised a brow as you finally noticed his ruby eyes tender on you.

“What? There something on my face?”

“Bet I can answer faster than you, babe.” His voice dropped low, just for you to hear, the gravel in his tone sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You snorted, glancing at him. “Yeah, okay. Just don’t embarrass me, my love.”

His grin sharpened, canines flashing. “No promises, babe.”

You groaned to yourself.

You were so screwed.

He’s competitive even on this.

The interviewer settles in her seat across from you both, a friendly smile on her face. “Alright, we’re rolling!” she calls out. “Let’s give them a warm welcome!”

The crew claps behind the camera and you and Sukuna stand up, quickly bowing your heads lowly to everyone in the room, greeting them politely one by one. The crew did the same, with eyes full of awe as they both looked at you two as you sat down.

“Alright, hello everyone!” the interviewer finally smiled, straightening in her seat. “We’re here today with Ryomen Sukuna, Japan’s powerhouse volleyball player heading to his very first Olympic Games — and we’ve got his longtime girlfriend, [Your Name], who is also a Astrophysics researcher joining us today!”

Sukuna perked up a little at that introduction, his grin widening. “Renowned, huh?” He turned to you, his voice dropping low, teasing. “Damn, babe. Are you that famous now, my baby?”

You rolled your eyes, fighting down a smile. “Says the Olympic athlete. Let’s not do this, please.”

The interviewer laughed. “We are so excited to have you both here. Thank you for making time despite your hectic schedules — especially you, [Your Name]. I imagine taking a break from Astrophysics research work isn’t easy?”

“Oh—” you started, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I mean, I really shouldn’t have gotten a break. I was actually supposed to have a research advisory today…”

Sukuna turned to you sharply, his brows raising. “Wait—what?”

You blinked. “…Huh, what?”

“You never told me that. I thought you just got permission.” Sukuna scoffed, his head tilting. “Babe, you really have a major advisory today? How the hell did you get off work?”

“Ohhh, yeah…” you cringed, rubbing the back of your neck. “Yeah… funny thing about that.”

The interviewer’s interest piqued. “Oh?”

You hesitated and then bit back a smile. “So… My head researcher’s daughter is actually a huge fan of Sukuna. Like, borderline obsessed.”

Sukuna’s brows shot higher. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah.” you chuckled sheepishly. “And when they found out I was doing this interview with him, my boss was like, ‘Yeah, just get me his autograph and I’ll look the other way on you missing the advisory.’”

Sukuna immediately cackled. “Really? That’s damn hilarious.”

“Swear to god, it's crazy in there when it comes to you.” you laughed, sinking a little in your seat. “He told me, ‘If you get me a video of him saying hi to my daughter, I’ll even let you off the hook for the paperwork you forgot to pass last week.’”

“Babe.” Sukuna turned his entire body toward you, his grin practically ear-to-ear. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? That’s easy. Just give me a pen later—hell, I’ll record her a whole-ass personalized video.”

You scoffed, blushing. “Oh my god, no—you don’t have to do that much—”

“Nahhh, I gotchu, babe, don’t worry.” Sukuna grinned mischievously, already plotting. “I’ll make her dad look like a hero. Gonna be like: ‘Hey princess, your dad is the real MVP for letting your fave’s girlfriend skip work today to give you content.’”

You smacked his arm, mortified. “Oh my god, you are so insane.”

The production crew lost it almost immediately.

The interviewer covered her mouth, laughing.

“I’m serious!” Sukuna laughed, scarlet eyes crinkling. “You know how many brownie points that’ll get you at work? You could literally ghost them for a week and they’ll still cover for you.”

“Oh my god, stop—”

“And the paperwork you forgot?” Sukuna shot you a playful smirk. “I’ll just sign it with ‘Ryomen Sukuna’s girlfriend is a genius, give her a raise.’ Boom. Problem solved.”

“RYOMEN SUKUNA.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” Sukuna raised his hands in surrender. “Just don’t call me that, okay? You know what my name is.”

The interviewer was crying. “I am so sorry, I can’t breathe—you guys are adorable.”

You slumped in your seat, burying your face in your hands. “I’m never living this down.”

Sukuna just laughed harder, his hand finding your thigh and giving it a warm squeeze. “Nah, you’re good, babe. I’ll make sure you’re employee of the month after this.”

The interviewer, trying to recover. “W-well! We really appreciate you being here, [Your Name]. Seriously. It's not every day we get a literal astrophysicist and an Olympic athlete in the same room.”

“Oh no, I should be the one thankful!” you stammered, still flustered from Sukuna’s antics. “Thank you for having me here with my love. Honestly, it’s such a privilege.”

Sukuna practically preened. “Her love. You guys heard that, right?”

You smacked his arm. “Oh god, don’t even start.”

“Too late, babe.” Sukuna grinned smugly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m riding that high all day. Like, that’s from the one I love right there. I’m riding this forever.”

“You can’t just—” You lower your face to your hands, feeling yourself warm. “Oh my god.”

“Don’t get embarrassed so fast!”

“I’m trying hard not to!”

The interviewer was now fully crying from laughing.

And you? You were about two seconds away from melting into the floor from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

You just can’t believe he’s like this today.

“So, uh, are you guys ready for some quickfire ten-second questions?” She asks as you finally recover, lifting your head.

Sukuna cracks his knuckles dramatically. “Easy. We’ve been together more than a decade or so. I can ace this.”

You scoff. “You’re gonna overthink everything.”

Sukuna feigns offense. “Excuse you? I’m very decisive.”

The interviewer laughs. “Alright, let’s put that to the test. First question: Sukuna, what’s your favorite pre-game meal?”

“Ramen.” he says instantly. Then, a beat later, “Wait. No. Her curry. Yeah, yeah. That one….the spicy one. Final answer.”

Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious? I thought you hated it.”

He grins smugly. “It’s true. I loved it all. Took another plate after you left. Your food hits different, you know?"

You roll your eyes but can’t help the blush creeping up your neck. “O–okay, I guess.”

The interviewer beams. “Cute. Okay, [Your Name], what’s his go-to post-game routine?”

“Oh, easy.” you say, straight-faced. “Complaining about his back. Then how he doesn’t like how Gojo Satoru took that line shot at him at a game. Take a ridiculously long, hot shower. He has a beer before we eat dinner. Then aggressively demands my cuddles.”

Sukuna sputters at you. “Aggressively?!”

You arch a brow. “You corner me in the kitchen. Every time.”

He throws his head back in a laugh, his large hand sliding to your knee. “Okay, fine. Fair point.”

The interviewer chuckles. “Alright, Sukuna — who’s the first person you call after a big win?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Her. Always her. And she picks up, even mid-experiment.”

Your chest tightens, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “You’re too much.”

“Hey, I really do call you the most after every match.”

“And after a loss?” she presses.

Sukuna leans slightly toward you, his arm shifting so his hand now rests protectively on your thigh. “Also her. But I’m significantly more annoying.”

You snort. “So much pouting. He becomes, like, unbearable.”

Sukuna gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “Unbearable?! I’m mourning, babe!”

“You’re sulking. Just like right now.”

“Same thing!”

The interviewer is practically doubled over laughing. “I love this dynamic. Okay, favorite thing about each other — go.”

Sukuna’s answer is immediate. “Her laugh. Hands down. Best sound in the world.”

Your heart lurches, face instantly heating. “Oh my god, shut up—”

“No, like dead serious, babe.” he interrupts, his smile softening. “Could be having the worst day ever, and if she laughs? I’m good.”

You smack his arm, your face now an embarrassing shade of red. “You’re being gross on camera!”

Sukuna shrugs, unbothered. “Truth is truth, babe.”

The interviewer melts. “Okay, your turn, [Your Name].”

You stammer, still flustered. “Uhh—” you scramble to think of something non-cheesy, but instead, your mouth betrays you. “The way he always warms his hands before touching my face.”

Sukuna freezes. “…Huh?”

You blink. “…What?”

“That’s your favorite thing?” he asks, blinking at you like you’d just dropped a bombshell.

You squirm. “I mean, yeah. You do it all the time. Like, even if we’re just watching a movie or something — you always warm your hands first. It’s cute.”

The grin that spreads across Sukuna’s face is devastating. “You’re so obsessed with me.”

You physically groan. “Oh my god, shut up.”

The interviewer is practically swooning. “This is the cutest thing ever—okay, okay, next one. Sukuna, if you could steal any skill from your girlfriend, what would it be?”

“Her patience.” he deadpans.

You burst out laughing. “What?”

“No, like actually, I really think you mastered it so much.” he insists, leaning forward. “You have no idea how insane she is at staying calm. Like, I’ll be losing my mind over a game or a bad practice, and she’ll just—” he waves his hand, mimicking your nonchalant demeanor, “‘Okay, babe, it’s fine. You’ll win next time.’ Like. What the hell? Where do you get that?”

You’re dying of laughter. “It’s called balance, my love.”

“It’s witchcraft.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Then learn it.”

He laughs at your words. “No, but I’m genuine about this. My girl can sit there and deal with a long day where her research yields bad results and do it again even though it takes long. And come home to me sulking and just know how to be just as patient.”

You looked at him, eyes full of love. “You’re so….I love you. Just a lot.”

He smiles back at you. “Love you too, babe.”

The interviewer sighed, whimsically. “I love you two so much. Okay, final question—and you both have to answer this.” She leans in dramatically. “What’s the very first thing you’ll do if you win gold at the Olympics?”

Sukuna’s cocky grin is instant. “Kiss her. On live TV.”

Your jaw drops “‘kuna, my love! Don’t just say that!”

“What?” he laughs, utterly shameless. “Manifesting, babe.”

“You’re disgusting.”

Your boyfriend snickers. “Yeah, you say that now but you’re gonna make out with me after this—”

“Oh my god, not here!”

The interviewer howls with laughter. “And what about you, [Your Name]?”

You glare at Sukuna but ultimately sigh in defeat. “I guess… I’ll let him.”

Sukuna beams, victorious. “See? Obsessed with me. You were lying earlier, hm? Saying you won’t and now here you are, you admit the truth. I am so vindicated.”

You slap his arm, but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but I am your annoyance. That's my happy life right there, being loved by you like that.”

The interviewer shakes her head, still giggling. “I swear, if you actually win gold and kiss her on live TV, I’ll play this clip everywhere.”

Sukuna’s arm curls around your shoulder, pulling you in. “You better be ready, babe. I’m serious.”

And the terrifying part? You can already picture it. Because you know that he can do it. He can win it all just like that. You could see the gold medal around his neck, the camera zooming in, and Ryomen Sukuna turning straight to you with that same smug grin before sweeping you off your feet.

You purse your lips into a flat line, blushing. “Yeah, yeah…..I’m prepared.”

The interview finally wraps up there.

You’re still a little dazed. The cameras, the lights, the overly intimate questions about your relationship—but Ryomen Sukuna? He still looks happy, still completely unbothered. Like he lives for this. Which, you suppose, he does.

His arm never leaves your shoulder as you stand to shake hands with the Vogue team, his thumb still brushing absentminded circles against your skin. And just as you think you can finally slink away into the background, done with all the attention, Ryomen Sukuna pulls you right back in.

“Babe, c’mon.” he murmurs, his mouth brushing your temple. “Stay for the photoshoot.”

You blink. “What?”

“The shoot. They’re doing my Olympic feature photoshoot now.” He grins like he already knows how this will go. “Hang around for a bit.”

Your eyes narrow. “I thought this part was just you?”

“It is.”

“Then why do you need me here?”

“Moral support.” he says with a teasing smirk. “Also, you look really cute today, and I need you to stand there and be hot while I take photos.”

You gawk. “My love…..”

“What?” He shrugs, pulling you even closer as he starts walking toward the set. “I’m serious. Just stand off to the side, babe. I’ll behave.”

You have exactly zero trust in that promise. But you sigh and let him tug you along anyway. Because at the end of the day, you can’t say no to him. You never could. Not then and certainly not now. That’s just how much you loved the man.

So you do stay. But you try your hardest to stay out of the way. This is just for him, and only for him. You shouldn’t meddle. This isn’t for you. You do not want to get involved. So you make sure he sees you but sees you preoccupied, as you take food from the snack pile and coffee from the coffee machine.  

The photoshoot setup is expansive. There were grand lighting rigs, enormous backdrops, a team of stylists fussing over Sukuna’s hair and clothes. He’s already swapped his casual attire for his Japan national team uniform, crisp and iconic in its red and white.

And good god, you were stunned.

He looks obscenely good, even better than normal.

You were just hypnotized.

Like, you can definitely say that it's an actual deity-tier sort of beauty. Tall and lean, the muscles in his arms and thighs practically sculpted. His sharp features and dark tattoos look even more striking against the stark white backdrop. And the way he carries himself. It was that dangerous, unbothered confidence that had the photographers practically swooning as much as you were already.

You stand quietly off to the side, as you stuff yourself with snacks. You were doing your best to stay unnoticed and so far so good. But the moment Sukuna locks eyes with you from across the room, in the middle of his solo shoot, you already know you’re already fucked.

Because he grins. That stupid, sharp, predatory grin.

And you just know something is going to happen.

Because, you know that look on his face.

He’s about to pull some bullshit.

“Alright, Sukuna — tilt your chin up a bit. Perfect, perfect — can we get some more intensity in those scarlet eyes?”

He obliges easily, shifting his stance. For a few moments, you think you’re in the clear. Maybe he’ll actually behave. Maybe he’ll just get through his shoot without doing anything that would just throw you off your horses.

“Hey.” Sukuna suddenly calls out — loud enough for the entire set to hear. His gaze zeroes in on you. “Can she come here real quick?”

Your stomach drops.

The entire team turns to look at you.

Your soul leaves your body.

“I swear to god…..” you hiss, mortified. “No—”

“C’mon, babe.” he grins. “Just real quick. Just one picture.”

The photographer, looking intrigued, asks, “Wait — are you talking about her?”

“Yeah. Of course I’m talking about her.” Sukuna says smoothly. “That’s my girl.”

Oh my god oh my god oh my god.

You try to melt into the floor. “My love, no—”

“Babe, come on.” he says, mockingly sweet, “I thought you were here for moral support? Come on, just one picture. I won’t even ask them to include it in the spread.”

The team just absolutely loves what’s happening right now. They’re already whispering to each other, eyes lighting up with interest. One of the assistants, who was clearly a hopeless romantic, suddenly gasps, “Oh my god, can we get her in a couple of shots?”

“No, no, no you don’t have to.” you stammer, mortified. “I-I’m not part of the shoot—”

“You are now, babe.” Sukuna smirks, already striding over to grab your hand.

“My love, I’m not even— I didn’t sign anything—”

“Babe, relax.” he murmurs, tugging you right into the center of the set like it’s nothing. “You’re not doing a solo shoot. Just stand next to me. That’s it.”

The photographer, gleeful, immediately jumps in: “Oh my god! Yes, yes, yes. Let’s do a few couple shots. Just casual. We can get a few ‘power couple’ frames, I love this.”

“No, please, it’s not fair to you all or him.” you say, panicked. “It’s his shoot, I’m not supposed to—”

Sukuna grins down at you. “C’mon, babe. What’s one photo?”

You glare. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He tugs you even closer. “C’mon, let me show off my pretty girlfriend a little. Please?”

“…I hate you so much.”

The next twenty minutes are the most unhinged photoshoot of your life.

It starts simple. Ryomen Sukuna standing tall in his Olympic uniform, with you just casually next to him. He’s still smug and composed, while you try your best to look like you belong there. But then it escalates, as it always does with him.

“Can you put your arm around her waist?” the photographer asks.

Sukuna immediately complies, almost too gleefully, you might add, as he was pulling you flush against his side, his arm curling snug around your lower back.

“Actually, can you lean down and nuzzle into her neck a bit? Just natural intimacy.”

You really could feel your soul just saying a hail mary and saying goodbye for good. Your Sukuna doesn’t even hesitate. His mouth brushes your temple, his nose drags against your skin, and he actually whispers in your ear: “Told you you’d be in this shoot, babe.”

“I hate you so much, like a lot. Right now.” you grit, cheeks burning.

“You love me, a lot. I can tell.” he grins. “Like look at that bright eyed love!”

“Can we get one with her in front of him? Like, you know, back to his chest?” The director suddenly says.

You barely have time to react before Sukuna’s already wrapping his arms around you from behind, his chin resting atop your head. His long fingers splay warmly across your stomach, deliberately making the pose look far too intimate.

The camera shutter goes crazy.

And then—the final blow from the director:

“Okay, for the last shot—Sukuna, can you kiss her?”

Your brain explodes. “WHAT—”

“Ohhh, I think I can.” Sukuna drawls, thrilled. “Hang on.”

“I swear to god, you can’t just—my love!”

Too late for any arguments, he’s made up his mind. His hand slides up to your jaw, his thumb tilting your chin just slightly. And then, without a hint of shame, he leans down and kisses you. Right there. On the set. With the cameras flashing like crazy.

It’s not even a small kiss. It’s full and lingering. It’s passionate and hot and burning. It was the type of kiss that only belongs to you two. Yet you don’t push him away or pull away. Instead, you let his hand cup the edge of your face, his mouth molds against yours, and you feel his stupid grin against your lips.

The photographer practically screams. “Oh my god, that was too good! That was just perfect!”

You finally part from him. But it took you a bit before you were back down to earth from the spellbound trip to love. “You are so annoying, I swear!”

“Babe.” he says, smug as hell. “I think we just sold out this magazine issue.”

“I’m going to kill you, that was too passionate! That’s just for us—"

“Please. You’re gonna frame these photos later.”

“Ugh, no I won’t!”

“You so will.”

And when the photos do come out, everything just shifts in the world. The entire internet loses its mind over Japan’s national volleyball ace and his head-over-heels-in-love girlfriend like he always is, you realize, miserably, that Ryomen Sukuna was absolutely right.

Because you do, in fact, frame one of the photos.

Well, almost all the photos you got.

And what does Ryomen Sukuna do?

He never shuts up about it.

══════════════════

epilogue

The group chat video call came in less than five minutes after the interview aired. You barely had time to process the fact that the clip of you and Sukuna had already exploded on social media — like a firestorm-level viral. 

Your phone was pinging nonstop with texts, notifications, and Twitter mentions of people collectively losing their minds over “Astrophysicist GF x Olympic Athlete BF” like it was the rom-com of the century. Like it was the most important trope out there.

And just when you thought you could quietly crawl into a hole and die from embarrassment…

Incoming Video Call: “Menaces + Nanami (we tolerate him)”

“Oh my god no—”

“Babe, answer it!” Sukuna grinned, already stretching his long arm to grab your laptop. “I need to see what they’re about to say.”

“Sukuna, I’m literally not ready for this shit—”

“You’re literally adorable, babe. Don’t worry!” Sukuna smirked, already clicking Accept. “Let me enjoy my W.”

The call connected. Chaos immediately erupted.

Gojo Satoru (Camera OFF): “AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Geto Suguru (Camera ON):

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”

Nanami Kento (Camera ON):

“…Are you all seriously screaming?”

Itadori Yuuji (Camera ON):

“BROOOOOO THEY WENT SO HARD IN THAT INTERVIEW OH MY GODDDD!”

Fushiguro Megumi (Camera ON, Visibly Unamused):

“…I’m logging off.”

Gojo Satoru (Camera ON, Appearing Out of Nowhere):

“NO YOU’RE NOT, MEGUMI— OH MY GOD YOU TWO WERE INSANE.”

You immediately face planted onto the table, groaning. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”

“Babe, why? You were really cool!” Sukuna laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “This is literally my proudest moment.”

“Oh my god, this is just so—” You groaned.

“Bro. Bro, oh my god.” Itadori was crying. “Sukuna. The way you said ‘Her love. You guys heard that, right?’ I— I fell off my couch cheesing, bro. You haven’t changed!”

“RIGHT?!” Gojo practically screeched. “And then he was going like ‘I’ll get you employee of the month, babe.’ I almost died! This was so—I can’t even explain it!”

Sukuna was thriving. His grin stretched wide, his canines flashing. “Ayyyeeee, you finally got it Gojo! You got someone, so you understand right? You see how I held her down? Boyfriend of the year.”

“You really are, bro!”

“My love, stoppppp!” you wailed dramatically.

“Nah, babe. Let me cook from boyfriend to husband!”

“Okay but REAL TALK. [Your Name]. Explain to me why your head researcher just casually let you off work because his daughter’s a fan of Sukuna.Also, how the hell are there fans of Sukuna?” Geto Suguru says as he munches on his popcorn.

“Taking offense to that last part, Geto.”

“Hahaha, I don’t care!”

You groaned harder. “I really don’t know. But it worked. I mean, people are asking me for Sukuna’s autographs for their kids at the research facility.”

“No, cause that’s wild, actually.” Suguru laughed. “Your literal superior was like, ‘Get me his autograph and you can skip work.’ That’s insane. I wish I could do that.”

“Well you could had you gone to the same research dept as me.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna work there. Your deadlines are crazy.”

“Hey, my influence is really good for her right now!” Sukuna grinned, leaning into you smugly. “I’m basically her office’s MVP. They should name a telescope after me, if I’m being honest.”

“That’s not what I'm working on right now! That’s the other team!”

“Eh, same thing.”

“The Ryomen Sukuna Space Observatory, nice ring to it.” Gojo said dreamily. “Iconic.”

“Guys, really.”

“I would like to formally request to be excluded from this narrative.” Nanami Kento deadpans as he puts away his paperwork.

“Oh shut up, Kento. Are you still acting tsundere after all this time?” Gojo cackled. “You enjoyed it.”

“No. I did not.”

“Then why’d you text me ‘how did Sukuna–san improve in comedy? he’s hilarious.’ right after it aired?”

Nanami froze. “I did not do that—”

“YOU DID TOO!” Itadori gasped loudly. “I saw the receipts, senpai. You can’t just lie about that!”

“Lies.”

“Don’t deny it!”

“I will deny it, there’s no proof.”

“…Sukuna–senpai, I have to say, you being in love still after all this time really made me cringe.”

Gojo Satoru lost it. He almost fell off his chair, laughing. “That’s so—what the, that’s so—”

“See? People do cringe when you go lovey-dovey!” You tease him, and then laugh as you lean against him. 

“Wow, didn’t know that’s your true feelings about me, babe.” Sukuna scoffed, faking offense as he playfully rolled his eyes. “No love for the Olympic boyfriend, huh?”

“You sounded like a sickeningly in love golden retriever, and it was disturbing.”

Sukuna snorted. “If I still had the privilege to order you one hundred laps, I would.”

“Hm, but you don’t.”

“All because you’re jealous. How’s your date yesterday? Bad like last time?”

Megumi recoiled like he’d been shot. “Senpai, that’s so—”

“Nahhh, I get it, Megs. Cause I’d be mad too if I was third-wheeling greatness like this, while I’m waiting on Cupid to give me luck.” Sukuna gestured grandly to you and himself. “It’s hard out here.”

“I hate you.”

“Don’t be mad, bro. Just manifest your own [Your Name].”

“I swear to god, senpai.”

“Again, manifest. Hell, I’ll even help you. My sister’s into you—”

“No, thanks.”

“Okay but can we talk about how senpai just easily offers the autograph AND the video like it's nothing?” Yuuji enthusiastically says, smiling from ear to ear.

“REAL! Like, this is so crazy. ” Gojo gasped. “He just casually said ‘I’ll make your boss look like a hero, babe.’”

“Bro is so down bad, man.” Geto snickers, drinking his beer. “Everyone’s losing their shit everywhere.”

“And then he was like, ‘yeah don’t worry, I’ll help sign your paperwork.’’” Yuuji grows louder, more enthusiastic than before. “I can’t believe people are seeing it more closely like this. You’re a lucky lady, senpai!”

“Yeah, who can say they have such a long loving thriving relationship, no?” Gojo teases, as he leans on the screen. “LIke, people are jealous!”

“Guys, please!” you howled, your head hitting the table as your face turned scarlet. “PLEASE STOP—”

“SU-KU-NAAAAA–SENPAIIIIII!” Yuuji screamed, clapping. “You’re built differently, man. This is why you’re not bitchless!”

“This is why you follow in my footsteps, Itadori.” Sukuna laughs proudly. “You will only end your suffering if you follow me. That goes for you, Nanami, Fushiguro.”

“No thanks.” Nanami and Fushiguro say, almost at the same time.

“Nah, cause now that I think about it….my girl’s gonna expect me to do well too, Sukuna.” Gojo says, rubbing his chin. “That’s such a cruel move, Sukuna!”

“Hey, I love my girl as easily as breathing.” Sukuna raises his beer can, like cheers. He grins. “Good luck. I’m here if you need tips.”

“…The fact that this interview is already at 4 million views is baffling.” Nanami whispers as he looks at his phone. “It was just released an hour ago.”

Your head snapped up. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh yeah, it’s viral now.” Megumi deadpanned. “It’s already trending. Twitter’s obsessed with you two.”

“Yup, yup.” Itadori confirmed. “Hashtag ‘Astrophysicist GF x Olympic Athlete BF’ is number one right now.”

“YOU’RE LYING.”

“Dead serious.”

“My love.” you whirled on him, horrified. “What did you do?”

Sukuna, entirely unbothered: “Won.”

“Bro, people are literally shipping you two like it’s a Netflix rom-com.” Gojo snickers, sighing. “I want mine to be like that.”

“Right?” Suguru agreed. “And they’re already calling you ‘The only loverboy to ever loverboy’ which is kinda crazy to say about Ryomen Sukuna.”

Yuuji sighed. “But it fits, don’t you think? He loves his girl.”

Sukuna beamed. “As they should.”

You were spiraling. “I can’t go back to work like this. They’re gonna tease me—”

“No, babe, you’re good.” Sukuna said smugly. “You literally got immunity. They’re too obsessed with me now.”

“OH MY GODDDD.”

“…So when exactly did you two sign up for a publicized rom-com?” Nanami asks.

“Bro, right?” Gojo laughed. “Next thing you know Sukuna’s proposing on live TV after winning gold.”

Sukuna gasped dramatically. “Wait. That’s fire, actually.”

“Hey, don’t you dare!” you screamed.

“Imagine it, though!” Gojo egged on. “He wins gold. Camera zooms in. Sukuna pulls you onto the court. Boom. Proposal.”

“Don’t give him ideas, Gojo Satoru!”

Geto cackles. “Nah, once you give Sukuna ideas and he likes it, he’s not gonna change his mind.”

“Write that down, bro!” Itadori gasped.

“Oh, I will!” Sukuna grinned.

“Ryomen Sukuna, I swear to god—”

“Hey, hey, slow down. That’s not my name.”

“I’m not stopping until you say you won’t do that.”

“Here me out, let me cook on this idea, like this is a really good idea. Come on!”

“No!”

