#these three all thrive on chaos just in different ways | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pucksandpower · 13 days ago

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Since Forever

Max Verstappen x Schumacher!Reader

Summary: there’s been one constant in Max’s life since his first wobbly toddler steps in the paddock — he’s loved her since he was ten, through scraped knees and family vacations — and now it’s time that the rest of the world knows it too

Warnings: depictions of Michael Schumacher post-accident which are entirely fictitious because none of us truly know how he’s doing nowadays

The Red Bull garage smells like brake dust, adrenaline, and over-commercialized energy drinks. It’s chaos in that organized, obsessive way Formula 1 teams thrive on. Engineers speak in clipped, caffeinated sentences. Tires hum against concrete. Data streams across ten thousand screens.

And then you walk in.

“Is that-”

“No way.”

“Schumacher?”

You’re used to it. The way your last name wraps around every whispered sentence like a secret. Like a warning. Like a prayer. You keep your shoulders back, walk straight through the center of the garage in black trousers and the team-issued polo. The Red Bull crest is stitched onto your chest like it’s always belonged there.

Christian sees you first.

“Look who finally decided to join us,” he says, striding forward like he hasn’t been texting you at ungodly hours for three weeks straight.

You smile, small and knowing. “You know, most teams onboard a new staff member with an email.”

“You’re not most staff. You’re a Schumacher.”

“Still have to sign an NDA like everyone else, though, right?”

Christian laughs, claps you on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team. We’re all thrilled. And Helmut — well, he’s pretending not to be, so that’s basically the same.”

“Flattering.”

You don’t say more because you don’t need to. You feel it before you see it. The shift. Like gravity getting heavier in one very specific corner of the room.

And then-

“Y/N?”

His voice slices through the garage like it was built for this very moment. Not loud, not urgent — just certain. You look up. And Max is already moving. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t run. He just moves. Like the world rearranges to let him reach you faster.

He’s halfway through a debrief. Headphones still hanging around his neck. One of the engineers tries to catch his sleeve.

“Max, we’re still-”

“Later.”

He says it without looking, eyes locked on you. The garage quiets. Not because people stop talking, but because no one can pretend they’re not watching. The way his mouth tugs into a smile. The way his eyes soften — actually soften.

You don’t realize you’re smiling back until you feel it ache in your cheeks.

“Hey,” he says when he stops in front of you. He sounds different now. Not the Max the media knows. Not the firestorm in a race suit. This Max is … quiet. Warm.

“Hey yourself,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds yours like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s what he’s always done. Like no time has passed at all.

And the silence in the garage goes from curiosity to stunned disbelief.

“You’re actually here,” Max says, voice low. “You didn’t change your mind.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Thought you might remember what this place is like.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You mean competitive? Chaotic? Full of emotionally repressed men pretending they don’t need therapy?”

He laughs, really laughs. It’s the kind that creases the corners of his eyes. The kind that makes even Helmut Marko glance over from a screen with a raised brow.

“You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

“I’m not here to fit in, Max. I’m here to work.”

He squeezes your hand gently. “Yeah. Okay. But maybe also to see me?”

“Debatable.”

He grins. “Liar.”

And just behind him, leaning against the edge of the garage like he’s watching a slow-motion movie unfold, Jos Verstappen crosses his arms. The old-school paddock fixture, the human thunderstorm. He sees your joined hands, sees the ease between you and his son, and — for the first time in years — he smiles. A real one. A soft one.

You spot him. “Uncle Jos.”

That does it. That cracks the surface of the paddock.

“She called him Uncle Jos.”

“Did she just-”

“Holy shit.”

He pushes off the wall and walks over with that casual menace that makes grown men flinch. But not you. Never you.

“You’re late,” Jos says, but his voice is warm.

“I’m fashionably on time,” you shoot back.

“You’re your father’s daughter.”

You nod. “And you’re still terrifying. Some things never change.”

Jos chuckles. Then he puts a hand on your shoulder. And the garage collectively forgets how to breathe.

“Good to have you back.”

Max watches the exchange like it’s some kind of private miracle. Like he can’t quite believe it’s all happening out loud, in front of everyone. You look up at him, still holding his hand. He looks down at you like nothing else matters.

“You’re going to make me soft,” he mutters.

“You were already soft,” you reply.

He huffs, drops your hand only to throw an arm over your shoulders instead. Casual. Familiar. Ridiculously comfortable. And no one — not a single soul in the garage — misses the way you lean into him like you belong there.

Because you do.

“So,” Max says, glancing back at Christian, who is clearly enjoying the spectacle. ��Does she get a desk? Or do we just give her mine?”

“She’s your performance psychologist,” Christian says. “Not your shadow.”

“Close enough,” Max says.

“Jesus Christ,” mutters someone in the back.

You elbow him. “You’re making this worse.”

“I’m not making anything worse,” he says, turning back to you. “You think I care what they think?”

“Max.”

“They’ve always talked. Let them talk.”

You sigh. But it’s the kind of sigh you’ve always saved for him — half exasperated, half enamored. “This is going to be a circus.”

“We were always the main act, anyway.”

It’s true, and he knows it. From karting in the middle of nowhere to Monaco summers and Christmases in St. Moritz. You and Max were a constant. A unit before you knew what that even meant.

And now here you are. Older. A little more tired. A little more careful. But still you.

A comms guy in a headset leans over and whispers something to Christian, who nods.

“Alright, lovebirds,” Christian says. “Much as I’m enjoying the reunion special, some of us still have a car to run. Y/N, your office is upstairs. We cleared the far corner for you — less noise, more privacy.”

“Perfect,” you say.

Max doesn’t move.

“Max,” Christian warns.

“In a second,” he replies, and somehow it’s not bratty, just firm.

You turn to him, squeezing his wrist this time. “I’ll see you after?”

“Try and stop me.”

And then — just when you think he’s going to let you go like a normal person — he leans in. Presses his lips to your temple in the most casual, unremarkable, intimate gesture in the world.

And that’s the moment the garage truly loses its mind.

Phones are out. Whispers spiral.

Max Verstappen kissed someone in the middle of the garage.

Max Verstappen is in love.

You pull away, roll your eyes at the attention, but Max just smirks and says, “Told you they’d talk.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, walking toward the stairs.

“You used to like that about me.”

You don’t turn around. Just throw a hand up over your shoulder in mock surrender. “Still do.”

And Max?

He watches you go with that same expression he used to wear when he crossed finish lines as a kid. Like he’s already won.

***

When you open the door to the Monaco apartment that evening, you don’t even get your bag off your shoulder before Max says, “You’re late.”

He’s barefoot, shirtless, still damp from the shower, a tea towel thrown over one shoulder like he’s playing housewife. The smell of something lemony and warm wafts from the kitchen. He’s already made you dinner. Of course he has.

“I said I’d be home after eight,” you reply, dropping your bag and slipping off your shoes. “It’s eight-oh-six.”

“Which is late.” He walks toward you, frowning like you’ve personally offended him.

“You sound like my dad.”

Max stops in front of you, looks down with that slow smile that always disarms you more than it should. “Your dad liked me.”

You snort. “My dad made you sleep on the sofa for five straight summers.”

“Because I was thirteen and in love with you. He was protecting his daughter l.”

You laugh, eyes softening. He leans in, presses his lips to your forehead. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“I’ll fix that.”

“You’re not a sleep aid.”

He pulls away, grinning. “I am if you let me be.”

You smack his chest and walk past him, straight to the kitchen where there’s already a mug waiting on the counter — chamomile, oat milk, two teaspoons of honey. Exactly how you like it. You don’t even remember telling him the ratio. He just knows.

“You unpacked my books,” you say, surprised.

Max shrugs. “You’ve had those same four boxes for three years. Figured it was time someone gave them a shelf.”

“In your apartment.”

He leans against the counter, arms folded. “You live here.”

You tilt your head. “Do I?”

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got three drawers in my closet, your toothbrush is in my bathroom, and I bought non-dairy milk for your weird tea. You live here.”

You take a sip and sigh. “You didn’t really give me a choice.”

“You didn’t argue.”

“Because you unpacked everything before I even had time to look for a place.”

He shrugs again, smug. “Felt like a waste of time. You were gonna end up here anyway.”

You hate that he’s right. You really do. But he’s so smug and soft about it — never controlling, just sure. Sure of you. It’s terrifying. And wonderful.

“You didn’t even leave a single box for me,” you say, feigning irritation.

“I left one,” he says. “It’s in the bedroom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

He looks at you, serious now. “It’s the one with your karting suit in it.”

Oh.

The memory crashes into you, vivid and sharp.

***

You’re nine years old and your leg is bleeding.

Not a little. Not a scratch. Bleeding.

Max is already beside you on the asphalt before anyone else reaches the track. He’s crouched down, pale, shaking, trying to keep your helmet steady with trembling fingers.

“You’re okay,” he says, but he sounds like he might cry. “You’re fine. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crying,” you snap.

“Good,” he says. “Because if you cry, I’ll cry. And I’m not crying.”

Then he takes your hand.

And doesn’t let go.

He holds it all the way to the ambulance, all the way through the stitches. Jos tried to pry him off you once. Michael stopped him.

“She’s fine,” Jos said.

But Michael just smiled.

“She will be,” he said, “because he’s not going anywhere.”

***

Back in the kitchen, Max watches you closely. You set the mug down and turn to him.

“That’s why you left the box?”

He nods. “Didn’t want to touch that one.”

You take a slow breath. The air feels thick with everything you’re not saying.

“Did you keep it?” You ask. “The one from your first win?”

“Framed it,” he says. “It’s in the sim room.”

“Next to your helmets?”

He nods. “Next to your letters.”

Your throat tightens. “You kept them.”

Max looks at you like you’ve just said something ridiculous. “Of course I kept them. You wrote me every week for two years.”

“I didn’t think you’d still have them.”

“They’re the only reason I got through that time. You know that.”

You do. God, you do.

***

Another flash: summer in the south of France. You’re thirteen. He’s fourteen. Your families have rented a villa together, as always. It’s hot and lazy and stupidly perfect.

You’re floating in the pool, eyes closed, and he splashes you on purpose. You scream. He laughs.

Later, he sits beside you on the balcony, his leg brushing yours under the table. He doesn’t move it.

“I think I’m gonna marry you one day,” he says, out of nowhere.

You nearly choke on your lemonade. “What?”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not serious.”

He looks at you. Really looks at you. “I am.”

Your dad walks out just then, sees you both with flushed faces, and sighs so loud it could be heard across the bay.

“I swear,” Michael mutters, half to himself, “he’s going to marry her. Jos owes me fifty euros.”

***

Now, standing in your shared kitchen in Monaco, you lean against the counter and say, “My dad predicted this, you know.”

Max doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. He told me when I was twelve.”

“What?”

“We were in Italy. You had that meltdown after you lost the junior heat.”

You remember it. You remember throwing your helmet and screaming into a tire wall. You remember Max just sitting beside you until you stopped.

“He came over and said ‘You’ll marry her one day. I hope you realize that.’”

You stare. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Max shrugs, looking down at the mug in your hand. “Didn’t want to scare you off.”

“You were twelve.”

“Still could’ve scared you off.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insane.”

He leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

***

Later, you’re curled up on the sofa, legs over his lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your ankle. The TV’s on, some mindless movie you’re not watching. You’re both too tired to talk, but not tired enough to stop touching.

Max breaks the silence. “They think I’ve changed.”

You glance at him. “Who?”

“The team. Everyone. They look at me like I’ve become someone else.”

You shift, sit up slightly. “Because you hugged me in the garage?”

“Because I let them see it.”

You frown. “Do you regret that?”

Max turns his head to you, slow and deliberate. “Never.”

Then, quieter, “I just didn’t expect how much it would shake them.”

You study his face. There’s a war behind his eyes — one part him still battling the image he built, the other part desperate to tear it all down for you.

“You’ve always been soft with me,” you say. “They’re just catching up.”

He exhales, long and tired. “They’re going to ask questions.”

“Let them.”

“You know I don’t care about the noise,” he says. “But I care about you.”

You nod, moving closer until your forehead rests against his. “You make me feel safe.”

“I want to.”

“You do.”

He closes his eyes, breathes you in. “Then I don’t give a damn what they think.”

You smile. “There’s the Max I know.”

***

You fall asleep that night in his t-shirt, tucked into his side, his hand splayed across your hip like he’s making sure you don’t drift too far.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you is his voice, soft and certain in the dark.

“You’ve always been mine.”

And you don’t say it out loud — but you know it, too.

***

Dinner in Monaco is supposed to be discreet.

But nothing about Max Verstappen sitting at a corner table with you — his arm stretched lazily along the back of your chair, his thumb tracing absent circles into your shoulder — feels subtle.

Not to Lando, at least.

He spots you from across the restaurant. He’s walking in with a few friends, half-distracted, arguing about who’s paying the bill when he stops mid-sentence.

“Wait, no fucking way.”

Oscar glances at him. “What?”

Lando squints.

“No way.”

At first he sees just Max. Max in a black linen shirt, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he’d showered and walked straight here without looking in the mirror once. Relaxed. Like he’s not the reigning world champion with the weight of four back-to-back seasons on his shoulders.

But then he sees you.

You’re laughing.

Not polite chuckle laughing. Full body, shoulders-shaking laughing. One hand over your mouth, the other pressed to Max’s forearm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the present.

And Max-

Max is smiling. Not grinning like he does after a fastest lap. Not smirking like he does when he overtakes someone into Turn 1. Smiling. Wide, open, boyish. Like it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world can fuck off.

“Mate,” Lando whispers, stunned. “He’s pouring her wine.”

Oscar follows his gaze. “Holy shit.”

Max tilts the bottle just right, careful not to spill a drop, and doesn’t even blink when you steal a sip from his instead. He lets you do it. Like it’s happened a thousand times. Like it’s yours anyway.

Lando keeps staring.

“Are they-”

“Looks like.”

“When did-”

Oscar shrugs. “You’ve known him for a while, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I-” Lando shakes his head. “I just didn’t think …”

He trails off, watching Max lean over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Not hurried. Not performative. Just gentle.

Max, being gentle.

“I’ve gotta say something,” Lando mutters.

Oscar blinks. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, I’ll explode.”

And before Oscar can stop him, Lando peels off from the group and makes a beeline for your table.

***

You’re still laughing when you feel the shadow loom over the table.

“Now this is a sight I never thought I’d see,” Lando says, hands in his pockets like he’s wandered into a museum exhibit.

Max doesn’t even flinch. “Hi, Lando.”

You look up, grinning. “Hey.”

Lando stares between you both like he’s waiting for someone to yell Gotcha!

“You’re smiling,” he says to Max, incredulous.

Max raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“And you’re touching her. In public.”

“She’s mine,” Max says easily. “Why wouldn’t I touch her?”

Lando sits himself down at the edge of your table without asking. “No, see, this is wild. You’re smiling. You’re pouring her wine. You just-” He points at Max. “You tucked her hair. You tucked her hair.”

“Are you having a stroke?” You ask, fighting another laugh.

“Don’t play it cool,” Lando says. “This is monumental. I’ve known this guy for years. He barely makes eye contact with me, and now he’s feeding you olives.”

Max calmly pops one into your mouth. You chew it slowly, grinning.

Lando’s jaw drops. “That. That. Right there.”

“Glad you stopped by,” Max says dryly.

“You like him like this?” Lando asks you, scandalized.

“I love him like this,” you say, just to watch Lando’s face implode.

Max smirks, proud. “Careful. You’re going to choke on your disbelief.”

Lando leans back in the chair, still staring like he’s just discovered aliens live in Monaco and go by the name Verstappen.

“When did this happen?”

You glance at Max. “Depends. Do you want the karting story? The vacation story? The letters? The part where my dad called it before I even hit puberty?”

Lando blinks. “Letters?”

“She wrote me letters for two years,” Max says, like it’s common knowledge.

“I-” Lando stutters. “What? You wrote him letters?”

“Every week,” you say.

“She was in Switzerland. I was doing F3,” Max adds.

“And you kept them?”

Max’s voice softens. “Of course.”

Lando looks like he might cry. “I thought you were a robot.”

“He’s not,” you say. “He’s just careful.”

Max shrugs. “She knows me. That’s all.”

A beat of quiet falls over the table, warm and strange. Lando frowns down at the half-eaten bread basket like it’s going to offer some kind of emotional clarity.

Then-

“Wait. Does Jos know?”

“Of course he knows,” Max says.

Lando laughs. “Oh, God. I bet he flipped. He hates when anyone distracts you.”

You sip your wine.

“Jos adores her,” Max says.

And as if summoned by prophecy, Jos fucking Verstappen walks into the restaurant.

Lando nearly knocks his glass over. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jos spots you first. He nods once at Max, then walks over to the table with all the urgency of a man browsing a farmer’s market.

“Y/N,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses you on the cheek.

Lando drops his fork.

“Hi, Uncle Jos,” you say, smiling.

“Good to see you,” Jos replies, warm and surprisingly soft. He looks at Max, gives him a firm nod. “She settling in?”

“Perfectly,” Max replies.

Jos claps him on the shoulder once — approval, affection, something else unspoken — then disappears toward the bar.

Lando stares after him like he’s just seen a ghost.

“Since when does Jos smile?” He hisses.

Max smirks, takes a slow sip of wine. “Since forever,” he says, “with her.”

***

After dinner, Max laces his fingers through yours as you walk along the quiet Monaco street. The ocean glimmers to your left. The lights are low, golden. Your heels click softly against the cobblestones.

“You okay?” He asks.

You glance up. “More than.”

“Sorry about Lando. He means well.”