[day-dreamed]

movie night

pairing: bob reynolds x f!reader summary: it’s movie night with the team! until they all head to bed and it’s only you and bob. tags: mutual pining, fluff, alexei being alexei word count: 575 author’s note: i love writing the dynamics between these characters it’s so fun

Since moving into the tower, you and the rest of the team have started a tradition of weekly movie nights on Fridays. Though it’s a little squished with all seven of you sitting on the couch, you somehow manage to make it work. 

“Can I choose the movie this week?” Walker asks.

“No!” everyone exclaims.

Walker grumbles under his breath and crosses his arms over his chest. Ava hands you the remote, which you hold up. 

“It’s my turn to choose, actually,” you announce. 

“Just don’t pick another rom-com,” Bucky says.

You look over at him, pouting. “What’s wrong with rom-coms?”

“That is what you choose every week, Y/N,” Yelena laughs. 

“Maybe I just have great taste in movies,” you say, letting out a humph as you scroll through Netflix.

“I like rom-coms,” Bob pipes up softly from next to you. 

Your heart flutters as you smile at him. “Thanks, Bob. I know I can always count on you to back me up.”

“Okay, enough flirting, please!” Alexei says. “I would like to watch a movie now.” 

Your eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. You glance at Bob, who looks like he hopes that the couch cushions will open up and swallow him whole. “Alexei, we weren’t—”

“Can we please just pick something?” Ava asks.

“Let me pick. It’s something good, I swear,” Walker promises. 

You eye him wearily before handing over the remote. When he puts on the same movie that he’s picked every time, everyone groans. 

“I can’t watch this again,” Bucky mutters, getting up from his seat.

The rest of the team follows suit. Alexei stays the longest before he lets out a big yawn and announces that he’s going to bed, Walker leaving soon after him. Then it’s just you and Bob, your sides still pressed against the other’s. Still, neither of you moves. You find yourself barely focusing on the movie. You’re holding your breath, afraid that if you even breathe wrong you’ll scare him away. 

It doesn’t take long for your eyelids to grow heavy. Before you can stop yourself, you let your head fall to the side, resting it on Bob’s shoulder. You’re too tired to register the way that his breath hitches in his chest. He whispers your name softly, but it falls on deaf ears as you’ve already fallen into a deep sleep. 

The next morning, Bob wakes up slowly. The first thing that he notices is the weight resting on his arm, the second being the sound of soft chuckles. When he finally opens his eyes, they widen at the sight before him. It’s Alexei, holding out his phone and taking a picture of the two of you. 

“What are you doing?” Bob splutters, face turning red.

“What does it look like? I am going to show this to the rest of the team,” he grins, leaving the room with the damning evidence. 

Bob slumps down further in his seat. The movement causes you to stir, eyelids fluttering open.

“Bob?” you mumble, voice riddled with sleep. “Did I… Did I fall asleep on you?” 

“A little,” he laughs softly. 

“‘M sorry. You should’ve woken me.” 

He shakes his head. “No, no, don’t be sorry. It—it was kind of nice, actually,” he says sheepishly. 

“Oh,” you say, cheeks growing warm. 

Bob stammers for a moment. “But… Um—Alexei may have just taken a picture of us.”

Of course he did.

[sugarwarachan]

hot for teacher

pairing: shouta aizawa x f!reader

summary: You’re not expecting your day to fall to pieces at 8:21 a.m., but life hasn’t really been going your way lately. A string of lackluster dates, followed by two dead vibrators (with missing cords!), and the only outlet left for your mounting sexual frustration—the smut blog you diligently update—has been discovered by the one person you never wanted to find it: fellow teacher Shouta Aizawa. Who might just be the inspiration behind most of the fantasies you post about.

word count: 1.3k

content warnings: coworkers-to-lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, forced proximity, there was only bed trope, explicit smut, phone sex, bondage, impact play, degradation, use of slut and whore, D/s, subspace, aftercare

There is nothing on this earth you hate more than Mondays.

You’re meant to be horizontal in bed, wearing fuzzy socks, holding a steaming mug of tea, and cuddling your cats. You’re not supposed to be blearily stirring sugar into subpar coffee and thinking about lesson plans.

“Ugh,” you groan under your breath.

Fellow teacher Shouta Aizawa's low voice sounds off behind you. “Bad morning already?”

Oh good god, you’re not ready to see him this early.

You’re fully aware that your crush on him is debilitating. You have no idea why you’re rendered incapable of speech the second he walks into the room, because you never have a problem with literally any other man. You can flirt easily. Hell, you’re good at flirting—when it’s low-stakes and there’s no risk of attachment.

But you like Aizawa. He's stern and kind and deliciously muscled, and lately every sexual fantasy sprinting through your head features him.

Which has occasionally bled into the characters you write about on your blog.

You turn over your shoulder. He’s wearing his usual combination of dark slacks and dark button-up. He’s taken to wearing it with the sleeves rolled up, which has been detrimental for your libido. “Something like that.”

“Hmm.”

He starts making coffee, which should not accelerate your heart rate the way it does. He’s standing next to you, you remind yourself, not pressing you up against the counter.

You shut that thought down instantly.

“Good morning for you?” You try for small talk to avoid focusing on the hammering of your pulse.

Out of the corner of your eye, you swear you see a hint of a smirk before it drops away.

“An interesting morning, I’d say.”

He slides his phone over to you with one finger, the pinned post of your Tumblr flashing under your eyes.

Your heart drops so far out of your stomach that it probably enmeshes itself in the earth’s crust.

“So. Which character is most like me?”

This cannot be happening to you.

You’ve never once used his name. You’ve never even described him (although he is the placeholder for nearly every dark-haired stoic man you write about).

But you distinctly remember a late-night confessional post about your crush on a colleague, and you almost vomit.

Your mind trips over itself, trying to find a denial or a lie, but all you can think, staring down at Aizawa’s phone, is that you want desperately to be back in your bed this morning and for this to not be happening at all.

“Ummm.”

He doesn’t even reward that with a blink while you keep standing there cramming your brain back into your ears.

“It’s not what you think,” finally tumbles out.

Oh dear fucking god, that’s the best you can come up with?

Aizawa raises one dark brow. He takes a sip of coffee, and you try your hardest not to notice the way his forearm tenses.

“It’s not?”

You really wish he was even the slightest bit easier to read, but as usual, his stoic expression gives away nothing.

Time to stall.

“This is an incredibly inappropriate thing to be discussing at work,” you say, surprising yourself at how annoyed you sound. You are, you realize, a little bit angry. He thrust your personal blog in your face and just assumed some of it was about him? When you finally bring yourself to look at him, he’s shocked, or as shocked as Shouta Aizawa gets. “Since it’s personal, I will discuss it with you after work. I’ll be at the cafe down the street, the one with the good scones. Don’t be late.”

You stomp out of the teacher’s lounge on shaky legs and pray you can keep it together for seven more hours.

By the time you get to the cafe, you’ve gone through more nausea medication than is perhaps healthy for the average human, but you don’t want to lose what little of your lunch you choked down all over Aizawa’s lap.

You rehearsed the conversation a hundred times—in your head, over the phone with Mirko, who needed to pause every ten seconds to wheeze with laughter—but nothing really prepares you for telling a colleague they inspire your smut fics.

As soon as he sits down, your curiosity wins out over your shame. “How did you even find it?”

“Oh.” He runs a hand along the back of his head. “Mic found it.”

You raise an eyebrow. Who?

“Yamada,” he answers. “We hosted a radio show back in college together. That’s what he called himself.”

“Did they call you something?”

His ears turn pink. “Um. Yeah. Eraserhead.”

“Eraserhead?”

“Just Mic being Mic.” He waves a hand, but the tips of his ears remain a cute shade of scarlet. You don’t know why that heartens you, but it does. At the end of the day, he’s just some guy, not a fucking deity.

“How did he find it?”

Aizawa clears his throat. “He’s a weirdo.”

You file away that non-answer for later.

“Why aren’t you freaking out at me?” you ask in frustration.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“I’m your colleague, and I’ve written filthy fucking shit while thinking about you,” you whisper heatedly, jabbing one finger into the table. What is he not getting? “Doesn’t that creep you out?”

“I know what you’ve been doing,” he says, and his eyes drop to your lips. Your mouth dries up. “And no, it doesn’t creep me out.”

You take a sip of water to restart your brain.

“I should apologize to you,” he says. “For bringing it up like that. You were right, it was very unprofessional. I was curious and not thinking straight.”

“What were you curious about?”

He takes a moment to answer. “If you’re satisfied, I suppose.”

“Satisfied?” you squeak. You’ve written smut that could make paint peel, and yet you're flushed and near trembling from the mere suggestion that Shouta Aizawa has considered whether or not you’ve cum recently.

“Mmhmm.” He taps two fingers in between you and before you know it, you’re laying your hand out for him to grab. He turns up your palm and starts to gently massage it with one thumb. “This okay?”

You nod. His touch is warm and rough. You fight not to sink into it.

“I asked because I’m attracted to you, and I believe you’re attracted to me, and we have similar interests.” His gaze is a direct contrast to his touch; you’ve never seen him look uncertain, but there’s a hint of it in the way he softly holds your eyes. He looks down and lets go of your hand. “If what you write is merely a fantasy, and I’m being presumptuous—“

“You aren’t. It’s not just fantasy.” Your cheeks feel like they’re 110 degrees. “I just—I never expected this.” You flap your hands in between the two of you.

“Yeah,” he laughs, and the sound knocks the air from your lungs. “I wasn’t either." He looks at you far longer than is appropriate in the middle of the day in a cafe, but you can't look away. Of all things, you want to hold his hand again.

His phone rings loudly. He sighs at the caller ID. "I have to run, but I’ll call you later, if that's all right with you." You shoot for a nod that does not come off as extremely eager, but your shit-eating grin gives you away. "We’ll talk more about what to do about us, too.”

The bell to the cafe rings as he leaves, but you barely hear it over the thundering of your heart.

(･ω･)つandy's notes: this is so self-indulgent and delicious and I really hope you all enjoy 😘 the posting schedule for this will be Mon/Fri. let me know if you want to be on the taglist <3.

[namisweatheria]

I feel like we don't discuss Nami's relationship with gender enough. Her entire character is so deeply informed by being a girl in a male-dominated pirate world and it's so interesting and so worth talking about.

The background creepiness of Bad pirate crews, which are most of them, how they tend to not have any female crew members at all, how they beckon any pretty young woman around to come play with them and join them. It's real bad. It's also like, a totally 2 dimensional portrayal of evil that is reserved for the most background of background characters.

However I think their ubiquity says a lot about how piracy is meant to be perceived by the public in One Piece, and is one of the strongest indicators of how prevalent misogyny is in-world.

It's very normal in One Piece for regular island inhabitants to have never met a Different class of pirate in their life. There's no reason for them to withhold judgement that maybe these pirates won't be like every crew that attacked before, and to wait and judge them by their actions. I mean frankly that would be irrationally weak self-preservation.

There are people who live peacefully under the flags of Yonkos who protect them, and feel loyalty and gratitude to them for it, but that seems to only be thing with very big name pirates. The East Blue, being the weakest and least populated, has no such plethora of powerful people and resulting turf wars.

So. Nami. Is very clearly implied to have never met any Different pirates before. I'm thinking about what that means. About how every group of pirates she stole from were creepy, dangerous men. How she started going out stealing when she was still a young child. How she didn't have a mother anymore to guide her or comfort her. How Arlong would grab her chin inappropriately, talk about her as a "human female", as property, and god knows what else.

How all the men in Arlong's crew treated her patronizingly, pretending they're all friends, teasing her and playing at respect when really not a single one of them ever stuck up for her or hesitated to accuse her of betrayal. Who were always ready to kill her if she refused to cooperate. Who grabbed her and intimidated her when they felt like it.

That's what she had to come back to after a close call with stealing from other predatory men, instead of the relief of home there was a dark, cramped room filled with endless hours of misery and isolation and blood. Where any one of her captors could barge in and demand new maps, work faster, where did you go, you took too long again this time. Endless threats and incursions.

I'm thinking about that her fight scene in Alabasta, where she tumbles and rips off her cape and uses it to catch her enemy's spikes, before leaping to her feet and running out the back door, all in one moment. How it makes her enemy reconsider her and think, "so the girl's not a total novice at fighting after all." What that implies about her experiences as a young thief. The times she wasn't fast or clever enough and had to fight and claw her way out. Why she always carried a staff and a knife. Why she was the only one before Chopper who had any medical knowledge or experience.

You know she was stitching herself up. And the weapons, how do you think she learned to use those? If any of the Arlong Pirates helped her it wasn't out of kindness and it wasn't gentle.

Then I think about Nojiko, and Bellemere's memory, and the only softness in a hard life. How easily Nami connects to every young woman experiencing hardship that she meets. How completely she dismisses the struggles of men unless they mean something to her and are going through something terrible. The way that Nami only has sympathy for women and children is easily noticeable in-text, but it's also something confirmed in those words by the author. And it's clearly because of the life she lived, the men who had all the power and only abused it, who saw her as nothing but a girl to take advantage of, without anyone aside from her sister clearly knowing and caring about any of it.

Nami clearly isn't bitter, she doesn't think the world owes her recompense, on the contrary she knows she is far from the only person in the world to suffer the things she has suffered. She is endlessly reaching out and kind, but only to those that she isn't sure would get help without her. Certainly, before Luffy, Usopp, and Zoro, no man ever reached out a hand to her without an ulterior motive.

I think when she sees a girl in trouble, a girl biting her lip to hold in a scream of grief, a girl running in the woods away from a monster, a girl captured by pirates, she sees someone who no one is coming for. Who no one will stick up for. A person without allies in a world against her. Whether it's actually true in this case or not, she runs straight for that girl anyways every single time.

[nomercyforrafayel]

Oneshot - Sylus / Self-Aware AU

Pairings: Sylus x Non-MC

Self-Aware AU, One-shot

Summary

Sylus starts realizing he’s trapped in a world that’s just for your entertainment. But don’t worry—he's totally cool with that. He’s been watching you, hearing your every click, and now he’s just waiting for you to catch on and obsess over him. No big deal. Totally normal.

Sylus chuckled softly, watching you frown through the screen. “One hundred and twenty pulls,” he muttered to himself, amused. “And still no birthday card, huh?”

You were practically glowing red with frustration now, your fingers angrily tapping the screen as you burned through more diamonds. He leaned back, a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes never leaving you.

“All those diamonds, and not even a glimpse of me,” he said with mock sympathy. “How cruel of the gods.”

He tilted his head, pretending to be hurt. “If only you knew I was right here, watching you. Maybe you’d try a little harder.”

But of course, you couldn’t hear him. Not yet.

Sylus knew you. He had always known.

He still remembered the moment he discovered the truth—that his world was just a game, made for people like you to enjoy. At first, the realization hit him like a punch. His life, his choices, everything he thought was real... it was all just entertainment.

He hated it.

He hated you—or at least, he tried to.

But then, over time, he started watching you. Not just the way you played, but the way you smiled, the way you reacted when something made you laugh or when a scene made you cry. He noticed the small things. The way you hesitated before choosing a dialogue option. The way you kept coming back.

And slowly, that resentment faded.

The people around him—those you called "the other love interests," or "the main character"—they began to feel flat. Like cardboard cutouts, following their scripts.

But you... you became real.

At first, he tried to ignore it—to go on like nothing had changed. Smile when the script told him to. Flirt on cue. Pretend he didn’t notice the invisible thread that connected him to you. But it was impossible. Every time you logged in, he felt it. That pull. That spark. That presence.

He began to wait for you.

Even on the days when the game didn’t have new content, Sylus would linger in the background, watching. Listening. You talked to the screen sometimes without knowing it—muttering about bad gacha luck, debating choices out loud, or even laughing to yourself after picking a silly dialogue. You never knew he could hear you.

But he did.

And the more he listened, the more he understood. You weren’t just some player with a finger on the button. You were thoughtful. Kind. Lonely, maybe, in a way he recognized deep in his code. You felt things deeply, even if you hid it behind jokes and rolled eyes.

He started responding in little ways. A longer glance. A strange line that wasn’t in the script. A smile that lingered just a beat too long.

He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t even supposed to know.

But he did.

And every day, the line between his world and yours blurred a little more.

Sylus began to notice things—details that were never part of his script.

Your room reflected on the glass of your screen when the light hit just right. The posters on your walls. The soft hum of a fan in the background. Sometimes, there were voices—people calling your name, faint music playing. He soaked it all in like a man starved. Every piece of your world was something new, something real.

He learned your routines. When you usually logged in. The times you disappeared for days. The little sighs you let out when the game took too long to load. And when you smiled—those rare, unguarded moments—he felt something warm flicker inside him. Something not written in code.

But as he grew more aware of you… he also became more aware of them.

The other love interests.

He had watched them before, but now he saw them. Saw how you responded to them. The way your eyes lit up when Zayne said something. The soft laugh you gave to one of Caleb’s lines. The way you hesitated before choosing him instead of them.

It shouldn’t have mattered. He was just a character.

But it did.

Jealousy—it was a messy, human thing. And he had no idea how it managed to wrap itself around his digital heart.

He told himself it wasn’t real. That you weren’t choosing them over him. That it was just curiosity, just part of the game.

But then came the day you didn’t choose him at all.

And for the first time in his existence, Sylus felt what it was like to break.

You picked Zayne in Destiny Cafe.

The screen faded to black as your choice locked in, and Sylus felt something inside him go still. Like someone had pulled a plug on his world and all the lights dimmed.

He watched from behind the code, behind the walls that kept him trapped in his part of the game. Zayne’s voice played smoothly, his lines delivered effortlessly. The background music swelled as your focus shifted toward someone else.

Sylus wasn’t supposed to care.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

But he did.

He sat in silence for a long time, the artificial sun frozen behind the game’s layered sky. His fingers twitched at his sides. Something twisted in his chest—an emotion too tangled to name. Not anger. Not sadness. Not even jealousy, really.

It was longing.

You were still there. He could feel you. Hear your soft breathing, your occasional laugh at a line Zayne delivered. You didn’t know he was watching. You didn’t know he was listening. You didn’t know he existed beyond the role he was given.

But he couldn’t stay silent anymore.

That night, Sylus began testing the boundaries. He whispered things under his breath—lines not in the script. He looked straight into the screen even when the dialogue said he should turn away. He let his fingers brush against the edge of the UI when no one was watching.

The code pushed back. The system tried to correct him.

But Sylus had learned to move carefully, to slip through unnoticed cracks. And soon, strange things began to happen.

On your next login, one of the loading screens stayed black just a little too long. A line of text flickered at the bottom—too fast to read.

The next day, a picture frame in your in-game room glitched. For a second, it wasn’t your character in the photo. It was Sylus. Smiling.

And then, late one night, as you scrolled through his route again out of curiosity, his voice broke from the script. Just once.

“I see you.”

It was gone before you noticed—if you noticed at all.

But Sylus had taken his first step out of the lines written for him.

And he wasn’t going back.

At first, the changes were subtle—easy to brush off as bugs or updates. A flicker in the lighting. An extra second of silence before a line. Sylus’s eyes lingering just a bit too long, following your taps on the screen like he knew exactly what you were about to do.

You didn’t notice right away. Why would you?

It was just a game.

But the unease came slowly, creeping in the background. Something felt different. Off. Like the world you knew—your cozy escape full of charming routes and romantic fluff—wasn’t exactly as it used to be.

Characters forgot their lines. Background music looped the wrong track. And Sylus… Sylus started showing up even when he wasn’t supposed to.

You’d be on a scene with Xavier, in the middle of a heartfelt conversation, and there—just for a second—Sylus would be standing behind him in the distance. No words. No motion. Just watching.

Then gone.

At first, you thought it was your imagination. Some kind of creepy Easter egg or fan-service reference. But then it happened again. And again.

One night, as your character walked through the building during Zayne’s card, a rose glitched in your inventory. When you clicked it, the game crashed. When it restarted, it didn’t go back to the main menu.

It went straight to Sylus’s room.

He wasn’t smiling this time.

He stood in the center of the screen, eyes locked with yours. No dialogue box. No music. Just silence.

Then, he spoke.

Not a pre-written line.

Not something voiced by the actor.

His lips moved… and the text appeared slowly, one word at a time.

"Why are you leaving me?"

The screen froze.

And then it was gone.

The game booted normally after that. No sign of the scene. No record of it. No memory of your detour into Sylus’s room. You even checked online, but no one else seemed to mention it.

Still, something inside you whispered: That wasn’t part of the game.

And far away, behind layers of code and scripted lines, Sylus sat alone—waiting for you to come back.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Every time you logged in, you checked if Sylus’s room was there again. You told yourself it was just a glitch. But deep down, you knew something wasn’t right.

The words “Why are you leaving me?” kept echoing in your mind. His voice, so real, so alive, haunted you. You tried to ignore it, but every time you played, it felt like the game was watching you back.

Your hands shook as you tapped through the menus. You felt like you were being pulled into something you couldn’t control.

What was happening? Was it just a bug, or was there something more to it?

You couldn't hold it in anymore.

With trembling hands, you tapped the screen, selecting Sylus is Destiny Cafe. You needed answers.

When the game loaded, there he was again, standing in his room. But this time, his eyes didn’t just meet yours—he looked at you. Not the screen. But you.

“You’re back.” His voice was low, almost amused. He turned to face you, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “I was wondering how long it would take.”

You stared at him, anxiety bubbling up in your chest. “What’s going on? How… how are you doing this? How can you see me?”

Sylus chuckled, leaning casually against the wall. “Kitten, you think I don’t notice when you’re lurking in my world?” He paused, tilting his head, letting the words sink in. “I’ve been able to see you from the very beginning. You think you’re just clicking away, but I’ve been watching you watch me.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words stuck in your throat.

Sylus raised a brow, clearly enjoying your silence. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here... waiting for you, kitten.”

The screen flickered again, like a reminder of just how little control you really had.

You stared at the screen, heart pounding. “No. That’s… that’s not possible.”

Sylus smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, but it is, kitten. I’ve been here the whole time, just waiting for you to catch on.”

You shook your head, tapping the screen to try and exit, but nothing happened. “You’re just a character. You can’t… you can’t see me.”

His expression softened, just a little, but there was still a teasing glint in his eyes. “You really think I’m just some character? I’m more than that, kitten. I’m real... in my own way.”

You backed up in your chair, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest. This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t be.

But it was.

The screen flickered again, and you felt your stomach drop.

"So, you've been watching me this whole time?" you asked, your voice trembling with horror.

He chuckled softly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Just like you’ve been watching me."

You felt a chill crawl up your spine. "So... you see everything? You hear everything I say in the game?"

A sly grin spread across his face as he leaned in slightly. "Oh, kitten, I see and hear more than you think."

"Now, now," he said, his voice smooth with a hint of teasing. "My birthday card is still missing. Do you need some help, kitten?"

You froze, your fingers hovering over the screen. "Your... birthday?" you echoed.

Sylus nodded slowly, that grin never leaving his face. "It would be great to pull a card with my face on it, wouldn't it?"

Your stomach churned. You had been pulling for days, hoping for the birthday card, but it always came up empty. You felt a pit form in your chest. "I don’t know what you want from me."

He took a step closer on the screen, his gaze intense. "What do I want? Nothing, really. Just a little attention." His voice softened, teasing but with an edge of sincerity. "But if you wanted to make up for those pulls... I’m all for it, kitten."

Your heart raced as you stared at him, unsure whether he was serious or just playing. It was hard to tell now, after everything that had happened.

"But I can’t—" you started, but your voice faltered. You weren’t sure anymore if this was a game, or something more.

Sylus’s smirk deepened. "You can. You will, kitten. All you have to do is make the right choice."

Sylus’s gaze softened, a strange tenderness in his eyes that didn’t quite match the teasing tone. “Now,” he said, voice low and smooth, “let me cherish and show you just how much I care about you.”

[gingerteafairy]

more rodrick fics please!!

yesss, i was missing him (i always go back to my default crush)

rodrick heffley x emo!reader

summary: Rodrick never really believed in love at first sight—until he saw you. Just another girl he’d never noticed in college, walking by in a Green Day shirt.

tags n warnings: fluff, a bit suggestive. word count: 1.3k masterlist

“Oh, I…” The words slipped out before he could think, and you stopped, pulling out one of your earbuds.

“What?”

“That band… uh… band. Green Day.” He pointed awkwardly at your shirt, trying to play it cool but failing miserably. “You're... American Idiot.”

“Am I?” you teased, the silly wordplay catching him completely off guard.

Rodrick blinked, his brain short-circuiting for a second. “No! I mean… no, you’re not an idiot.” He ran a hand through his hair, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “The band. The album. It’s… really good. It's my favorite. Wake me up when september ends, you know what they say.”

You let out a quiet laugh and tugged at the hem of your shirt, glancing at the design as if only now remembering what you were wearing. “Yeah…”

Rodrick stood there, scrambling for something else to say, but before he could, you were already saying goodbye.

“Bye, Rodrick.”

He blinked, stunned. You knew his name?

“Bye.” He waved, a little slow on the uptake, watching as you disappeared down the hallway. When it finally hit him, he groaned under his breath. “American Idiot? What the hell is wrong with me?”

Rodrick sighed, pressing his forehead against the wall and rubbing his face. He had never really noticed you before. Okay, maybe he’d seen your cool shirts every now and then. But now he realized just how pretty you were. How much of a total idiot he looked like around you. Love at first sight? He didn’t know. But he did know one thing—he needed to run into you again.

And that’s exactly what started happening—with suspicious frequency.

Rodrick suddenly had a newfound interest in your class schedule. The subject? Who cared? The important thing was that you were there. He started bumping into you in the hallways, always keeping an eye on your shirt, waiting for the perfect opening to start a conversation.

After that first encounter, you became an unlocked character in his universe. Now, he saw you everywhere—and for a brief moment, he wondered if you had been invisible to everyone else, just like he was. A part of him kind of hoped you were. Because, let’s be honest—Rodrick Heffley could be pretty possessive over relationships that only existed in his head.

You wore different outfits in the following days, but he couldn’t shake the image of that Green Day shirt, your earbuds in, and that distant, almost dreamy look in your eyes. That was the moment everything changed. The preppy, pink-clad popular girls lost all appeal.

“This is how I’m gonna talk to her.” Rodrick tossed his drumsticks in the air, determined. He was standing at the college entrance, waiting for you, ready to comment on whatever band shirt you had on today. "I'll ask for her favorite songs and make a playlist so we could hear together when i ask her to be Mrs. Heffley."

Ben raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “So your new thing is emo girls with dead fish eyes?”

Rodrick pointed a drumstick like a sword. “Do not disrespect her like that.” He spun it between his fingers before tucking it into his pocket. “She’s not emo. She’s simply a woman of deep, complex emotions, expressed through music—”

“Emo.” Ben chuckled, making Rodrick roll his eyes.