You smile. “It was kind of funny.”

He chuckles, squeezes your hand. “I meant what I said, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stop walking, tug him gently so he turns to face you. “Even the part where I’m yours?”

His voice is low. Serious.

“Especially that part.”

You lean in, forehead against his. “Then you’re mine, too.”

“Always have been.”

The city hums around you. Somewhere, someone laughs. A boat horn echoes softly in the harbor.

And Max kisses you like he’s never known anything else.

***

It starts, as most things do in the Red Bull motorhome, with Yuki Tsunoda standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’s hunting for snacks — something chocolate-adjacent and preferably smuggled from catering. He’s halfway through opening a cupboard when he hears voices coming from the other side of the thin wall that separates the corridor from Helmut’s little meeting nook.

One voice is unmistakable. Gravel and grumble and full of slow-burning nostalgia.

Jos Verstappen.

Yuki stills.

“I said thirteen,” Jos says. “Michael said sixteen.”

There’s a beat of silence, the sound of a spoon clinking gently against ceramic. Helmut, Yuki guesses, is stirring his sixth espresso of the morning. Probably about to scoff at whatever nonsense Jos is peddling.

But Jos goes on. “We had a bet.”

Yuki blinks. A bet?

“On Max and Y/N?” Helmut sounds surprised. “You’re telling me that’s been going on since-”

Jos chuckles, low and fond. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see them.”

There’s a pause. “I said they’d kiss first at thirteen. Michael said they’d get secretly engaged at sixteen.”

Yuki’s jaw drops. He forgets the cupboard, forgets the snack, forgets why he’s even standing there. He presses his ear closer to the thin wall.

“What actually happened?” Helmut asks.

Jos laughs. Really laughs. Not the bitter kind — the real kind. The kind that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape.

“Turns out,” he says, “Max gave her a ring pop when they were ten and called it a promise.”

There’s the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Jos again. “He said — and I swear, Helmut, I swear — he said, ‘It’s not real, but I’ll make it real later.’”

Helmut mutters something in disbelief, but Yuki’s not listening anymore.

Ten.

Ten years old.

***

It’s impossible to unhear.

That’s what Yuki decides an hour later, legs bouncing under the table in the drivers’ debrief while Max sits across from him looking utterly, maddeningly normal.

Except … not.

Max is focused, sure. He’s got the data sheet in one hand, telemetry open on his tablet, and he’s nodding at something the engineer says. But his foot taps. His eyes flick, just once, toward the clock on the wall.

And then, suddenly, he shifts forward, cuts the meeting off mid-sentence.

“Give me five.”

The room stills.

The engineer frowns. “You want-”

“Five minutes.”

“No, of course, just, uh, okay?”

Max’s phone is already in his hand. He’s out the door before anyone can question it.

Yuki waits a beat, then rises too. He murmurs something about needing the loo and slips out after him, ducking into the corridor just in time to see Max rounding the corner toward the hospitality suite.

He slows when he hears the door open, then Max’s voice — low, quiet, more intimate than Yuki’s ever heard.

“Hey. Did you eat?”

There’s a pause. Yuki’s heart thumps. He knows it’s you on the other side.

“Max,” you say, fond and exasperated. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I had a bar earlier. And a banana.”

“A banana,” Max repeats like it’s an insult to your entire bloodline.

“I’m working.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

Another pause. Then your voice, softer. “You’re supposed to be in the debrief.”

“I’m supposed to make sure you’re okay.”

Yuki has to slap a hand over his own mouth to keep from reacting out loud.

Max’s voice again, lighter now: “Did you drink water?”

“You are such a-”

“Did. You. Drink.”

You sigh. “Yes. I drank water.”

There’s a smile in Max’s reply. “Good girl.”

Yuki practically blacks out.

***

When Max returns to the meeting five minutes later with an unopened granola bar still in his hand, nobody says a word. Nobody dares.

Except Yuki.

He waits until they’re in the sim lounge, just the two of them, while Max’s seat is being adjusted and the engineers are fiddling with telemetry in the back.

Then, “So … ring pop?”

Max freezes. Just for a second. Then he shoots Yuki a look.

“Where did you hear that?”

Yuki grins. “Jos and Helmut. Thin walls.”

Max sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny it.

“She still has it,” he mutters.

“No way.”

“In a box.”

“Oh my God, Max.”

Max shrugs. “It wasn’t for anyone else.”

Yuki leans back, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You were in love at ten.”

Max just smiles. “Yeah. And I still am.”

***

Later that afternoon, you wander into the garage between meetings, one hand in your pocket, the other rubbing a spot at the base of your neck where stress always seems to collect. Max finds you before you even reach catering.

He always does.

“You didn’t finish your bar,” he says, holding up the wrapper like it’s damning evidence in a courtroom.

You give him a look. “You checked?”

“I check everything.”

He moves closer, smooths a wrinkle from your shirt with one hand, then slips the other to the small of your back. His touch is warm. Steady. His body shields you automatically from the chaos behind you — people moving, talking, planning — but all you feel is him.

“I had coffee,” you offer.

“Not food.”

“Coffee is made of beans.”

“Y/N.”

You laugh. “Okay. I’ll eat. Just don’t tell Yuki I’m stealing his instant ramen.”

Max smirks. “About that …”

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. He just overheard something.”

“Max.”

He kisses your temple. “It’s fine.”

“Define fine.”

“He found out about the ring pop.”

Your mouth drops open. “You told him?”

“Jos told Helmut. Yuki eavesdropped.”

“Oh my God.”

Max shrugs. “I gave you my first promise. And I’m keeping it.”

You fall quiet, heart doing somersaults in your chest. You’re suddenly ten again, sticky-fingered and sun-drenched, holding a cherry-flavored ring pop while Max grinned at you like he’d just won Le Mans.

You reach for his hand now, fingers threading through his.

“You have kept it.”

He nods, solemn. “Every day.”

***

Jos watches from the hallway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Yuki sidles up next to him.

“They’re pretty intense,” Yuki mutters.

Jos glances at him.

“She’s the only person he ever listens to,” he says.

Then he smiles.

Again.

Yuki shakes his head. “Unreal.”

***

The Red Bull garage is silent in that way only disaster can command.

Not the loud kind of disaster. Not the chaos of spinning tires or radio static or desperate engineers shouting into headsets. No, this is worse. This is the silence that comes when the pit wall realizes, together, that the lap isn’t going to finish. That the car isn’t going to limp back. That there’s only carbon fiber confetti, blinking yellow flags, and a flickering onboard camera showing Max Verstappen’s helmet motionless in the cockpit, framed by smoke and gravel.

He’s not moving.

“Red flag. Red flag. That’s Max in the wall.”

GP’s voice crackles through the comms, tight with alarm.

“Talk to me, Max.”

Nothing.

Then-

“I’m fine.”

The radio comes alive again. Gritted teeth, labored breath.

“Fucking understeer. Car didn’t turn. I said it didn’t feel right this morning.”

You’re in the garage, watching on a monitor, a pen stilled in your hand and a racing heart thudding in your throat. The medical car is already on its way.

***

The medical center smells like antiseptic and tension.

He’s on the bed when you get there. Suit unzipped to his waist, skin smudged with gravel dust and the beginnings of bruises.

And he’s angry.

“I’m not doing a scan,” he snaps, tugging at the strap of his HANS device like it personally betrayed him. “I’m fine.”

“Max,” the doctor says with all the patience of someone who’s dealt with world champions before, “you hit the wall at a hundred and seventy. We’re doing a scan.”

“I said I’m fine-”

“Max.”

Your voice.

Quiet. Steady. Unmistakable.

He turns. The fury in his shoulders drains almost instantly.

“Schatje.”

You cross to him, not rushing — because if you rush, he’ll think you’re panicked. And if you’re panicked, he’ll dig his heels in deeper.

You cup his jaw gently, running your thumb across the spot just beneath his cheekbone. His eyes flutter closed for a second. He exhales, jaw loosening.

“Let them do the scan,” you say softly.

“I don’t want-”

“It’s not about what you want right now.”

He sighs. Mutinous. “I hate this part.”

“I know you do.” You nod, brushing sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “But I need to know you’re okay. I need the scans.”

He opens his eyes again, searching yours.

“Just a formality,” you whisper. “You’ll be out in twenty minutes.”

He hesitates. Then finally, “Okay.”

You turn to the doctor. “Go ahead.”

The doctor blinks at you like he’s watching a unicorn read a bedtime story to a lion.

Max doesn’t argue again.

GP, standing just behind the exam curtain, looks like he’s aged five years in twenty minutes. He leans toward you when Max disappears into the back for imaging.

“That was witchcraft.”

You shrug. “It’s just Max.”

“No,” GP says. “That was magic. He looked like he was about to throw a monitor at me.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He would’ve thrown it at me,” the doctor chimes in, still stunned. “And now he’s apologizing to the nurse. Who are you?”

You smile softly. “Just someone who knows how to talk to him.”

***

Jos arrives fifteen minutes later, face stormy and footsteps sharp. The room collectively inhales.

You’re seated in a plastic chair, eyes on the monitor that shows Max’s scan progress. You don’t turn around when Jos enters. You don’t have to.

He stops just behind you.

“Is he hurt?” He asks.

“Not seriously,” you answer. “But they need to check for microfractures. The impact was sharp on the right side.”

Jos is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand, heavy and warm, settles on your shoulder.

“You got him to agree to scans?”

You nod. “He was being Max.”

“That sounds right.”

GP, standing by the sink with a paper cup, watches the moment unfold like he’s witnessing history.

Jos Verstappen. Smiling.

Max reappears ten minutes later, changed into clean Red Bull kit, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You rise. “All clear?”

“Yeah.” He moves straight into your arms. “Just bruised.”

You press a kiss to his shoulder. “I told you it was fine.”

Max turns to Jos. “Hey.”

Jos scans him up and down, then nods once. “Could’ve been worse.”

Max shrugs. “Could’ve been better, too.”

“You’ll get it tomorrow.”

Max tilts his head. “That’s optimistic for you.”

Jos’s hand is still on your shoulder. “She makes us all softer, apparently.”

Everyone in the room hears it.

GP actually drops his cup.

Back in the garage later, Max sits on a folding chair while you rewrap the compression band on his wrist.

“It’s not tight, is it?”

“No.”

“You’ll tell me if it is?”

“Of course.” He smirks. “You’ll know before I say it anyway.”

You smile. “True.”

Max glances around the garage. “They’re all looking.”

You nod. “Let them.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

He takes your hand in his. “Thanks for earlier.”

“You were being impossible.”

“You love it.”

You grin. “I do.”

***

Outside, the paddock buzzes with gossip.

Inside, you kneel in front of him, fingers moving expertly over tape and skin. And Max looks down at you like he did when he was ten years old with cherry candy on his finger, asking you to keep a promise he hadn’t yet learned how to name.

And still, somehow, keeping it anyway.

***

Max is late.

Which isn’t unusual — especially not after a race weekend, not when media has clawed its way through his post-crash interviews like blood in the water. He told you he’d try to be back by seven, but it’s pushing eight-thirty, and the pasta you made sits cold on the counter while you curl up on the couch in one of his hoodies, a blanket around your shoulders and a book cracked open across your knees.

The apartment smells like rosemary and garlic and something so distinctly him that it makes your chest hurt. You should be used to this place by now — your name on the buzzer, your shoes by the door, your shampoo next to his in the shower — but some days it still feels like walking around in someone else’s dream.

The book is old. Max’s, clearly. Worn at the spine and dog-eared in ways that suggest he’s either read it a thousand times or used it to prop up furniture. You only picked it up to pass the time. You weren’t expecting it to feel like a trapdoor.

You weren’t expecting the letter.

It slips out from between two pages around chapter eleven, delicate and yellowed and folded into a square so neat it feels like it was handled by trembling hands. Which, you realize instantly, it probably was.

Your name is written on the front in Max’s handwriting.

But it’s Max’s handwriting from before.

When he still dotted his Is with a slight curve, when his Ts slanted just a little to the left, when his signature hadn’t hardened into something that looked more like a logo.

Your breath catches. You unfold it slowly.

And read.

March 5th, 2014

Y/N,

I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m writing this instead. Everyone’s talking, but no one is saying anything real. I hate it. I hate seeing the photos. I hate hearing my dad whisper when he thinks I’m not listening. I hate that I wasn’t skiing with you in France. I should have been.

You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.

You’ve always been braver than me. I don’t think I ever said that out loud, but it’s true. Even when we were kids and you crashed in Italy and your leg was bleeding and you didn’t cry — I almost did. I think I loved you even then.

I don’t know if you’ll come back to racing. I don’t know if I’ll see you in the paddock again. But if you do when you do I hope you come sit in my garage. Right in front of me. I hope I can look up and see you, just like before.

Because I drive better when you’re there. I always have.

Your Max

***

By the time you finish reading, you’re crying. Quietly. The kind of tears that don’t shake your shoulders, that don’t come with heaving sobs or gasps for breath — just the steady, unstoppable kind. The kind you didn’t know you were holding back.

The kind that were never just about the letter.

***

Max finds you like that.

The apartment door opens with its usual soft click, followed by the sound of keys in the dish and shoes kicked off against the wall. He calls out, “Schatje?” the way he always does.

When you don’t answer, he moves through the hallway, brow furrowed.

And then he sees you. Still on the couch. Eyes red. Shoulders small.

“Hey-”

He crosses to you instantly, crouching down so you’re face to face.

“What happened?” He asks, voice gentle, hands finding your knees. “What is it?”

You don’t speak. Not right away. You just reach for the folded piece of paper on the coffee table. Place it in his hand.

He looks down. Sees it. Recognizes it.

His eyes widen — then narrow. Carefully, he unfolds it.

You watch his throat work through a swallow as he reads.

Then he looks back at you.

“You found this?”

You nod. “It was in the book.”

He exhales. Drops the letter into his lap and reaches for your face, brushing your tears away with his thumb. His touch is featherlight. Reverent.

“You kept it,” you whisper.

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know-”

“I didn’t write it to give it to you.” Max’s voice is quiet. “I wrote it because I didn’t know how else to talk to you. You were gone. Everyone kept telling me to stay focused, to push through. But I missed you so much it made my chest hurt. I didn’t know if you’d ever come back.”

You press your forehead against his, and he leans into it like gravity is pulling him there.

“You never left me,” he murmurs. “Even when you did.”

Your breath hitches.

“I used to look at the garage before a race and pretend you were there. I’d pick a spot and tell myself, she’s sitting right there. She’s watching. Make it count.”

You sniff, choking on a watery laugh. “That’s why you got better?”

He smiles softly. “That’s why I survived.”

A pause. Then-

“I thought you might hate racing after … everything.”

You shake your head. “No. I hated losing it. I hated what it became without him. Without you.”

He shifts beside you, pulling you gently into his lap. You curl into him without hesitation, your cheek pressed against his collarbone, his hand sliding up your back and resting there, like it always does.

“I was scared,” you admit. “To come back. Not just to the paddock. To you.”

Max doesn’t flinch. He waits. Lets you speak.

“I knew if I saw you again, I wouldn’t be able to pretend we were just kids anymore. And that scared the hell out of me.”

“Why?”

“Because I never stopped loving you. Not for a second. And I didn’t know what that would mean.”

He kisses your temple. “It means you were always mine. Even when you didn’t know it yet.”

You shift to face him again. “Did you really mean it?”

“The letter?”

“Yeah.”

He holds your gaze, unwavering.

“I still mean it.”

You smile. “I sit in your garage now.”

“And I drive like I used to.”

“No,” you whisper. “You drive better.”

He grins. “Because you’re here.”

“Because I’m home.”

***

Later, much later, when the dishes are cleaned and your tears have dried, he pulls you into bed and tucks the letter between the pages of the book again.

“I want it close,” he says.

You trace the edge of his jaw. “Me too.”

Then he pulls you to his chest, your head against his heartbeat, and whispers against your hair:

“Promise me you’ll never leave again.”

You lift your chin. “Promise me you’ll always write me letters.”

He smiles.

“Deal.”

***

You don’t notice it right away.

The photo.

You’re sitting on Max’s couch, legs tangled with his, a shared blanket draped over both your laps, when your phone starts vibrating on the table.

Once.

Twice.

Then nonstop.

Max lifts his head from where it rests against your shoulder, brow furrowed. “That your phone?”

You reach over to check it, already expecting a handful of texts from your mother or maybe Mick with some new meme. But it’s not that.

It’s dozens — no, hundreds — of messages, pinging in rapid-fire succession from people you haven’t spoken to in years. Old classmates. Distant cousins. PR reps. Journalists. Even Nico Rosberg, who once jokingly told you he’d know before the internet if anything happened between you and Max, has sent you a simple message:

So … it’s out.

Your stomach twists.

“Y/N?” Max asks again. He’s sitting up now.

You click one of the links. It takes you to a Twitter post — already at 127,000 likes in under twenty minutes.

A photo.

Of you.

And Max.

It’s clearly taken the night after the race, when you and Max walked along the water after dinner, just the two of you, winding down through the dimmed cobblestone streets where no one was supposed to notice.

He’s standing behind you, arms wrapped around your middle. His face is tucked into your shoulder, eyes closed, and your hands rest on his forearms. There’s a soft smile on your face. The kind of moment that wasn’t meant to be seen. Quiet. Intimate. Entirely yours.

It’s not yours anymore.

The caption: IS THIS MAX VERSTAPPEN’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?

Max takes the phone from your hand before you can process much more. He stares at the screen, expression unreadable.

You murmur, “Max …“

He doesn’t speak.

You’re already scanning through the quote tweets and reposts, the chaos unraveling fast.