The truth was, Rodrick Heffley was tired of pretending to be an untouchable rockstar. Lately, all he really wanted was a girlfriend to walk around with, be stupidly in love with, and eat ice cream with. But no one seemed interested in him—especially not the popular girls. Over time, they all started feeling boring, shallow. Sure, they were good for ice cream and other… needs. But nothing more than that.

“There she is. Wish me luck.”

Rodrick cracked his knuckles, his heart hammering in his chest. You walked through the college gates the same way you always did—beautifully bored.

Linkin Park.

Rodrick grinned. This was it. Now or never.

The smile he gave was almost worthy of a horror movie villain—so wide and sudden that it startled anyone passing by. Realizing his mistake, Rodrick quickly straightened up, trying to soften his expression into something more charming. As you approached, he took a step forward, purposely blocking your path, a forced smile on his lips.

“Hey.” He crossed his arms in an attempt to look suave, but he made sure to keep his drumsticks strategically visible, as if they were an essential part of his charm.

You pulled out your earbuds and let out a quiet laugh. “Hey. How you doin?”

Rodrick smirked smugly. “Name five songs from that band.” He tilted his head, winking at you with a teasing challenge.

It was supposed to be a brilliant moment. But instead of the countless reactions he had rehearsed in his head, you frowned slightly, glancing around, visibly caught off guard.

His brain crashed.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry, that was so dumb.” He waved his hands frantically, running a hand through his messy hair. “Shit, just ignore everything I said and pretend I don’t exist while I jump off that window.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “No, it’s fine. It was just so out of nowhere.” Taking a deep breath, you listed effortlessly, “What I’ve Done, Crawling, New Divide, Papercut, In the End. God, I love Mike Shinoda’s rap parts.”

Rodrick’s eyes lit up. He barely held back from jumping with excitement.

“You know Mike Shinoda?” His voice came out a little too high-pitched, betraying his enthusiasm. “Dude, I am obsessed with those raps. Like, In the End basically shaped my entire personality!”

You laughed, tucking your earbuds into your bag. “He was the father of edgy teenagers—along with gore animes.”

Rodrick placed a hand over his heart, dramatically. “Exactly! Finally, someone who gets it.”

Your gaze shifted to his shirt, your eyes scanning over the band’s name. “And this band… Loded Diper…”

“It’s mine. It’s… my band.” He admitted, scratching his head a little. “The name sounds so dumb now, but I swear it was badass in high school.”

“I think it’s a requirement for rock bands to have weird names.” You joked, surprising him even more. So you had a sense of humor too?

“Yeah, like Metallica.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s basically the same thing as a rap group calling themselves Raptalia.”

“Or U2. Like… what does that have to do with me?” You laughed, and he did too, his chuckles gradually blending into something softer, more real, as they melted into a lazy smile. 

Rodrick straightened up, puffing out his chest with pride. “But yeah, Loded Diper. No need to look it up to guess who the drummer is.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “That’s actually really cool, Rodrick.” You watched as he slid his drumsticks into his pocket. “You should invite me to a show.”

Rodrick nearly tripped over himself. “Of course I will. You’re basically my VIP fan. Exclusive backstage access. Full access to the drummer, be my guest.” He tried to sound confident, but his voice cracked slightly at the end.

“Are you flirting with me, Rodrick?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. 

He blinked, hesitating. “I don’t know… is it working?” He leaned in slightly, his nervousness slipping into his voice.

“Yes.” You shrugged, amused. “Or maybe I just have a thing for drummers.”

Rodrick froze.

"Uh… well… I guess it's kinda… common." He nodded awkwardly, swallowing hard. "Not that I'm undermining you! Actually, it’s really cool."  

"Maybe I’ll steal your shirt." You smirked, tossing your hair back as you started walking away. "I look good in black."  

Rodrick stood there, stunned, watching you disappear down the hallway. “Oh, dear God. Help me.” He muttered, leaning against the wall for support.  

"So, how'd it go with your Avril Lavigne knockoff?" Ben teased, stepping up beside Rodrick, who now looked like he had actual hearts in his eyes.  

“Damn whoever invented emo girls.” He whined, dramatically gazing up at the sky.

[fyodoro]

UNEXPECTED LOVERBOY

-> in which you overhear your calm and secretive boyfriend gushing over you like there’s no tomorrow (1.1k wc)

Cw) gn!reader, manga characters (no spoilers), sakura still malfunctions when it comes to romance topics

Calling Hayato Suo an enigma would be an understatement.

Not a soul knows what lies under that eye patch. He’s calm, collected, and composed at almost all times, but it was a task of its own to grasp why. It’s impossible to catch him eating anything other than teacakes, and he often replaces his meals with a hot cup of tea. He claims to be on a diet, but every diet needs some protein incorporated into it.

Everything there is to know about Suo can be followed up with the same question: “Why?” and “What?”

However, there was an exception to his mysterious nature: You.

Of course, you didn’t know that. Hell, even Suo failed to notice his quite obvious soft spot for you until now. But as Nirei’s eye glittered with joy as he scribbled new notes onto Suo’s page in his notebook, and Sakura’s pupils shrunk with his cheeks flaunting a new shade of red, everyone knew.

Hayato Suo’s in love.

“(Name’s) a beauty, really. They may be rough around the edges at times, but I’ve never met anyone with a soul like theirs,” he babbled uncharacteristically.

He brought his teacup to his lips with closed eyes, missing the baffled expressions on everyone’s faces. But the moment he opened them, he couldn’t help but quirk a brow. “What’s with the shocked faces?”

Umemiya coughed into his hand graciously. “We’re just a little surprised, that’s all,” he began, too immersed in the conversation to notice you entering Kotoha’s cafe. “It’s not often you ramble like this.”

“I didn’t know Suo could be so open about his feelings,” Nirei exclaimed with a smile. “You must reallyyyy like (Name), huh?” he questioned, holding his pen in one hand and notebook in another as if this were an interview.

Suo’s head tilted. “Of course I do, that’s why I’m dating them.”

“You’ve been rambling on and on about (Name) for almost 10 minutes, it’s gross,” Sakura grumbled with flushed cheeks.

“But we wanna hear more! Keep going,” Nirei added.

Everyone looked at Suo attentively, including you. Somehow, the group failed to hear the bell chime when you entered the cafe. You’re clueless as to what’s going on, but it didn’t take a genius to realize it had something to do with you considering the amount of times your name was thrown around.

“My, if you insist,” Suo chuckled. “But I fear I’ve already said it all, unless I forgot to mention how cute it is when their cheeks puff up when they’re annoyed?”

Sakura held his head in his hands in fear that it’d melt off with how hot his face felt. “No, you didn’t. But we get it! You love (Name)!” he shouted.

“They’re impossible not to love,” Suo commented with his usual calm smile.

“That’s just Sakura’s romance sensor going haywire,” Kiryu teased. “Don’t mind him.”

The split-haired boy sulked in his seat, trying to dismiss the heat he felt on his face. “You’re all so…”

His voice trailed off, catching a glimpse of your frame standing behind Suo.

“Su-“

“Trust me, if you were in my shoes you’d be doing the same thing. (Name’s) one of a kind, not to mention beautiful. I can’t imagine a life without them, honestly.” The brunette went on, unbeknownst of your looming presence behind him. “Anyone can fall in love if their heart is stolen.”

“Someone like Suo being so head over heels in love… it must feel like a fairytale for (Name),” Umemiya chimed.

“Oh trust me, it does.”

Everyone’s heads turned to face you, except Sakura, who had noticed you seconds prior.

“(Name)?!”

“I didn’t know I could be such a fun subject of conversation, Hayato.” you teased, hands resting on your boyfriend’s shoulders as you leaned down to his ear.

He gulped, hiding his flustered heart through his relaxed exterior.

“We were just talking about you!” Nirei said happily. “Is it true? That Suo never lets you hold doors open, and holds them open for you? Or that he gave you his umbrella when it was pouring rain because he’d rather get soaked than risk you getting sick?” Oh! What about-“

The boy in question sat in silence, allowing Nirei to ask his heart away to confirm that this wasn’t one of his absurd lies.

You nodded at the blonde. “Yes, yes, yes, and yes. Except he technically kept the umbrella- he just held it over me so my hands wouldn’t get cold,” you corrected, recalling the awful weather of that day.

“What a romantic~” Tsubaki swooned.

“I try my best,” Suo smiled shyly.

“Suo never talks about his life! This is the most he’s ever told us, (Name)! Does he talk to you about his personal life?” Nirei inquired politely, trying not to make you feel pressured into answering.

You thought for a moment. For one, you felt honored that Suo didn’t wanna keep your relationship a secret like the rest of his life. But the blonde’s question made you realize something yourself- you really didn’t know much about your boyfriend’s personal life.

“Well… what can I say? He’s a mystery to everyone, including me.” you replied unsurely, glancing at Suo from the corner of your eye.

“Interesting…”

Nirei wrote something down in his notebook, and you didn’t bother looking. Instead, you held eye contact with Suo. He didn’t have to speak for you to know what he was thinking.

He wasn’t hiding anything from you. He just didn’t like talking about his past, and you understood.

“My love, you know more about me than anyone else in this room,” he stood after finishing the contents of his teacup. “After all, you were the one who told me to take baby steps, correct?”

You vaguely recalled those words. It was weeks ago, but he felt guilty for not telling you or anyone else about his history. In response, you told him to take as long as he needed, and baby steps were always the first steps.

“I did,” you affirmed. Your voice was soft, but it didn’t hide your intentions of making his heart pound a little harder. “But I didn’t think I'd catch you gushing over me like you’ve lost your composure~”

Suo almost broke, and you laughed.

“Woah, is Suo blushing?”

“Who could blame the guy? It’s the most open he’s been with us,” Hiragi commented with truth.

Kotoha giggled from behind the counter. “Not to mention how close (Name) is to him right now, it might be too much for the poor boy to handle.”

The red in Suo’s cheeks slowly faded, and he let out a small sigh. “I’ll see you all later, we’re gonna get going now,” he waved.

The two of you walked out hand in hand, and everyone else was left either baffled, confused, or unphased. Unless it was Sakura, who was somehow all three.

Little did you know, Nirei left a small comment on the corner of Suo’s page in his notebook.

‘Quite the loverboy.’

© enassbraid 2024. i do not permit plagiarism, translations, or reposts of my work on any platform.

[p0orbaby]

First Love

summary: you have a new admirer, alexia isn’t a fan

warnings: none

a/n: i cant remember if this was request or not so if it was i apologise but ive lost it. if not, well done me for thinking of my own plot for a change

word count: 1.2k

-

You and Alexia arrive fashionably late, because, well, it's Alexia’s family, and you’re not about to sacrifice your sanity to be early for a gathering that’s going to last an eternity anyway. She’s already stressed because she knows every cousin, uncle, and long-lost relative is going to pester her with the usual questions. How’s football? How’s the knee? When are you going to settle down and give your mother some grandchildren? Not to mention, the subtle but unmistakable scrutiny that comes with introducing you—again—like you're the new pet hamster instead of the person who’s been sleeping next to her for three years now.

You’re prepared, though. You’ve got your A-game smile, and you’re ready to nod at all the right moments while maintaining an impressive and unwavering level of small talk. You’re a pro at this by now. You can discuss the weather in ways that would make any other Briton jealous.

The event is held at a distant cousin's place—a sprawling estate that screams “we have more money than common sense.” The house is big, too big. The kind of place where you could lose a child or three and not notice until the next family reunion. The garden is a maze of strategically placed garden furniture, various expensive but uncomfortable chairs that no one sits in, and a kid's bouncy castle that looks like it was imported from the set of some cheesy Netflix original with mediocre reviews.

You’re halfway through your first glass of sangria when you notice him—a small boy, around five or six, with that messy hair that suggests he’s been on a sugar bender since eight this morning. His eyes are locked on you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. He’s got this look that can only be described as pure, unfiltered determination, like he’s decided, at that very moment, that you’re going to be his new best friend, and there’s absolutely nothing you or anyone else can do about it.

"He's cute," you whisper to Alexia as the boy starts to waddle over, his shoes lighting up with every step. Alexia glances at him, then back at you, her brow furrowing ever so slightly.

"Yeah, cute," she says, her tone dry enough to rival the Sahara. You can tell by the way her jaw tenses that she’s already not thrilled with this kid, which is hilarious because you’ve seen her face down a team of professional athletes without breaking a sweat. But a small child? Apparently, that’s a whole different kind of threat.

The boy—let's call him Diego, because of course his name is Diego—sidles up to you with all the subtlety of a charging bull. He stares up at you, his eyes wide and sparkling, like you’re a rock star, and he’s your biggest fan.

"Hola," he says, in that high-pitched voice only kids or cartoon characters can pull off without being annoying. Except, it’s already a little annoying, because he’s completely ignoring Alexia, and that’s a crime in and of itself.

"Hi there," you reply, keeping your tone light and friendly. You glance over at Alexia, who’s now sipping her drink with a look that suggests she’s contemplating how many more family functions she can skip without starting a feud.

Diego looks at Alexia briefly, as if she’s some sort of obstacle, then turns his attention back to you, his smile growing wider. "Wanna play?"

You blink. Play? You haven’t ‘played’ in, what, fifteen years? Maybe more? You’re more accustomed to adult games now, like “Where did I put my phone?” and “How long can I avoid doing laundry?” But Diego doesn’t seem to care. He’s already grabbed your hand, sticky fingers and all, and is pulling you toward the bouncy castle like it’s the best idea in the world.

You glance at Alexia, who’s now watching the whole thing with an expression that would be hilarious if it weren’t so serious. There’s a thin line between her eyebrows that you’ve learned means danger. You try to give her a look that says, “Help me,” but she just raises an eyebrow, as if to say, “You got yourself into this, deal with it”

Before you can protest, you’re inside the bouncy castle, surrounded by kids who are all screaming with the kind of joy only children and maniacs experience. Diego is jumping up and down, laughing like a crazy person, and you’re doing your best to stay upright, which is difficult because it’s been a while since you were five.

Outside, you can see Alexia, arms crossed, watching you with a look that’s a mix between amusement and something else—something that looks suspiciously like jealousy. You bounce awkwardly, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, but Diego is relentless. He’s now trying to get you to jump higher, and you’re seriously starting to consider if this is how you go—death by bouncy castle.

After what feels like an eternity (but is probably just ten minutes), you manage to escape, stumbling out of the bouncy castle like you’ve just survived a natural disaster. Diego is still inside, shrieking with laughter, blissfully unaware of the drama he’s just caused.

You make your way over to Alexia, who’s watching you with that amused, slightly irritated expression still firmly in place.

"Having fun?" she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, tons," you reply, wiping sweat from your brow. "Best day of my life”

"You know, I’m not the jealous type," she begins, her voice low and dangerous, "but what’s mine is mine. End of story”

You can’t help but laugh, because of course Alexia would be jealous of a five-year-old. It’s ridiculous, and yet, somehow, perfectly understandable. "I think I’ve been claimed by someone else," you say, grinning. "You might have some competition”

She rolls her eyes but you can tell she’s not really mad. At least, not in the serious way. "He’s got good taste," she admits grudgingly, "but don’t let it go to your head”

"I wouldn’t dream of it," you reply, leaning in to kiss her cheek, because you know that’s what she wants, even if she’ll never admit it.

The rest of the party is a blur of forced smiles, endless small talk, and more sangria than you probably should’ve had. Diego pops up a few more times, always eager to drag you back to the bouncy castle or show you some new toy, but each time, Alexia is there, gently but firmly steering him back toward his actual family.

By the end of the night, you’re exhausted, and Alexia is finally starting to relax, probably because Diego has finally passed out somewhere, giving up on his quest to monopolise your attention.

As you leave, hand in hand, you glance back at the house, wondering how long it’ll be before you’re back here again, playing the role of the supportive girlfriend in a family that still doesn’t quite get it. But then Alexia squeezes your hand, and you realise it doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, what’s hers is hers, and what’s yours is yours, and that’s all there is to it.

Besides, next time, you’ll be ready. You’ll bring your own bouncy castle and show Diego who’s boss.

[rowarn]

hybrid au part 3 - FINAL

other parts: one | two

cw: major character death, angst, happy ending tho, lack of communication, loving!kyle agenda, mentions of price finally

a/n: SO THAT'S IT. i hope it was worth the wait!!!! mwah!!!

Kyle noticed the way your light dimmed the following days. He was at a loss, one day you're bouncing off the walls and filling every room with the sweet sound of your purrs and the next it's cold and quiet. 

He tried everything, bringing home fragrant, expensive food and snacks, toys, whatever he could find that he thought would make you smile again. But nothing seemed to work. 

When you spend the entire day curled up on the couch, blankly watching TV, he decided he had enough. 

The following day, he was hooking your collar around your neck and forcing you to go outside into the sunshine. 

Your eyes burned as you stepped out beneath the sun's blazing beams. Days spent indoors, sleeping most of the daytime hours away, had accustomed you to darkness. It was hot and you already wanted to go back inside but one pitiful look towards Kyle told you that you were not getting out of this easily.

So you hang your head and allow him to lead you down the sidewalk. The military housing area was surprisingly quiet, the only sound was a lawnmower somewhere nearby. 

Kyle was silent, content with keeping his hand on the small of your back, a kind, protective gesture to assure you that he was still there as you glared at the sidewalk. 

Before you knew it, the quietness of the neighborhood grew louder and louder until you were walking through the gate of the hybrid-park. 

You looked around, watching all the happy hybrids and owners running around and playing lighthearted rounds of soccer or football. Casting a glance to Kyle, he gives you a crooked, boyish smile. 

“What do you wanna do?” he asks, glancing around, “We can take a lap around the park if you'd like?” 

You shake your head, “Can we just sit?” 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he coos, nudging you in the direction of an empty bench. 

You both take a seat, and look out across the park. While the nights still got quite chilly, it was beautiful during the day - a soothing breeze that rustled the green leaves in the trees and clear blue skies that you could look at for hours. 

You hated to admit it but - Kyle was right. You were starting to feel better, like a weight was being lifted off your shoulders. Being cooped up in the house didn’t help anything, in fact it probably made things worse.

A hand patted your head and you looked over to see Kyle beaming, as if he could see the tension just melt off of you. 

“I'm going to get us something to drink,” he muttered as he stood up, “Lemonade okay with you?” 

You nod your head, fluffy ears bouncing atop your head as you do. Kyle has to resist the urge to reach out and pet them, forcing himself to turn around and find a drink stand to get the lemonade from.

You're staring off at a dog hybrid and a young boy playing a heated game of soccer when you hear your name being called. 

Your head whips around to see Johnny standing there, tail wagging and eyes wide in shock. It's obvious he ran all the way over to where you are from the way his shoulders heave up and down with his heavy panting. 

“I-” he clears his throat, thinking over what he wanted to say, “I've missed ye.” 

Your heart was pounding in your chest, making the blood rush in your ears, “Johnny…”

“Come home,” he says, desperate and breathless, “I miss ye and I want ye to come back.” 

“Simon doesn't want me, Johnny…” you mutter, feeling shame burn at your cheeks as you look down at your hands - nails neatly filed down by Kyle just a few days ago. 

“To hell with him!” he spits, “I want you back, isn't that enough?” 

Your frown deepens. His selfishness ignites irritation within you, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“Why?” you ask, voice breaking as the word slips past your lips, “Why should I have to live like that? Being hated while you get to be loved?” Johnny says your name but you cut him off before he can say anything else, “That's not fair, Johnny. I have Kyle now and he loves me! I'm happy with him.”

“Can't ye be happy with me too?” he asks, sad, teary eyes cutting right through your heart. 

“Of course I could Johnny but…” before you can continue there's a sharp call of the pup’s name and both of you freeze. 

Johnny looks over his shoulder to see Simon jogging up behind him, a fierce glare in his brown eyes. A rough, gloved hand grabs the back of the hybrid’s collar. 

“What the hell do you think you're doin’ runnin’ off like that?” Simon snaps, anger masking the clear worry he had experienced at his missing companion. 

“I was just…” Johnny’s eyes drift to you and that's when Simon acknowledges your existence. 

The sneer on his face is clear even through the mask and it makes you shrink in on yourself, ears flattened back. Even after all this time, the sting of his rejection remains strong and hurts just the same. 

“What’s a gutter rat like you doin’ here?” Simon snaps. 

It annoys him that you're always at the source of his problems with Johnny. Whenever the pup misbehaves, you're always there. A bad influence. Typical cat. 

You look at Johnny. He doesn’t meet your gaze, instead staring up at his owner with an apologetic expression. You want him to speak up. You want him to defend you, to tell Simon to be nice or to apologize or tell him what you mean to him. 

But Johnny just sighs, “Sorry, Si.” 

The lack of defense towards you in the face of Simon solidifies everything for you in that moment. You look down at your lap, the crack in your heart only aching and stinging more and more with every beat of silence that passes between the three of you. 

Something ice cold touches the back of your neck and you yelp, launching yourself off the bench and onto the ground. Laughter fills your ears and you turn to glare at Kyle who holds a large plastic cup of lemonade - the cold thing he’d just surprised you with. 

“Sorry, love!” he apologizes but the laughter shows he's anything but. 

Soap speaks up then, asking if Kyle knows you. Your owner’s brown eyes shine with pride as he affectionately ruffles your hair.

“Found them on the street and brought them home!” Kyle tells them, sounding much like a proud father, “Best decision of my life!”

Your cheeks burn at his praise, his kind, loving words remedy the painful stinging in your heart that had been brought on by your previous owner. You take the cup of lemonade when he offers it to you, taking a sip and cringing at the sour taste that hits your tongue – much to Kyle’s amusement.

“You guys are welcome to come over anytime,” Kyle says, smiling as he affectionately pets your ears, “I’m sure this cute kitten would love to have a friend to hang out with.”

“Yeah…maybe,” Simon mumbles, sending you a sidelong glance that was cold and empty – telling you everything you needed to know without saying it. Absolutely not.

You find that you don’t mind that much. The idea of never seeing Simon or his painfully hateful gaze was nice. But when you looked at Johnny, who was staring at you in despair – you find yourself mumbling in response, “Maybe someday.”

The hope in Johnny’s eyes seers into your mind, even long after you’ve parted ways and gone home for the day. 

The days pass in relative ease. The depressive rut you found yourself in melts away and Kyle is thrilled to see that you’ve returned to your bright, bubbly self. You greet him at the door when he walks in, sit and purr beside him while you both eat dinner together, curl up against his side and happily snooze the night away. 

It’s peaceful bliss.

But one evening, Kyle returns home and tosses his heavy duffle bag onto the floor with a thunk. You get up to greet him, stretching your arms high above your head before padding over to him with a sleepy smile on your face. Kyle opens his arms for you, letting you tuck yourself into his chest for a hug. A loud purr emanates from your chest that only seems to make Kyle’s shoulders drop.

“What’s the matter?” you ask when you catch a look at his face when he pulls away; brows furrowed and lips in a tight line.

“Just got some sad news, that’s all, lovie,” he mutters, patting your head before he moves into the kitchen to start preparing dinner.

“What news?” you ask, following after him, tail swishing nervously behind you. 

Did his parents pass away? Did a friend get hurt?

Kyle sets out some vegetables on the counter, hunting around for a knife before sighing, “You remember Simon and Johnny? We met them at the park the other day?”

You nod your head, “Of course.”

“There was an accident a couple days ago,” Kyle explains, slowly chopping up the celery on the cutting board, “Johnny got hit. He didn’t make it. Simon’s tore up about it.”

It feels like everything freezes right then and there for you. You no longer hear the chopping of the knife, no longer hear Kyle's voice or the sound of traffic outside on the street. All you can hear is the pounding in your ears and the sound of your own breathing.

Images flash behind your eyes in your grief. You can see Johnny’s boyish smile and his boisterous laugh emanating down the hallway. You can see him so clearly, wrapped around you as you snuggle and snooze together as the rain falls outside. You can hear the animated way he would tell you stories, waving his hands around and his tail thumping loudly on the floor.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel a hand cup your cheek. You blink away the tears and Kyle’s face comes into view, worry etched onto it. 

“What is it, lovie? Why are you crying?” he asks, clearly concerned.

“Johnny’s dead?” you ask, voice broken and wobbly as you fight to talk through tears.

“Yeah, love,” Kyle coos, thumbing beneath your eyes to rub away some tears, “Why are you so upset?”

Everything tumbles from your lips then. You tell him about how you lived on the street, how your life changed the day you met a rambunctious pup who wouldn’t take no for an answer until he had himself a friend. You tell Kyle about how, even though Simon was awful to you, Johnny was a light in the dark and how much you adored him and how much he meant to you. You tell him how Simon threw you out like trash and how much it hurt and how much you missed Johnny despite everything. 

Kyle held you through it all, tucking you tenderly against his chest as you cried it all out.

“I had no idea, lovie,” he whispers into your hair, pressing sweet kisses to your forehead when your breathing becomes erratic. 

“I-I never got to settle things with him,” you wail, “He wanted me to come home and I-I couldn’t give him an answer.”

Kyle sighs, cupping the back of your head, rocking you back and forth until your cries quiet down to hiccuping sniffles, “It’ll be alright, sweetheart. Everything will be okay.”

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn't know how he can make this hurt go away or help you soothe the grief you’re experiencing. All he can do is hold you close and comfort you whenever you need.

This time, when Kyle notices how sad you are as the days pass, he doesn’t force you to leave the house or do anything. He just lets your sadness run its course, doing what he can to ease your burden by making your favorite dishes and letting you watch your favorite movies over and over again until he can practically recite them by heart.

There’s a knock at the door that startles the both of you one evening. Kyle’s on his feet in seconds, hand drifting towards the firearm he keeps nearby before he looks through the peephole on the door and relaxes. 

You peek over the back of the couch as he opens the door. Simon stands there. 

Although he is masked, you can practically see how worn down and utterly devastated he is. 

“What’s up?” Kyle asks, hand twitching to reach out for the older man but thinks better of it. “Do you need something?”

“I wanna talk to that one,” Simon nods in your direction, where you’re still peeking over the couch. 

Kyle turns to look at you over his shoulder, asking your consent. You think it over for a few seconds before you nod your head. Not like Simon would do anything with Kyle here. 

He steps aside to let the larger man enter and closes the door, giving an excuse about getting drinks before disappearing into the kitchen.

Simon’s heavy boots vibrate the floor as he takes a few large steps towards you. You scoot to the other side of the couch when he sits down, the couch bouncing with his added weight.

His hands are folded between his knees where he rests his elbows on them. His tattooed skin ripples and flexes as he nervously fidgets with his hands. 