Whoever she is, he’s IN LOVE.

That’s not just a fling. Look at the way he’s holding her.

His face in her shoulder? Oh this is serious.

Wait. Wait. Wait. IS THAT Y/N SCHUMACHER?

Your heart hammers in your chest. You feel stripped bare.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “Someone must’ve followed us.”

Max shakes his head slowly, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter.” He turns the phone over, screen down.

“Max …“

“I don’t care. I don’t give a shit who sees it. I’m just pissed they took it without asking.”

You hesitate. “It’s everywhere.”

He meets your eyes. His gaze is clear. “Then let it be everywhere.”

***

You think that might be the end of it. Just one photo, one viral tweet.

But you underestimate the sheer velocity of Formula 1 gossip.

By the time the sun rises, the image is on every motorsport news outlet. Paparazzi camp outside your apartment building. Journalists send emails with subject lines like “Verstappen’s Secret Girlfriend: A Deep Dive” and “Schumacher Family Ties: Romance in the Paddock?”

Christian texts you. Let us handle it. Don’t say anything. Max will be briefed before press.

You reply. I’m sorry.

His response comes a second later. Don’t be. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.

You almost cry again.

***

But nothing — and you mean nothing — could have prepared you for Jos.

You’re sitting in the Red Bull motorhome the following weekend when Yuki bursts in with his phone held up like a holy relic. He’s breathless, half-laughing, half-screaming.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. You guys. Look. Look.”

“What?” Max asks, bemused, glancing up from his telemetry notes.

Yuki throws his phone on the table. “Your dad.” He’s pointing at Max.

Max raises a brow. “What about him?”

“HE COMMENTED. PUBLICLY.”

You frown, inching closer to see.

The photo’s been reposted on Instagram by a gossip account. The caption is asking for confirmation. A sea of users is speculating. Arguing. Debating theories. And right there, in the middle of it all, under his verified name:

@josverstappen7 About time.

There’s a moment of pure, undiluted silence.

Then-

Max snorts. Actually snorts.

You blink. “He what?”

“He’s never commented on anything in his life,” Yuki gasps. “That man barely smiles.”

Max looks a little stunned. Then a slow, crooked grin stretches across his face.

“He likes you,” he says, quiet and proud.

You blink. “He’s always liked me.”

“Yeah, but now the world knows it.”

***

The paddock can’t stop buzzing. It’s not just that Max Verstappen has a girlfriend — it’s who she is. The daughter of Michael Schumacher. The girl who practically grew up beside him. The one everyone assumed had vanished from the scene. The one no one dared to ask about.

Even Helmut gives you a brief nod of approval in the hallway.

But it’s not over. Of course it’s not. There’s still the press conference.

***

You’re not there when it happens — you’re finishing up a private session with a Red Bull junior driver who nearly fainted during sim training — but you hear about it immediately.

The moment.

The question.

The quote that breaks the internet again.

Max is calm, cool as always in the hot seat. Wearing his usual navy polo, fingers tapping the table rhythmically while the journalists volley back and forth about tire strategy and engine upgrades.

And then-

A Sky Sports reporter leans in, trying to be clever.

“So, Max,” he says, “the internet’s in a frenzy over a certain photo from Monaco. You’ve been quiet about your personal life for years, but … care to confirm?”

There’s laughter from the room. A few mutters. Even Lewis shifts in his seat to glance over.

Max doesn’t bristle. He doesn’t scoff.

He just tilts his head slightly, expression softening.

“She’s not new.”

A pause.

“She’s always been there.”

***

When you see the clip, it hits you like a wave.

You watch it alone, in the empty Red Bull lounge, curled into one of the oversized chairs with your laptop on your knees and your heart in your throat.

The way he says it — without fanfare, without nerves — makes you ache.

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t evade.

He just tells the truth.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

***

You don’t have to wait long before he finds you.

He walks in still wearing his lanyard and sunglasses, head slightly tilted.

“You saw it?”

You look up from the laptop and nod. “You really said that?”

“I meant it.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He sits beside you, pulls you into his lap without hesitation, arms snug around your waist.

“They’ll keep asking,” you murmur.

“Let them.”

You smile softly. “You’re not worried?”

“About what? Loving you in public?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved you in private since I was ten. I can do both.”

You press your forehead to his.

“They’re going to write stories.”

“Then I hope they write this part down.” He kisses you, slow and steady, like punctuation.

***

On your way out of the motorhome, your phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from your brother.

Tell Max if he hurts you, I’ll find a way back to F1 just so I can crash into him on lap one.

You laugh. Max, peeking over your shoulder, rolls his eyes.

“I like Mick,” he says, deadpan.

You grin. “Then be nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you every morning.”

You bump his hip. “You’re also mean to me every morning.”

“That’s foreplay.”

You laugh. Out loud. Bright and sudden.

And this time, you don’t care who hears it.

***

The drive is quiet.

Not tense, not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence that lives in the space between heartbeats, between memories that never stopped aching. The kind of quiet that comes with going home.

Your fingers are looped with Max’s across the center console, neither of you speaking. You’re an hour outside Geneva, climbing into the familiar, secluded hills that line the lake. The roads are winding, shaded, and Max handles them like second nature — like he’s driven this route in dreams a hundred times before.

He probably has.

You definitely have.

You haven’t brought anyone back here in years.

Not since the accident. Not since everything changed.

But Max isn’t just anyone. He never was.

“I’m nervous,” you say softly.

“I know,” he replies, eyes still fixed on the road.

You twist the hem of your sweater. “It’s not that I’m worried about him meeting you. It’s just … it’s different now. You remember.”

“I remember everything.”

You glance over at him. “Do you?”

Max finally turns to you, just briefly, but long enough for you to see the honesty in his expression. “He used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to marry you unless I learned how to heel-toe downshift.”

A small, watery laugh escapes your lips.

He squeezes your hand. “I got good at it. Just for him.”

You blink hard. “I just want him to know.”

“He knows.”

“Max-”

“He always knew.”

***

The estate hasn’t changed much.

The front gate still creaks a little. The garden still bursts with the same wild lavender and pale roses that your mother always insisted were Michael’s favorite, even though he could never name a single one correctly. The driveway curves the same way, gravel crunching under tires as Max eases the car into park.

You hesitate before getting out.

He doesn’t rush you.

Instead, Max leans over, presses his lips to your temple, and whispers, “Take your time. I’ve got you.”

You nod, even though nothing about your chest feels steady.

***

Your mother meets you at the door.

She pulls you into a hug instantly — tight, wordless, and lingering longer than usual.

Then she reaches for Max, and to your surprise, she hugs him too.

He hugs back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she says softly.

Max only nods.

She turns toward you. “He’s in the garden.”

***

You lead Max through the long corridor, past the living room where your father once danced around in his socks to ABBA to make you laugh. Past the kitchen table where Max, age fourteen, carved your initials into the wood with a butter knife when he thought no one was watching. (You never told anyone. You ran your fingers over it for years.)

The sliding glass doors to the garden open slowly. The breeze hits first — cool, gentle, still carrying hints of mountain pine.

And then, you see him.

He’s sitting under the willow tree, just like always, his wheelchair angled slightly toward the sun. There’s a blanket draped across his knees, and a small radio plays softly on the stone table beside him — some old German song you half-remember from childhood.

His eyes are open. Alert.

Your breath catches.

Max is silent beside you.

You step forward first.

“Hi, Papa.”

His eyes flick to yours.

Your voice breaks immediately. “I brought someone.”

Max takes a slow step closer.

Michael’s gaze moves to him.

There’s no flicker of surprise. No confusion. No question.

Just … calm recognition.

As if he knew you were coming all along.

“Hi, Michael,” Max says, voice low, steady. “It’s been a while.”

There’s no response. But Michael blinks, slowly, and Max takes it like a nod.

You kneel beside the chair. Take one of your father’s hands in both of yours. “You look good today.”

He doesn’t answer. He hasn’t, in years — not in full sentences. Sometimes a sound. A shift of the eyes. But it’s not the voice you grew up with. Not the laugh that echoed across karting paddocks. Not the firm, confident tone that once told Max he was going to win eight titles just to piss him off.

But his hands are warm.

You press your forehead to his knuckles, eyes closed.

“I missed you.”

Max kneels beside you.

He doesn’t say much at first.

Just lets his hand fall gently on your back.

Then, in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard from him, he says, “You were right.”

There’s a pause.

“You told me once that I’d marry her someday.” His thumb brushes a slow, grounding line along your spine. “I used to think you were joking. I was nine. I didn’t even know how to talk to her properly.”

You let out a breath that trembles.

Max continues, “But you saw it before we did. You knew.”

Michael’s eyes shift again. Toward Max. Then to you.

Still no words.

But something passes between the three of you. A ripple. A current. The invisible thread that’s always been there.

You blink hard, but tears fall anyway.

“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” Max adds. “We didn’t mean to make it public. But now that it is — I wanted you to know.”

You choke on a sob.

Max moves instantly, both arms around you, pulling you into his chest.

You don’t resist.

You bury yourself into him, the tears shaking through your body, your grip fisting the back of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, over and over. “I’m sorry I waited so long to bring him.”

He strokes your hair. “You brought me now.”

“He doesn’t even …“

“He knows,” Max says again. “He knows.”

You look up at him, eyes red, cheeks damp.

And he says it, not for the first time, but with a weight that anchors you to the earth:

“I love you.”

Your voice cracks. “I love you too.”

Michael’s hand twitches.

You freeze.

Then, slowly — almost imperceptibly — his fingers curl around yours.

Max sees it too.

His voice breaks a little. “Thank you, Michael.”

***

You stay in the garden for hours.

Max pulls an extra chair over and doesn’t complain when your head falls against his shoulder. He lets you speak. Lets you cry. At one point, your mother brings out coffee. He thanks her in gentle German. She smooths your hair down like you’re six years old again and then kisses your father’s forehead with practiced tenderness.

Michael watches everything. Quietly. Distant but present.

You catch Max whispering something under his breath at one point, leaning just slightly closer to your father.

You don’t ask what he said.

Later, as the sun dips low over the lake and the shadows stretch long across the grass, Michael’s eyes start to close. His breathing slows.

You press a final kiss to his cheek.

Max pushes your hair behind your ear, kisses your temple.

The way he carries your grief — without fear, without pressure — makes something in your heart crack open.

“I wasn’t ready,” you whisper in the hallway later.

“I know.”

“But I’m glad we came.”

“I am too.”

You pause.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever — when we were kids — imagine this?”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then he smiles.

“You were all I ever imagined.”

***

Victoria doesn’t knock.

She never has. She has a key, the code, and more importantly, Max has always told her, “Just come in. You don’t need permission.”

But today something feels different the moment she steps through the door.

It smells like vanilla and something warm and sweet. There’s music, soft and low, playing from the kitchen. Stevie Wonder, maybe? She toes off her shoes, sets her weekend bag down by the stairs, and follows the faint scent of pancakes.

And then stops dead in the hallway.

Because Max is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms slung loosely around someone else’s waist. And that someone is barefoot, in one of his old Red Bull t-shirts that hangs to mid-thigh, hair tied in a messy knot, flipping pancakes with an ease that can only come from familiarity.

She recognizes you instantly.

As the girl Max would talk about when he was sixteen and swearing up and down he didn’t believe in love. As the girl who used to show up on the pit wall and make her brother forget to breathe. As the one name he never said bitterly.

The one girl he never had to get over, because he never stopped waiting for her.

You.

Y/N Schumacher.

And Max is kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Whispering something low and private, like he’s done it a thousand times before. You laugh — really laugh — and Max’s hand slips beneath the hem of the shirt like it’s instinctive, fingers resting warm against your hip.

Victoria blinks.

Not because it’s jarring, but because it’s not.

Because it looks like he’s home.

She clears her throat, and Max turns his head lazily over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vic.”

You turn too, startled, spatula still in hand.

“Oh! Hi, sorry, I didn’t know you were coming today. I would’ve-”

“She’s here,” Max says to you, then to Victoria, “You’re early.”

“I didn’t know I had to schedule a slot now,” she teases.

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

Victoria steps fully into the kitchen, scanning the countertop cluttered with batter, coffee mugs, and fresh strawberries.

“This is … surreal,” she murmurs, setting her sunglasses down.

“What is?” Max asks, biting into a strawberry you just sliced.

You swat at him. “That was for the topping.”

He grins. “I have training later, I need carbs.”

Victoria watches all of this with quiet fascination.

Max is … soft.

Not weak. Never that.

But soft. Like velvet over steel. Like he’s stopped fighting air and finally has something solid to hold onto. Like the sharp edges of his world have finally rounded into something resembling peace.

She pulls out a stool at the counter.

“Okay, I need to hear everything,” she announces, folding her arms. “How long has this been going on? When were you planning on telling your favorite sister?”

Max reaches for a mug. “Technically, I told you when I was nine.”

You blink. “You what?”

Victoria smirks. “You what?”

Max shrugs, pouring coffee. “Told her I was gonna marry you. At dinner. After karting in Genk. You had that sparkly lip gloss and made me crash into a barrier.”

“Oh my god,” you say, half-laughing, face warm. “That wasn’t even — Max, you were such a menace back then.”

He leans in, voice low. “Still am.”

You swat at him again, cheeks flushed.

Victoria watches with something like awe.

“I knew it,” she says softly. “I knew when I saw you with her at Spa. You stood differently.”

“I did not,” Max replies, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

“You did. Like the noise stopped.”

He doesn’t argue.

You glance at him, puzzled.

Victoria turns to you. “You calm him. I don’t think he even realizes how much.”

“I do,” Max says immediately, gaze fixed on you. “I realize it every day.”

You go quiet.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes once.

Victoria sips her coffee. “So … are you living here?”

Max answers before you can. “She’s not going anywhere.”

You smile down at the pancakes. “He unpacked my boxes before I could even choose a closet.”

“I built you a desk,” Max adds.

Victoria raises a brow. “You hate assembling furniture.”

“I made GP help.”

You burst out laughing. “You yelled at the instructions.”

“They were wrong,” Max mutters.

Victoria watches you both, a soft look settling over her features.

“You’re good for him,” she says, quieter now. “He’s still Max, but … I’ve never seen him this happy. Even when he won the championship. It wasn’t like this.”

You glance at him.

Max is already looking at you.

“She’s always been it,” he says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “Even when she wasn’t here.”

You press your lips together.

He leans in again, presses another kiss to your temple.

Victoria pretends to gag. “God, you’re disgusting.”

Max smiles. “I know.”

But you notice the way he pulls you in closer. How he kisses your knuckles when you pass him the syrup. How his eyes keep coming back to you like he’s still making sure you’re real.

You’ve been through everything.

Secrets. Distance. Paparazzi. The weight of family names. The ache of watching a parent disappear in pieces.

But this?

This is the part you never thought you’d get to have.

Pancakes and Stevie Wonder and barefoot Saturdays. Max leaning against you like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. Victoria grinning across the kitchen island like she’s always known.

You hand her a plate.

“Tell me if it’s too sweet,” you say.

Max nudges your hip. “It’s perfect.”

You look up at him.

So is he.

So is this.

3K notes · View notes

vibelladonna · 3 months ago

Text

❛ 𝒶𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Crowe has been working himself into the ground dealing with the never-ending mountain of student council paperwork, ridiculous club requests, and—worst of all—the ever-demanding student council president.

You've begged him, time and time again, to get an assistant, but of course, he refuses. Something about ‘not trusting anyone’ and ‘preferring to suffer in silence’ like some kind of tragic protagonist. So, naturally, you took matters into your own hands. if Crowe won’t take care of himself? Well, you’ll just have to do it for him.

Even if it means driving him absolutely insane in the process.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: this was a request from anon! so, of course, my dumbass turned it into a full-blown story. MIND YOU, I’VE BEEN STRUGGLING WITH THIS FOR THREE WEEKS TRYING TO FIGURE OUT THE ENDING. And it's not really poof read as I just annoyed looking at it but i haven’t written crowe in a minute, so here we are.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: overworked student council vp!crowe x assistant!reader, afab!reader, chaotic & teasing, reader takes no shit, boss/assistant relationship, mutual pining, secret relationship, possessive behavior, possessive crowe, sassy reader, fluff and smut, slow burn (kinda), soft dom!crowe, playful sub!reader, and mutual obsession

Soo……

What’s an assistant? you should already know

Well, an assistant can be a person who helps someone else—or a device, or a product designed to make life easier. Something you’d been telling Jericho Ichabod—sorry, Crowe, Prince Charming himself—that he desperately needed.

The campus was alive with its usual midday bustle. From noon to around two, the student center became a chaotic mess of movement and noise.

The hallways were clogged with students threading through the crowd, half-zipped backpacks slung over shoulders, their conversations weaving together into a dull roar. The on-campus market beeped and whirred as it spat out overpriced snacks, and groups of friends hovered near the food court, laughing, talking, and shoving each other playfully before heading to their next class.

None of it really registered with you.

While the rest of the student body thrived in the high-energy atmosphere, instead, you moved at a different pace—faster and more worried.

Your thoughts were elsewhere as Crowe had been on your mind since the moment Geo had texted you while you were in the middle of your classes. ‘He's stuck with more student council crap,’ as Geo had so eloquently put it.

That wasn’t surprising.

Crowe had a habit of stretching himself too thin, juggling responsibilities like it was some kind of sport. But what bothered you wasn’t just the workload—it was that, for all his charm and effortless control, he never let anyone see when it got to him.

You’d planned to meet him for lunch today, a rare breather in the middle of his overbooked schedule, but now you weren’t even sure if he’d bother to eat.

Annoying.

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you made your way upstairs toward the student council room. It was tucked away in a quieter part of the building, hidden beside the upper-level seating area where students went to eat lunch away from the main chaos. You’d come straight here after class—your day was already done, but his, knowing him, was far from over.

And if he thought he could brush this off like everything else?

Yeah, no. Not happening.

The second you reached the door, the noise from the hallway seemed to dull, like the chaos of the outside world just couldn’t quite reach this space. The air felt heavier here, still in a way that made you hesitate. Even the fluorescent lights above barely made a sound, their low hum swallowed by the quiet. It was almost eerie—like stepping into a place that existed just slightly out of sync with the rest of reality.

Through the small window on the other door, you spotted him.

Crowe was hunched over his desk, his shoulders drawn tight with the kind of tension that looked like it had settled there hours ago. His head was bent low, nearly buried in a mountain of papers that had practically taken over his entire workspace.

It wasn’t just a mess—it was a battlefield of assignments, reports, and hastily scribbled sticky notes, some half-crumpled, others barely hanging on. His usual easygoing energy was nowhere in sight. Instead, there was only this heavy, rigid focus that clung to him like a weight.

His fingers drummed against the desk in a steady, repetitive rhythm—soft, but insistent. You’d seen him do it before, a nervous habit, a tell he probably wasn’t even aware of. The sight of him like this, so unlike himself, made something sink in your chest.

The usual spark in his eyes—the one filled with humor, mischief, that unmistakable Crowe charm—was nowhere to be found.

Instead, he just looked… drained.

You hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to step inside or leave him be. Before you could decide, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you from your thoughts.

Turning your head, you spotted Geo strolling down the hall, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket. His expression was that signature mix of exasperation and indifference he always seemed to wear, like he was perpetually caught between amusement and suffering.

As he reached you, he let out a deep sigh—whether it was for dramatic effect or genuine exhaustion, it was impossible to tell.

“He’s been at it since, like, forever,” Geo muttered, jerking his chin toward the window without breaking his stride. His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he came to a stop beside you, one shoulder propped lazily against the doorframe.

The bad lighting light from inside the office cast long shadows across his face, but the slight furrow in his brow was still obvious. “Pretty sure he hasn’t even looked up once. Council’s been dumping a mountain of work on him lately.”

You followed his gaze to the desk across the room. Crowe sat hunched over a chaotic spread of papers, ink stains dotting his fingers as he scribbled something with near-frantic precision.

Again, the lighting itself was casting sharp angles against the exhaustion clinging to him. His normally neat braid was barely form together—stray strands falling into his face, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Your frown deepened. “He hasn’t even taken a break?”

Geo let out a short, exasperated scoff, shaking his head. “Please. When does Jericho ever ask for help? He’s as stubborn as a damn mule when it comes to work—worse, even. Dude acts like taking a breather is some kind of mortal sin.” He tilted his head toward the office, his voice dipping into something dangerously close to concern, though he tried to keep it casual. “I mean, just look at him. He’s running on fumes. Won’t be long before he passes out face-first into those papers.”

Something twisted uncomfortably in your chest as you studied Crowe. He was always the composed one, the one who had everything under control—even when he didn’t.

But right now? Right now, he just looked... weighed down. Buried under the sheer amount of responsibility he refused to share with anyone else.

Geo nudged you lightly with his elbow, breaking you out of your thoughts. “You should probably go snap him out of it before he actually fuses with that desk,” he said, tone dry but not unkind. “Just... don’t expect him to admit he needs it.”

You inhaled quietly before stepping forward, your footsteps barely making a sound on the polished floor. Crowe didn’t react, too absorbed in whatever he was working on. Up close, the signs of his exhaustion were even clearer—dark circles under his deep blue eyes, tension carved into his shoulders, the pencil awkwardly tucked behind his ear like some absentminded afterthought.

You lingered just long enough to take it all in before leaning down and knocking your knuckles lightly against the wooden desk. “Knock, knock,” you said, keeping your tone light. “It’s me—your lunch date-slash-concerned friend, here to drag you out of your impending paper-induced demise.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Crowe blinked and finally looked up. His eyes, wide and unfocused for a split second, darted around in mild panic before recognition settled in, dulling the shock. He blinked sluggishly, like he was dragging himself out of some deep, paper-induced trance, before exhaling through his nose and shifting his gaze back to the disaster zone that was his desk.

“Oh. Hey,” he mumbled, voice scratchy from what was probably hours of silence. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Yeah, no kidding. You were about five more minutes away from fusing with these papers.” You crossed your arms, tilting your head as you gave him a once-over. His posture was stiff, shoulders hunched in that telltale way that screamed exhaustion, and the dark circles under his eyes looked even worse up close. “Are you even taking a break? Or let me guess—‘I’m fine, I’ll finish soon,’ right?”

He mustered up something that might’ve been a smile in another life, but now it just looked strained, like his face wasn’t quite up to the task. “I’m fine,” he said—right on cue. “I’m just trying to catch up. There’s a lot to do... I’ll finish soon.”

You gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “Geo ratted you out,” you informed him, watching as his eye twitched just slightly. “Says you’ve been glued to this desk all morning. So unless you’ve suddenly figured out how to cram ten hours of work into two, I’m calling total BS.”

Crowe opened his mouth, either to deny or argue—probably both—but you were already moving, plopping yourself onto the edge of his desk without waiting for an invitation. Papers crinkled beneath you, but honestly? He had too many to begin with.

“Alright,” you announced, clapping your hands together. “New plan. I’m your assistant now. Consider me officially hired.”

His brows furrowed, somewhere between confused and mildly alarmed. “What?”

“You heard me.” You grinned, reaching for the nearest folder. “If you won’t take a break, I’m gonna help you power through this so you can. Think of me as your unpaid intern—but better-looking and way more fun to be around.”

Crowe thrust out a hand like a human stop sign, his usual smooth-talking charm dimming under the weight of sheer, soul-crushing exhaustion. “I don’t need an assistant,” he grumbled, voice teetering on the edge of a breakdown. “And definitely not one who thinks ‘alphabetical order’ is a conspiracy theory.”

You scoffed, waving him off like an irritating fly. “Oh, come on. Filing is just alphabet soup but with extra steps. Besides, it’s either this, or I start making the most obnoxious noises known to mankind until you surrender and flee this room.”

Crowe stared at you. Hard. You could practically see the internal debate waging behind his tired eyes. He wanted to fight back, to assert some semblance of authority in his own workspace, but let’s be real—he didn’t have the energy for that.

After what felt like an eternity of silent suffering, he let out a long, suffering sigh, the kind that screamed, ‘I have officially given up on life.’ He dragged a hand down his face. “Fine,” he muttered in defeat. “But don’t touch anything important unless I told you.”

“Relax,” you chirped, already rifling through a stack of papers with the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with paperwork. “I’ve got this. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The worst did happen.

Many times in fact.

You just didn’t realize it until it was too late.

By the time two weeks had passed, it was like you had unknowingly signed a blood pact with Crowe—minus the actual blood, but definitely with the same level of inescapable obligation. Somehow, without fully realizing how it happened, you had been roped into the prestigious yet completely unpaid role of Crowe’s unofficial official assistant.

Like clockwork, as soon as your classes wrapped up for the day, there you were—reporting for duty like some poor soul enlisted in a student council boot camp, minus the combat training but with twice the paperwork.

And the workload?

Oh, it was something else.

You couldn't make this up if you tried. The sheer volume of tasks dumped on Crowe was enough to make you question whether the entire campus had collectively mistaken him for their personal secretary.

Student club events? His problem. Fraternity and sorority requests? Yup, tossed onto his ever-growing pile. Small-time guest speakers, whose only real compensation was probably free coffee and a handshake? Also somehow his responsibility.

At one point, you found yourself holding a stack of papers detailing plans for a campus-wide "stress-relief yoga night," and you very nearly asked if Crowe had been secretly elected mayor of the university while you weren’t looking.

And, because you were clearly a genius with absolutely no impulse control, you had, at some point, volunteered to help him with all of it.

Cleaning up his disaster of a desk? You were on it. Sprinting across campus to drop off forms like some kind of academic carrier pigeon? Already flapping your metaphorical wings. Sitting through excruciating planning meetings for student events?

Sure, why not? It’s not like watching Crowe argue with five sorority reps over whether they could hold a ‘glow-in-the-dark karaoke night’ in the ‘library’ was a fever dream you ever expected to have—but here you were, living it.

It didn’t take long for you to figure out that Crowe wasn’t just overburdened—he was the burden. A walking, talking monument to suffering.

“Hey, uh, question,” you said one afternoon, dumping yet another stack of papers onto his already paper-laden desk. You weren’t even sure if there was a desk under there anymore, or if Crowe just sat upon a sacred altar of unfinished paperwork. “How many of these events actually needto go through the student council? Like, for real?”

“All of them,” Crowe said flatly, not even sparing you a glance as he scribbled furiously on some poor soul’s event approval form.

“No, no, I mean…” You leaned in, lowering your voice as if you were about to drop some grand revelation. “How many actually need to go through you?”

Crowe finally paused, pen hovering mid-signature as he slowly—painfully slowly—lifted his gaze to meet yours. His expression was the physical embodiment of ‘I will throw you out of this room myself.’

“All of them,” he repeated, but this time, slower. Like that somehow made it less absurd.

Sometime later, while you were valiantly battling yet another stack of event proposals—seriously, why were there so many bake sales?—you dramatically collapsed into the chair across from him.

“So, uh,” you drawled, tossing a paper into the abyss that was Crowe’s inbox, “is this a student council or a circus? Be honest.”

Crowe didn’t even look up. Didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes.”

What.

Anyway, somehow, even with all the chaos, you managed to find a rhythm in it all. Cleaning Crowe’s desk became second nature—so much so that you started questioning if you had become some kind of sentient maid. You even unearthed what could only be described as a historical artifact: a half-eaten sandwich wedged between two stacks of papers. Given its fossilized state, you figured it was either from last semester or from the founding days of the school itself.

Running errands across campus turned into an unintentional workout program. Who needed a gym membership when you were speed-walking between buildings, dodging rogue club recruiters, and carrying stacks of paperwork heavier than your will to live?

And attending meetings? That became your personal form of entertainment. You even started timing how long it would take before someone made an absolutely insane request—your record was three minutes. The last champion was some guy from the Gardening Club who tried to get funding for a “therapeutic koi pond.” In the middle of the cafeteria.

Today, though, you and Crowe were actually making progress, discussing the upcoming club events without any major disturbances. A miracle, honestly.

Then the door slammed open.

What waltzed was him—the student council president, looking like he had just stepped off a runway and onto your last nerve. He was an upperclassman with the kind of aura that screamed, ‘I was born better than you, and I will remind you every chance I get.’

“Ichabod,” he drawled as if merely saying Crowe’s name was a task beneath him. Then, with all the grace of a medieval tax collector, he dumped another towering stack of paperwork onto Crowe’s desk, causing several precariously balanced forms to slide to the floor. “More approvals. Get them done.”

Crowe had been hunched over, pen in hand, scribbling out what seemed like his last remaining shred of hope. But as soon as the president stormed in, dropping the latest avalanche of paperwork onto the desk, he froze. His hand hovered in the air for a moment—was he about to launch his pen at the door, or was he just letting the despair wash over him?

You couldn’t tell, but you knew Crowe had just about hit his limit. He closed his eyes briefly. Was he praying? Meditating? Or was he visualizing the sweet, sweet release of just escaping this nightmare by launching himself through the window?

It was hard to say.

You, on the other hand, were getting mildly entertained by the absurdity of the situation. "Wow," you said, blinking at the fresh chaos that had just descended upon the desk. "I didn’t know you were accepting job applications for ‘Official Paperwork Mule.’"

The president—who had somehow magically entered the room without making a sound, like some kind of overpriced ninja—turned his icy gaze on you. He looked you up and down with all the disdain of someone who had just stepped in a puddle of something they’d prefer not to identify, his eyes narrowing like you’d just insulted his firstborn. "Oh, you're still here?" His voice dripped with condescension. "How quaint."

You couldn’t help but grin. You had been waiting for this. "Yep. Unlike the funding you approved for that haunted house event last week." You paused for effect, casually flipping through the pile of forms as if you weren’t even phased. "I suggest you get to it quick, though, before I let the officials know about your… interesting decisions."

Crowe made a noise. It was an odd noise—something between a strangled laugh and a desperate cough. He tried to cover it up, but the damage was done.

The president, however, either completely oblivious or choosing not to dignify your retort with a response, turned back to Crowe with the practiced air of someone who thought his very presence should be worshipped. "This needs to be finished today."

“Of course it does,” Crowe muttered under his breath, already sinking into the depths of his inevitable paperwork doom. You could practically hear the weight of his soul dragging itself down further into the abyss.

The president gave a tight, self-satisfied smile, like he’d just handed down some sort of royal decree, and turned on his heel to exit the room. His steps were as calculated and ridiculous as his whole existence. You couldn’t help but notice his outfit—tailored suit, perfectly polished shoes, and the kind of cologne that probably cost more than your tuition.

It was almost as if he thought his appearance alone could somehow make him better than everyone else in the room. It was adorable.

He was halfway out the door when you casually called after him, "Hey, by the way—are you wearing that suit to go rescue puppies or attend a high-society funeral?"

The president paused, looking over his shoulder at you with an expression that could’ve been carved into marble. He said nothing, but his eyes briefly flashed with the kind of ‘I’ll ruin you’ look that only the truly entitled could master.

You, however, weren’t even remotely phased.

"Yeah, I thought so," you added, pushing another pile of forms onto Crowe’s desk. "You’ve got the whole ‘I’m better than everyone’ look down, but next time, maybe try not looking like you belong in a museum."

Crowe groaned as the door slammed shut, leaving the two of you alone with the mountain of paperwork once more. You sighed, nudging a piece of paper that had somehow escaped the clutches of the abyss. "So… koi pond in the cafeteria is looking less ridiculous by the minute, huh?"

Crowe didn’t answer.

He was too busy looking like he might spontaneously combust from exhaustion, or maybe just give up on life entirely. You considered offering him a donut or a bucket of coffee, but really, at this point, nothing was going to save him.

“Crowe? You good?” you asked, leaning in closer. His entire posture screamed ‘I’m about to faceplant into this paperwork and never wake up’. You wondered if he was trying to figure out how to escape into the sweet oblivion of the nearest nap corner or if he was plotting his own demise. At this point, it could go either way.

“I’m... fine,” he muttered, but the way his hand slid across the desk in slow motion, like he was having a mental breakdown in real-time, told you everything you needed to know.

“You sure? You look like you’re one coffee away from crying on a stack of forms."

Crowe groaned, a sound so filled with despair it could’ve been the opening line to a sad indie movie. “I just want to finish one thing today, ‘just one thing,’ without someone handing me more stupid paperwork. Is that too much to ask for?”

“Probably,” you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. “But, hey, that’s what you signed up for, right? Like, what was your grand plan here? To turn the student council into your own personal administrative hell?”

Crowe shot you a glance that was somewhere between ‘I could kill you’ and ‘Please, for the love of all that’s holy, be quiet.’ You could practically see the little clock in his head ticking down, counting how much longer he could withstand his own existence before he collapsed in the pile of paperwork like some sort of sad, overworked martyr.

"At least give me a minute to process the chaos." His voice had that exhausted, cracked tone that made you wonder if he’d been functioning on three hours of sleep for the past week.

You took pity on him. "Alright, alright," you said, grabbing the latest stack of event forms and flipping through them. "Let’s at least start brainstorming for these. I’m guessing half of these are doomed from the start.”

Crowe’s response was a wordless nod, his head still resting on his hand as if that would somehow reboot his brain. It looked like he might pass out at any moment, but somehow, he managed to pull himself back together. Barely.

"Alright, what's the first one?" you asked, leaning over to get a better look at the next form.

Crowe’s finger shakily pointed to it. "‘Classical music night... on the roof... with fog machines.’"

You blinked. "I… I don’t even know what to say to that. What, are we trying to summon ghosts now?"

Crowe groaned again. "It’s a real proposal. They want it approved for next week."

"Okay," you said, rubbing your temples. "I think we’re officially past the point of saving this year’s student council. This is just a slow-motion train wreck."

Crowe was too exhausted to even form a proper sentence, his mind clearly whirling through a mental tally of disasters. You could practically see the gears grinding in his head—he was done. It wasn’t clear whether he was about to drop dead or have a full-on emotional meltdown, but either way, the path to recovery was nothing but more paperwork, endless meetings, and a growing sense of doom.

"Here," you said, tossing him a coffee cup with a little too much flair. "You need this more than I do."

Crowe didn’t say a word, just took the cup and stared blankly at his desk. You half expected him to fall asleep standing up, but then he took a long, defeated sip like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. For a moment, you swore you saw him look almost… human again. Though still on the edge of total collapse.

“Only… five more hours of this shit,” he muttered, voice raw and tired. His words hung in the air like a bad omen, but the way he said it was almost like he was trying to will it into something less awful.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t work.

You leaned against the desk—looking over a few documents that Crowe just signed, watching him as he rubbed his temples like he was trying to massage the chaos out of his brain. Then, he took a deep breath and dragged himself to his feet, his movements slow and heavy as if each step took effort.

You stood there, waiting for him to make the move, knowing he was about to drag you both back into the hell that was his office.

You followed him out to the coffee area just outside Crowe’s office, the place practically empty except for the hum of a few vending machines in the corner. Most people were in class, living their lives while you and Crowe were stuck in this chaotic little bubble of misery together. But honestly, you didn’t mind. Being stuck with Crowe wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

In fact, you might even go so far as to say you kind of liked it—chaos and all. It was weird, but after all the hours spent with him, this was just your rhythm. He was like a broken record, and you were along for the ride.