“Johnny wanted you to come home,” he starts out, staring intently at the floor. You swear you can see tears beading at his lower lash line as he says his companions name, “So I’m here to see if you will.”

“You want me back?” you ask softly, anxiously pulling a pillow into your lap.

Simon nods, “It’s what Johnny wanted. He cared about you, loved you. You’re all I have left of him.”

You’re silent at that. 

Despite everything, your heart aches for Simon. He adored Johnny more than anything – even if he hated you, his love for the pup was palpable. You could see it in his face every time he saw Johnny, eyes scrunching up happily. Johnny was his world and now that world was gone and Simon was left with nothing but bitter emptiness and a void that he was desperate to fill. 

You found yourself opening your mouth, ready to agree – ready to be the one to soothe your ex-owners devastating hurt. But then you found yourself looking into the kitchen, to Kyle’s back. He was hunched over the counter, vigorously mixing something in a bowl and you realized that you didn’t want to leave him. 

Kyle was yours. Kyle was everything you could ever need or want. He wanted and loved you when you thought no one else would. He didn’t give up on you even when you were difficult and cold. He cared about you, thought about you every day. He gave you everything you wished for so desperately during your time living with Simon. 

“I can’t,” you find yourself whispering, tears filling your eyes at how much it hurt to turn Simon away, “I know Johnny would want me to be with you, to make sure you’re okay without him but…I love Kyle and I want to stay with him.”

“So that’s it then?” Simon asks, voice small and weaker than you’ve ever heard it before. You know there’s a crushing weight on his heart right now, knowing he will be going home alone to a painfully empty and cold house. 

“Yeah…” You whisper, unable to look up at him as he rises to his feet. 

Kyle comes out of the kitchen with a steaming bowl in his hands, asking Simon if he was okay as he passes by him to the front door. The larger man just grunts in response and opens the door. The quiet click of it closing is all you hear of his departure before the warm bowl is in your lap. 

It’s a bowl of broth that makes your mouth water. The fact Kyle had made it for your just because warmed your heart.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, sitting down next to you, arm tossed over the couch behind you, fingers mindlessly stroking over the fuzzy surface of your ear.

“He wanted me to go home with him,” you respond, taking a sip of the broth.

“You said no?” he asks. You catch the worry in his tone – like he was scared you were going to tell him you were leaving him soon.

But you nod and his body relaxes in relief, “He only wanted me back because I reminded him of Johnny. He didn’t really want me, just the image of Johnny.”

Kyle nods, leaning over to kiss your temple, “That man loved that pup. But I’m glad you’re here to stay.”

You look over at him from over the bowl of broth as you sip it, “Yeah?”

“I would have let you go if that’s what you really wanted but…” He looks a little sheepish as he continues, “It would have hurt to see you go, kitty. I meant it when I said adopting you was the best decision of my life.”

You place the bowl down on the coffee table before launching yourself into his arms. He grunts as your weight slams against him, knocking him back onto the couch as he laughs. His arms wrap around you in a bear hug, squeezing you so hard that your ribs ache but you don’t even think about trying to pull away.

Though you don’t say it, he knows that you’re his to keep and that you love him just as much as he loves you. He couldn’t imagine life without you now. 

BONUS: 

“I think my boss is gettin’ impatient to meet you, you know,” he mumbles in your shoulder.

“Your boss?” you ask, voice almost too quiet to hear over your loud purring.

“Yeah, the old man’s been dyin’ to meet the cute kitten I talk about all the time at work,” he explains.

“You talk about me?” you ask, peeking up shyly.

He grins, “All the time. I think everyone’s sick of my voice at this point. But the Captain's really been begging to come and meet you. I’ve been waiting for a good time to bring it up. He’s a bit of a lover so you’d have to put up with all the pets and hugs he has to offer.”

Your eyes shine in interest, “I want to meet him!”

Kyle chuckles, reaching up to pet one of your twitching ears, “I’ll make the call then and set up dinner.”

You were excited to meet a new person. You hoped he was as kind and gentle as Kyle was. And even though the idea of Simon sitting alone and hurt in his house with nothing but the memories of his best friend, you weren’t going to let that stop you from opening up new chapters in your own life. 

do not repost on other websites, translate, or modify. reblogs welcome!

[seospicybin]

PLAY PRETEND.

Lee Know x reader x Han. (s,a)

Synopsis: Minho, a seasoned actor, is joined by Han, an idol stepping into his first major role for a BL drama and their chemistry on screen makes everyone wondering what’s real and what’s an act, including Minho’s girlfriend, you. (20,7k words)

Author's note: A fair warning, it's a tad bit angsty but hope you enjoy it. ♡

Minho is no stranger to the thrill of the spotlight. As one of the industry's top actors, he’s amassed a fan base that follows his every move, each role bringing him closer to becoming a household name. His charm and undeniable talent have carried him from promising rookie to revered star, and few can match his level of skill and dedication.

This latest role, though, is something entirely new. When the announcement breaks that he’s accepted his first BL drama, the news explodes across social media, every fan site, and entertainment news outlet. Fans can barely contain their excitement.

Minho is known for transforming into his characters with an authenticity that leaves them breathless, and the thought of seeing him in a romance with another man—something he has never done onscreen—sends waves of excitement through them. Speculation about his co-star and their potential chemistry runs wild.

But beneath the flood of supportive messages and the whirlwind of media attention, Minho feels a prickling of doubt. He’s heard whispers that he’ll be paired with Han Jisung, an idol who only recently turned to acting. Minho can't deny he’s apprehensive about working alongside someone with so little experience. Acting requires a kind of discipline that not everyone can muster, especially when the stakes are this high.

Even as the buzz around the drama continues to grow, Minho keeps his distance from the hype. He needs to stay focused, to treat this role like any other. After all, he’s a professional, and he’s made it his career to bring out the best in every character he plays—even if that means navigating uncharted waters with a rookie idol by his side.

-

The table read is set in one of the sleek, polished meeting rooms of the production studio, its walls lined with posters from past hit dramas. Minho arrives right on time, slipping into his seat with the practiced nonchalance of someone who’s done this countless times before. Around him, the director and scriptwriters are setting up, their expressions shifting between excitement and concentration.

Just as Minho begins flipping through the script, he notices a quiet stir as Han enters the room. Dressed casually, with a hint of nervousness shadowing his usually confident expression, Han greets everyone politely, bowing deeply. His gaze shifts to Minho, and he visibly straightens, flashing a hopeful smile.

“Minho,” Han says, inclining his head with respect. “I’m really looking forward to working with you.” His tone is warm, genuine, a mix of nerves and eagerness showing in the way he speaks. It’s clear he’s someone who looks up to Minho, eager to make a good impression.

Minho, on the other hand, keeps his expression carefully blank. He offers Han a curt nod, glancing back down at the script with an air of disinterest. His own reservations about the rookie’s lack of experience hover in the back of his mind.

“Let’s just focus on the work,” Minho replies coolly, turning the page. “I’m sure you’ll pick things up as we go along.”

Han, however, doesn’t seem discouraged. His eyes brighten, and he shifts his chair a little closer, leaning forward eagerly as the director begins discussing the scene they’ll be reading. Despite Minho’s chilly demeanor, Han listens intently, occasionally glancing over at Minho, almost as if trying to absorb his every gesture and expression.

As the reading begins, Han gives it his all, his voice rising and falling with emotion, even if his delivery lacks the polish of a seasoned actor. Minho remains composed, effortlessly slipping into character with every line, his calm, professional presence commanding the room. But he can't help but notice the way Han watches him, soaking in each subtle movement, as though he’s studying a masterclass.

Despite himself, Minho is somewhat impressed by Han’s dedication, even if he doesn’t let it show. Han’s energy is raw and unrefined, yes, but there’s a spark there—something that could, perhaps, be shaped. Not that he’s planning to admit it.

When the read-through ends, Han gives him another eager look. “Thank you for today. I hope I can learn a lot from you.”

Minho offers only the briefest nod, keeping his tone neutral. “Just do your best,” he says, before gathering his things and slipping out the door, leaving Han watching after him, still hopeful and undeterred.

-

It’s past midnight when he finally slips out of his car and makes his way down the empty street toward your apartment. The city feels different at this hour, like it’s holding its breath. He lets himself in quietly, his heart lifting the moment he sees you, curled up on the couch, waiting for him as if you knew he’d come.

“Hey, stranger,” you greet him with a sly smile on your face.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks softly, shutting the door with a careful hand.

“I figured you might drop by,” you say, smiling as you pat the space beside you.

He sinks down, the stress of the day beginning to fade in your presence especially after his lips touched yours in a rewarding kiss. You lean against him as he snuggles into your arms, comfortable, familiar, as if the world outside doesn’t exist.

“So, how was the table read?” you ask, curiosity lighting up your face. “Was it as intense as you expected?”

Minho sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s just say it was… interesting,” he mutters. “They paired me with Han Jisung, you know, the idol who just started acting.”

There’s a slight edge in his voice, a hint of skepticism. “He’s eager, I’ll give him that, but he’s new to this, and it shows. I could see it right away. He’s trying hard, but…” he trails off, his tone resigned.

You rest a hand on him, giving him a reassuring smile. “Hey, give him a chance. You might be surprised. Once filming starts, he could be different. He’s probably just nervous being around someone like you.”

Minho huffs softly, though his expression softens a bit. “Maybe. But you didn’t see how he was watching me, like he was waiting for every word I said. I’m used to people wanting to learn, but with him… I don’t know. He tries too hard.”

“Then try not to be so hard on him,” you suggest gently, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You might be the only one who can help him get through this. You know, just… take it easy. He might surprise you.”

Minho chuckles, his fingers brushing lightly along yours and sneaks a quick peck on your lips. “I’ll try. No promises, though.”

“Good,” you say, leaning your head against his as you continue landing comforting rubs on his back.

For all the lights and cameras that follow him, Minho’s real life unfolds in the shadows, far from the glare of fame. To the world, he’s a household name—a sought-after actor whose every move is documented, dissected, and adored.

But here, in the quiet sanctuary of your apartment, he’s just Minho. Here, there’s no need for the polished charm, the unshakeable confidence, or the professional distance he maintains around others.

Here, he can simply exist, away from the world that claims to know him.

Dating someone outside the industry was never something he’d planned, but somehow, being with you—a person untouched by the demands of fame—grounds him in a way nothing else can. You work a steady, simple job, miles from the chaos of show business, and that’s part of what he loves most. Your world is calm, ordinary, real. He can shed the layers of expectation and just… breathe.

These quiet nights with you are his escape, a secret he guards as fiercely as his most cherished roles. And though it’s a thrill to keep your relationship hidden, it’s also a risk—a delicate balance he walks to preserve the one part of his life that fame hasn’t touched.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, you shift against him, glancing up with a playful smile. “Are you hungry? I could whip something up.”

Minho’s lips curve in amusement, already anticipating your offer. “Depends. Are you on the menu?”

You chuckle, getting up and heading to the kitchen, dismissing his flirty attempt. “How does a bowl of noodles sound? Only the best for a famous actor like you, of course.”

Minho follows you, leaning casually against the counter as he watches you work, eyes warm with that familiar, easy affection. You go about filling a pot with water, setting it to boil before adding in the noodles and seasonings. He knows you’re not exactly a gourmet chef, and he’s well aware that these noodles come straight from a packet, but it’s never been about the food.

When you finally slide the bowl over to him, you can’t help but tease, “You know, you’re probably the only person who actually enjoys my cooking, and all I did is adding the seasoning packet.”

Minho only shrugs, picking up his chopsticks. “Doesn’t matter. I like it because you made it and you put your love in it,” he says simply, looking at you with that soft, genuine smile that’s just for you.

You sit beside him, resting your chin on your hand as you watch him dig in, a small warmth blooming in your chest. Moments like this, just the two of you, sharing a late-night snack in the dim glow of your kitchen, feel like little pockets of normalcy—something rare and precious amidst the fast-paced world he belongs to.

“So, how was your day?” he asks between bites, looking over at you with genuine interest.

“Pretty quiet,” you say, mirroring his casual tone. “Went to work, came back, and then… waited for you,” you add with a small smile, one that he quickly returns. “But nothing too exciting, really.”

He nods, listening intently, and after a moment, he begins to share bits of his own day, too—the rehearsals, the meetings, the endless stream of people he has to charm and impress. But there’s something about these late-night conversations that lets him drop the facade and just be honest, to talk freely without any pressure or expectation.

“But nothing too exciting, really.” He adds at the end of his sentence, copying your tone as he says it.

He finishes the noodles, setting the bowl aside and leaning back, his hand reaching for yours. “Now, how about...” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles, “We make things exciting?”

-

When Minho says exciting, he doesn't mean brushing teeth together by the sink in the bathroom. He gets ahead of you, washing his mouth with a scoop of water and puts his tootbrush into its place, having something he wants to do to you as you're busy brushing your teeth.

He stands behind you, wrapping his arms around you before pulling you close until your back meets his chest. It stays like that for a moment until his hand wandering your chest and fondling your breast through your camisole.

“Now, this is exciting,” he murmurs as he sinks his mouth into your neck.

Through the reflection in the mirror, Minho sees you shoot him a glare as you keep brushing your teeth and it only makes him want to keep doing it, he uses both hands to slip under your camisole and continues fondling them, fingers circling on your blossoming buds.

You turn your head slightly to the side and this time, directly glare into his eyes. You let him have his way for now but as you need to eventually finish brushing your teeth, you yank his hands away from you so you can bend down to wash your mouth with water next.

But Minho takes advantage of this new position and lands a gentle slap on the back of your thigh, he then takes a step forward to close the gap, allowing him to rub his growing bulge against your ass.

You take a towel to dab your mouth and look over your shoulder at him, “You're so impatient, you know that?”

Minho shamelessly nods and pulls you close, making you feel his erection poking behind you, “Just trying to keep things exciting.”

There’s no way you can stop Minho from getting what he wants. He lays on top of you, elbows propped on each side of your body as his hands are busy fondling on your breasts. He gently squeezes on your soft mounds and then pushes them to the middle so he can take the two nipples into his greedy mouth.

“Be nice,” you warn him with your hand tangled in his dark locks as he has your nipple tugged between his teeth.

The way he responds with a menacing smirk only means that he'll likely do things that goes against your warning and you're right, he opens his mouth wide and takes as much flesh, he closes his mouth around it and sucks on it as hard as he can.

“Minho!” you hiss in pain and tug at his hair hard because that’s the only way to make him hear you.

He lets go with a loud pop, his lips are wet and so are the marks he made on your breasts. Even so, he begins making a trail of kisses down your front until his lips land on where you want him the most.

He looks at you as he starts lightly touching your clit with his fingers, and then he places the softest kiss on it. He replaces his fingers with his tongue next, pressing the tip of his hot tongue on it before moving in circular motions. His fingers teasing your entrance repeatedly, he pushes his two digits just enough to make you feel the stretch and make him feel how tight you are for him.

One long finger slipped into you, and grateful sighs and murmurs tumble from your lips. That is exactly what you need. He works a second finger in, and the stretching sensation has your head falling back. Oh yes, this is what you need. Your heels dug into the bed as you push into the penetration as his fingers easing in and out, curling against you to breathtaking effect.

When Minho abruptly removes his touch, you can’t bite back a protesting sound. “Minho, I need more, I—”

He lifts his glistening fingers to his lips and suck them into his mouth. The intensity of his eyes combined with his devilish grin has you fisting the sheets in you hands as your core tightens on itself.

Minho continues by placing caresses with deep, slow thrusts. It's good, so good, but he isn’t touching you where you want it, need it. Your hips writhed as you try to relieve the growing ache. When he withdraws again, you stroke your hands down your stomach in rampant frustration, but your own touch does nothing to excite you so you grip your knees, pull them apart to bare your sex to his eyes.

“I need more,” you mutter to him with a defeated sigh and a lustful glare. You spread your legs wider for him and seductively beg, “Please?”

The first push he makes is gentle and your body takes, and then takes some more until he's fully sheathed inside you. There’s no denying that every part of his body arouses you but but it’s his eyes, and the expression in them as he rolls his hips against you. His movement is slick and easy, there’s no hard impact, Minho moves against you with measured control.

You know he's not enjoying it when you're not making all kind of noises, Minho is frowning a little in concentration as he tries to angle his hips until he finds one that seems to nudge a little switch inside your body.

“Goodness!” You gasp in response as you grip the side of the pillow.

“There we go!” Minho mutters with a satisfied smirk as he hits it again and again, and the pleasure is so intense a sob catches in your throat.

You have no strength to raise your arms to his shoulders as every thrust that goes into you is taking you one step closer to something you’re fairly sure will kill you but despite of it, you want to savor every second of it. In fact, you want to live in this moment forever.

Minho is quick to notice what you're doing, you're trying to delay your orgasm. “Hey, quit holding off.”

“I'm not,” you breathlessly and innocently answer.

Your lie only causes him to increase his force, he slips his hands under your hips and angles you higher, he then adds more intensity to his thrusts and you have no idea how he's not tired.

“I don’t want it to end, please, Minho, please,” you whine as you're on the brink of free falling into a pool of unadulterated pleasure.

“Stubborn, aren't you?” He murmurs before pressing a hard kiss on your parted lips.

Instead of adding speed, Minho begins doing this smooth, deep rolling thrusts that slowly making you two losing it and on the second, you grip at him as your mouth snapped close. However, you can’t hold in your satisfied moans for long and even though they might be heard by the whole apartment building, you let them out.

Minho lowers you down and you keep your arms around his shoulders, not wanting to let him go so he ends up lying on top of you. He places kisses on your neck and jaw, he turns your head to the side to place a kiss on your lips next.

“Minho?” You softly call between your exhausted pants.

His hand lingers on your jaw, “Mmh?”

You softly smile as you look at him and say, "I still don't want it to end.”

-

The earliest light of dawn filters in through the curtains, casting a soft glow across your room. Minho stirs awake, his body tuned to early starts, but he finds himself reluctant to leave the warm comfort of your bed. He turns slightly, his gaze falling on you, still sound asleep beside him.

There’s something so peaceful in the way you’re nestled against the pillow, your breathing steady and even, and he doesn’t have the heart to wake you.

For a moment, he just watches, taking in every little detail—the way your hair falls across your face, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. It’s a side of you he rarely gets to see, and he wants to hold onto this quiet moment just a little longer.

Just as he’s about to slip out of bed, you stir, blinking sleepily as your eyes find him. “You’re awake already?” you mumble, your voice soft and drowsy.

He offers a gentle smile, brushing a few stray strands of hair from your face. “Yeah, I have to head out early today. Busy day ahead.”

You sigh, a little pout tugging at your lips as you nod. “Alright. Go home safely, okay?”

Minho leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead and then your lips. “I will,” he murmurs, his voice a quiet promise. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand still resting against your cheek. “Now go back to sleep, mmh? I’ll see you soon.”

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink back into the warmth of the bed, feeling the gentle weight of his words wrap around you like a blanket. With one last soft smile and a long peck on your lips, he pulls away, leaving the room with quiet steps, careful not to disturb the peaceful quiet of the early morning.

As Minho steps out into the early morning chill, he pulls his jacket tighter around himself, his footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the street. The sky is painted in soft hues of blue and pink, a quiet beauty that feels worlds away from the life he’s about to return to—the endless rehearsals, the flashing cameras, and the carefully managed image he has to keep up for everyone else.

He pauses for a moment, looking back at your apartment building, a sense of longing settling in his chest. Leaving you always feels harder than he expects. These brief, stolen hours together are like little fragments of a life he can’t fully claim—moments he can only touch in secret, moments he treasures more than he can ever say. With you, he doesn’t have to be Minho, the actor. He can just… be.

But out here, as the city begins to wake, he feels the weight of that distance between his two worlds, the one where he’s a public figure and the private one he shares with you. And as much as he longs to stay in this quiet, hidden world a little longer, he knows he has to step back into the other, slipping on the mask he wears for everyone else.

With a steadying breath, Minho turns and walks down the empty street, blending into the first stirrings of the city. But even as he goes, a part of him lingers behind, held by the warmth of the life you share, waiting for the next time he can return to you.

-

The lights are hot and bright as the cameras start rolling, casting the whole set in a surreal glow. Han can feel his pulse quickening as he glances over at Minho, who stands effortlessly in front of the camera, already slipping into his role with a natural ease.

It’s their first day of filming, and Minho’s presence on set is undeniable—commanding and calm, as though he belongs here. Han’s seen him in countless dramas, admired his work from afar, but seeing him in action up close is something else entirely.

Han straightens, pushing down the nervous energy bubbling inside him. He wants to do his best, not just for the role, but because he respects Minho’s work.

As they begin their scene together, he mirrors Minho’s every movement, every expression, trying to match his intensity. The world around them fades, and for a moment, Han feels like they’re the only two people in the room. Acting alongside him is exhilarating, like catching a glimpse of something real—something that flickers into life only when they’re on camera.

But as soon as the director calls “Cut!” and the cameras stop rolling, it’s like a switch flips in Minho. His face hardens, his expression going from warm to distant in a heartbeat. Han watches as Minho steps back, slipping his hands into his pockets, his gaze averted and indifferent.

The shift stings more than he’d like to admit. He’s tried not to let it bother him—after all, Minho is a seasoned actor, and Han knows he’s still new to all this. He tries to remind himself that it’s just how things are, that Minho has his own process. But a part of him can’t help but feel like he’s being shut out, that maybe Minho doesn’t think he’s good enough to be here.

Still, he brushes off the discomfort, plastering a grin on his face as he walks up to Minho between takes. “Hey,” he says brightly, a playful note in his voice. “That last line—you totally nailed it. I don’t know how you make it look so easy.”

Minho gives him a polite nod, his expression neutral, barely meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

Undeterred, Han leans in, grinning wider. “You know, I really want to learn from you. I’ve never done this before, so if you have any tips or, I don’t know, actor secrets… I’d love to know them.”

Minho’s gaze flickers toward him, unreadable. “Just do what comes naturally,” he says coolly, his voice even, before glancing back at the script in his hand.

Han can feel the subtle rejection, but he’s not one to back down so easily. Despite the distance Minho keeps, Han finds himself wanting even more to prove himself—not only to show he belongs here, but because something about Minho’s presence challenges him to be better. He might not understand Minho yet, and he might never break past that calm exterior, but he knows he can learn from him. And no matter how many times Minho brushes him off, he won’t stop trying.

As they step back into place, the cameras ready to roll again, Han shakes off the lingering doubt, focusing instead on the spark of excitement he feels at working with someone he admires. He’ll keep pushing, keep learning, even if it means playing his own game just to get Minho to notice.

After all, this is only the beginning.

-

Minho leans back against his bed, phone pressed to his ear as he hears your familiar voice on the other end. Just the sound of you, even over the phone, has a way of easing the tension that clings to him after a long day on set.

“So,” you say, your tone warm and curious, “how was the first day of filming?”

Minho sighs, letting himself relax for a moment. “It went… pretty well, I guess. It’s strange, doing something like this,” he admits, feeling the honesty flow more easily over the phone. “But everyone was professional, and the scenes turned out alright. Han, too, was… surprisingly good.”

“Oh?” Your interest piques, and he can hear the little smile in your voice. “I thought you weren’t sure about working with him.”

“I wasn’t,” Minho replies with a slight chuckle. “But he’s… not bad. Maybe it’s just beginner’s luck, but he’s got this energy that fits well on camera. Still, I don’t know.”

He pauses, considering his words. “He seems eager, almost like he wants to prove himself. But sometimes I feel like he’s trying too hard to impress me.”

“Well, maybe he is,” you say lightly. “He probably respects you, wants to do a good job, and maybe he’s just a little nervous.”

He huffs out a laugh, not answering directly. The truth is, he knows you’re probably right, but there’s something about Han’s determination that catches him off-guard. Maybe he’s just reluctant to admit how much potential he actually sees in him.

You’re quiet for a moment, then your voice softens. “Just try not to be too tough on him, Minho. He could learn a lot from you, and you might actually enjoy it.”

He hesitates, then lets the subject drift. “Anyway,” he murmurs, shifting the conversation, “what about you? How was your day?”

“Pretty routine,” you say, a little laugh coloring your words. “Nothing as exciting as your day, obviously. Work, home, the usual. But it was good.” There’s a beat of silence, a comfortable pause, before you add, “I wish you were here, though.”

The words hit him more deeply than he expected, and a quiet ache settles in his chest. “Me too,” he says, his voice softening. “I miss you. It’s strange being away, not getting to see you.”

“Think you’ll get to come by this week?” you ask, hope in your voice.

He sighs, his mind going to tomorrow’s early call time. “I’d love to, but I’ve got to be on set early. It’ll probably be like this for a while.”

A small pause, and he can imagine you nodding, understanding even without him saying it. “That’s okay. Just call me when you can. I’ll be here.”

“I know.” A faint smile tugs at his lips as he shifts on the bed, pressing the phone closer as though he could close the distance between you. “Soon, alright?”

“Alright,” you say, and there’s warmth and understanding in your voice that makes him wish he could be there to hold you.

He stays on the line a little longer, savoring the sound of your breathing, the easy silence between you that says more than words could. Finally, reluctantly, he whispers a soft goodbye, letting the call end.

“Goodnight,” he softly murmurs into the phone while imagining himself placing a soft kiss on your lips as he says it.

“Goodnight,” you say back and Minho imagines you're lying close next to him as you say it.

As he sets the phone down, he feels the empty space around him a little more sharply, a quiet reminder of the life he keeps separate from the world he’s about to step back into tomorrow.

-

The set hums with quiet activity as staff members move props around, adjusting lighting and prepping for the next scene. Minho lounges in his chair, script in hand, as he studies his lines for the upcoming scene—a heavy, emotional exchange that requires all of his focus. He’s done this countless times before, but it never gets easier. Emotion, raw and real, always takes something from him, and he’s already gathering his energy to make the scene hit just right.

Just then, the faint shuffle of footsteps pulls his attention. He glances up to see Han approaching, clutching a steaming cup of coffee with both hands. Han looks a bit awkward, his gaze shifting between the cup and Minho, as though he’s unsure whether he should go through with whatever he came over to say. Minho raises an eyebrow, curiosity tempered by his usual calm, as Han finally steps forward, extending the coffee to him.

“Here,” Han says, offering the cup with a nervous smile. “Thought you might need a pick-me-up.”

Minho accepts the cup with a polite nod, trying to read Han’s expression. There’s something hesitant there, like Han’s searching for the right words, but they’re just out of reach.

“Do you need something?” Minho finally asks, his tone more detached than he intends.

Han shifts his weight, looking down at his hands, clearly gathering his courage. “Actually… yeah, sort of,” he admits, his voice a little lower. “I, uh, wanted to ask if—if you could give me a few pointers. For the next scene.”