Crowe leaned against the the desk beside you, staring out at the empty room, looking just about as done as any human could be without literally face-planting. “Let’s just…” He paused, running a hand through his unbraided hair as if he were trying to shake the tiredness out of his bones. “Finish this,” he muttered, but there was no real conviction behind the words.

It was more like he was just going through the motions, a man trying to survive one last round of office hell before he collapsed into a pile of paperwork rubble.

You shrugged, leaning a little closer to him, not caring much about the empty room around you. "Yeah, sure. Let’s just get through this so you can collapse into your desk in peace."

Crowe didn’t laugh, but you saw the corner of his lips twitch. It was the closest thing to a smile you’d get today, and that was enough for you. He took another sip of coffee, staring at the distant empty chairs like they were mocking him. Honestly, the whole situation was ridiculous, but if you had to be stuck in this hellish paperwork vortex, you couldn’t think of anyone better to be stuck with.

Despite the avalanche of paperwork, the never-ending meetings, and the constant chaos that seemed to follow Crowe everywhere, there were small, quiet moments when his gratitude actually managed to slip through the cracks.

It wasn’t loud or obvious—no heartfelt speeches or dramatic declarations of appreciation. No, it was more like a fleeting shadow, there one moment and gone the next, but it still spoke volumes.

It was one of those afternoons when you were buried under yet another mountain of event proposals, flipping through them with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on a caffeine crash. Your eyes had glazed over, the words on the pages blending together into an unintelligible mess of overly ambitious plans and unreasonable requests.

You were pretty sure you could start a new career as a professional paperweight at this point, considering how often you were parked next to Crowe’s desk. But hey, someonehad to keep the chaos in check, right?

Instead of fighting for your own desk—because, honestly, that would’ve been a lost cause given the sheer size of Crowe’s desk, which could’ve fit a small army and their gear—you'd just claimed a corner of it. You’d made it your own little nook, the edge of his mountain of papers your personal workspace.

Sure, it was a little unconventional, but considering Crowe's desk practically looked like the inside of an office supply store exploded on it, it made sense. Plus, it was way more fun to pretend you were part of the madness instead of standing on the sidelines.

So there you were, half-buried in a fresh pile of event forms that had been hastily shoved into your hands the second you walked into the room, flipping through them with the kind of mindless speed that comes from hours of sheer boredom.

You didn’t even look up, thinking it was just another stray form that had somehow wandered into your orbit. But then you heard it—a soft clink. And when you glanced over, there it was: a steaming cup of tea, perfectly brewed and a small snack, sitting on the edge of his desk as though it had always been meant to be there.

Crowe didn’t say anything. He didn’t even speak to you.

He just silently placed it down, then you felt his hand on top of your head, planting what felt like kiss on top. Afterwards, he gave you a brief, exhausted glance, and went back to his own paperwork like nothing had happened. As if that tiny, thoughtful gesture wasn’t quietly shifting the entire atmosphere of the room. It was his way of saying, ‘I see you’—without actually saying a word.

Then there were the rare occasions when you handed him something that, frankly, could have been labeled as a ‘miracle’—like a perfectly organized event schedule, where the scattered mess of dates and details had somehow been magically turned into something resembling order. His eyes would flicker to it for just a second before he’d mutter a quiet, almost begrudging “thanks.”

The words were always there, but they came out like he was fighting them every step of the way as if the concept of gratitude wasn’t quite his thing. Still, the small nod that followed—something barely noticeable, but unmistakably there—told you everything you needed to know.

Those little moments were a rarity, but when they happened, they felt like an entire month’s worth of appreciation crammed into a second. No fanfare, no grand speeches—just Crowe, the overworked, underappreciated student council lifeline, showing his gratitude in the most subtle ways possible.

It was like he didn’t know how to say it out loud, but his actions spoke louder than any words could.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough to keep you going.

That, and the sheer comedy gold of watching Crowe try—and fail—every time a club proposed something so ridiculous it could’ve been pulled straight from a fever dream. Like the latest masterpiece—a ‘puppies and pizza’ day in the science building. The look on his face when he read that? Priceless.

It was like watching someone go from a hopeful puppy to a full-on terrified deer caught in headlights. Half of him expected to ask if it was some kind of prank. It wasn’t.

But today?

Today’s mark a day of early freedom

One of those rare, blessed afternoons where Crowe managed to finish his work before sunset. That alone was enough to make you believe in higher powers—like the universe had decided to give Crowe a break for once. And honestly, you were enjoying it too.

Crowe seemed... different. Less like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and more like he was just a dude who'd had a good day for once. His hair was actually neat—an anomaly that deserved to be framed and hung in a museum—and his outfit looked like it had been picked out by someone who didn’t live off caffeine and stress. His usual tense, I’m-one-email-away-from-a-breakdown stance was gone, replaced by a more relaxed posture.

And the best part? That trademark smirk of his wasn’t the usual ‘I’m-exhausted-but-I’ll-pretend-I’m-cool’ look. It was... real. Like he actually meant it. You had to blink a couple of times to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.

"You know," he started, hands stuffed in his pockets, walking a little lighter than usual. He glanced over at you, his face not quite as guarded as usual, like he was letting his walls down just a little. "You've been a such lifesaver."

You raised an eyebrow, figuring he was about to make some sarcastic remark. But instead, he hesitated for a second, exhaled, and with a tiny shake of his head and a soft half-smile, he added, "I don't think I would've survived without you."

Okay, that? That was huge.

For Crowe, the guy who acted like he had the entire universe under control at all times, admitting that he needed help was like watching a robot suddenly develop emotions. You could tell he meant it, too, judging by the way he looked at you. There was no sarcasm, no defensive wall—just a genuinely appreciative look. And yeah, maybe it made your heart do a weird little skip.

You coughed to cover up your smile, not wanting to get too sappy about it, but there was no denying the warmth spreading through you.

"I need to wrap up a few things before I can lock up the student council room," he said, voice steady and calm. "After that... we came to meet at my place?”

You couldn’t help it. Your lips twitched into a grin, arms crossed, watching him with an amused glint in your eye. "Wow, Crowe, are you suggesting a private date?"

The reaction was instant.

His eyes widened, and for the first time, you swore you saw the faintest hint of color dusting his cheeks—a slightly deeper shade against his usual warm brown complexion. Just for a second before his usual playful demeanor slid back into place. He let out a half-laugh, half-grumble. "It’s not a date," he muttered, though you could tell he was trying not to smile. "Just... you know. A thing."

"Uh-huh. Sure, a thing," you teased, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I mean, if ‘things’ include pizza and not having to talk about student council for once, I’ll consider it.”

He rolled his eyes, but that little real smirk was back again. "You’re impossible."

"Yeah, but you love it," you shot back with a grin.

Crowe let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “You’re such a tease.”

You tilted your head, your smirk widening. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His deadpan stare told you he definitely knew exactly what you were doing. You could practically hear the thoughts running through his mind: I know you’re trying to distract me with that nonsense, but it’s not going to work.

But instead of entertaining your antics, he let out a long exhale, like the weight of the world had just landed on his shoulders, and straightened up. His hands moved quickly to gather the last of his papers, that familiar rhythm of someone who’d been in a constant state of ‘paperwork battle’ for way too long.

"I’ll be done in a bit,” he muttered, glancing at the clock, looking like he was calculating the exact time when he could finally escape the clutches of his responsibilities. “Shouldn’t take long. Just… come to my place, please.”

The way he said it was almost a plea, like he was clinging to the last shred of hope that you would save him from his own self-imposed chaos. There was something in the way his voice dropped, that quiet vulnerability that even Crowe couldn’t hide when he was completely overwhelmed.

He didn’t ask for help. Ever.

But right now, it seemed like he couldn’t bear to be alone with all that paperwork for even another minute.

Without even thinking, you stepped forward, about to throw out some joke or tease him, but before you could, his hand shot out, fingers lightly brushing against yours, like he was desperately reaching for something, anything to ground him.

You froze, blinking at the unexpected contact. Crowe’s hand lingered there for a moment, not quite holding yours, but not pulling away either. His gaze met yours for just a second—there was something there, a flicker of something deeper than just the usual exhausted annoyance.

“I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said, his voice a little quieter, a little more raw than you were used to hearing.

Your heart skipped a beat, and it took everything in you to resist the urge to give him the classic ‘it’s fine, we’re cool’ smile. But you could see it—he was yearning for just a little bit of peace, a little bit of support.

Maybe more than he’d ever admit.

So, you squeezed his hand, just a little, before giving him a half-smirk. "Don't worry, Crowe. You’ll survive. Just don't expect me to help every time you feel like a nervous wreck." You smiled, slowly walking away. “I’ll gonna go change. See you later.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t say anything else, only shaking his head as he returned to his work. You turned on your heel, heading out of the student center with an extra pep in your step. Whether he meant it as a date or not, he still invited you over.

And that was definitely something to work with.

With that, you made a break for it, finally escaping the chaos of the student council room. You decided to take the scenic route back to your apartment—aka a detour to your place to freshen up a little. Nothing too extravagant, just a little something to feel less like a walking disaster.

You slipped into your long-flare yoga pants, because, let's be honest, they were basically good thin material and nobody could judge you for that. You paired them with a long tank top and layered it with a cropped graphic tee that you’d definitely cut at the shoulder yourself for that ‘I woke up like this’ off-the-shoulder look.

Sure, it looked like you couldn’t be bothered to try, but you weren’t heading to a red carpet event—just to Crowe’s place to eat dinner. Who needed to look cute when you were about to inhale your body weight in food, right?

You kept your hairstyle in check, though—that was the one thing you weren't willing to sacrifice. A little effort to at least pretend you had it together. And the earrings? Oh, the earrings were a must. They hung from your ears like delicate little reminders that you were, in fact, capable of caring about something.

Maybe not your best outfit, but its’s something.

Before heading back out, you made a pit stop in the kitchen to grab a small blueberry cheesecake from your favorite bakery. The one where the guy behind the counter always slid an extra smile your way whenever you came in, like he was secretly rooting for you to get that slice of dessert joy.

You grabbed it like a pro, but this wasn’t just any cheesecake. Oh, no. This was the kind of cheesecake that required ID verification because they had to make sure you were worthy of its glory.

It was rich, creamy, and topped with a glossy layer of blueberry wine reduction that probably had magical properties. Or at least, that’s what you liked to tell yourself. You figured the extra indulgence might help Crowe decompress a little, so, like a good friend, you were willing to go the extra mile.

“Maybe it’ll help Crowe unwind,” you mumbled to yourself, adjusting the strap of your bag before heading out. “Not that he’d admit to it. He probably thinks ‘relaxing’ is a dirty word.”

You snorted at the thought. Crowe would probably rather eat a salad than admit he was anything less than an overworked machine. But hey, everyone deserves a little luxury now and then, right? Even if that luxury was blueberry cheesecake and a very reluctant attempt at unwinding.

The walk to Crowe’s place was mercifully short, tucked just on the edge of campus. The air was crisp, carrying the lingering chill of the evening, and the faint glow of his windows stood out against the dimming sky.

It was a modest place—large, practical, the kind of space that was meant for luxury rather than convenience. But the moment you spotted the faint flicker of movement inside, a shuffle of shadow passing by the window, you knew he was home.

You hesitated for just a second before knocking.

Part of you hoped—no, expected—that when he answered the door, he’d look at least a little more relaxed than he had earlier. Maybe the stiffness in his shoulders would be gone. Maybe he’d be in something softer, a hoodie instead of that ever-present button-up. Maybe—dare you dream—he’d actually be smiling.

But when the door swung open, it was immediately clear that reality had other plans.

Crowe stood in the doorway, his hair once again was an absolute wreck—not the effortless kind of messy that turned heads, but the kind that screamed, ‘I’ve run my hands through it too many times out of frustration.’ A furrow was etched deep between his brows, and his usual sharp posture was stiff like he was physically bracing against the weight of his responsibilities.

And—oh, fantastic—a folder was tucked under his arm, looking as though it had permanently fused to him at this point.

You exhaled through your nose. Of course.

Yet, despite the exhaustion written all over him, something in his expression softened when he registered it was you at the door. The tightness in his shoulders didn’t fully disappear, but there was the faintest tug of a smile at the corners of his lips—tired but real.

“What’s with the face?” you asked dryly, raising an eyebrow as he stepped aside, silently motioning you in.

“I’m fine,” he replied automatically, the words so robotic and rehearsed that you almost laughed.

“Right. And I’m the student council president,” you deadpanned, stepping inside and crossing your arms. “You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Again.”

“Funny thing about the student council president,” Crowe muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he shut the door behind you. “It turns out he can, and will, dump work on me at all hours. Apparently, I’m not allowed to have a life outside any paperwork.”

Crowe allowed you inside, leading you up the sleek, polished staircase to his bedroom. As he pushed open the door, you were immediately struck by how effortlessly luxurious it felt—like stepping into a five-star suite rather than your living space.

The room was spacious, barely lit by the warm glow of a single overhead light and a tall, modern floor lamp near his desk. The walls were painted a deep, muted blue, the color rich yet understated. But it was the bed that truly caught your attention—elaborate and inviting, draped in dark blue satin sheets that gleamed subtly under the soft lighting.

The bedding was pristine and neatly arranged with thick pillows and a comforter that looked like it belonged in a high-end catalog rather than a broke college student apartment.

And yet, despite the undeniable elegance of the space, the desk against the far wall told a completely different story.

Stacked with an obscene number of papers, open binders, and what you were pretty sure was the same coffee cup from this morning, his desk looked like a war zone of responsibilities. A sleek laptop sat open, its screen casting a faint glow over the scattered documents, and a small, gold-rimmed clock ticked quietly beside a stack of folders.

The faint scent of ink and paper lingered in the air, mixing with the rich undertones of expensive cologne and the barely-there scent of cedarwood. The place had the distinct feel of someone who had been trapped inside for far too long—like a space meant for relaxation had been forcibly converted into an office.

And honestly? That pissed you off a little.

You turned back to him with an unimpressed look, arms crossed as he carelessly tossed his folder onto the desk. “You invited me to hang out, and now you’re telling me I’m supposed to just sit here while you work?”

“I’ll multitask,” he said with a faint smirk, already lowering himself into the sleek, leather chair at his desk like that settled the matter.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, setting your bag down on the small couch tucked into the corner of the room. Of course, even his couch was high-end—dark velvet with a few neatly arranged cushions, barely touched, like it was there for decoration rather than actual use.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered. “What a great person you are. Let me guess, next you’re going to ask me to fetch you coffee?”

Crowe didn’t look up, but you caught the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “If you’re offering.”

You rolled your eyes before reaching into your bag and pulling out the carefully packed cheesecake you had brought. With deliberate flair, you set it on the small wooden table near the couch, ensuring the movement was just noticeable enough to break Crowe’s focus.

And to your satisfaction, it worked.

From his place at the desk, Crowe’s eyes flicked up, momentarily distracted from the mountain of papers in front of him. His gaze landed on the dessert, his brow raising slightly. “Is that… blueberry cheesecake?”

You shot him a smug grin. “It is. And not just any cheesecake—blueberry wine-glazed cheesecake. Only the best.”

Crowe’s lips twitched, almost forming a real smile, but as his gaze flicked back to the cheesecake, hesitation crept into his expression. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “Wait… you said wine-glazed?”

You raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was going. “Yeah? It’s just a glaze, Crowe. It’s not like I’m trying to get you drunk off dessert.”

He exhaled, glancing between you and the cheesecake as if debating whether he should risk it. “Still…” His fingers tapped idly against the arm of his chair. “…I don’t know if I should.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face before throwing him an exasperated look. “Crowe. It’s cheesecake. Not a bottle of aged whiskey.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the reluctant amusement in them told you he wasn’t completely opposed. He just wanted to be difficult.

“You’re seriously overthinking this,” you added, crossing your arms. “One bite won’t turn you into a lawless delinquent, I promise. It’s just something to help you relax for once.”

Crowe exhaled slowly, glancing at the dessert once more before shaking his head with a smirk. “Sorry but no, I need to work—because if I suddenly start making reckless decisions, it’s your fault.”

“Oh, please.” With a scoff, you pushed yourself up from the plush velvet couch, smoothing your hands over the soft fabric before stretching lazily. “I’ll be right back.” Crowe barely acknowledged your movement, too focused on whatever tedious task he was drowning in.

Perfect.

You slipped out of his bedroom, padding down the sleek hallway and down the grand staircase that led to the main floor. The house was eerily quiet, save for the faint ticking of an ornate grandfather clock positioned near the entrance. Of course, he had something so unnecessarily extravagant in his house. You shook your head, making your way toward the kitchen.

And, unsurprisingly, even his kitchen looked like it belonged in some high-end interior design magazine—black marble countertops, dark mahogany cabinets, and sleek, modern appliances that gleamed under the warm glow of overhead lighting. The air carried the faintest scent of coffee, no doubt from whatever caffeine-fueled disaster had taken place earlier that morning.

You pulled open a drawer, rummaging through its neatly arranged contents until you found the gold forks—because, of course, even his utensils were unnecessarily fancy, polished to a pristine shine. You hesitated for a second, eyeing the wine bottle in your other hand. You could technically be a menace and grab another fork just for him, despite his earlier protests, just to see if he’d cave.

A slow smirk curled at your lips as you picked up another fork and then made your way back upstairs.