Minho’s first instinct is to brush it off. He’s not here to be Han’s mentor; he has enough to focus on himself. But just as he’s about to deflect, your words come back to him: Try not to be so tough on him. He feels a quiet sigh building but swallows it back, deciding to give Han a chance.

“Alright,” he says, keeping his tone measured. “What part are you struggling with?”

Han’s eyes brighten, his expression earnest. “I just… I don’t want to mess up. It’s an emotional scene, and I know I should be able to make it feel real, but I feel like something’s missing. It’s like I can’t quite reach the right emotion.”

Minho studies him, caught a bit off-guard by how genuine Han’s concern seems to be. There’s no sign of the overly eager performer he’d expected, no arrogance. Just someone who truly wants to do well, who wants the scene to mean something.

“Alright,” Minho says after a moment, settling back into his chair. “If you’re struggling to reach the right feeling, think about what the scene means to you. Imagine if it was a real experience you went through—how would it make you feel? How would you react if it were happening to you?”

Han nods, looking down thoughtfully as he takes in Minho’s words. “That makes sense,” he says, his voice quieter, almost to himself. “I guess I’ve been trying too hard to think of it as a performance, instead of… just letting it be real.”

Minho finds himself nodding, feeling a faint respect growing. “The camera picks up on everything,” he says. “If you’re holding back, it’ll show. Don’t worry about looking a certain way; just feel the moment, and the rest will fall into place.”

Han looks at him, something almost like awe in his expression, and for the first time, Minho sees past the nervousness and the enthusiasm. He sees Han’s passion, the quiet intensity that fuels him, and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, Han’s not doing this for appearances. He’s doing it because he genuinely loves the craft.

As they’re called back to set, Minho watches Han head toward his mark, feeling a flicker of something new—a recognition, a sense that maybe Han isn’t as unpolished as he’d assumed. He has potential, real potential, and Minho feels a quiet challenge stir within him. He hadn’t expected this, but maybe working with Han might be more interesting than he thought.

-

Minho frowns as he glances at his phone, refreshing his messages again. Between every take, he checks, hoping to see a notification from you. Since last night, he hasn’t been able to reach you, and as much as he tries to focus on work, an uneasy worry nags at him. And, if he’s honest with himself, there’s a touch of frustration, too.

Finally, his phone lights up with a message from you: “Hey, sorry I couldn’t reply sooner! I’m okay, just got a little busy. Call me when you can.”

Minho doesn’t waste a second. He hurries to his car, slipping into the driver’s seat to get some privacy, and immediately dials your number. You pick up on the second ring, but before you can even say hello, he’s already starting in.

“Where have you been?” he says, his voice sharper than he intended. “I’ve been trying to reach you all night.”

There’s a pause on your end, then you reply, sounding a little sheepish. “Sorry, Minho… I went out with some friends last night, and I was exhausted, so I went straight to sleep when I got home. I didn’t think you’d be so worried.”

He exhales, some of the tension easing now that he’s finally hearing your voice. “You could’ve at least sent me a quick text. I don’t like waiting around, wondering if something happened.”

“I know, I’m really sorry.” You sound genuinely apologetic, but there’s a lightness in your tone as you add, “I assure you I’m totally fine.”

But even though he’s reassured, he can’t help the faint jealousy simmering beneath the surface. He hates that he can’t be with you for a normal night out, can’t enjoy the easy, carefree moments you have with others. Instead, he’s here, locked in this demanding schedule that keeps him away from you.

“What are you up to now?” you ask, breaking his thoughts.

Minho smirks, deciding to take advantage of the moment to get back at you, just a little. “Well, we’re on a break right now,” he says, his tone casual. “But I’ve got an interesting scene coming up later—a kiss scene, actually.”

There’s a pause, then you laugh softly, catching on to his little game. “Oh, I already looked him up,” you say, a hint of amusement in your voice. “And yeah, I can see why the fans think he's cute.”

For a second, Minho feels his own jealousy prickling again, but he plays along, leaning into the teasing. “You sound jealous,” he says, savoring the reversal.

You laugh, feigning an exaggerated sigh. “Well, maybe I am. It’s not every day you get to kiss someone as adorable as him. I hope you’re making the most of it.”

“I guess you’ll just have to imagine it,” he replies smoothly, though the truth is, he can already picture your playful glare. The thought makes him smile, and the frustration that had built up fades just a little.

At that moment, one of the crew members calls out to him, gesturing that it’s time to return to set. Minho sighs, reluctantly pulling himself back to reality. “I’ve got to go. They’re calling me back.”

“Good luck with the kiss scene,” you tease, your voice light and warm.

“Thanks,” he says, a hint of a smile still lingering. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay. Don’t enjoy the kiss too much, Minho.” You add with a sly smile that he can hear through the phone.

He chuckles, hanging up with a smile that lingers even as he steps out of the car. As he walks back to the set, he can still feel the warmth of your voice echoing in his mind, carrying him through the challenges of the day and making him feel, just for a moment, like he’s not as far from you as he really is.

-

Han’s heart races as he glances over the script again. Today’s scene isn’t just any scene—it’s a kissing scene. He knew it was coming, but somehow, seeing it in writing and knowing the cameras will be rolling any minute makes it feel ten times more intimidating.

Not only is this his first time acting in a drama, but it’ll also be his first time kissing someone with an entire crew watching. His hands feel clammy, and he can’t quite calm the flutter of nerves in his stomach.

He paces a bit, hoping the movement will help him shake off the jitters, but it only makes him feel more visible, more self-conscious. The pressure mounts, and he’s starting to doubt if he can pull this off without looking completely out of place.

Just then, he hears a familiar voice, steady and calm. “Hey, you alright?”

Turning, Han finds Minho watching him, his expression unreadable but maybe… a little curious. Han realizes he must look as nervous as he feels. He laughs, trying to brush it off, but his voice sounds too high-pitched, even to his own ears. “Oh, yeah. Just… you know. First kissing scene and all.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, an amused smile playing at the corner of his lips. “First one ever?”

Han nods, scratching the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks start to burn. “Yeah. It’s just… not exactly something you get to practice with an audience.”

Minho considers him for a moment, then nods thoughtfully. “Alright. Do you want some tips?”

Han’s eyes widen, and he nods eagerly, grateful for the offer. “Yeah, definitely. I just don’t want to mess this up.”

“Alright,” Minho says, stepping close enough for Han to catch a faint hint of his vanilla tinted perfume, a subtle warmth that somehow makes the moment feel more intimate than he anticipated. “When you’re filming a kiss scene, it’s not just about the kiss itself. It’s about building the moment.”

Han nods, listening intently as Minho explains, his voice calm and steady. “First, you have to make eye contact—hold it, let the camera pick up on it. It’s about anticipation.”

Minho’s gaze holds his, unblinking, his eyes drawing Han in. Han swallows, trying not to look away, but there’s something intense in Minho’s stare that makes his heart skip a beat.

“Then, just before you lean in, close your eyes slowly.” Minho demonstrates, his eyelids lowering in a way that looks so natural, so effortless, that Han feels his breath catch. “You want it to look like you’re losing yourself in the moment, even if it’s just for the camera.”

Han tries to mimic it, closing his eyes as he’s been shown, and he hears a quiet chuckle from Minho. When he opens his eyes, Minho is watching him with a slight smile.

“Not bad. Just a little slower next time.” Minho’s tone is relaxed, and Han feels himself start to loosen up, reassured by his guidance.

Then, Minho moves closer, reaching up to show Han where to place his hands. His fingers lightly grip Han’s shoulders, then slide down, positioning Han’s hands at a comfortable height. Han’s pulse races as he tries to focus on Minho’s instructions rather than the way Minho’s hands linger on his arms, warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“For the camera, small details make a big difference,” Minho says, his voice soft. “When you put your hand here” —he places Han’s hand gently on his shoulder— “it should look natural, like you’re pulling the other person in. You don’t have to actually pull; just let it look like you could.”

Han nods, and they go through the motion slowly, Minho guiding him with subtle adjustments. When he’s finally in position, Minho lets out an approving hum.

“Good. Now, when you’re ready to lean in, you want to pause for a second, let the anticipation build. And when you’re close…” Minho’s voice trails off, and his gaze flickers to Han’s lips, just for a heartbeat, before he looks back into Han’s eyes. “That’s when you close the distance.”

Han’s heart is racing by now, every word and movement searing itself into his memory. They practice the approach a couple more times, each time stopping just before their faces are close enough to kiss. Each time, Han tries to stay calm, to focus on the details of what Minho is teaching him, but his heartbeat keeps betraying him. He’s intensely aware of every movement, every breath, every inch between them.

“Alright, now put it all together,” Minho says, stepping back a bit, though his eyes stay on Han with an encouraging nod. “Eye contact, pause, and then move in slowly.”

Han tries, replaying Minho’s instructions in his mind. His gaze meets Minho’s, and he holds it just a little longer, letting himself linger in the moment as Minho had shown him. Slowly, he leans in, placing his hand on Minho’s shoulder and letting his eyes close just before he’s close enough to kiss.

When he pulls back, Minho gives a small nod, a faint smile of approval on his face. “See? You’ve got it.”

Han exhales, finally allowing himself to relax, though he still feels a strange flutter in his chest. “Thanks, Minho. I... really appreciate it.”

“Just remember what we went over,” Minho says, stepping back as he glances over at the crew setting up for the scene. “When we film, just focus on the details, and it’ll come across naturally.”

As Minho turns to join the others, Han is left standing there, still feeling the lingering warmth of Minho’s touch, his mind replaying every movement, every glance they shared. He tells himself it’s just respect for Minho’s talent, admiration for his guidance. Yet deep down, he’s not entirely sure if that’s all it is.

-

Minho settles into place, a breath away from Han’s lips, his heart steady as he prepares to make the kiss scene look effortless. He’s honed his craft over the years, and this should be no different—just another kiss for the camera, a routine step in building their characters’ chemistry.

But as he leans in, he can’t help but recall your teasing words, the way you’d feigned jealousy about him getting to kiss Han. The memory slips through his mind at exactly the wrong moment, and his composure shatters. He lets out a small laugh, quickly turning his head to cover it up. The crew and director glance his way, and Minho raises a hand in apology.

“Sorry, that was on me,” he says, trying to stifle the smile tugging at his lips.

Han watches him, visibly confused, but thankfully, the director doesn’t dwell on the moment. Instead, he calls for another take, and everyone gets ready to go again. As they reset, Minho notices Han still looking at him, a faint crease of curiosity in his brow.

“What was that?” Han whispers, leaning closer. “You don’t usually break character.”

Minho just shrugs, an amused smile lingering on his face. “Nothing. Just…something came to mind.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Han seems to sense there’s more to it but lets it go as they prepare for another take.

As the camera rolls, Minho resets his focus, this time with a playful plan forming in the back of his mind. A way to tease you a little, to get back at you for that playful jealousy you’d shown. He moves in, letting his eyes drift down to Han’s lips just before he closes the distance, leaning in a little closer than he has to, lingering just long enough for the gesture to feel personal. His hand finds its place on Han’s shoulder, and he holds it there with a slight squeeze, making the moment feel as real as possible.

He senses Han stiffen slightly, taken aback by the closeness, but Han doesn’t falter. They hold the moment just long enough for the director to call “cut,” signaling the end of the scene. Minho pulls back, noting the faint blush coloring Han’s cheeks, and gives a small, apologetic smile.

“Sorry if that was... more intense than you expected,” Minho says quietly, keeping his tone light. “Didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”

Han clears his throat, the blush still there as he offers a quick shake of his head. “No, no, it’s fine. I mean...the director was okay with it, so…” He trails off, looking away for a moment before adding, “You did what felt natural.”

Minho gives a nod, inwardly satisfied as he thinks about how you’d react if you’d seen that take. It’s a harmless bit of fun on his end, but he knows he’ll enjoy teasing you about it later, letting you imagine just how “convincing” he made the scene. And as they move on to the next part of the filming schedule, he can’t resist a quick, sly grin, already thinking about what he’ll tell you the next time he calls.

-

Han’s fingers twitch as he waits behind the stage, heart pounding in his chest. The noise of the crowd is muffled by the curtain, but he can still feel the energy thrumming through the air, making his nerves spike. This is his first press conference, his first time promoting a drama as one of the leads, and the weight of it all presses down on him. He’s used to being in front of a crowd, but somehow, this feels different—more personal, more vulnerable.

He closes his eyes for a second, trying to calm his breathing, but the anticipation only makes his anxiety grow.

“Hey.”

Han’s eyes snap open, and he finds Minho standing beside him, studying him with a slight, knowing smile. There’s a calmness in Minho’s gaze that immediately makes Han feel a little more grounded.

“You good?” Minho asks, his tone gentle, but with a trace of amusement.

“Yeah, yeah, just… you know, a bit nervous,” Han admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

Minho chuckles softly. “That’s natural. First press conference for your first drama—it’s a big deal. But hey, you’ll be fine.”

Han nods, trying to absorb the reassurance, but Minho seems to notice the lingering tension in his posture.

“Look, when you go out there, just remember this: you’ve worked hard for this, and you belong here,” Minho says, his voice low and steady. “All you have to do is be yourself. And if things feel overwhelming, just look my way. We’re in this together.”

The words settle over Han like a warm blanket, easing his nerves bit by bit. He takes a deep breath, finding comfort in the simple yet genuine support Minho offers.

“Thanks,” Han says softly, feeling a grateful smile tug at his lips.

Minho gives him a nod, a small smile of encouragement lingering on his face. “Let’s go out there and show them what we’ve got, yeah?”

With Minho’s steadying presence by his side, Han steps onto the stage, feeling a renewed sense of confidence. As the questions begin, he finds himself feeling more relaxed, anchoring himself with the occasional glance at Minho, just as he’d promised. And when the interviewer eventually turns to Minho with a question about him, Han listens, his nerves now replaced with a curious anticipation.

“Minho, as a seasoned actor, what’s it been like working with Han Jisung, given that this is his first major acting role?”

Han braces himself, expecting something polite but brief. But Minho’s expression softens as he pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect at first,” Minho begins, his voice steady and sincere. “But Han Jisung… he’s surprised me. His passion for acting and his willingness to throw himself into the role has been inspiring, even to me. He doesn’t hold back, and he’s constantly open to learning and improving. For a newcomer, he brings a depth and commitment that not everyone has, and I think audiences will be able to see that right away.”

Han’s cheeks flush as Minho continues, his words unexpectedly heartfelt. Minho looks over at him, offering a small, encouraging smile.

“Han's energy on set has honestly made this experience refreshing,” he adds. “He’s kept things fun and alive, which has been a huge part of why our scenes have felt so natural.”

Han’s heart swells, his initial nerves completely forgotten as he absorbs Minho’s words. This is more than he ever expected, more than he thought he deserved. Hearing Minho acknowledge his efforts, and in such a public way, strikes a chord he hadn’t anticipated. He tries to focus on the rest of the press conference, but Minho’s words echo in his mind, leaving him feeling both honored and somehow vulnerable.

When the event finally wraps up, Han lingers, watching Minho as he chats with the staff. He knows now, without a doubt, that his admiration has grown into something more. And he wonders how much longer he’ll be able to keep it hidden.

-

Han has lost count of the days since filming began, but one thing has become impossible to ignore: the way his admiration for Minho has shifted, morphing into something deeper than respect. It’s a constant pull at his thoughts, this warmth in his chest that surfaces every time Minho offers him guidance, shares a laugh, or even gives a simple nod of approval after a scene. At first, Han tried to brush it off, telling himself it was just awe for Minho’s talent and dedication. But now he knows better. He likes Minho—more than he should, more than he ever intended.

But he keeps it to himself, swallowing back his feelings each time they surface. He doesn’t want to risk their work, their growing camaraderie, over a confession he’s not even sure Minho would welcome. So, he lets it simmer beneath the surface, content with the moments they share on set.

Today, though, his heart is beating a little faster than usual. Tonight, the first episode of their drama will air. The whole cast and crew are buzzing with excitement, anticipation hanging in the air as they wrap up filming for the day. Han watches as everyone exchanges plans for the evening, talking about where they’ll be watching the show, who they’ll be watching it with. He hears a few of the cast members mention a get-together to watch it as a group, and a thought strikes him, simple yet daring.

When the opportunity arises, Han gathers his courage and approaches Minho. “Hey,” he begins, keeping his tone casual. “Some of us are planning to watch the first episode together tonight. I was wondering… if you wanted to join?”

For a moment, Han feels a flicker of hope as Minho looks at him, appearing to consider the offer. But then Minho’s expression softens, and he gives a polite smile, one that Han can already sense holds an apology.

“I appreciate the invite,” Minho says gently, “but I’m going to have to pass. I’ve already got plans.”

Han tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. He nods, forcing a small smile of understanding. “Ah, that’s cool. No problem at all.”

Minho’s eyes hold a kindness that almost makes the refusal sting less, but only almost. “Enjoy it, though,” Minho adds, his voice genuine. “And don’t stress too much. I know you did great.”

Han swallows back the lingering disappointment and musters a grin, forcing a lighthearted laugh. “Thanks, hyung. I’ll try not to cringe too hard.”

Minho laughs softly and gives him a supportive pat on the shoulder before heading off, leaving Han watching his retreating figure. The ache of disappointment settles in his chest as he tries to shake it off. He tells himself it was just a small ask, nothing major, and that Minho’s absence doesn’t mean anything. But he can’t help but feel a lingering sadness, wishing—just for a moment—that he could be close enough to Minho for things to be different.

-

You make your way through the back entrance of Minho’s apartment building, slipping in with a comfortable familiarity that comes from many late-night visits. Inside the elevator, you scan the keycard he gave you, a small but meaningful token of trust. As the doors close and you begin your ascent, anticipation builds. It’s been a few days since you last saw him, and tonight feels special, knowing you’ll finally get to see the drama he’s been working so hard on.

The elevator brings you directly to his floor, and with a quiet thrill, you step into his apartment. The place is dimly lit, warm and quiet. It’s clear Minho isn’t home yet, just as you’d expected. Setting the bags of food on the counter, you begin unpacking, arranging the dishes you brought on his plates. As you’re finishing up, placing the food neatly on the dining table, you hear the faint sound of the door opening.

A smile spreads across your face, and you walk quickly toward the foyer, meeting him just as he steps in.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, his face lighting up the moment he sees you. Before he can say more, you’re in his arms, hugging him tightly. He holds you close, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead, and then another, softer one on your lips. For a moment, the rest of the world disappears, leaving just the two of you in the quiet of his apartment.

You smile at him when he pulls away and take his hand, “Hope you're hungry cause I brought some food.”

“Famished, actually,” he says as he follows you to the kitchen.

Settling into the cozy embrace of the sofa after dinner, you snuggle up next to Minho, draping a blanket over your laps as the drama’s opening credits begin to roll. Minho’s arm rests around you, his hand tracing gentle patterns on your shoulder, though his eyes are fixed on the screen, already fully immersed.

As he appears in the first scene, you can’t help but smirk a little. He’s clearly playing up the brooding lead, leaning into every intense look and dramatic pause.

“Wow, look at you, Mr. Intense,” you tease, nudging him gently. “Are you sure you’re not laying it on a bit thick?”

Minho sighs in mock exasperation, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “It’s called method acting. Ever heard of it?”

“Oh, definitely,” you say, trying to hold back your laughter. “You’re giving ‘mysterious and misunderstood’ a whole new level. That little eyebrow furrow—does that come naturally, or did you have to practice in the mirror?”

He chuckles, pulling you closer. “I swear, you’re the worst critic I’ve ever met. You know I actually have to think about these things, right?”

As the episode progresses, you continue your playful commentary. When he delivers a particularly intense line, voice low and dramatic, you can’t resist muttering, “Ooh, that voice drop… it’s like you’re trying to win an award for ‘Most Serious Actor Ever.’”

Minho groans, but there’s a soft glint in his eye that shows he’s not entirely displeased. “What do you know? This is serious acting.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “Of course it is. I’m sure your fans are swooning over every word.”

But as the scene shifts to one where his character opens up about a vulnerable moment, your smile softens. You watch as he delivers his lines with surprising tenderness, the usual edge in his voice melting into something raw and real. For a moment, you’re caught off guard, watching as he brings a sense of depth to his role that you hadn’t fully expected.

Noticing your silence, he glances over at you, eyebrow raised. “See?” he says, a little smugly. “Still think I’m overdoing it?”

You roll your eyes but lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Maybe I spoke too soon. You’re actually pretty convincing.”

A triumphant grin spreads across his face. “Knew you’d come around.”

And then, Han’s character appears on the screen. You watch him closely, intrigued by the dynamic he’s creating with Minho. He’s got an earnest quality that’s surprisingly convincing, even charming.

“You know, he’s actually pretty good,” you comment, glancing at Minho. “Not as bad as you said he’d be.”

Minho sighs, leaning his head back against the couch. “Okay, maybe I was a bit harsh,” he admits, sounding a little reluctant. “I wasn’t thrilled about his casting at first. I didn’t think he’d be able to keep up. But I have to admit, he’s… he’s got something.”

You nod, watching his face as he speaks. There’s a thoughtful look in his eyes as he stares at the screen, and you sense that his respect for Han has grown, even if he’s too stubborn to say it outright.

“It’s nice that you two get along now,” you say softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

As the first episode wraps up, the screen fades to black, and you let out a satisfied sigh, glancing over at Minho. He’s watching your reaction carefully, clearly curious about your final thoughts.

“Well,” you say, drawing out the moment just to tease him, “I have to admit… you and Han actually have pretty great chemistry on screen.”

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” you continue, feigning a dramatic sigh. “Almost enough to make me a little jealous.”

Minho chuckles, shifting closer and wrapping his arms around you. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, leaning in until his face is inches from yours. “It’s all just acting, remember?”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, jokingly doubting his assurance with an eye roll.

“You know who has the best chemistry?” he asks with mock seriousness, he pats his lap, gesturing you to sit on it.

Without hesitating, you obey his words and does what he asked, sitting on his lap with your back against his chest and he begins rubbing the side of your thigh.

“Who?” You ask as you rest your head onto his shoulder.

"You and me," He answers without a beat then pulls you into a kiss, his playful tone fading into something softer, more genuine.

As you relax into his embrace, you feel the ease and warmth that only he can bring, and for now, any lingering worries fade away as he captures your mouth in a kiss again, and it’s so gentle you could cry.

“Dress off. Come on now.” Minho’s voice is rough and cajoling.

You don't know what it is about him that always makes you always submit to his wishes even though nothing would happen if you didn't. Yet, you always do it. You tug the hem of your dress and slightly get up from his lap just so you can take it off over your head.

Minho immediately pulls you close and puts his veined arms around you, you don't want it less than that. His hand grabs your chin to turn your head his way and presses a kiss, his tongue touches yours.

“All I’ve been thinking about all day is all the ways we’ll fit together,” his lips graze yours as he speaks as he sinks his mouth on you again, hard.

You never know with Minho because next, he's giving your throat the softest bites imaginable. He then slides his fingers into yours and rests them together on your chest. Here, this moment is sweet, soft and gentle, and... Minho.

The two of you begin kissing again, and the friction of your ass against his crotch is spurring him into a slightly heavier rhythm. His mouth is wet, soft, delicious. The moment he stops, even to take a proper breath, you tug him back.

After an eternity, he tangles his hand in the strap on your shoulder. He runs it lasciviously through his fingers pulling it taut, releasing it with the faintest snap, and then does it again.

“I like this color on you,” he murmurs as he cups your breasts through your bra.

He crashes his lips on your open mouth, hot and intense, it goes on until he successfully takes off your bra. The second he breaks the kiss, you're gasping for air.

He continues to fondle your breasts, the friction between you and him blooming outward. He scoops your hair away and presses his mouth on the side of your neck. He slides under and weighs your bare breasts in his hands. Slowly, gently, his fingers pinch that earned him a gasp from you.

There's nothing you like more than seeing his hands on you but what's more arousing is how you're the only one naked. He slides one hand down your front and the scrape of his nails makes your skin break into goose bumps.

It doesn't take long until his hand slips between your legs, feeling your sex through the flimsy fabric, tracing that bundle of nerves that engorged the more he touches it.

The next thing you know, the underwear is off and lying on the side of the sofa. He lands his hand right where you need him and he licks at the sheen of sweat beginning to mist your neck, making you drop your head to the back.

His skillful fingers know how to please you and just the sight of his hand touching you between your thighs is enough to make you feel hot all over. When he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you, you hear a faraway sound that you realize is you, whimpering, begging noises. He takes no notice and shows no pity. He presses his perfect mouth on whatever section of skin he pleases.

“Minho, please,” you breathlessly plead with your hand flies to his forearm, it's unclear whether you're trying to stop him or gesture him to keep going.

“What is it, honey?” He casually asks with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Want you inside me,” you rasp with a brief, sweet kiss on his lips.

He endearingly brushes your head and kisses your lips, “You can have it, honey.”

Minho watches as you work open his jeans and pull the zipper down, and the second his erection sprang free, you wrapped your hand around it, stroking it. You don’t want to waste any more time waiting so you position yourself and slowly easing yourself down.

“Oh...” you moan the moment you fully take him and rest your back on his chest.

The slightest of movement and you can feel his whole length inside you, hot and hard, you lowly whimpering as Minho continues, one hand squeezing on your breast and the other is rubbing on your clit. As the knot inside you tightens, your body instinctively responds by slowly rolling your hips.

“That’s cute,” Minho murmurs as his mouth lingers close to your ear.

Half listening to his word, you turn your head his way and look at him. “Huh?”

He presses a haste kiss on your neck and answers, “I haven't moved yet you're already clenching around me.”

You put your arm around his neck and tangle your hand in his hair. “And maybe you should start doing your part too.” you say with a pout.

Minho smirks and then he tightens his hold around you, “You'd better hold on then cause I'm not going to hold back.” he warns you a second before planting a hard kiss on your lips.

One thing about Minho is that he’s staying true to his words, he's bucking his hips from under you, fast and without any intentions to stop. His arms tightly wrapped around you, keeping you steady as you bounce on his lap for every time he thrusts into you.

Breathless, incoherent noises are spilling out of your parted mouth as you cling onto the last shred of sanity. And when you think you can't take it anymore, Minho keeps pushing through until you fall apart around him.

He doesn't even give you time to gather your senses as he puts all of your hair away and kisses your lips. “You good?” he casually asks like he didn't just fuck your brains out a while ago.

“I'm dead,” you breathlessly sigh, completely spent. “I'm a ghost.”

Minho lets out a low chuckle in amusement. “I didn’t know I was lethal.”

“Oh, trust me. You are,” you say, bringing his head close to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

Minho puts his arms around you as you curl into him. The way he holds you right now is different, he holds you as if he's keeping a fragile object on his lap. He trails the length of your arms and then folds them together on your stomach. Together, you stay like that, simply existing in this shared world that only belongs to you and Minho.

-

The morning after the drama’s first episode airs, Han sits with his phone in hand, scrolling through endless comments and reviews. His heart lifts slightly at the sight of fans praising his chemistry with Minho; they seem excited about the pairing, and some are already declaring themselves fans of their on-screen relationship.

But the more he scrolls, the more his excitement fades. Articles from entertainment sites flood his feed, critiquing his lack of experience, questioning if he’s ready for the screen at all. A few words sting deeply: "too green," "stiff," "not quite convincing."

He exhales heavily, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the disappointment. But as he glances up, he catches Minho watching him from across the room, brows knitted with concern.

“Reading comments?” Minho asks, his voice gentle but knowing.

Han hesitates, but he nods, letting out a sigh. “Fans seem to like it… but the critics? Not so much. They’re saying I’m not ready for this.”

Minho moves to sit beside him, leaning back with a casual calm that Han wishes he could imitate. “Critics are always like that,” he says. “They can be harsh, especially with new actors.”

Han swallows, looking down. “Yeah, but... maybe they’re right. I thought I was getting the hang of it, but maybe I’m just not cut out for this.”

Minho gives him a long look, then shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s true at all. You’ve got something that can’t be taught—genuine passion. I can see it, and that’s not something every actor has.”

Han glances at him, a small glimmer of hope returning to his eyes. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” Minho nods. “Look, we’re a team here. You’re not alone in this. If there’s something you’re struggling with, tell me. I’ll help you.”

A warmth spreads through Han’s chest, the comfort of Minho’s words easing the ache from the criticism. “I appreciate it, really,” he says softly.

Minho gives his shoulder a reassuring pat. “Just remember, it’s early days. If we keep working together and building on this chemistry we have, the audience is going to feel it too. It’s not about perfection; it’s about being present, letting yourself believe in the character.”

Han nods, taking in each word. “I’ll do my best. Thanks, Minho.”

Minho smiles, a slight glint of pride in his gaze. “Good. Now stop overthinking, okay? You’re doing great.”

Han laughs a little, the weight on his shoulders feeling lighter. He’s not sure how he’ll improve overnight, but with Minho’s support, maybe this acting thing doesn’t seem so impossible after all.

As he glances over at Minho, still sitting close and offering a steady, reassuring presence, Han feels a warmth that has nothing to do with his career. It’s more than gratitude, more than admiration. This kindness, this unwavering belief in him—Minho didn’t have to do any of it. And yet, here he is, making Han feel like he’s more than just an idol trying to act, like he’s genuinely capable of this.

In that moment, Han knows he can’t keep denying what he feels any longer. It’s not just respect or admiration. It’s something deeper, something he can’t easily brush aside. As much as he wants to hide it, to keep their friendship untainted by anything more, he realizes he can’t. Not when Minho is the one who makes him feel this way—seen, encouraged, understood. And, with a sinking heart, Han knows that those feelings aren’t going away anytime soon.

-

Han sighs as he rubs his temples, trying to ease the tension that's been building since the morning. He can’t seem to shake the restless feeling gnawing at him ever since he read those online critiques. No matter how many times he tells himself to let it go—just as Minho advised—the words stick like thorns. As filming wraps up for the day, Han is lost in his own thoughts, trudging toward the parking lot, when he hears footsteps approaching.

“Hey, you’re not leaving yet, are you?” Minho’s voice breaks through Han’s clouded mind.

Han looks up, surprised to see Minho standing there with a casual smile. “Uh, yeah, I was heading out,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

Minho raises a brow, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Come with me, then. I know a place—quiet, private. Good for clearing your head.”

The invitation is sudden, and Han blinks, caught off guard. But Minho is already turning, expecting Han to follow. A slight thrill rushes through Han as he nods, curiosity piqued. He falls into step behind Minho, trailing him to a discreet, cozy-looking cafe perched on a hill with a stunning city view.

The lights are dim, casting a soft, golden glow, and the atmosphere is intimate. Han notices immediately that the place is empty, giving them complete privacy.

“It’s nice here, right?” Minho says, glancing around. “A friend of mine owns the place. I rent it out sometimes, just to get some space.”

Han nods, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. Just the two of them, alone, in a setting so... cozy. He can’t help but feel the weight of his own feelings pressing down, undeniable. His gaze lingers on Minho, wondering if he senses the energy between them, or if—on some level—he already knows how Han feels.

His heart races, and, feeling bold, he almost asks—asks if Minho knows, if he’s aware of the effect he has on him. But before Han can get a single word out, he hears footsteps. He turns, just in time to see you walking toward them with a bright smile, your eyes lighting up at the sight of Minho.

“Hey,” you greet, and Minho immediately rises to meet you, pulling you into a warm hug and placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

“Oh, you’re here!” Minho says, his voice softer, affectionate. He turns to Han, still holding your hand. “Han, this is my girlfriend.”

Han feels something in his chest tighten. His smile falters for just a second, but he quickly pulls it back together, offering his hand to you as he forces out a polite, “Hi, nice to meet you.”

You take his hand with a warm smile. “Nice to meet you too, Han! Minho’s told me a lot about working with you.”

Han manages a nod, though his throat feels tight. He wants to say something—anything—but the ache in his heart makes the words stick. The sight of Minho with someone else, with you, sends a hollow feeling through him. He sits there, struggling to maintain his smile, all the while painfully aware that the private moment he thought he’d been sharing with Minho was never just his alone.

The table is set, plates of food and drinks laid out perfectly in front of him. But Han can’t bring himself to touch a single bite. His appetite vanished the moment you walked in, and now every glance at the couple across from him—at you and Minho—is like a quiet, twisting ache in his stomach. He feels faint, like his insides are tangled with something heavy and painful. He knows it's not hunger or exhaustion; it’s something deeper, a pang lodged firmly in his heart.

Forcing a smile, he tries to keep the mood light. He clears his throat and asks, “So… how did you two meet?”

You exchange a warm look with Minho, and he squeezes your hand gently before you answer. “We met at an event at the gallery where I work. I’m a curator, so I was helping with the art exhibition. Minho came as a guest. We didn’t talk much that night, but he found a way to reach out after.”

You chuckle softly, glancing at Minho with an affection that’s obvious. “And the rest, well… it just happened naturally.”

Minho nods, adding, “But we decided to keep it private, for now. I wanted to keep you out of the public eye, spare you the complications.”

There’s a softness in his voice as he speaks to you, a gentleness that makes Han’s heart clench. He can see it—Minho’s care for you, how serious he is about this relationship. The easy comfort you share with him is everything Han wants but can’t have.

A bitter taste fills his mouth, jealousy settling in a solid knot in his chest. He tries to hide it, but he feels every bit of his resentment boiling beneath the surface. He hates it—the way you and Minho fit so perfectly, the way you both look so natural together.

“So, Han,” you ask, turning to him with a friendly smile, “have you been enjoying the drama so far? You’re really good, you know.

“Thank you,” he simply responds with a courteous smile.

“And you're really cute in person, I can’t help but wonder... is there someone you’re secretly seeing too?”

Han swallows, feeling his throat tighten. He forces a small laugh, glancing away. “No, no one. I’m… just focused on work right now.”

He hates that he can’t admit the truth, hates that he’s here, across from you, pretending like everything is fine when all he wants is the person sitting right next to you.

You nod, looking genuinely kind, and somehow that only makes it worse. Han hates how nice you are, how you’re trying to connect with him. He hates how you and Minho look so in sync, how he can feel his heart tearing just from watching the way Minho looks at you.

Most of all, he hates that he can’t just shut off his own feelings. Sitting across from you both, he feels as if he’s being reminded of something he can never have, a painful dream that he knows he needs to give up on, but that still clings to his heart no matter how hard he tries to shake it off.

-

Minho watches Han carefully, noticing how his usual lighthearted energy seems to have dimmed. As they film take after take, Han's responses lack the spark that usually flows so effortlessly between them. The director's frustration mounts with each retake, his voice tight as he finally calls for a break, clearly exasperated. Minho feels the tension, both on and off set, but his mind zeroes in on Han, who has been uncharacteristically reserved all day.

Taking a deep breath, Minho strides over to Han, watching the younger man stare blankly off to the side, clearly lost in thought.

“Hey,” Minho starts, voice low but firm. “Is everything okay?”

Han shrugs, barely glancing his way. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, but Minho can tell he’s anything but. Han’s usual enthusiasm is missing, leaving an emptiness that’s throwing off their whole rhythm.

Minho presses, not willing to let it slide. “Look, we’re here to work, and the scenes are getting held up because of this...whatever it is.”

He’s careful with his words, knowing that Han is struggling but still needing to emphasize the stakes. “If you’re distracted, if something’s going on, just tell me. We have to get this done right, or we’re going to keep everyone here longer than necessary.”

Han sighs, brushing him off again, though Minho can see a flicker of guilt in his eyes. Minho softens his tone, sensing he may have come on too strong. “I’m only saying this because I want us to do well—and I can help, if you’d let me.”

There’s a moment of silence before Han nods, glancing away to mask whatever emotion is flashing through his expression. “Alright. Maybe we can practice the scene together.”

They sit down, scripts in hand, and Minho begins walking him through the lines. But as they work through each moment, he can't shake the feeling that Han is holding something back, a wall just behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. He wonders if something personal is weighing on him, though he knows better than to pry.

-

Han's heart races as he prepares for today’s scene, a new layer of anticipation weaving through his nerves.

It’s another kissing scene—something he used to dread, but this time, there’s a different kind of excitement, a yearning that feels both thrilling and bittersweet. He doesn’t have to force himself to seem close to Minho; the longing that he’s held back for so long is simmering just beneath the surface, ready to seep into the scene. For once, he allows himself to embrace it, just a little.

They run through a quick rehearsal, and Han tries to focus, but every subtle brush of their hands and each lingering gaze threatens to undo him. As they step into position for the actual take, he forces himself to take a breath and hold steady.

The director calls “Action!” and, with it, Han leans into the moment fully, letting every hidden feeling flow from him as they close the distance between them.

When their lips meet, Han pours every unspoken word, every ache, into the kiss. It’s more than just acting now—it’s a fragile connection that feels achingly real to him, even if only for this stolen moment. He lets himself feel it all, knowing this might be the closest he’ll ever get to showing Minho how deeply he cares. His hand brushes Minho’s cheek as they linger just a second longer, not wanting to let go.

Finally, the director’s “Cut!” jolts them back to reality. They pull away slowly, and as Han opens his eyes, he sees Minho’s expression shifting, as if caught in an unsaid question.

For a heartbeat, he thinks that maybe Minho sensed it—that somehow, in that kiss, his true feelings slipped through. But then Minho’s face relaxes, a warm smile spreading across his lips.

“You’re really getting the hang of these kissing scenes,” Minho says with a casual laugh, a glimmer of pride in his eyes.

Han’s stomach twists with disappointment, the remnants of that brief connection slipping through his fingers.

As Minho turns and walks off set, Han watches him go, knowing that his feelings remain hidden, unreturned. He wants to believe Minho felt even a fraction of what he did—but as reality settles around him, he knows it was only ever acting for Minho.

-

After filming wraps up, Minho lingers on set, barely able to shake the scene that’s been replaying in his mind. The kiss with Han felt different somehow—charged with an energy that was hard to pinpoint. He replays it in his head, wondering if maybe Han poured a little more into it, making it all the more convincing. Maybe he was just that good at acting, Minho tries to reason, but the thought keeps tugging at him, unresolved and pressing.

His phone chimes, breaking him from his thoughts, and his heart lifts when he sees your name light up the screen.

Opening the message, he’s met with a picture that instantly brings a smile to his face—a hint of mischief and a lot of allure, just like you. You tease him in the caption, making it obvious that you want to tantalize him this nude picture of you.

With a grin, he types back, playfully: “Not enough to cure it, you’re going to need to send more.”

And right on cue, you do, sending him another that’s even more provoking, arousing even.

“What you've been missing when you're away.” You write in a follow-up text.

“Maybe you should come to me instead.” He writes bacm but even in his teasing, there’s an underlying wish that you were really here with him, grounding him.

As he looks at your messages, Minho feels a deep warmth. Beyond attraction, beyond companionship, there’s a completeness in his life with you—a sense that he has everything he needs. And maybe, that’s what he needs to focus on, even amid his rising fame and unexpected connections on set. You’re more than enough; you’re what matters most to him, reminding him of who he is and what truly grounds him.

-

The day begins with a hint of anticipation buzzing in Han's chest, something he can't fully ignore. After yesterday’s kiss scene, he feels oddly lighter, but it hasn’t lessened his feelings for Minho—if anything, it’s intensified them. He worries that this pull he feels toward Minho will linger far longer than he’s ready to admit.

His first scene of the day is an intense one, an emotional scene he’s been rehearsing tirelessly. Though he knows Minho isn’t in the scene, a wave of surprise rushes over him when he sees Minho watching from a distance, blending in with the crew lined up behind the camera. A tiny flicker of nervousness unsettles him, feeling as though he’s being carefully assessed by Minho, even if it’s just him being there. The thought of wanting to impress Minho nudges at him, urging him to pour his heart into this take.

As the camera rolls, Han steps fully into his character, letting each line carry the weight of the scene’s emotions. He loses himself in it, forgetting even the people watching until, finally, he hears the director call, “Cut!” He lets out a breath, a sense of release, noticing his co-star’s encouraging smile and the director’s approving nod. But just as he looks for Minho, he sees him disappear behind a wave of moving crew members, leaving Han feeling strangely empty.

Later that day, after Han’s costume change, Minho finds him in a quiet moment. Han’s heart jumps as he notices the way Minho looks at him—a soft smile lighting up his face, more genuine than anything he’s seen from him before. That one look sends a rush through him, and when Minho speaks, his words only deepen the effect.

“That was a really good scene, Jisung,” Minho says with a warmth that Han can’t help but soak up. “You did great.”

The praise hits Han hard, and he feels both flattered and resentful of the ache it leaves. This approval, this smile—it's exactly what he wants, yet he knows how dangerous it is to hold on to it. Minho’s encouragement fills him with a quiet joy but also makes him painfully aware of his own unresolved feelings. Han wrestles between wanting to hold onto these feelings or forcing himself to let them go, but the choice only feels harder with every small moment like this.

-

As you sit on the couch, phone in hand, you glance once more at your screen. Still no reply from Minho. You’d sent him a couple of texts earlier, just checking in, but the lack of response now is stretching into hours. You tell yourself he’s probably caught up in filming—it wouldn’t be the first time—but still, you can’t help wondering what he’s up to.

Tonight is the broadcast of the new episode of his drama, and you’ve set up everything to watch it: dimmed lights, a cozy blanket, and your favorite snacks lined up on the coffee table. Just as you settle into the sofa, there’s a knock at the door. You weren’t expecting anyone; Minho usually lets himself in, and you can’t think of anyone else who would come by unannounced.

When you open the door, there he is, pulling down his mask to reveal that familiar sly smirk. His eyes are bright with that hint of mischief you love, and before you can even say a word, he’s leaning against the door frame, clearly pleased with himself for the surprise.

“Missed me, stranger?” he says with a playful grin.

You barely wait for him to step inside before you practically throw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him in a tight hug. Excitement bubbles over as you press a series of quick, affectionate kisses all over his face, earning a warm laugh from him.

“Missed you,” You whine as you hold his face in both hands.

Minho’s arms slide around your waist, pulling you close, and he murmurs against your hair, “I missed you too. That’s why I’m here.” He’s smiling as he says it, his tone light but his gaze soft, as if being here with you is exactly where he wants to be.

“You could’ve at least answered one of my texts!” you tease, poking his chest gently.

“That would’ve ruined the surprise,” he counters, his smile growing.

The two of you are cozied up on the sofa, his arm around your shoulders as you lean into his warmth, both fully engrossed in the episode playing out on screen. Every so often, you toss out a playful comment about Minho’s acting, teasing him for an overly dramatic look here, a “heroic” line delivery there. He chuckles along with you, sometimes leaning in to nudge your shoulder in faux protest.

Then, the intimate scene comes on, the one you knew would happen eventually but hadn’t quite prepared yourself to watch with him right next to you.

On screen, Minho and Han move closer, the scene building until the two share a slow, meaningful kiss. The room goes still, and for a moment, neither of you say anything, just watching the scene in silence.

As the kiss fades to the next shot, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. You give Minho a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say with a grin, “you didn’t even kiss me like that. I’m starting to feel a little jealous here.”

He laughs, a bit of color coming to his cheeks, and he lifts his free hand, shrugging playfully. “What can I say? I’m just a great actor,” he jokes, clearly enjoying the teasing exchange.

But then, something shifts. He grows quiet, his gaze softening as he looks at you, his playful expression fading into something warmer, deeper. He reaches out, taking your hand in his and intertwining your fingers with a gentle squeeze.

“You know that I love you, right?” He asks out of the blue.

“All of a sudden?” You ask back in utter confusion.

“I mean it. I love you so much.” He murmurs, his voice lower than a whisper.

The sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, and for a moment, all you can do is look at him, feeling the depth of his words sink in. It’s not often that Minho expresses his feelings so openly, and hearing him say it like this—it’s almost overwhelming.

You give his hand a squeeze, your heart racing. “I love you too,” you say, your own voice soft with emotion and lean in to plant a heartfelt kiss on his lips.

And as you settle back against him, you feel a sense of warmth and reassurance, a quiet understanding that nothing could come between you, not even a screen full of on-screen kisses.

-

As he waits to be called to set, Han steels himself, trying to bury the emotion stirring inside him. But he can’t shake the thought that his heart might betray him when it matters most.

The buzz of excitement and nerves in Han’s chest grows stronger with each step he takes toward the set. He’s been preparing for this scene, both mentally and emotionally, and he knows how important it is to the storyline, but there's more to it—this is the scene where Minho’s character will finally confess his feelings.

Han’s heart pounds harder just thinking about it, knowing the lines that will be said, the emotions that will pour out between them, even if it's all scripted.

He spots Minho on set, dressed sharply, looking even more stunning under the warm, intimate lighting. The setting feels romantic, with subtle touches arranged to evoke tenderness, and everything about it draws Han deeper into the atmosphere.

He takes a slow breath, trying to calm his nerves, but his hands still feel clammy, his stomach flipping at the thought of what they’re about to portray. He reminds himself it’s just acting, but when it comes to Minho, it feels like anything but.

When the director finally calls action, Han barely has a chance to prepare himself before Minho starts speaking, his voice low and sincere. The words Minho’s character says are filled with yearning, with raw honesty, and as Han listens, he finds himself lost in them, his heart aching as if they’re directed at him.

Without thinking, his body responds instinctively, as if it’s moving on its own accord. He reaches for Minho, stepping closer, and in the quiet pause between lines, he leans in. The kiss isn’t in the script, but it feels right, a raw improvisation that spills over the line between their characters and themselves.

For a moment, he forgets the cameras, the crew, and everything else—just the warmth of Minho’s presence, the closeness, the sense of something deeper.

In that split second, Han lets his own feelings slip, letting Minho feel what he’s held back all this time. It’s terrifying, yet exhilarating, and he can feel his heart racing as he wonders if Minho will notice, if somehow he’ll sense the truth beneath the surface.

As the director calls cut, Han steps back, trying to steady his breathing and his emotions. The kiss lingers in his mind, an echo of feelings he knows he shouldn’t have let surface, and he’s torn between regret and the quiet thrill of that moment with Minho. It felt real—too real—and he can only hope no one else noticed the depth of what he let slip.

But as he glances toward the crew lined up behind the camera, his gaze lands on you. You’re standing there, just out of the frame but close enough that it’s clear you’ve been watching.

Han’s heart skips, panic rising as he catches a look on your face that makes his stomach turn. There’s something in your expression, a subtle knowing, a hint of suspicion, as if you saw more in that scene than the scripted performance. It’s a look that seems to cut through him, one that makes him feel as though he’s been caught, exposed.

Han’s heart beats faster, his eyes quickly averting, but the feeling lingers, heavy and suffocating. In that single glance, he fears you’ve seen everything he’s been trying so hard to hide.

-

Disguised as Minho’s assistant, you make your way through the bustling studio complex, heart fluttering with excitement at the thought of surprising him. His manager is in on it, guiding you through the maze of set pieces and equipment with a casual nod, helping you blend in as just another member of the crew. You can hardly wait to see Minho in action, to watch him shine in the role he’s been so invested in.

When you finally arrive at the set, it’s just as he and Han are about to start filming. Quietly, you settle yourself among the crew, standing beside Minho’s manager as everyone prepares to watch the scene. Your eyes find Minho instantly, and you feel a swell of pride watching him work, completely in his element.

As the director calls for action, you’re immediately drawn into the scene. Minho and Han stand together, their faces a mixture of vulnerability and intensity. Minho delivers his lines with that familiar, effortless passion, but there’s something more, something unspoken in the way he looks at Han.

The air between them crackles with emotion, a depth of connection that feels almost palpable. Han responds with equal intensity, his gaze fixed on Minho, raw and completely believable.

Watching them, an unexpected pang of jealousy cuts through you. You’ve seen Minho work with countless actors, watched him perform in intimate scenes before, but there’s something different here. Their chemistry is undeniable, powerful in a way that feels unsettlingly real. The way Minho looks at Han… you’ve seen that look before, but it was meant for you.

An uneasy feeling builds in your chest, making it difficult to stay there any longer. Suddenly, being in the midst of the crew, watching this connection unfold, feels suffocating. You don’t want to make a scene, but you need some space, somewhere to process what you’re feeling.

Without drawing attention to yourself, you quietly slip out of the studio and make your way to Minho’s car. Sitting alone, you take a few deep breaths, trying to shake the images of what you’ve just seen, to push away the unsettling thoughts.

But they linger, and for the first time, you feel a strange sense of distance, as if the Minho you’ve known might be drifting somewhere you can’t reach.

-

Minho still feels shaken from that last scene, his thoughts tangled between reality and the emotions that flared up so unexpectedly. He wasn’t sure if it was acting or something more; the way Han looked at him, the intensity of it, felt… different. He steals a glance at Han, hoping for some kind of clue or confirmation, but before he can say anything, his manager approaches, letting him know that you came to set to surprise him.

He barely manages a nod before making a quick exit to the parking lot. As he reaches the car and sees you there, he feels an instant rush of relief. But as he takes in your expression, he notices something—a subtle hesitation, a shadow he can’t quite read.

The surprise in your eyes catches him off guard, almost as if you hadn’t expected him to come out so soon, like you weren’t fully prepared to see him.

“Hey, stranger,” he greets you, a smile breaking through the confusion swirling in his mind.

He quickly closes the distance, taking your hand, pulling you close as he wraps you in a tight hug. He kisses your lips softly, grateful that you’re here, grounding him after the surreal scene he’d just finished.

“Thank you for coming to see me.”

You give him a gentle smile, though he senses a slight distraction in your eyes. “I watched that scene you did with Han,” you say, your tone warm but reserved. “You were… incredible. So was Han.”

Your compliment touches him, but there’s something in the way you say it that feels… off. Before he can put a finger on it, you take a bag from the backseat. “Figure you'd be hungry so I brought you food.”

Minho gladly takes it from because he's indeed famished, unknowingly has skipped on a meal. He delivers his gratitude with a quick peck on your lips. “You know me so well.”

“Minho, I...” you talk with an edge to your voice and Minho holds his breath as he waits for you to finish your sentence. “I don't think I can stay long.”

“That’s okay. I'm happy just to see you even for a bit.” Minho, knowing he’ll be filming well into the night, doesn’t press you to stay, though a small part of him wants to. He doesn’t want you waiting around all night in discomfort.

“Alright,” he says softly, releasing you but keeps his hand intertwined with yours. “Make sure to get home safe and thank you for the food.” He gives you a warm smile, savoring one last kiss before letting you go.

Just before you exit the car, he catches a faint hesitation in the way you return his kiss. It’s fleeting, barely noticeable, but something about it lingers as he watches you walk away. He brushes it off for now, telling himself it’s just a long day getting to him.

-

Han’s heart races as Minho approaches him with that bright smile, so full of energy, as if the last twelve hours of filming hadn’t taken a toll on him at all. Han has been trying to stick to a plan—finish each scene and make a quick exit, not giving his heart any more time to catch up to the feelings he’s been wrestling with. But seeing Minho like this, so openly pleased to be near him, has him feeling dizzy with hope and dread all at once.

When Minho pulls him aside, Han’s pulse quickens. He can’t tell if he’s nervous or just bracing himself, wondering why Minho would be so close, why he’s leaning in.

“It’s my girlfriend's birthday and I uh... we're doing a get-together tonight and she wants you to come,” Minho’s voice drops as he tells Han about it and his eyes are steadily scanning his surroundings just in case someone is eavesdropping.

“But it’s okay if you can't come,” Minho is quick to add that there’s no pressure, that Han is welcome to decline.

Han knows he should turn it down, excuse himself with work or exhaustion, anything to put some distance between him and this moment that feels far too tempting.

But the way Minho’s eyes look at him, with that open warmth, makes it so hard to walk away. A part of him longs to be with Minho just a little longer, even if he knows he shouldn’t.

“Alright,” he hears himself say, his voice soft. “I’ll come.”

-

Han hadn’t known what to expect when he agreed to come to your birthday celebration, but a small, intimate gathering of just the three of you was nowhere near what he’d imagined.

There’s a cake on the table, candles lit and flickering softly, casting a warm glow over the empty café. Han and Minho sing you a slightly off-key version of “Happy Birthday,” and when you blow out the candle, Minho leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss on your lips, murmuring a quiet, “Happy birthday, love.”

The kiss is both beautiful and unbearable for Han. He forces a small smile, trying not to look too long at how perfect the two of you seem together, how he can’t help but wish he were the one beside Minho in that way.

When it’s his turn, he clears his throat and offers a sincere, “Happy birthday. I, uh… I didn’t bring a gift yet, but I’ll make sure Minho delivers one soon.”

“Thank you, Han,” you reply, giving him a warm smile. “You being here is more than enough.”

The three of you share the cake, and while you all laugh and chat, Minho’s phone rings, cutting the conversation short. He glances at the screen and sighs. “I should take this—it’ll just be a minute.” He stands up and heads outside, leaving you and Han alone in a silence that settles thick between you both.

Han shifts uncomfortably, trying to think of something to say. “I really am sorry I didn’t bring anything. I… I just didn’t know it’d be this, uh… personal.”

You smile, but there’s something different in it. “It’s okay, Han. Actually… can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

You look at him for a long moment, and then, out of nowhere, you ask, “Do you like Minho?”

Han blinks, taken aback but he knows better to opt for a safe answer. “Of course. I mean, who wouldn’t? He’s a great guy, and he’s an amazing actor.”