By the time you reentered Crowe’s bedroom, he was exactly as you left him—hunched over his desk, a hand buried in his long brown tousled hair, muttering something under his breath as he scribbled furiously onto a page. His laptop cast a faint glow across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, and the way his brows furrowed with quiet frustration.

You shook your head in fond exasperation, setting the forks onto the small wooden table—top of a paper towel near the couch with deliberate flair. The sound of metal forks against wood was just loud enough to pull his attention away from whatever crisis was currently occupying his mind.

His gaze flickered to you, then to the newly placed items, and finally, to the bottle of wine you were already uncorking with far too much enthusiasm. “You don’t take ‘no cake for me’ seriously, do you?” he asked dryly, watching as you handed him a fork, which he took. You raised an eyebrow, swirling the liquid slowly before taking a deliberate sip. “Oh, I heard you,” you mused. “I just chose to ignore it.”

Crowe exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, but there was no real irritation in his expression—if anything, the corners of his lips twitched upward, like he was fighting off a smile.

You handed him a fork, gesturing toward the cheesecake. “Now, be a good boy and eat before I start burning your paperwork.”

That earned you a full, amused huff of laughter. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” you said smugly, already reaching for the nearest document with mischief glinting in your eyes.

And just like that, for the first time that evening, Crowe finally relented. With a quiet sigh of defeat, he grabbed his fork, cutting into the cheesecake with a small shake of his head.

“Happy now?” he muttered, bringing a bite to his lips.

You grinned, raising your fork in victory. “Ecstatic.”

Later on, You ended up sitting in Crowe’s bed, which, honestly, wasn’t part of the original plan. You’d offered—very generously, might you add—to just sit on the floor, but Crowe wasn’t having it. And of course, that turned into a whole thing. A full-blown back-and-forth argument that went nowhere because, shocker, Crowe won.

So now here you were, cross-legged on his bed, scrolling through your phone while eating cheesecake like it was just another day.

Meanwhile, Crowe was buried in paperwork, signing off on whatever ridiculous event proposals students had cooked up this time.

Between the scribbling of his pen and the occasional tap of your phone screen, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm of conversation—nothing deep, just the usual random nonsense that somehow never failed to keep things interesting.

You could say literally the most out-of-pocket thing, and Crowe would have an opinion on it.

“You think pigeons ever feel bad about stealing people’s food?”

“No. They’re menaces.”

“What about geese?”

“Demons in feathered form.”

It went on like that for a while, but then, out of nowhere, Crowe, still focused on his paperwork, casually muttered, “If you end up drunk, you can stay here.”

You blinked, glancing up from your phone. “Huh?”

“I have hangover pills for situations like these,” he added as if that was just normal information to throw out there.

You squinted at him, completely lost as last time you checked—he didn’t drink. “Crowe, sir, what the hell do you have those for?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “They’re normally for my mother.”

Oh.

…Well damn. That changed the vibe.

You suddenly found a very interesting spot on the wall to look at, your brain screaming at you to not ask any follow-up questions. Just let it slide, move on, talk about geese again—

“…How come?” Damn it.

Crowe paused mid-signature, his pen hovering over the paper for a second too long. He didn’t immediately answer, which only made the air feel heavier. You shifted a little on his bed, suddenly regretting asking. But at the same time, you had to know.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, setting his pen down and leaning back slightly. “She’s a businesswoman,” he said simply like that explained everything.

It kind of did.

You nodded slowly. “Ah. So… business meetings, long nights, expensive wine, and regrettable choices?”

“Basically,” he said, rubbing his temple. “She doesn’t get wasted often, but when she does, it’s always a mess. It’s better to just have something on hand so she doesn’t call me at two in the morning complaining about a headache and demanding I fix it.”

You raised an eyebrow, resting your chin in your hand. “So what I’m hearing is… you’re the designated babysitter for your mom when she goes too hard on the fancy liquor.”

Crowe gave you a flat look. “I wouldn’t call it that.”

“But I would.” You grinned, taking another bite of your cheesecake. “Imagine that. Big, serious Crowe, the man who runs student council like a military operation, reduced to fetching electrolyte drinks and aspirin for his drunk mom.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly like he was reevaluating all his life choices. “You are so lucky I tolerate you.”

“Tolerate? Please. You’d be bored out of your mind without me.”

Crowe rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way the corner of his lips almost twitched up. Almost. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You smirked, then gestured toward his desk. “Speaking of you tolerating me, when are you actually gonna stop working? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’ve been signing papers for the last hour and I’m starting to think you might be stuck in an endless loop.”

“I’ll be done when I’m done,” he muttered, flipping to the next page.

You squinted at him. “Liar. You never finish. The work just keeps coming.”

Crowe didn’t deny it. He just let out a long sigh, rubbing his temple again. You could tell he was exhausted but too damn stubborn to stop.

So, naturally, you had to push a little.

“Y’know,” you started, setting your plate aside and stretching out on his bed dramatically, “I’m not a heavy drinker. I won’t get drunk.”

Crowe quickly said, “That’s what you said last time.”

“Blame Britt, she needed someone to take shots with at that club.” You sighed, “But If I look drunk, there’s a chance I might be pretending.” You mentioned. “Why,” Crowe asked. “…I’ll be able to get the tender loving care of a certain man.”

Crowe somewhat blushed, then added. “And If I’m the one who gets drunk, will you look after me? Or will you let me fend for myself?”

“Ehhh, that depends. What kind of drunk are you?” You gave Crowe a pointed look, lazily kicking your legs back and forth. “’Cause remember when Britt got wasted after we passed our exams and threw up in the car?” You grimaced at the memory. “Still sorry about that, by the way.”

Crowe, who had been signing something, paused and flicked his eyes up at you. “There are different types of drunk?”

You snorted. “Uh, yeah. There are levels to this, Crowe.” You started counting on your fingers. “Tipsy, somewhat affectionate—y’know, the giggly, slightly dumb but still functioning stage. Then there’s a buzz, which is what I usually am. A nice little warm feeling, maybe a little too honest, but still got control.”

Crowe raised an eyebrow. “And then?”

“Oh, it just gets worse from there.” You grinned. “There’s sloshed, where your words start slurring, and you start thinking you can dance when, in reality, you cannot.” You pointed at him. “Britt was sloshed. Then there’s blacked out, which—self-explanatory. Bad decisions are made. Regret is guaranteed.”

Crowe hummed, going back to his papers. “Lovely.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” you continued, thoroughly enjoying this. “Then you got aggressive drunks—you know, the ones who suddenly wanna fight everyone, including their own reflection. Confident drunks, which are honestly my favorite ‘cause they act like they own the place and think they’re hot shit. Sad drunks—kinda self-explanatory. They cry about their ex, their childhood, or how the bartender didn’t smile at them enough.”

Crowe sighed like he already regretted indulging this conversation. “And?”

“The two everyone really looks out for are lightweights and heavyweights.” You leaned forward a little, smirking. “I used to be somewhere in the middle, but, uh… college happened. And Britt happened. So now I’m lowkey more of a heavyweight.”

Crowe set his pen down and gave you that look. The one that was half disappointed professor, half exasperated parent. “Really.”

You shrugged. “What can I say? I build tolerance fast.”

Crowe pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is not something to be proud of.”

You waved him off. “Anyway, what about you? Heavyweight or lightweight?” You already knew the answer, but you wanted to hear him say it.

Crowe let out a slow breath, glancing at you like he was debating whether to humor you or just ignore you entirely. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “I have work to do.”

You gasped dramatically. “Avoiding the question? That means you’re a lightweight, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t respond.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, grinning. “Crowe, do you get tipsy off one drink? Is that why you don’t go out? Are you—”

He gave you a look. A very pointed, very shut up before I actually throw you out look.

You just cackled. “Yeah, alright. Go back to work, lightweight.”

Soon after, it didn’t take long for Crowe to start feeling something—not that he’d ever admit it. You had finished your slice—even had another one without issue, enjoying every bite while Crowe had been more hesitant, taking small, slow bites as if waiting for some dramatic effect to kick in. And, to your delight, it did.

He shifted in his chair, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the odd sensation creeping up on him. His usually sharp gaze had softened just a bit, and though he kept his expression neutral, you didn’t miss the way his fingers drummed against the desk a little too loosely or the way he exhaled through his nose, slower than usual.

You smirked. “Feeling okay over there?”

Crowe shot you a flat look, but there was something off about it—like his focus wasn’t entirely there. “I’m fine.” You tilted your head, scrutinizing him. His dark brown skin had taken on a noticeable flush, heat blooming over his cheekbones and creeping down his neck.

You knew that look.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, leaning forward with barely contained laughter. “You’re lightweight, aren’t you?” Crowe blinked, frowning slightly before scoffing. “No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly frustrated. “It’s just warm in here.”

You bit your lip, trying to stifle your amusement. “Crowe, this is embarrassing. I ate the same cheesecake on my third slice, and I feel fine.” He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening for a second before he muttered, “You have an unfair advantage.”

You grinned. “No wonder you avoid alcohol like the plague. You can’t hold your liquor.” Crowe furrowed his brows at your mocking tone, his face turning into a bit of a pout.

"I can hold my liquor," he grumbled, though the faint tinge in his face betrayed his words. He shifted in his seat slightly, crossing his arms defensively. "I just don't see the appeal of losing my inhibitions and making a fool of myself. Unlike some people."

Your expression turned into a smirk, tone still just as condescending.

"Ah, the classic excuse." Your gaze remained fixed on him with a hint of judgment. "Inhibitions are what make us human, you know. Or perhaps you fear the idea of letting go and having a little fun."

Crowe bristled at your words, a slight frown tugging at his lips.

"I'm not afraid of having fun," he retorted, his voice betraying a hint of defensiveness. "I simply prefer to maintain control over my actions. I see no need for losing myself to something as shallow as alcohol."

He let out a scoff.

"Besides, true fun can be had without the need for impairment."

You let out a short, derisive laugh. "Ah, yes. The need to control everything around you, even your fun. How incredibly dull of you." She leaned closer, her expression a mix of mockery and superiority.

"But tell me, Princess, do you ever truly feel alive, or is your life merely an endless cycle of monotony and self-imposed discipline?"

"Oh, please." Crowe rolled his eyes at your mockery. "Just because I don't partake in mind-numbing substances doesn't mean my life lacks excitement. I simply find joy in more meaningful pursuits." He crossed his arms, his expression hardening. "Unlike some, I don't rely on alcohol or other substances to feel alive. My life is filled with purpose and discipline, and I take pride in that."

You tilted your head, the smirk still dancing on your lips.

"Purpose and discipline…?” she drawled. "I bet you take pride in your ability to follow routines like a well-trained dog, too."

“Excuse me?” Crowe frowned, his voice sharp as he watched you lean closer, sensing the shift in the air.

You didn’t back down. “Jericho,” you said, using his real name with a seriousness that seemed to catch him off guard. “I’ve been your assistant for the past two weeks now, and I’m starting to notice something. You let the student council—and even the president—treat you like a dog, and I see the expression on your face every time. Pure irritation.”

You shifted and hopped onto his desk, sitting beside him, your legs casually swinging back and forth as you watched him try to suppress his usual annoyance.

Crowe’s frown deepened, his hand tightening on the paperwork as he visibly tried to keep his composure. You could almost see the gears grinding behind his eyes, a mix of irritation and something else, something less guarded.

"I’m aware of the circumstances," he said, voice tight but still trying to assert some control, "and I can handle the student council just fine. I… I’m fine with it. Really." He trailed off, and his words faltered. You could tell he was trying to convince himself more than you. The bravado was fading as his frustration bled into something more vulnerable, something he didn’t want to admit out loud.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a little closer. “Oh, I don’t doubt that you can handle things, Jericho. But here’s the thing—you’ve been avoiding something for a while. And it’s not just the paperwork.”

He didn’t meet your gaze, his eyes flicking away as he shifted uneasily in his chair. He didn’t like where this conversation was going, that much was obvious.

“Look, I get it. You’re used to doing everything by yourself, keeping things together, and letting everyone walk all over you if it means getting things done. But that doesn’t mean you have to take it. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re okay with it,” you said, leaning forward, voice low but firm. You saw the way he struggled to keep his walls up, the cracks widening.

“I appreciate your concern,” he muttered, barely audible, “but I can handle everything. I really don’t mind being treated like a dog.”

Your smirk faltered just a bit, and a hint of seriousness crept into your tone. “Hm, now I know you’re not the buzzed type…” you murmured, thoughtfully. “You say you don’t mind… but I can sense there’s more to it than just handling things. You’re avoiding my gaze for a reason, after all.”

Crowe didn’t respond right away, his eyes avoiding yours, but the tension in the air was palpable. You could feel his discomfort growing, but there was something else, too—a sense of reluctance mixed with a desire for something else, something you both knew he wasn’t willing to admit yet.

You sighed heavily, making sure to add some extra dramatic flair before stepping closer. His desk, though structured, had a certain worn-in look, the wood slightly dulled from constant use, with scattered notes and open folders sprawled across its surface. The lamp at the corner cast long, soft shadows, adding a golden warmth to the otherwise sterile, paper-filled workspace.

You crouched beside his chair and gestured toward his feet. “Move.”

Crowe blinked down at you, finally breaking his focus. His brows furrowed. “What—?”

You didn’t give him a chance to retreat into his shell. Instead, you were now kneeling down in front of him, slipping under the desk with the kind of confidence that said ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ “I’m going to see if you’ll actually let me help,” you said, your voice light but insistent, “because right now? You think you don’t need anything from anyone. But I’m betting you’ll let me assist you. And I’m going to find out just how much you really don’t mind.”

The air between you shifted, thick with unspoken tension, as Crowe’s jaw tightened. You could almost see the internal battle raging within him—the need to keep control, to not rely on anyone, fighting against the small, desperate part of him that did need help, that did want something different. Something softer, something less exhausting.

“Stop acting like you can do everything by yourself, Jericho," you said gently, yet firmly. “Let me help. Please.”

His eyes flicked down to where you were kneeling in front of him, his throat working as if he were trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t move, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to feel the weight of your presence. You were here, offering, and this time, you weren’t going to back off.

“I’m not going to bite, I promise.” You smiled, though it was a soft, knowing grin—one that suggested you could see right through the mask he wore.

For a moment, he said nothing, just staring at you like you’d asked him to do the impossible. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, His deep blue eyes flickered with something unreadable—something between exasperation and tiredness.

Then, finally, his shoulders and arms sagged, just a little, and he let out a quiet, resigned sigh. “Fine. Okay. You win. Help me, then.”

Still kneeling on the floor, you tilted your head slightly, your eyes locked onto his with a mischievous glint that told him you weren’t backing down anytime soon. You let your gaze linger a little longer than necessary, unwavering and unblinking, before slowly shifting closer, inching just enough to make your presence impossible to ignore.

You could feel the tension building between you two, a palpable electricity in the air, and you were loving every second of it.

“Y’know, as your assistant,” you began, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm, “all I’ve done is watch you mistreat me, running errands, picking up the slack... I mean, I barely get a ‘thank you’ for anything.” You leaned in just a little more, making sure he could feel the weight of your words.

It was a total lie, of course. He doesn’t actually mistreat you, but you loved getting under his skin, watching the way he reacted to your teasing. The slight furrow of his brow, the tension that flickered in his jaw—he was trying so hard not to take the bait.

Before he could respond, you lightly placed a hand on his thigh, just above the knee, your fingers barely grazing his skin. You could practically feel the sharp intake of breath he took, his body going rigid under your touch.

“You really should show your assistant some gratitude,” you added, your voice low, almost a whisper. “Or... maybe I’ll start taking advantage of the fact that I know exactly how much you don’t want help.”

His eyes flickered to your hand, then back up to your face, but he didn’t move. His lips pressed into a thin line, clearly debating whether to stay stoic or snap at you. But you could tell that you were getting to him—just a little.

You were testing him. And so far? You were winning.

You felt it instantly—the way his muscles tensed beneath the fabric of his pants, his entire body going rigid for just a fraction of a second. His smirk, always so confident, faltered—just barely. Instead, he regarded you with something sharper now, something closer to curiosity than irritation. “Oh?” he mused, his voice dipping into a lower register, sending a slow ripple of heat down your spine.

"I don't treat you badly," he protested, though his voice had an edge to it—strained, like he was trying very hard not to focus on the placement of your hand. “I always make sure to take care of you, even when I’m busy…”

You chuckled slyly, inching closer so that you were practically hovering over him now. Your fingers traced absentmindedly along his thigh, feather-light but deliberate, as you tilted your head and gave him a teasing, knowing look.

"Oh, Crowe," you crooned, drawing out his name, savoring the way his jaw clenched in response. “That’s not enough. And you don’t reward me ‘nearly’ enough."

His breath hitched for the smallest moment, but he recovered quickly, exhaling sharply through his nose. Almost a laugh—almost. His eyes flickered with something unreadable, something restrained, but the corners of his lips twitched upward in spite of himself.

"Rewards, huh?" he murmured, the words slow, measured. He leaned back slightly in his chair, though his gaze never left yours, locked in a silent battle of wills.

You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his fingers tightened slightly around the papers he had been holding—forgotten now, unimportant.

You had his attention. Completely.

"And what exactly do you think you deserve as a reward, huh?" Crowe asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone deceptively casual, but his body language betraying him. You paused, considering his question, letting the moment between you.

What could you ask for?

What did you want from him?

Your fingers, still resting on his thigh, tapped once—thoughtful, teasing. "Well," you mused, lips curling at the edges as you leaned in just a fraction closer. "That depends. Are you finally done with work?"