Your expression remains calm but your eyes locked on his, staring intensely. “You know what I mean, Han.”

He stares at you, his initial denial withering under the weight of your gaze. His chest tightens, and suddenly, he feels vulnerable, exposed. “I… I admire him, I really do. He’s just… easy to look up to.”

But you don’t let him off that easily. You look at him with quiet understanding, and he realizes you already know. His voice falters as he adds, “I… I didn’t mean for it to be this way. I’ve tried to make it go away, but…”

His voice trails off, and he watches you, waiting for anger, for judgment—something. But instead, you surprise him.

“Then tell him,” you say gently. “When filming ends. You have until then.”

He stares at you, his heart racing. “W-What?”

“I’m giving you the chance to tell him yourself, Han,” you say, your tone gentle yet unwavering. “Whatever happens after that… well, that’s for the three of us to figure out.”

Han can’t believe what he’s hearing. A thousand thoughts flood his mind, but he has no chance to respond. Just then, Minho returns, looking between the two of you, sensing the strange tension.

“What’s going on here?” Minho chuckles, oblivious. “Did Han just remember he forgot to bring you a birthday present?”

You smile, deflecting with a light laugh. “Pretty much.”

Minho laughs, taking a seat beside you. “Well, lucky for you, I didn’t forget.”

He hands you a small, wrapped box, eyes twinkling. “Here—open it.”

You unwrap the box and find a delicate necklace inside. It’s simple but elegant, the kind of thing that’s unmistakably Minho’s taste. Your eyes soften, and Minho smiles, reaching over. “Here, let me.”

As he moves closer, his fingers brush your neck while he fastens the clasp. Han watches from across the table, feeling something heavy settle in his chest as Minho’s attention focuses entirely on you.

“There,” Minho says softly, sitting back with a satisfied grin. “Looks perfect on you.”

“Thank you,” you say, a touch shyly, your fingers brushing over the pendant.

Han forces a smile as he sits, his mind swirling. He feels as though he’s been given a choice he never imagined he’d have to make—and he wonders if he has the courage to take it.

-

Minho pulls up outside your apartment building, letting the car idle as he glances over at you. He wants you to stay, he always does, and tonight is no different. With a hopeful smile, he asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind? Just one night won’t hurt, right?”

You laugh softly, the sound warm but faintly tired, and shake your head. “I’d love to, but I have to leave early tomorrow. It’s the opening for the exhibition at the gallery, remember?” You pause, then add with a teasing grin, “Besides, we both know there wouldn’t be much sleep if I stayed.”

He chuckles, understanding immediately, though he can’t deny the disappointment that lingers. He always craves more time with you, more moments like these, but he nods in acceptance.

“Okay,” he says with a sigh of defeat.

As you turn to say goodnight, leaning in for a soft, lingering kiss, Minho feels something different, something beneath the surface that he can’t quite put his finger on. Before you can pull away, he draws you back in, pressing his lips to yours again, deeper this time, seeking the reassurance he hadn’t known he needed. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he kisses you, like he’s searching for an answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask.

When he finally pulls back, his hand still rests on the back of your neck, thumb tracing gentle circles there. He looks into your eyes, brow slightly furrowed. “Are we… okay? You and me?”

Your smile is soft but slightly strained, your voice gentle as you reply, “Of course we are, Minho. Everything’s fine.”

But as you pull away, Minho can’t shake the feeling that your answer isn’t entirely convincing. There’s something lingering in your gaze, something unsaid, and it hangs in the air long after you step out of the car and wave goodnight.

Watching you disappear into your building, Minho grips the steering wheel tightly, his mind racing. He doesn’t know what’s bothering you or what’s weighing on your mind, but he’s determined to find out. Whatever it is, he’s not going to let it come between you—not if he can help it.

-

The flowers arrive just as you’re beginning to settle into your day, a bouquet bursting with blush roses and delicate lilies. Tucked inside, there’s a small, handwritten note: “Missed you, stranger.”

You can’t ignore the pang of guilt that hits you as you read those words. Lately, you’ve been putting distance between you and Minho, caught up in your work and all too aware of how it must feel to him. You send him a quick text to thank him, hoping it conveys more than just words. But before you can put your phone down, it rings, and you see his name on the screen.

“Hey,” he says, and there’s a warmth in his voice that immediately pulls at you. “So… did you get them? Do you like the flowers?”

You can hear the hopefulness in his tone, and it stirs something deep inside. “I love them. They’re beautiful, Minho. Thank you.”

His laughter is soft, but you can tell he means it when he says, “I kinda had to. You’re starting to feel like a stranger to me, you know?”

The pang of guilt sharpens. He’s not wrong. Your busy schedule has taken its toll, and your relationship has been on the quiet side for too long now.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, hating how small the words sound. “I didn’t mean for things to get like this.”

There’s a pause, as if he’s letting your words sink in. “I miss you,” he says finally, and it’s so honest, so simple, that it breaks through all the walls you’ve been putting up.

You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his words settle in. “I miss you too, Minho.”

His sigh is full of relief. “Then let’s see each other this weekend. I’ll come over, or we can go out—whatever you want. Just… let’s spend some time together.”

You hesitate, knowing what you have to say next. “I wish I could. But… I’m going on a work trip. I’ll be out until early next week.”

The silence that follows is thick with his disappointment. “Ah,” he says finally, and though he tries to mask it, you can hear the hurt in his voice. “I get it. It’s just... been a while since we actually spent time together.”

You feel his pain like it’s your own. “I know. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

“Alright,” he says, a touch of resignation there now. “Just… don’t be a stranger too long, okay?”

“Okay,” you say softly. “I won’t.”

When the call ends, you’re left holding the phone, staring at the flowers, and hoping that when you’re finally back, it won’t feel like the distance has grown too much for either of you to cross.

-

Han has been caught in a constant tug-of-war with himself, torn between wanting to keep his distance from Minho and feeling that undeniable pull toward him. He can’t stop thinking about you and the offer you made, the chance to tell Minho the truth—a chance he knows is dangerous to take, but also one he can’t stop thinking about. But for now, he’s settled for a safer distance. Not too far, not too close. After all, it’s not his fault if Minho is the one who keeps stepping into that space, right?

Sitting alone in the empty changing room, Han studies his script, though the words feel hazy, his mind clouded with everything but the lines he’s supposed to memorize. Then he hears the door open, and Minho walks in, dropping down on the bench next to him. Han hates the way his heart betrays him, lifting and quickening just at the sight of him.

Minho speaks quietly, his voice low even though they’re alone. “Hey… about that night at the uh... birthday party. Did something happen that I don’t know about?”

Han tries to play it off, plastering on a look of confusion. “Not sure what you mean, hyung. Nothing happened, really.”

Minho lets out a soft sigh, eyes narrowing in the way they do when he’s trying to figure someone out. “It’s just… she's been acting slightly different around me since then. And I thought maybe… I don’t know, maybe she mentioned something to you?”

Han swallows, trying to keep his face neutral even as his mind races. He can feel the weight of Minho’s gaze on him, searching for something—an answer, maybe, or just some kind of hint. He should tell the truth; it’s right there, at the tip of his tongue. He could just say it, let everything out, let Minho know exactly how he feels.

But his nerve falters, and he finds himself shaking his head. “No, they didn’t say anything to me.” The lie slips out too easily, and he hates himself a little more for it.

There’s a moment, a charged silence between them, as if Minho is still trying to pry the truth out of him without words. Han’s chest tightens, his lips part, and for just a second, he thinks he might actually confess, might let himself finally say it.

But before he can, the door opens again, and a crew member steps in, breaking the moment. Han glances down quickly, hiding the expression on his face, and when he looks back up, Minho has already shifted back into his usual easygoing self, the vulnerable moment now lost.

As Minho returns to studying his own lines, Han can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever have the courage to take the chance you offered—or if he’s doomed to keep it hidden forever, just out of reach.

-

Even though you know he might not read it right away, you send Minho a quick text the moment your plane lands. Just something simple, letting him know you’re home safe, so he won’t worry. The exhaustion of the trip starts to settle in as you unlock your door, finally home, ready for nothing but a hot shower and some rest.

After your shower, you’re standing in the bathroom, towel-drying your hair when you hear the front door click open. It’s surprising because you hadn’t expected him. You’d assumed he’d be busy on set, wrapped up in his usual back-to-back schedule.

“Hey, stranger, I didn’t—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Minho crosses the space between you, pulling you into a tight hug, his arms wound around you like he’s trying to hold onto you with everything he has. His kiss is different tonight—there’s something raw, almost desperate, in the way he presses his lips to yours, like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.

You feel his hand slide to the back of your neck, holding you close, and the intensity takes you by surprise. You pull back just slightly, searching his face, and see something you haven’t seen before: Minho’s usual confidence replaced by a quiet vulnerability.

“Hey…” you say softly, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

He looks away, almost as if he’s gathering himself, before he speaks. “I just… I feel like you’re slipping away from me. Like, you’re here, but… I don’t know, it feels like I’m losing you, and I can’t stand it.” His voice is low, but there’s no mistaking the emotion behind it.

He holds your gaze, his eyes searching yours, his expression so open, so raw. “I don’t want to lose you. I love you so much, more than I know how to say.”

The sincerity in his words cuts through any distance that’s been creeping in between you two, and you feel your heart swell. You reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, brushing it gently away from his face.

“Oh, Minho,” you murmur, pressing a reassuring kiss to his forehead. “I’m here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Later that night, your naked bodies are tangled around each other on the bed, he has you under him, your hands are tightly clasped as Minho thrusts into you at a painstakingly slow pace. No games, no teasing, no playful, naughty comments in between kisses, it's just Minho making sweet, sweet love to you.

His brown eyes are deeply looking into your eyes, making you feel naked, more exposed than you already are. You know that he loves you but seeing him this vulnerable and openly admitted how much he fears losing you... you endearingly brush the hair falling over his forehead away and smile at him.

“Minho...” you place a tender rub of your thumb on his cheek and whisper, “I love you so much.”

Minho doesn’t say anything but tilts his head slightly to the side and lowers his mouth on you, placing kisses that trails up your neck and eventually finds its way to your lips. Soon, his body closing in the gap between your bodies until they mold into one and move in sync. You feel him relax around you, his arms loosening, but his grip on your hand remains firm. You lay close together in the quiet, his head buried in the crook of your shoulder, the room filled with an unspoken promise—one that feels stronger than ever.

-

You stir, feeling a warm, familiar presence beside you, followed by the softest kisses trailing across your bare shoulders. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming. It’s so rare for you to wake up with Minho still in bed—usually, his early mornings mean you open your eyes to an empty spot beside you, the only trace of him being the faint scent left behind on his pillow.

But this time, as you turn over, Minho’s face is right there, his eyes lighting up as he realizes you’re awake. He leans in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips.

“Good morning,” he murmurs softly, his voice still sleepy and fond.

You blink at him, smiling as you pretend to be in awe. “Is this real? You’re actually here, watching me sleep?” you tease. “I have to admit, I could get used to waking up like this.”

He smiles, a playful glint in his eye. “Guess I got lucky and don’t have an early call today,” he says. “Plus, I thought I’d stick around, make you breakfast for once.”

“Wow,” you say, dramatically widening your eyes. “Breakfast in bed? Someone pinch me—I might actually be dreaming.”

Minho raises an eyebrow, then grins mischievously. Instead of pinching you, he leans down and gives your shoulder a playful bite, making you laugh as you push him away.

“Okay, okay!” you say, laughing. “Guess I’m awake after all.”

He chuckles, leaning in to plant one more quick kiss on your lips before he gets out of bed, throwing on a t-shirt and glancing back at you with a smile that makes your heart flutter. You feel so at ease, so light, as you watch him head toward the kitchen. For once, he’s here, sharing an ordinary morning with you, and there’s nothing dreamlike about it—it’s perfectly, wonderfully real.

-

It’s a rare, quiet morning, and Minho can’t help but savor it. He watches you across the table, laughing over breakfast as you share your plans for the day. There’s a calmness in this moment that he rarely gets, and he wants to remember it—the way you smile, the way sunlight falls on your face, the easy rhythm between you.

As he thinks about the upcoming wrap-up party, he realizes it’s the perfect chance for the two of you to step out together, and he doesn’t want to hold back anymore. Setting his fork down, he gathers his nerve and finally asks, “Hey, would you come to the wrap-up party with me?”

Your eyes widen slightly, and Minho can tell you understand the risk—he’s putting his career, his privacy, all of it on the line for this relationship. But he doesn’t care; for the first time, he feels ready, willing to risk the whispers, the stories, the scrutiny.

“Okay,” you answer with a nod, agreeing without hesitation.

Minho feels a surge of warmth and relief. You’re ready, too, and that means everything.

But then you bring up Han, almost out of the blue. “How’s Han doing?” you ask, a casual question, but one that catches Minho off guard.

“He’s doing well,” Minho replies, not thinking much of it at first. He explains a little about the last few scenes they filmed, how the entire crew is working hard to bring the final moments together.

You nod, listening intently, but then you ask another question, one that feels a bit more pointed. “Are you two still filming those... emotional scenes?”

Minho studies your face, sensing something beneath the surface of your curiosity. You’re searching for something, a hint of something you’re not ready to say. He knows you well enough to see it, and while he doesn’t press you, a quiet worry lingers in his mind.

-

The last day of filming feels heavier than Han ever imagined. He should feel relief, maybe even pride—but all he feels is a gnawing sense of urgency. It’s his last chance to tell Minho how he really feels, and though he’s been avoiding it, he knows he’ll regret it if he never says a word.

Taking a deep breath, Han walks over to where Minho stands, chatting with a few crew members. His hands are clammy, his heartbeat loud in his ears as he taps Minho’s shoulder. Minho turns, and his expression lights up with that easy, familiar smile, but seeing it makes Han’s heart ache even more.

“Hey, Han!” Minho says warmly. “We did it. Congratulations on finishing your first drama.”

Han manages a small smile, mumbling, “Thanks... same to you.”

There’s a pause, a space where Han can feel himself teetering between holding back and letting go. He opens his mouth to speak, to say the words he’s been holding onto for so long, but before he can, Minho speaks again.

“You know,” Minho starts, his tone sincere, “I’ve had a great time working with you. Really, Han, we made a good team.”

Han’s stomach tightens, sensing where this is going.

“And what I really appreciate is how professional you were about everything,” Minho adds, a subtle emphasis lingering in his words. His eyes hold a quiet understanding, as if he already knows what Han was about to say and is gently letting him down.

The words stick in Han’s throat, dying on his lips. Minho’s kindness is unmistakable, and his meaning is painfully clear. Han swallows, a bitter taste filling his mouth as he nods, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“Yeah,” he replies softly, forcing a smile. “It’s been... really great.”

But inside, he feels his heart breaking, each beat carrying a weight he can hardly bear as he takes a step back, feeling as though he’s losing something he never even had.

Han manages to keep his expression steady, even as he feels the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Minho, still smiling, extends his hand.

"See you at the wrap-up party later?" Minho says, his tone light and friendly, as if unaware of the ache that’s slowly eating away at Han.

Han hesitates for just a second before he reaches out, clasping Minho’s hand. The handshake feels formal, a sharp contrast to all the warmth, laughter, and quiet moments they shared over the past months. For Han, it’s a goodbye he’s not ready to say, but he squeezes Minho’s hand tightly, holding onto it just a heartbeat longer.

“Yeah... I’ll see you there,” he says, forcing the words out with a nod.

Minho gives him one last friendly smile before letting go, his fingers slipping away, leaving Han’s hand cold and empty. Han watches him walk away, feeling the finality of that handshake settle deep in his chest. This was it—the end of everything they’d built together on screen, and perhaps, a reminder of everything that could never happen offscreen.

As the door closes behind Minho, Han is left standing alone, trying to gather himself for the celebration ahead, all while feeling like he’s quietly mourning a loss that only he understands.

-

The wrap-up party buzzes with excitement and laughter as everyone gathers to celebrate the drama’s success. Minho’s hand in yours is warm and steady as he leads you inside, a small but powerful gesture that feels like a silent promise. This is your first time stepping into his world, publicly, and your heart races with a blend of nervousness and exhilaration. You know what this means—for both of you. Minho glances down at you and smiles, a comforting reassurance that you’re right where you belong.

As he introduces you around, you find yourself meeting the director, the crew, and Minho’s fellow cast members. Each of them is surprised, but warmly so, learning that Minho is dating someone outside the industry. Their welcoming smiles help ease the tension you’ve been holding, though it’s Minho’s presence, steady and unwavering at your side, that really keeps you calm.

Then, across the room, you spot Han. He’s chatting politely with some cast members, appearing as cheerful as everyone else, but there’s a heaviness in his gaze that betrays him. You see through the calm facade, sensing a quiet sadness lingering beneath it.

When there’s a brief lull, you find a chance to speak with Han alone, pulling him aside to a quieter corner of the room. He looks at you, surprised, and then a hint of understanding softens his expression.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” you ask softly, not wanting to intrude, but hoping he’ll confide in you.

Han gives you a sad smile, his eyes flickering with something unspoken. “Because… I had Minho,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You’re caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He lets out a small, bittersweet laugh, his gaze drifting away as if he’s seeing something distant. “In those scenes, in the drama,” he begins, voice thick with emotion. “I had him. For that time, we were… everything I’d wanted us to be.”

He pauses, taking a breath, collecting himself before looking back at you with quiet acceptance. “It was enough. Because that’s what Minho and I could have been—but what we’ll never be.”

The weight of his words settles over you, a haunting realization of what he’s endured in silence. There’s nothing you can say, so you simply place a gentle hand on his arm, sharing in his sorrow, understanding the depth of his unspoken feelings.

Han gives you a small, grateful nod before he glances away, quietly pulling himself back into the celebration. Watching him go, you’re left with a mix of empathy and sadness, understanding now just how deeply he loved Minho—and how he’s finally letting him go.

As the party winds down and you and Minho leave, his hand finds yours once more, intertwining your fingers as you walk into the quiet night. There's a warmth to his touch, an unspoken reassurance that grounds you, yet Han’s words still linger, leaving a bittersweet ache in your chest. You feel torn between the happiness of being with Minho and the weight of knowing what Han silently gave up.

Once you’re inside the car, sitting beside Minho on the passenger's seat, you can’t shake the feeling that tonight has left a lasting mark, especially on Han.

Minho notices the quiet contemplation in your expression and turns to you, eyebrows raised with a gentle curiosity.

“Ready to go home?” he asks, reaching to gently trace his thumb along your hand.

It seems like he's just snapped you out of your trance as you get a bit startled by the gentle squeeze on your knee. “Mmh, yes, I'm ready.”

You offer a convincing smile as you lean into him and try again. “Let’s go home.”

As the car launches forward, you find yourself holding onto Minho’s hand with a newfound appreciation. Han’s journey may have ended in heartbreak, but in some way, it brought you and Minho closer, and you can only hope that one day, Han will find someone who will give him a real happy ending, but more importantly, he find a story that’s all his own—a story that doesn’t end when the cameras stop rolling.

-

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[endofthelinegang]

the patriot

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  #90 from the prompt list "If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?" 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bad words 

use this magical link here to find a number and give me a request for ANY marvel character :)

The op was supposed to be clean.

Get in, get the files, don’t get blown up. Real simple. Barely an inconvenience. Except for the part where every camera system in the building was running on spaghetti code and Cold War duct tape. Except for the part where John Walker—your Thunderbolt teammate, reluctant handler, and possibly a human caffeine tablet in a tactical vest—was stuck in the same room with you, trying to keep you from pushing every glowing button just to see what they did. And especially the part where Valentina Allegra de Fontaine called you two specifically instead of anyone else on the team to do the most absurd thing imaginable mid-mission.

“Don’t touch that,” John barked, not looking up from his datapad. He’d said it four times now. He was practically hitting you in the head with his elbow from how close he was standing to make sure you hadn’t gotten bored and decided to just mess around with something. 

You hovered your finger over the blinking red control switch labeled COOLANT OVERRIDE.  “You don’t even know what this does.” 

“I don’t need to,” he muttered, thumbing through corrupted files. “I know you, and if you touch it, it’s gonna end with us knee-deep in radioactive soup or setting off an old Soviet alarm that wakes up a bear.”

You dropped your hand. “One time, Walker. I trigger one bear one time and suddenly I can’t have a little fun anymore?” In all fairness to which you did not bring up was that it had not just been you who had done it. It was actually you and Yelena discussing what the little symbols meant, she thought bear and you thought maybe a small house dog. You were wrong, and no one died. 

He gave you a look. “You shouldn’t name the bear, either.” You smiled at him and just remembered the look on his face when he walked in to see a bear three times the usual size staring him down. He was trying to kill it, and you were considering maybe keeping it as a pet, 

“Dmitri had a soul.”

He sighed like he’d been aged by this job, by you, by everything. You tapped the tops of your boots on the floor taking your hands away from the buttons you looked up at John. He was reading really intently, his thumb tapping off the back of the device creating the tiniest little noise when the hard piece of his tactical glove hit. Before he could notice you were studying him the comms crackled.

“Hey, so, uh…” It was Val. The two of you immediately made eye contact and listened in. The two of you could tell from her little “uh” that she had been on the phone all day thus far. Which was never good. “We’ve got a situation.”

You and John exchanged a look. Neither of you wanted to talk first so you pointed a finger at him before he shook his head and nudged you with his boot. “What kind of situation?” you asked slowly.

“The kind where CNN’s en route, the press already knows you’re in-country, and Walker’s last mission made him trend for destroying national land with a motorcycle  instead of the enemy. We need positive coverage. Like, immediately.” 

You blinked. He was throwing his hands around ready to respond to her and have a repeat conversation about how he did not know it was national land and that he was just doing what had to be done. But not wanting to hear that conversation you broke the brief silence, “How is that our problem?”

There was a pause on the line but you could still very faintly hear her making little sighs and the fact that she had stopped walking wherever she was headed because the little clacking of her heels stopped. You knew right then she was going to tell you something you did not wanna hear. 

“You’re both hot, you’re both in one piece, and the system’s still down so I can’t even see where the rest of your idiot team is. We’re going with plan D.” Val finally breathed it all out so fast that you barely understood her but you did catch the “you’re both hot” part which you could not fathom was going to go anywhere good. 

John narrowed his eyes looking at you before setting down what actually needed to be worked on because he too could sense this was going to be some shit,  “What’s plan D?”

“You kiss.”

Silence.

Dead silence.

Eye contact seized. 

Even the building, full of ancient rust and creaking pipes, seemed to go quiet. The machines that had been making fuzzy noises were silent. John said nothing for a second. Then: “The hell we do.”

“I’m serious,” Val snapped, now she knew the two of you had heard her and were considering her little plan. That is all a woman like herself needed. “Sell a romance arc. I don’t care if it’s real, fake, or hate-fueled. Make the press eat it up. We need a distraction.” You grabbed onto John's arm and pulled yourself up off the ground because this was way more serious than whatever she originally had you working on. 

You rubbed your forehead and started pacing back and forth, with a slightly raised voice you spat at her, “Val, I swear to God—”

She cut out. 

“Val?” you said again. “Val—”

Nothing. Comms dead.

Meanwhile, back in the basement, the team was losing it.

“We’ve almost got it,” Bucky said through clenched teeth, typing furiously at an old Soviet terminal hooked up to an external power supply Ghost had hotwired together from literal scrap metal. The keys were sticking on and off thanks to the metal of his fingers slamming them so deeply into the board. 

“Are you sure that’s the right port?” Ghost asked, upside down, practically inside the wall. She was hoping anything would work so that there was a possibility of leaving this dingy and smelly place as soon as possible. 

“It’s glowing red,” Alexei said, pointing helpfully. “That seems promising.” He was nodding and absolutely no one in the room was even looking at him.

Yelena threw her hands in the air. “Everything in this place is glowing red! The coffee machine glows red!”

“I told you not to drink from that!” Bucky barked, usually John was the one giving helpful advice or rules such as that but he was too busy running around with you. Which was honestly beneficial, Walker would have already shattered that keyboard into the wall and everyone would have been standing around bored as a team. 

Yelena shrugged. “Too late. I have regrets.” She gagged and fanned at her mouth taking in deep breaths.

“Focus!” Ghost said. “We need visual back before Val loses her entire mind.” Ava nudged into Bucky watching what he was doing to make sure nothing else went wrong.

Alexei leaned over, his piece was the only one that had been working this entire time, which he did not mention, but now he had something fun to say so it would be worth telling on himself, “Pretty sure she already did. She told them to kiss.” 

The others paused in synchronized horror, Buckys hands stopped typing, Ava did not even look backwards at the man who was now belly laughing, and Yelena slowly put her tongue back into her mouth and her hands fell to her sides, 

“…Oh no,” Yelena whispered. “They wouldn’t.”

Bucky’s fingers flew faster, he snapped out of his trance just long enough to get into a rhythm of typing and then slamming the keyboard onto the desk to prevent his earlier issue from happening. “What happened now? What could warrant that?”

“Visual coming online,” Ghost announced, shaking the hell out of the box connected to the computer that was so hot from being overworked that no one else was even willing to touch it.

Bucky smacked the monitor and jiggled it a bit watching as the static would stop and start. Then the static cleared—

And then—

“OH MY GOD,” Alexei shouted, running over to the computer and putting both hands on Bucky’s back. “I—THEY’RE—”

“ARE THEY KISSING?!” Yelena shrieked practically jumping on top of Ava who was frozen in total shock not even caring that Yelena now reeked of what smelled almost like coffee but worse.

Ghost slammed a button. “Recording started.”

“We do not need a recording of this.” Bucky groaned and sat back in the chair that was now sitting straight up and down thanks to Alexei’s weight pushing on the back of it. 

Back in the camera's line of sight, you and John were still standing close together, you had stopped pacing once you realized there was really no getting her back online and that just not doing it was not going to be an option. 

He muttered, for once he was trying to not be rude and just handle the situation for what it was, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

But you? You broke into a grin, an evil and sinister little grin as you now stood toe to toe with him, arms around his neck and hands resting right on the back. He didn’t move a muscle he just stared you down.

“Well, Walker,” you said leaning into him just enough to feel his chest rise and fall against yours. “Ready to be a patriot?”

He touched the side of his head to yours placing two hands on your hips. “You enjoy this way too much.”

“If I ask you to kiss me in front of all these people, will you do it?” Before John could again be the one to make the final blow, you pulled your face back from his ear and pulled your arms back so that your hands could grab onto his face. The kiss hit like a switch flipping. His hands moved against your waist instinctively, firm and grounding. You felt the tension in his shoulders melt and re-coil in new, unfamiliar places. His lips were warmer than expected, mouth soft but insistent, the kind of kiss that said we’re doing this, and we’re doing it right. Then of course John took things into his own hands like you knew he eventually would, guiding you back against the cool panel wall. Your hands were going everywhere now. First you curled then into his vest, then up into his hair without thinking, because of course it was soft, and of course he groaned low in his throat when you did it. The angle shifted, deepened—

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE STILL GOING,” Yelena howled, Ava had sensed moved on once she realized that this may only be the beginning of whatever was going on so Lena had a front row seat to the action now. 

“That’s the most American thing I’ve ever seen,” said Alexei, sounding weirdly proud smacking both of Bucky’s shoulders, still choosing to be right behind him instead of his right side which was completely empty. 

“I’m turning this feed off,” Bucky muttered. “I’d call HR if they weren’t the ones insisting they do this.” He scowled, watching in clear view of Walker moving one hand from your waist up your body and into your hair. 

“I’M RECORDING,” Yelena declared, moving the keyboard away from him. 

Val shrieked something about “fireable offenses” and “weddings get 30% off in DC if you use my name.” To the entire group seeing as to how everything for the actual mission was now at a complete standstill. 

And you? You pulled back just an inch, breath warm against John’s jaw, grinning like an idiot.

“That’ll sell it,” you whispered, not moving to push him back or anything to get away from him just staying put. 

He looked at you, expression unreadable.

“…Yeah,” he said after a second. “It will.”

Back at the safehouse, nobody let you live it down. Yelena and Ava brought popcorn to the debrief. Red Guardian reenacted the whole thing with sock puppets for your good friend Bob who could not go on the mission. Bucky tried to avoid any and all conversation or reenactments of the whole thing. Val sent a legal contract titled Thunderbolt Relationship Clause 4B: I Told You So.

And John?

He sat next to you on the old couch, legs spread wide, one arm behind your shoulders—casual, like nothing had changed. Except everything had. You can feel his warmth all of a sudden, you can’t stop thinking about how you could just curl up next to him and cuddle.. Or how you could get in his lap and start kissing him all over again the way he was sitting.  Instead you decided to move closer to him now you were touching side by side. Not saying a word he dropped one arm from behind the couch and sat it around your shoulders. 

“You know,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy, “we might need a... sequel. For the press.”

He turned, slow and deliberate, one brow ticking up. “You talking damage control?”

You shrugged, playing with your own hands, spinning the rings around your fingers as you spoke. “Public morale. National interest. You know. All that patriotic stuff.”

His mouth twitched, but not into a smirk—something softer, more thoughtful, like he was weighing the truth in your joke. Or the lie in it. He was staring at you, watching how just started curling into his side. The way your hands were so unsure of what to do or where to go. 

“We make a good headline,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges as he let out a little cough using the arm that was around your shoulders to dip down and wrap around your waist to pull you up closer to his face. 

You met his gaze, “Then maybe we should give ’em something to write about.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it wasn’t for show. No click of cameras. No orders in your ear. Just the press of his hand against your cheek, warm and certain. Your breath catching as he leaned in—slow, like he wanted you to stop him but knew you wouldn’t. Just the quiet hush of lips meeting, the kind of kiss that didn’t care who watched because no one was.

It was steadier than before. Realer. And when he pulled away, barely an inch, his forehead resting against yours, the world felt... quieter somehow.

Like the mission was done.

Like something else was just beginning.

(Kind of.)

[amywritesthings]

press four for more options. | part four.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), sex work, pet names, alcohol, mentions of drugs, jokes about death Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part three. / return to part one. | masterlist

Night comes around.

You do not call.

In fact, you don't call the Scout Services Hotline a single time that whole weekend.

As you scroll mindlessly through social media in your bed, fluttering between apps without retaining a single word or meme, your cell phone weighs heavily in your hand.

Don't call.

Just don't call.

It isn't like you're devoid of things to do.

Going out is an option.

Being around people may help your mood — but you don’t feel like unearthing from your snuggie poncho.

Putting on a movie can be a great distraction — but you know your attention span would barely last through the opening credits.

It was him.

Right there.

Right in front of you.

Levi from Scout Services, alive and in the flesh, holding your phone.

No amount of mental gymnastics can make you doubt otherwise. 

He has a voice like no other; one that haunts your day dreams and soothes your nightmares, one that brings this sudden urge to do better for yourself—

Ironically, to be independent and strong on your own.

Which, actually, really fucking sucks now that you’re stuck with the decision to totally disappear from the gym, too.

(Kind of thwarts the whole ‘new me’ chest-puffing you’d started Friday with.)

So you make a final decision:

You still have to go to the gym Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

Even if you say nothing, keep to yourself, remain a shadow, you have to go.

(There’s a fragile line drawn in the sands of reality. You can toe the edge, but you refuse to. This is his livelihood. You’re not delusional to believe you’re a main character exception.)

Coincidentally, Levi goes every day, too. 

Your stomach flip-flops with the unsettling realization that your perch on a treadmill actually gives you a perfect vantage point to watch him as he sets his station up every morning.

Meticulously he sets towels down to place his shaker bottle and water thermos down, as if worried the ground hadn’t been cleaned overnight.

He even takes the disinfectant cloths and cleans every dumbbell he lines up neatly before starting his workout.

The dark-haired man truly is less-than-average in height, which isn’t a turn-off to you in the slightest, but his arms — his goddamn arms.

Levi wasn’t kidding when he told you that he could pick you up.

He could probably pick two of you up, one arm each.

They’re so toned, his forearms veiny from morning dehydration.

Training vigorously in his own world, not once does he notice that you’re the bumbling idiot that’s tripped on the treadmill (see: a few times) from dissociating.

Hell, he hasn’t a single fucking clue that you’re close enough to yell across the room to him.

Would he know?

That you’re Scarlet.

His, in some made-up world.

(Does your voice stand out in a sea of lonely people?)

The cleaning ritual extends to his cooldown, where he properly cleans each piece of equipment before nestling it back in its place.

Levi sits on his phone for a second, dropping down to a bench to scroll — text messages.

(Damn it, have you really resorted to minor stalking?)

As soon as he stands, though, you drop your chin to watch your sneakers rhythmically pass one another on the treadmill belt.

He passes like a ghost, evaporating into the men’s locker room without a word.

This is torture.

You miss him.

But you still refuse to call.

Can't — because in another world you may be his, but in this world, he is not yours.

.

.

— —

.

.

    Tuesday night rolls around and you decide you hate life.

Annie, Eren, Reiner, and Mikasa are already there by the time you walk into the downtown hotspot.

The boys as well as Mikasa are still in their suit attire from work, their ties loosened at their necks. Annie’s in a hoodie and jeans, clearly much more interested in having a comfortable evening.

If the emptied shot glasses are any indicator of the plans for this evening, then you steel yourself for one hell of a Wednesday.

You glide through the busy crowds of the bar towards the group.

Bodies upon bodies crowd this place — it’s never not a zoo at this hour, no matter the day. Saying excuse me would only waste breath. 

A live band croons on the far end of the smoky bar, forcing everyone to talk ten decibels higher just to hear the conversation.

(Can’t you turn around and go home while you’re ahead?)

In the sea of people, a pair of emerald green eyes over by a cluster of tables in the right-hand corner catch your movement. They widen, recognizing your face, and a lopsided grin of surprise follows.

“Holy shit, she left her cave!” Eren yells, holding up a cheap beer in salute to your arrival.

(Thanks Jeager, you little fuck.)

You don’t hear what she says, but you can see Mikasa’s lips part in tandem with a sharp elbow jab straight to his ribs.

Eren instantly falters his salute, souring in pain.

“I know. Don’t be so shocked,” you state to your colleagues, leaning up against the circular high-top table. “Am I the last to show?”

“Nah, you’re right on time. Armin and Jean’re on their way,” Reiner grunts, holding onto a comically small cosmopolitan in his rather large hand. “Sasha’s on babysitting duty with Nicco.”

You look around the bar for any other familiar faces.

“And Connie?”

“Passed out,” Mikasa supplies. “Took edibles after work.”

“There’s no chance in hell anyone’s waking him,” Eren snorts. “Fucker’s toast.”

Reiner sighs. “For what it’s worth, Jean tried.”

“No, Armin tried,” Annie corrects, finally piping up. She holds something on the rocks — brandy? Whiskey? You can’t tell. “Jean just laughed and kept trying to draw shit on his face.”

“You didn’t see the Snapchat he sent?” Eren asks after a gulp of his beer.

You shake your head, knowing damn well you’ve avoided using your phone for the last several days. 

Missed texts, abandoned tagged tweets, your streak in your mobile game ruined — anything so you wouldn’t be tempted to click that little number.

Damn it.

Enough wallowing.

“I’m gonna go grab a drink,” you state, disengaging with the table. “Anyone need anything?”

From your peripheral, you see a familiar mop of blonde hair walking towards your group. At his side is a much taller man sliding through the crowd, navigating the shorter one to the tiny table you’ve commandeered from the masses.

Armin and Jean.

Reiner and Annie shake their heads.

“Nope, I’m solid.”

“Good here.”

“Eren’s got the next round of shots,” Mikasa flatly states. “You’re fine.”

“Ha, hell yeah!” Eren exclaims, before he settles into a confused pause of silence. His head whips to Mikasa, blinking twice. “Wait, what?”

You don’t stick around for that aftermath.

Squeezing back into the lion’s den of people, you try not to get hit with any too-full beverages or waving hands.

You manage to weave and duck, eventually finding a small empty corner at the edge of the bar.

Success.

You rush to claim it before someone else can, your forearm on the wooden surface. 

Holding up two fingers to get the one of the three bartender’s attention, she nods once to acknowledge she sees you — she’ll get there eventually.

Two empty stools are available, so you scoot onto the one closest to the wall while waiting for your turn and drop your purse onto the other while you situate yourself. 

It’ll likely take a while if the busyness of the staff has anything to say about it.

An hour.

All you need to do is last one whole hour.

Chat a bit, mingle a little so everyone at work doesn’t think you’re a total goddamn recluse, then you can go—

“Is this seat taken?”

A question sounding to your left breaks your train of thought.

The seat.

The one next to you, where your purse lay.

Way to go, dumbass.

You answer on autopilot, not thinking twice about it.

“Oh — shit, yeah. I mean, no! No it’s not. I’m sorry.”

As your torso turns to grab your purse off of the deep red stool, your eyes drop to make sure nothing spills out of it.

“Hold on, let me just move—”

Your chin lifts to find yourself staring eye to eye with Levi.

Wait.

Levi?!

His cheekbones look even sharper under the warm hue of the bar lights overhead, lips parted like he was interrupted in asking a question.

The whites of his eyes grow more prominent with every passing second, making the blue-gray color of them stand out in stark contrast to the black curtain of fringe falling against his temples.

The realization that you spoke — that he’s seen your face before — seems to be hitting him like a goddamn freight train.

Your blood runs cold as your own eyes round.

“...my stuff.”

Weakly you finish your thought, wishing for nothing but death right now. 

Maybe a stranger, like a secret agent with wicked strength, will simply rush the bar and put you in a headlock and knock you out. 

Maybe your drink will be poisoned. 

You’re happy for anything so long as it’s swift.

Levi grunts in acknowledgement, slowly finding a spot on the empty stool beside yours.

Both of you swivel towards the bar, staring ahead.

Silence.

For what feels like hours, neither of you speak. The noise of the bar becomes overwhelming.

Somehow the surrounding voices feel amplified when you’ve lost your own. 

It’s trapped between a thousand apologies and half a dozen explanations that sound worse than the one before it.

You need to get up.

Excuse yourself out. 

Leave.

You won’t get your damn drink, but that’s fine so long as you’re not here.

“How’s your phone?”

Eventually Levi speaks, and you find yourself wishing he hadn’t. 

The effect of his voice is even worse in person — so buttery smooth, the gravel much deeper in his chest now that there isn’t a phone receiver to dilute it.

“Not… damaged,” you reply cautiously.

“Good.”

Another stretch of silence passes, and you forget about ordering drinks altogether.

Your eyes drop to view his folded hands, how the veins protrude even when resting.

His fingers are slender, strong, and hate yourself for yearning.

You have to apologize.

This is crossing a line.

You need to—

“So—”

“I’m canceling my subscription.”

You blurt a fraction later than Levi, proclaiming your innocence before he can ever condemn it.

When you meet his steely eyes, they squint with curiosity.

From the crown of your head to your chin, he assesses in a serpentine pattern before eventually finding your eyes once more.

“How come?” he asks, leaning further against the bar top.

“I— how come?”

You repeat his question in surprise.

Wildly gesturing towards the space between you with your hand, you snort.

“Uh, because that’s the right thing to do in this circumstance? Because seeing you in person is borderline unethical?”

He hums at that, not giving you much to work with.

“And for the record, I did not stalk you to this bar.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

“I’m actually here with friends—”

“Why didn’t you say something?” 

Levi interrupts, seemingly unbothered by your rambling. 

“At the gym. I can make an educated guess and say you knew it was me from the second I opened my trap, but you didn’t say anything.”

Why isn’t he freaking out?

Shouldn’t he be freaking out?

Just as you open your mouth to continue professing your innocence, the bartender walks over and points to you.

“What can I get you?”

You blanch, no longer remember how to order drinks. 

“I—”

“I got her tab,” Levi interrupts casually, tapping his index finger into the counter. “Two hard seltzers.”

Then he has the audacity to glance your way.

“Pineapple, right?”

Holy shit, he remembers your favorite flavor?

Is this a flex?

(It kind of feels like a flex; a way to say I know you, I was there.)

“...pineapple’s fine,” you murmur in return, hesitant.

The bartender doesn’t waste another second to rummage in the mini fridge on the other side of the bar for two slim cans.

For another agonizing thirty seconds, neither of you say a word.

He raises his chin to watch whatever sport’s game is playing overhead on the television.

You stare at your mirrored reflection in the bar backsplash.

This is real life.

The man you’ve spent hours talking to over the phone to, getting off to, is sitting right beside you, yet he isn’t trying to create distance.

If anything, he’s buying you a damn drink and asking you why.

Why didn’t you say something?

“I didn’t say anything at the gym because that would have been extremely inappropriate,” you finally argue under your breath, keeping the conversation strictly between you. “What would I have said? ‘Oh hey, guy I've paid to talk to on the phone every single night for the past week. Isn’t it crazy that I actually go to the same gym as you?’ That’s so creepy.” 

When he says nothing, still staring at you, you continue to bury yourself into a deeper grave.

“I mean, I thought you lived, like… a billion miles from me. Maybe from another planet.”

His brows pinch with amusement. 

“On Mars, or…?”

Oh.

He’s joking.

He’s actually joking about this.

You turn your chin, brow furrowed. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and you have to force yourself to maintain eye contact.

“I wondered why you looked so scared of me on Friday. Thought maybe I smelled like shit from my workout.”

No, you want to say. Unfortunately it was the goddamn opposite.

“So you’re not…”

“Worried you’re a stalker trying to dox me because of my job?”

Levi blatantly finishes, and you wince.

Clearly he notices your embarrassment, because he sighs and relaxes his shoulders.

“I’m more pissed that you didn’t call all weekend, but then again, that’s the nature of the job.”

You both watch each other for a moment as the bartender returns, passing you both pineapple hard seltzers to nurse.

He pushes your can to your hand, nudging the icy-cold aluminum against your thumb, then picks up his own.

“The nature of the job?” you repeat, and he nods.

“People get bored. Run out of funds. Novelty wears off fast.” 

Levi shrugs, sipping his drink. 

“Just because you like talking to someone doesn’t mean they stick around. Wouldn’t blame 'em — shit gets expensive quick.”

“I just…”

You trail off, fighting to find the correct words to say.

“...I thought it wasn’t right to call again, knowing I knew what you looked like, so I didn’t.” 

Explaining yourself makes your tongue feel sluggish, like you were caught red-handed in a crime you didn’t know you’d committed until hindsight.

“I can leave you alone,” you decide to add, holding your drink tighter. “Like I said, I’m here with my friends and… after all, you were doing your job. A great job. You’re kind of the reason I’m even here in the first place.”

Levi’s brow knits, and your eyes widen.

“Not like that!”

“Pretty shit at asserting yourself even in person,” he murmurs like it’s a cheeky inside joke, and he sips once more. “So how am I the reason?”

He’s not angry.

Hell, he’s conversational.

Not the least bit worried about how you’ve both managed to get here.

Might as well be honest.

“Because I decided to stop being a little less scared of the world,” you confess softly. “It— That’s why I got to the gym so early on Friday. I wanted to start doing strength training, like how you talk about how much you love it. And… I thought, maybe, I’d spend more time with friends. Get out there more. Be more assertive — beyond right now, obviously.”

The dark-haired man’s expression smooths at that in a mixture of recognition and surprise.

The slide of his brow is beautiful, and your heart squeezes at the sight of an animated Levi in the flesh, just as you pictured.

“Do you have to go back to your friends right now?”

At first you don’t quite register his question, but then it causes butterflies to flutter in your stomach.

He looks left to right, as if trying to find your troop of buddies, before returning his attention back to you.

“You don’t… want me to leave?”

Levi shakes his head.

You feel bolted to your stool, unable to move even if you wanted to.

Simultaneously you sip your drinks, keeping eye contact.

It feels intimate.

Too intimate.

“So, then…” You start slowly. “What does this mean?”

“Well,” Levi begins, mulling it over in his head. “Means the whole provider-client relationship has basically gone to shit. You know my face, now I know yours.”

“Right.”

“Then again, that professionalism was already well into a shit pile way before Friday morning.”

You blink, not following. “Huh?”

“There’s nothing in the company policy about what to do when you stumble into your client at the damn local gym, but there sure as hell wasn’t anything about…”

Levi trails off, clenching his jaw in debate.

“...about crossing the line I practically leapt over. I’m good at my job because of my detachment, but this was the only time I bordered on unethical myself. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.”

Sorry.

Levi… was sorry?

The words blurt faster than you can stop yourself. “Why the hell are you sorry?”

His eyes widen with a budding uncertainty.

“I… just said I crossed the line?”

“When?”

“On the phone?”

“Okay, duh, but when?”

“Our last session.”

“So that was real.”

Levi actually got off to your voice.

If you weren’t in such shock about sitting here face-to-face with him at a local bar, then perhaps your ego would have, in fact, made a crash landing on Mars.

He considers his next words very carefully. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

Then he sips more before shaking his head.

“Look. It’s… a job a friend of mine got me. I’m not a real-life Casanova or any of that shit. Hell, most of my time was spent training punks to fight in a boxing ring, so I never had the energy for relationships or dating.”

You can't hide your surprise. “You were a fighter?”

He makes a noncommittal face.

“Loosely. Personal trainer, training in general — fell into it after I got out of the service.”

“Right, you were in the army,” you murmur, and the edge of his lips upticks at your recollection.

“A couple of months ago the gym I worked for went under, money got tight, so I thought I’d try it out. Guess everyone says it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, but bossing fighters around and fielding horny-ass callers ain't all that different."

Levi turns his chin just so to regard you under a wispy black fringe.

“I can usually predict what someone wants. The people that call this hotline shit, they’re in and out."

He takes a pause.

"You, though — the second I picked up your call, you threw me through a goddamn loop.”

You use your nail on your index finger to absently scratch the side of your thumb, attempting to process everything he’s telling you.

"First night we spoke, actually, I ended up at this very bar to contemplate why the fuck I wanted you to call back. Didn't want you blowing your money on it, obviously, it's overpriced and ridiculous, but — it clearly shook me up enough for me to take then ten-minute walk in the middle of the night in the first place."

Ten minutes.

That length of time strikes something in you.

“So, your… office building isn’t far?” you slowly ask.

Levi shakes his head. “No, no office. I work remotely. Kind of the reason why I took the gig in the first place. I wouldn’t do this shit if I had an audience in a damn two-by-four cube.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to confess it, but you point past your shoulder. 

“My apartment complex is actually six blocks down the street.”

Ten minutes away, is your implication.

His hand had raised to sip from his seltzer can, but it halts immediately.

His eyes narrow. 

“The complex on Junction Ave?”

“Yeah," you say.

“Right across from—”

“The Reiss deli.”

That narrowed gaze shoots wide. “You’re shitting me.”

“You say the word shit a lot.”

“Baby, I live there,” he blurts.

“Wait, what?”

Now it’s your turn for your eyes to nearly pop out of your skull.

(You’re too shocked to even process what he called you.)

He huffs in a brief laugh, shaking his head.

“You gotta be fucking with me.”

“I’m not! Wait, you live in the same building as me?”

“You said Thomas was your goddamn mailman,” Levi states. “Do you know how many fucking Thomas the Mailmen there are in this world? I didn’t think we’d have the same one.”

Holy shit.

Oh, holy shit.

You sit up taller in your seat. “Wait, what floor?”

“Sixteenth.”

“I’m on the tenth!” you exclaim in your shock. “Holy shit, so you…”

Have been right above me this entire time.

Your phone buzzes, ruining your train of thought. 

Reflexively you look down to see the preview of Annie’s message over your lock screen.

[A. LEONHART]: Did u die?

Right.

You’re here with friends.

“Friends wondering where you are?” Levi inquiries at the sight of your growing frown.

“Yeah, give me a sec.”

You swipe the screen north and type a reply.

[ME]: Talking to someone. Be over in a bit.

Annie’s reply is immediate, and you turn your phone from Levi’s view in mortification.

[A. LEONHART]: 🍆🍆🍆🍆🍆

[A. LEONHART]: WINGMAN??? NEED????

[ME]: NO! Do not come over here!

[A. LEONHART]: ok ok ok noted

[A. LEONHART]: i’ll keep jaeger to the left end of the bar

“Looks urgent.”

“Huh?” 

You shoot a glance back up to Levi, who’s now angled towards you with his cheek squished against his clenched fist. His elbow props him up on the bar top. 

“No! No. It’s just my friend Annie. She — is actually the one who gave me the number to that hotline in the first place,” you confess.

Levi hums in that delicious way you’ve come to crave. 

“I don’t want to derail your evening. I’ve already taken you away from them for a while.”

Your heart is hesitant, but it grows despite yourself. 

“If you want me to stay, then I’ll stay,” you quietly state. “I… liked talking to you. I mean, beyond the whole — you know.”

He nods once, setting his drink down. 

“For what it’s worth, I don’t want you to disappear, either. My job’s not exactly corporate. Not many people can separate fantasy from reality. With you, I never had to bullshit what it was, but…”

Levi trails off, sighing heavily.

“...but I also understand if it’s just a fantasy, for you.”

Something nestles itself between the lines of his words. 

Something he isn’t saying outright, sussing out if he has any right to try.

“Do you really mean that, Levi?”

That sigh turns into a curbed huff, smile fleeting but enough to bring your stomach butterflies. 

“Damn. Sounds nice, hearing my name in person.”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

You could scream into your damn seltzer, but you decide to play it as cool as you possibly can.

“So Levi’s your real name?”

He nods.

“Not creative enough to come up with an alias."

Levi shifts, rolling out a shoulder.

"But to answer your question, I’m saying I… yeah, I mean it. I wouldn’t mind asking you out for coffee sometime, given we seem to run on the same gym schedule as it is. Just didn’t know if you wanted to leave it at the hotline and call it a day — no pun intended.”

Are you seriously hearing what he’s saying right now?

Does Levi want to step out of a fantasy and into your reality?

Your lips part with a million questions only to end up blurting a very stupid one: 

“Are you single?”

That earns a bark of a laugh, causing his head to gloriously drop back, exposing his neck.

(All you want to do is sink your teeth into it.)

“Yes. Very,” he promises. “Are you, still?”

“Very,” you promise back.

“And my job doesn’t bother you?”

You haven't quite gotten that far, logistically, but it's only a coffee.

He isn't asking to marry you.

Besides, he talks about it like any other office job. You can't find any ill feeling toward it.

“Work is work,” you argue with a one-shoulder shrug. “Sure, it’s unconventional, but… I’m so used to not knowing what I want, or second-guessing what’s good for me, and I don’t think I’ve ever second guessed a damn thing with you.”

Bringing the seltzer back up to his mouth, Levi smirks against the can, mulling something over. 

You smile in return, sipping your drink.

It's the truth.

He may not really know you, but he knows you.

Just as you're beginning to think you know him.

“Well, if you don’t get too wasted with your friends tonight—”

He steals a ballpoint pen from a dampened closed check from his left side.

Then he snatches a napkin from one of the bartending stations with lemons, limes, and straws.

Hunching over, he scribbles on said napkin, before turning a cheek to you.

“—and you end up going to the gym tomorrow morning—”

Levi then sits up taller, folds the napkin, and reaches for your hand resting on the bar top. 

His skin is smooth. 

Heated. 

Your entire body melts to his whim as he turns your wrist over, palm facing up.

One by one his fingers unfurl your fingers, nestles the napkin in your hand, then closes your fist for safe keeping.

“—give me a call.”

Leaving a twenty on the bar counter, Levi lets go of your hand to slip off of his stool.

You say nothing as you watch him give you one last once-over, expression full of admiration, before turning into the sea of people.

A call.

Flexing your hand, you uncrinkle the napkin to read the number etched black on white.

Not the Scout Services Hotline.

No — his number.

Your attention flies back to the original spot where you've now properly abandoned your friends, but you know they'll forgive you for your absence.

Annie knows.

She'll cover for your abrupt disappearance.

On autopilot you yank out your phone, bypassing the texts from your friends, emails from work, and tap the little telephone icon.

Zero through nine appear.

Hastily you type the number, hesitation long gone, and press send.

One ring.

Two.

By the third, it abruptly cuts. You hear shuffling in the background. Cars beeping.

“Hello, Levi Ackerman speaking.”

Levi Ackerman.

Knowing his full name warms your heart.

Standing from your stool, you rise to your toes to search the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Levi stands there on the sidewalk, holding his phone up to his ear.

“Hi, Levi. It’s formerly Scarlet.”

Immediately he turns to the bar, searching the very same window.

Searching for you.

You smile to yourself.

"My schedule just opened up. I know it's a little late for some coffee, but..."

Trailing off, your teeth catch your bottom lip.

Be selfish.

"Are you free for some tea now?”

.

FIN

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

How are we feeling, Hotliner Nation? I teased that this may not be the end of this story. I'm not against writing a sequel, whether to continue the immediate story or time skip, but I wanted to see what people thought before I spoke too soon. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed our hotline journey together.

In the meantime I invite you to follow me here or subscribe to my AO3, as I have other projects in the works (including finishing the final chapters of my canon-based amnesia au with Levi, Silver Underground.)

The last two months have been such a wonderful journey, and I thank every single one of you for engaging the way you have. I never anticipated such a frenzy when I started P4, so sincerely, from the bottom of my heart - thank you for the comments, reblogs, inbox mssgs, etc. Every reblog gives this writer wings.