Crowe exhaled sharply, the sound unmistakable as he shook his head—a familiar gesture that meant he was about to endure something he definitely wasn’t looking forward to. You could see the frustration in the way his shoulders slumped slightly as if bracing for the inevitable storm that was coming his way. But before he could even open his mouth to express his exasperation—

His phone rang.

Shit maybe you don’t have his attention like you thought

You didn’t need to check the screen to know who was calling. The ringtone had become so ingrained in your memory, it was practically a soundtrack to your time spent in the student council room. You could’ve recognized it in the dead of night, half-asleep and groggy.

But you still raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “Who is it?”

“The student President…” Crowe muttered, barely a glance at the phone before he visibly grimaced.

Without skipping a beat, you leaned over his thigh and nudged him, giving him that determined look that meant ‘this was happening whether he liked it or not.’ “Pick it up.”

He shot you a look of disbelief. “What now?”

“Yes. Pick it up.”

Crowe hesitated for just a second, clearly torn between his usual aversion to the student council President’s calls and the sense of duty that always seemed to take over.

You could practically feel the battle within him: to pick up and face whatever nonsense was about to unfold or to pretend he hadn’t heard it ringing and hoped it went away. But, of course, he didn’t choose the latter.

With an exaggerated sigh, Crowe picked up the phone, his fingers brushing over the screen like it was a ticking bomb.

Above you, Crowe cleared his throat, the sound sharp and professional—the tone he always used when he was in full ‘I-have-to-do-this’ mode. It was crisp and controlled, but there was a thin thread of tension that clung to the edges of his voice, betraying the fact that he was anything but relaxed.

“President,” Crowe greeted, his voice polite but tight, like he was holding back the urge to snap. "Didn’t realize you were gonna call so late."

You could practically feel the irritation dripping off him, but he kept it buried under that forced professional tone. If the student council president had any clue how much Crowe was dreading this call, they sure weren’t showing it. Crowe shifted in his seat, like he was bracing for whatever nonsense the student council president was about to throw his way.

You almost felt bad for him—almost—but let’s be real, he was the one who willingly signed up for this madness.

Still, you had a feeling this call was gonna drag on a lot longer than either of you wanted. Your heart was hammering as you pressed your head flat against Crowe’s lap, barely breathing, just waiting—again for this stupid call to be over.

Every inch of you was aware of how close you were, and it was making it hard to focus on anything else. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but it was way too hard when Crowe’s leg was right there, brushing against you.

On the other end, the student president’s voice—sharp and already full of annoyance—came through loud and clear. "It’s about the upcoming budget meeting. You didn’t submit the finalized report yet."

Crowe let out an exaggerated sigh from above, and you could feel the shift in his chair like it was trying to rattle your very bones. You clenched your jaw, trying not to squirm as you felt the brush of his knee against your shoulder. It definitely felt deliberate, like he was trying to mess with you, making it impossible for you to get comfortable.

You swallowed down the discomfort and forced yourself to stay still, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you react.

"It’s almost done," Crowe said, smooth as butter, his voice way too casual for how much of a lie it was. "I was just in the middle of… reviewing it."

Such a liar. You rolled your eyes internally.

"Good," the student president replied, clearly distracted by whatever papers they were rifling through. “I need it by tonight. No excuses.”

Your stomach dropped. You held your breath, teetering on the edge of panic as Crowe leaned forward, his lower body inching closer to yours. He reached for something on his desk, and suddenly, the space between you felt way too small.

Like, way too small. It was suffocating, but you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

…Right?

“Noted,” Crowe said, his voice only slightly strained. You could hear the tension in it, though, and it made your pulse spike.

The student president sighed on the other end of the phone call, oblivious to the chaos unfolding in Crowe’s office. “I don’t know how you manage all this paperwork, Ichabod. You’d think with your assistant, things would be more efficient.”

You nearly choked. Excuse me?

Crowe let out an amused huff, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Yeah, well. Sometimes, they can be a handful.”

Your eye twitched. Oh, he did not just say that. That smug little—oh, he was so not getting away with this.

From under the desk, you moved quickly, your fingers darting to his pants. You undid the buttons with practiced ease, then unzipped them, pulling them down to his thighs. And then—oh.

Oh~

The first thing you saw was the massive tent in his briefs, and you almost choked on your own saliva. How was he even walking like that?

“Hey—what are you—what are you doing—?” Crowe hissed, his voice low and frantic. You glanced up at him, and the look on his face was priceless. His jaw was tight, his dark blue eyes wide, and there was this desperate, pleading expression that screamed, ‘Don’t you dare.’

But oh, you dared.

You brought a hand to him hesitantly, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his briefs. The second you started palming him, Crowe let out this low, shaky sigh that he barely managed to stifle. How the hell was he already this hard? And why did that make your stomach flip in the best way possible?

You could feel him twitch under your touch, and you bit your lip to keep from grinning. This was payback, plain and simple. He wanted to call you a ‘handful’?

Fine. You’d show him exactly what that meant.

Crowe’s voice was strained as he tried to keep his composure on the phone. “Yes. I’ll—uh—make sure to follow up on that.”

You smirked, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his briefs. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he shot you a look that was equal parts warning and begging. But you weren’t about to stop now. Not when he was squirming like this, not when you had him right where you wanted him.

“Crowe?” the student president’s voice crackled through the phone. “Are you still there?”

“Y-yes,” Crowe stammered, his voice tight. “Just—uh—just dealing with something. Urgently.”

You stifled a laugh, your hand wrapping around him fully now. Crowe’s head tipped back slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. He was trying so hard to keep it together, but you could see the cracks forming. His free hand gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and you could feel the way his body tensed under your touch.

Crowe was trying to focus.

Keyword: trying.

But you were making it impossible.

You had one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, your fingers teasing the sensitive skin there, while your other hand cupped his balls, gently massaging them in a way that made his leg twitch under the desk. You kissed the tip of him, soft and teasing, and when you glanced up at him, his jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might crack.

“Yes, President,” Crowe said, his voice strained but impressively steady. “I’ll make sure the budget report is finalized by—” He cut off with a sharp inhale as you dragged your tongue along the length of him, slow and deliberate. His free hand slammed down on the desk, and you could see his fingers trembling.

You smirked, your lips curling around him as you took him deeper, your tongue flicking against the underside of his cock. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to cover the sound. “Apologies,” he said, his voice tight. “Just—uh—just a bit of a cough.”

You almost laughed at that, but you were too busy enjoying the way his thighs tensed under your hands. You pulled back, letting him slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and then—because you were feeling extra mean—you slapped his cock against your cheek a couple of times, the sound muffled but still way too loud in the quiet space.

Crowe’s eyes snapped down to you, wide and panicked, and you gave him your best innocent look before leaning in to lick a slow stripe up his length. His hand shot out, tangling in your hair, but he didn’t push you away. No, he just held on, his grip tightening as you took him into your mouth again, deeper this time.

“Ichabod?” the student president’s voice came through the phone, sharp and impatient. “Are you even listening?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Crowe managed, though his voice was definitely higher-pitched than usual. “Just—uh—just reviewing the numbers.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk involuntarily. He bit down on his lip to stifle a groan, but you could still hear it, low and desperate. You pulled back again, your lips brushing against the tip of his cock as you looked up at him, your eyes wide and innocent.

“You’re doing so good,” you mouthed, your voice silent but your meaning crystal clear. Crowe’s face flushed a deep red, and he quickly looked away, his jaw tightening as he tried—and failed—to focus on the phone call. His free hand, the one not clutching the phone, gripped the edge of his desk so hard you thought the wood might splinter.

You didn’t let up.

Instead, you ducked your head again, taking him deeper this time, your throat relaxing around him as you swallowed him down. Crowe’s hand tangled in your hair, his fingers tightening almost reflexively, and you could feel the way his body tensed, the way he fought to keep his hips still.

He was a losing battle, and you knew it.

You could feel the subtle shift in his muscles, the way his control was slipping with every flick of your tongue, every slow, deliberate movement of your lips.

“President,” Crowe said, his voice strained, “I think we might need to—ah—to reschedule this call.”

You smirked around him, your tongue flicking against that sensitive spot just under the head of his cock. Crowe’s breath hitched, and he let out a shaky exhale that he barely managed to stifle. You could feel the way his thighs trembled under your hands, the way his entire body was teetering on the edge.

“Reschedule?” the president snapped, his tone incredulous. “Ichabod, this is important. We don’t have time for—”

But Crowe wasn’t listening anymore.

His hips bucked forward involuntarily, his cock hitting the back of your throat, and you could feel the way his body shuddered, the way he lost control for just a second.

It was all you needed.

You hummed softly, the vibration making him twitch in your mouth, and you could feel the way his resolve was crumbling. His hand in your hair tightened, pulling just enough to make your scalp tingle, and you could hear the way his breathing grew ragged, uneven.

“I—uh—apologize, sir,” Crowe managed to choke out, his voice tight and unsteady. “Something… urgent has come up.”

You didn’t let him finish.

Instead, you pulled back slightly, just enough to swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock before taking him deep again, your throat working around him. Crowe’s head tipped back, a low groan escaping his lips before he could stop it, and you could feel the way his body was trembling, the way he was barely holding it together.

The student president was still talking, his voice sharp and impatient, but Crowe wasn’t hearing a word of it. His focus was entirely on you, on the way your mouth felt around him, on the way you were driving him absolutely insane. His hips bucked again, this time more deliberately, and you could feel the way his control was slipping, the way he was losing himself in the sensation.

“I’ll—ah—call you back,” Crowe said abruptly, his voice rough and strained. He didn’t even wait for a response before he ended the call, tossing the phone onto his desk with a clatter.

The second the call was over, his hand in your hair tightened, and he pulled you off him just enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and blazing with need. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he growled, his voice low and rough.

You just smirked up at him, your lips still wrapped around him, and then you took him deep again, your throat relaxing as you swallowed him down. Crowe’s breath came out in a harsh exhale, and his hips jerked forward, his control completely gone now.

“Fuck,” Crowe muttered, his voice rough and strained, his hand tightening in your hair as he thrust into your mouth. His movements were desperate, almost frantic, like he was losing control and couldn’t stop himself.

You could feel the way his body trembled, the way his thighs tensed under your hands, and you knew he was teetering on the edge.

You kept your pace steady, your lips wrapped tight around him, your tongue working against him in ways that made his breath hitch and his grip on your hair tighten almost painfully.

"Here I—"

Crowe didn’t get to finish his words.

His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he came with a low, guttural groan. You swallowed half of it, the taste warm and salty, before pulling back just enough to let the rest spill across your lower face. A few streaks of white painted your chin and the corner of your mouth, and you looked up at him, your eyes never leaving his.

“I’m so sorry,” Crowe said, his voice hoarse, his chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His hand loosened in your hair, his fingers brushing gently against your scalp as if to soothe the sting. But you just smirked, your tongue darting out to catch the cum at the edge of your face.

“It’s all good,” you said, your voice low and teasing, as you licked the last traces of him away. The way his eyes darkened at the sight, the way his jaw tightened like he was fighting the urge to pull you back in, only made your smirk widen.

When he finally stilled, his body limp and spent, you pulled back slowly, a satisfied smirk on your lips. Crowe slumped back in his chair, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing. He looked completely wrecked—his hair disheveled, his shirt rumpled and half-unbuttoned, his face still flushed with the aftermath of his release. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint tremble in his forearms.

“You’re lucky we didn’t get caught,” Crowe muttered, his voice low and gruff as he leaned back in his chair. He was trying to sound stern, but the way his eyes lingered on you—dark and hungry—gave him away. “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if the student president had figured out what you were doing under my desk?”

You just shrugged, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, a sly grin spreading across your face. “At least I had your back, so he didn’t really hear anything. Besides, he sounded more pissed that you hung up on him than anything else.”

Crowe groaned, running a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe away the memory of the entire ordeal. But you could see the corner of his mouth twitch like he was fighting a smile. “You’re such a menace,” he said, though there was no real heat behind his words. His voice was soft, almost fond, and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the room that mattered—made your stomach flip.

You stood, leaning against his desk, your grin widening. “You love it,” you shot back, your voice dripping with playful defiance.

Crowe let out a low laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. “I really do,” he admitted, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

You couldn’t help but notice how flushed Crowe’s face was, the deep red hue spreading across his cheeks and down his neck.

Was it from the way you’d just had him unraveling under your touch?

Or maybe it was the spiked cheesecake that you convinced him to indulge in earlier, the alcohol warming his veins and loosening his usual tight control. Honestly, it could’ve been both, and the thought made a smug little smile tug at your lips.

Either way, you wanted him to relax, to let go of whatever tension was still coiled in his body.

“Do you need the hangover pills from your bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft but teasing as you tilted your head, studying him. You were half-turned toward the door, ready to fetch them if he said yes, but Crowe shook his head almost immediately.

“No,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “I don’t need pills. I just need you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and loaded, and before you could respond—before you could even process what he’d said—he reached for you. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a firmness that sent a shiver up your spine.

In one swift motion, he was on his feet, pulling you toward him with a force that made you stumble. You let out a surprised laugh, but it was cut short as you collided with his chest, his other arm snaking around your waist to steady you.

And then his lips were on yours, crashing into you with a hunger that left you breathless. The kiss was deep, demanding, almost possessive, and you melted into it without hesitation. His tongue slid against yours, and you could still taste him on your lips—a faint, lingering reminder of what you’d just done to him. It seemed to drive him wilder, his grip on you tightening as if he was afraid you’d pull away.

His hands roamed over your body like he needed to touch every inch of you, to remind himself that you were real, that you were his. One hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your hair as he cradled your head, holding you in place like he never wanted to let you go. The other hand stayed firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into your skin through the fabric of your clothes, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you.

You could feel the heat of him through his clothes, the way his body thrummed with restless energy like he was still riding the high of what had just happened. His chest rose and fell against yours, his breathing ragged, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart where your hand rested against him.

It was intoxicating, the way he wanted you, the way he needed you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands sliding into his long, soft brown hair. His hair was silky between your fingers, and you tugged gently, earning a low groan from him that vibrated against your lips.

The sound sent a thrill through you, and you deepened the kiss, your tongue sliding against his as you poured every ounce of your own desire into it. Crowe’s grip on you tightened, his body pressing into yours like he was trying to fuse the two of you together, and you could feel the evidence of his want pressing against your hip, hard and insistent.

The kiss was everything—hot, desperate, and full of unspoken promises.

It was a collision of need and longing, a silent conversation that neither of you could put into words. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless, his hands gripping you like you might disappear if he let go.

And when he finally broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath came in short, uneven gasps. You could see it in his eyes—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, like you were his entire world.

Crowe laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, softer this time but no less hungry. You let yourself get lost in him, your body leaning back until the edge of his desk stopped you from moving any further. His fingers dug into your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, his body pressing you firmly against the desk.

One hand braced on the surface beside you, trapping you in place, while the other stayed on your waist, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

When he finally released you, you could see the redness of his face, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. It was almost enough to make you laugh, and you couldn’t resist tapping your finger lightly on his nose. He blinked, taken aback by the playful gesture, and then a slow, mischievous smile spread across his face.

“It’s time to reward beloved assistant,” he said, his voice low and rough, before kissing you again. This time, it was fiercer, more demanding, and you barely had time to react before he was roughly pushing all the papers off his desk with one sweeping motion.

The sound of them scattering to the floor barely registered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you down on the now-clear desk. His hands stayed on your thighs, his grip firm as he leaned over you, trapping you once again.

Crowe’s breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with want. He was about to kiss you again, but you stopped him, placing a hand on his chest to hold him back.

“Crowe, you’re still drunk,” you said, your voice soft but firm. You cupped his face in your hands, your fingertips brushing over the soft skin of his cheeks. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were now clouded with a mix of desire and something deeper, something raw and vulnerable. “One slice of spiked cheesecake is all it takes for you to be someone else?” you teased, your fingertips grazing over his soft, parted lips.

As much as you adored Crowe, you didn’t want to take advantage of him in this state. He was always so composed, so in control, and seeing him like this—unraveled and needy—was both intoxicating and a little unsettling.

Crowe’s breath hitched as he leaned into your touch, his lips pressing a kiss to your palm. “I wonder if you fed me that cake on purpose, you to take a break.” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Did you want to see me like this?”

You almost laughed.

Yeah, maybe you did.

But you wouldn’t tell him that to his face.

“Who could’ve guessed a small amount of alcohol would get you this drunk?” you said instead, looking down as his hands traveled up your thighs, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch was electric, and you had to bite your lip to keep from gasping.

“I never allowed myself touch alcohol,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands stopped at your waist, his fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. “But for you, I broke that rule.”

“Crowe…” you mumbled, your arms wrapping around his neck as you tried to steady yourself. His proximity, his touch, the way he looked at you—it was all too much, and yet not enough.

“You said you wanted a reward,” he said, his eyes pleading as he leaned his head down into the crook of your shoulder. “Fuck, you’re so warm. You smell like you, and I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than the stars in the sky.”

Confident, may you add, needy drunk definitely.

You felt your breath catch as his lips brushed against your neck, his kisses soft and lingering. His hands moved back to your thighs, sliding up to your waist, and then under your shirt again, his fingers exploring the plush curve of your hips. Everywhere he touched, it felt like he was leaving a mark, branding you as his.

“You’ve been such a wonderful assistant,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “As your so-called boss, let me reward you, starlight.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t help the windchime laugh that escaped you, muffled against his chest. It made his heart flip-flop like a fish in the cavern of his ribs.

“Crowe, please…” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“If you want me, you can have me,” he said, his lips brushing against your shoulder. “In whichever way you want.”

In whichever way you want?

That was a dangerous offer, especially from someone like him. And you knew you’d take him up on it, again and again and again. But not like this. Not when he was drunk, his inhibitions lowered, his control slipping.

You sighed, gently pushing against his chest to create some distance. “Jericho, you’re really drunk,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll get the hangover pills.”

But before you could slide off the desk, Crowe grabbed your arms, pulling you back onto the surface with a force that surprised you. “Are you trying to escape?” he asked, his voice tinged with frustration. “You keep saying I’m drunk. So, must I always stay sober?” He rested his head on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. “Because of you, everything is spiraling out of control. How can you pretend you’re not affected?”

Your eyes flickered away for a moment, your hand resting on his chest as you thought about his words. It was hard to say no to him, especially when he looked at you like that, when his touch set your skin on fire. But you didn’t want to push him into something he might regret later.

“Jericho…” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. You were torn, your resolve wavering under the weight of his need and your own desire.

Fuck it.

You were a little tipsy too.

Just a bit better at hiding it than him.

You kiss him with a softness that he thinks must come naturally to you, a tenderness that makes his chest ache in the best way. Crowe adores it, even as he feels a twinge of guilt for the way he wants to devour it, to take that softness and turn it into something wild and untamed.

But for now, he lets himself sink into it, his lips moving against yours with a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly deepens. Lips give way to tongue, and then to teeth, his mouth nipping at your lower lip in a way that makes you gasp softly, your fingers tightening in his hair.

His hands know your skin like they’ve mapped it a thousand times before, and yet every touch feels new, electric. They’re everywhere at once, hot and aching as they slide under your clothes, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.

One hand slips up to your breast, cupping it gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple through the fabric of your top. The sensation is enough to make you arch into him, a gasp escaping your lips that he swallows down with another kiss.

Crowe takes his time with your layered tops—first the crop top, then the tank top—peeling them off you carefully, like he’s unveiling something sacred. His gaze never leaves you, his eyes dark and hungry as he drinks in the sight of you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he’s leaning in, his mouth finding the spot right above your sternum, where he can feel the rapid flutter of your heartbeat beneath his lip as he removes your bra.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles into your skin, his voice low and rough with desire. His hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles.

“The brightest star in my life,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s confessing something he’s held onto for too long. He tilts his head, capturing one nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as his hand slides under your back, fingers pressing into the dip of your spine.

You arch into him instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips as he takes his time, lavishing attention on your body despite the way his cock throbs painfully in his boxers—once again a bulge as pants were still unbutton. “Such a pretty star,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “So hot to the touch.”

His hands move to your hips, gripping you firmly as he lifts you by your ass, pulling your flared yoga pants down and off in one smooth motion. His eyes follow every movement, every inch of exposed skin, and you’re grateful for the dim lighting of the standing lamp near his desk.

It casts a warm glow over you, highlighting the curves of your body as you sit on top of his desk, completely at his mercy. His gaze is intense, almost reverent, as he takes you in, his hands sliding up your thighs with a touch that’s both possessive and tender.

“Stay still, dearest,” he murmurs, his voice a low command that sends a shiver down your spine. His hands continue their exploration, fingers lacing through yours as they move over your hips, down to the waistband of your panties. He hooks his fingers into the fabric, pulling them down slowly, leaving you completely bare in front of him. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his breath coming a little faster now.

But of course, you can’t let him have all the fun.

“No,” you say suddenly, your voice firm but playful, pushing Crowe away with your foot on his lower chest, slowly rubbing.

Crowe freezes, his head snapping up to look at you, his cheeks still flushed with desire. “No?” he asks, his voice tinged with surprise and a hint of amusement.

“Isn’t this my reward for being your assistant?” you ask, tilting your head as you give him a sly smile. “Shouldn’t I have a say in how this goes?”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then a smirk plays on his lips, his expression shifting from surprise to ‘of course, whatever you say.’

“My apologies, dearest,” he says, his voice soft but laced with teasing. “How selfish of me. Of course, it’s only fair that you have a say in this.” He steps closer, his hands resting on either side of you on the desk as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “So, what is it that you desire, my sweet star? You have my full attention. Just tell me what you want.”

There was one or maybe two things.

You were sprawled back on Crowe’s desk, the cool surface pressing into your skin as your legs fell open for him.

The edge of the desk dug into your lower back, but the discomfort was a distant thought—completely overshadowed by the way Crowe was looking at you. His deep blue eyes were dark with hunger, his gaze raking over your body like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. His long brown hair was undone,messy, falling into his face as he leaned over you, and you couldn’t help but reach up to brush a strand away. He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm before letting it go, his lips curving into a smirk that made your stomach flip.

His hands slid up your thighs, his grip firm but not rough, like he was savoring the feel of you. He pushed your legs wider, settling himself between them, and you shivered as his fingers traced patterns on your skin, teasing and deliberate. His touch was electric, sending little shocks of pleasure through you, and you bit your lip to keep from begging him to hurry up.

But Crowe wasn’t one to rush. He took his time, leaning down to press a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your sensitive skin. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair as he kissed his way up, his breath hot and uneven. Each kiss was slow, and deliberate, like he was mapping out every inch of you, and by the time he reached where you needed him most, you were already trembling.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, the words sending a thrill through you. And then his tongue flicked against clit, and you let out a strangled cry, your fingers tightening in his hair. He didn’t hold back, his mouth working you over with a skill that had you seeing stars, your hips lifting off the desk as you tried to get closer, to feel more.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge, he pulled back, leaving you gasping and desperate. You whined, your hands tugging at his hair, but he only chuckled, the sound dark and full of promise. “Not yet,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief. “You missed the best part.”

You groaned, your head falling back against the desk as you tried to catch your breath. Crowe straightened, you can heard him unbuttoning his shirt, then pulled down his boxers along with his pants.

Soon you felt his hands sliding up to grip your hips, and you could feel the heat of him as he positioned his cock at your entrance—which he slap his cock against your pussy, enough to make you jump little bit as you tried to mentally prepare yourself.

Crowe laugh softly, holding you, "Don’t worry," He started before opening your pussy with two fingers, "Just relax, right?"

That little cheeky asshole

Suddenly, he pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, and you bit your lip to keep from crying out. He felt so good, stretching you, filling you completely, and when he finally bottomed out, you both let out a shaky breath.

“Fuck,” Crowe muttered, his head dropping forward as he tried to steady himself. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs brushing against your skin in a way that was almost soothing. “You feel so fucking incredible.”

You could only nod, your hands sliding up his arms to grip his shoulders as he started to move. His pace was slow at first, almost torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. But then he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Just you.”

Crowe groaned, his pace quickening as he gave you exactly what you asked for—a rhythm that had you seeing stars. His hands moved to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he kissed you, deep and hungry.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting your legs higher as he thrust into you, each movement deep and deliberate. You could feel the tension building in your body, your nails digging into his back—enough to almost leave marks as you tried to hold on.

And then, just as you were about to lose yourself completely, his phone rang.

The sound was jarring, pulling you both out of the moment, and Crowe let out a frustrated groan, stop completely. “Shit,” he muttered, glancing at the phone where it sat on the desk beside your head. He reached for it, his movements jerky and impatient, but when he saw the name on the screen—Student Council President—he hesitated.

“Answer it,” you moaned, your voice breathless and teasing. Your eyes met his, and you could see the conflict in his gaze—the way he wanted to ignore the call but knew he probably shouldn’t. “You know I can’t,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure.

But you didn’t care.

You reached for the phone, your fingers brushing against his as you answered the call and handed it to him. “You’re just going to hang up? What if it’s something important?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful innocence.

Crowe shot you a look that was equal parts ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me’ and ‘I’m so into you it’s ridiculous.’ He sighed, running a hand through his hair before reluctantly bringing the phone to his ear, standing up straight. “What?” he snapped, his voice sharp and impatient, like he was already done with this conversation before it even started.

The student council president’s voice crackled through the phone, loud and unmistakably pissed. “Ichabod! What the hell was that earlier? You can’t just hang up on me like that! Do you have any idea how unprofessional—”

Then, out of nowhere. With a playful annoyed sigh, your body to move, slamming yourself hard against Crowe.

He had to bite his lip to keep from moaning into the phone, however, your warm pussy clenching around cock—deep inside you, so warm, so fucking wet and bare— he wonders if he stretching you out in all of the right places.

You could feel the way his body tensed, the way he was trying to keep his voice steady while you were doing your absolute best to ruin him. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Unprofessional. Got it. Can we move on?”

“Move on?!” the student president screeched, his voice so loud you were pretty sure the neighbors could hear it. “You hung up on me in the middle of a very important discussion! Do you know how much paperwork I have to deal with because of you?!”

You couldn’t help it—you smirked, your fingers digging into Crowe’s arms as you rocked against him. He shot you a glare, but it was half-hearted at best, and you could see the way his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Look,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to keep his composure, “I’ll… uh… I’ll get you the forms tomorrow, okay? Can we just—ah—drop this for now?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and you could practically hear the president’s brain short-circuiting. “Are you… are you breathing weirdly? What’s wrong with you?”

Crowe’s eyes widened, and for a split second, he looked genuinely panicked—like a deer caught in headlights. His grip on your hips tightened, his body freezing as the president’s voice blared through the phone, sharp and accusatory.

But then, just as quickly as the panic had set in, it was gone. His expression shifted, an unfamiliar mask of cool composure sliding back into place.

His voice dropped into that low, dangerous tone he used when he was about to shut someone down, the one that sent shivers down your spine even when it wasn’t directed at you.

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said, his voice smooth and steady, though you could feel the way his body tensed beneath you. “I’m just… busy. Very busy. So if you’ll excuse me—”

“Busy doing what?!” the president yelled, their voice reaching a pitch that could probably shatter glass. “You’re supposed to be working, not—what are you even doing right now?!”

Crowe’s lips twitched, and you could see the exact moment the mischief sparked in his eyes. He looked down at you, his gaze dark and heated, and then he smirked.

Uh oh.

“Jericho—” you started, your voice a warning, but he cut you off with a deep, hungry kiss. His lips crashed against yours, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your head spin. The kiss was demanding, almost possessive, and you couldn’t help but melt into it, your hands tangling in his hair as he muffled your sounds. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, his breathing ragged, and he gave you a wicked grin that made your stomach flip.

“Trust me,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “I need you to be loud for this.”

Before you could respond, he turned his attention back to the phone, his smirk widening as he brought it to his ear. “What am I doing?” he repeated, his tone dripping with faux innocence. “Oh, you know. Just… multitasking.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line, and then the president’s voice came through, louder and more incredulous than before. “Multitasking?! What does that even mean?!”

Crowe’s grin turned downright devilish, and you could feel the way his body vibrated with suppressed laughter. “This,” he said, his voice smooth as silk, and then he thrust deep inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur and your breath catch.

You couldn’t help it—you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure shot through you like a lightning bolt.

“Jericho!” you cried out, your voice breaking on his name, and he smirked, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he turned his attention back to the phone.

“You hear that?” he said, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm. “I’m busy fucking at the moment. Raw and deep. Something you’ll never get with those ugly-ass clothes of yours.”

Your eyes widened in shock, your mouth falling open as you stared at him.

Did he really just say that?

To the student council president?

Your Crowe??

But before you could say anything, Crowe hung up and tossed the phone onto the desk, the device skidding across the surface before coming to a stop near the edge. “Jericho!” you hissed, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement. “You did not just say that!”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. “What?” he said, pulling back just enough to grin at you.

“It’s true, plus you wanted this,” Crowe murmured, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned down to capture your nipple between his teeth. He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, before soothing the sting with his tongue, sucking and teasing until you were squirming beneath him.

His deep blue eyes locked onto yours, “There’s something undeniably addictive about stepping out of line,” he admitted, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “Maybe getting drunk was worth it. Especially fucking you at the end.”

You laughed breathlessly, the sound catching in your throat as he thrust into you again, his cock hitting that deep, sensitive spot that made your toes curl. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked you with a relentless intensity that left you breathless.

Every movement was deliberate, every stroke designed to drive you closer to the edge. You could feel the tension building in your body, your legs wrapping around his waist as you pulled him closer, desperate for more. “Crowe,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back as you tried to hold on. “I’m close—”

“Come for me,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, and it was all you needed to tip over the edge. Your body trembled as pleasure washed over you in waves, your walls clenching around his cock as you fell apart. Crowe didn’t let up, continuing ramming his hips into yours as he chased his own release, his breath hot against your neck as he let out a low, guttural groan.

When he finally came, it was with a force that left you both shaking. His hips stuttered, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep, his body collapsing against yours as he rode out the waves of pleasure. His breath was ragged, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the way his heart raced against your chest.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The room was quiet, save for the soft, uneven rhythm of your breathing, the sound of your hearts still racing in sync. Crowe’s body was warm and heavy against yours, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. You could feel the way his fingers absently traced patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and lingering like he was memorizing every inch of you.

And then he lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours, and the look he gave you—God, it made your chest ache. His gaze was dark, full of something raw and unguarded, a mix of affection and possessiveness that made your stomach flip. It was the kind of look that made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered, like you were his entire world.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, his voice rough but tender, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“But what a way to go, right?” you teased, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back, feeling the way his muscles shifted under your touch.

Crowe laughed, the sound low and warm, and then he was kissing you again, his lips soft and lingering. It wasn’t the hungry, desperate kiss from before—this was something slower, sweeter, like he was savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Besides, my assistant wanted attention, and as the boss, I’m happy to provide.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face. “You’re such an idiot,” you said, your voice fond.

“Maybe,” he said, his lips brushing against yours in a way that made your breath hitch. “But I’m your idiot.”

And then he was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine as he traced every curve, every dip like he was trying to commit you to memory. “Forever yours,” he murmured against your lips, the words so soft they were almost lost in the space between you.

You laughed as you kissed him back, your hands wrapping around his neck to pull him closer. “So, what are you going to do now that you’ve probably been fired from the student council?” you asked, your tone light and teasing.

Crowe shrugged, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Whatever my new boss tells me to do,” he said, his lips brushing against your palm as he kissed it. His eyes met yours, and the look he gave you was pure mischief. “And right now, you’re telling me to stay right here.” You grinned, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him in for another kiss.

Good answer, assistant.

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #the kid at the back crowe #tkatb crowe #tkatb vn #crowe ichabod #crowe x reader #jericho crowe ichabod #the kid at the back jericho #jericho ichabod #the kid at the back fanfic #the kid at the back smut

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onlyangel4 · 24 days ago

Text

kayfabe. cm punk. part two.

dark!cm punk x superstar!reader

synopsis: you and punk are placed into a long-term onscreen pairing. a storyline romance meant to boost ratings. the chemistry is undeniable, but offscreen, punk is distant. until he’s not. he begins texting late at night. watching. testing boundaries. you realise he’s not method acting. the possessiveness, the tension, the jealousy, it’s all real. and if the storyline ends, he won’t take it well.

part one // part two // part three

the lights backstage buzzed low, monitors flickering in bursts of red and gold. you stood at gorilla, one boot propped against the wall, tightening your wrist tape with sharp tugs. the faint thunder of the crowd behind the curtain bled through the walls a low roar, restless and hungry.

your closest friend on the roster, bron breakker was lounged on a folding chair beside you, a protein bar half-unwrapped in his hand. he was grinning, the usual pre-show cocky gleam in his eye.

"you nervous?" he asked.

you didn’t look up. "about a mic segment? please."

seth leaned in from the other side, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses still on even in the dark. "don’t let her fool you. she thrives under pressure. like a viper. sharp little bite."

you rolled your eyes. "flatter me more."

he smirked. "that wasn’t flattery. it was a warning."

they both laughed. easy, familiar. you liked this rhythm. Seth and Bron had become your constants in the chaos, two people you could trust when everything else in the locker room felt like quicksand.

but then like something dropping into water, the energy changed.

you didn’t hear him walk in.

you felt him.

punk.

you looked up.

he was dressed in black again, hoodie pulled up, tape already tight around his hands. his expression unreadable. the rest of the backstage noise dimmed slightly, like it always seemed to when he entered a room.

he clocked the three of you immediately, bron’s smile, seth’s shoulder against yours, the casual way you all leaned close.

his gaze didn’t linger. didn’t shift.

but you felt the difference.

the air turned quieter.

he passed through the space without a word, brushing too near, not enough to make contact but enough to make it clear. he’d seen you. all of you.

you exhaled through your nose and muttered, "okay then."

bron noticed it too. "he always that warm and fuzzy?"

Seth just gave a dry laugh. "that was punk at his friendliest. don’t take it personal."

you didn’t.

but you didn’t forget it, either.

your cue came through the headset.

"two minutes", a producer called. "you’re up first."

you stood, rolled your shoulders back, forced your face into the cool, confident expression you wore like armour. seth touched your wrist briefly, a quiet go kill it and you nodded once.

then you stepped toward the curtain.

behind you, you could feel punk’s eyes.

watching your back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

your music hit, and the crowd roared.

you pushed through the curtain and into the floodlights, your posture perfect, head high, shoulders squared, smile easy. but your chest thrummed with static.

you soaked it in. the cheers. you were used to being cheered, especially in this city. but tonight, everything felt louder. like they already smelled something different on the air.

like they knew.

you reached the ring, climbed the steps, and stepped between the ropes with smooth precision. the mic waited on the turnbuckle, and you took it with a practiced hand, turning toward the camera with a smirk.

the crowd quieted slightly, expectant.

then the lights cut.

and his music hit.

tv static.

the crowd blew up. a mixed reaction, sharp-edged. cheers, jeers, cm punk chants in pockets.

you turned toward the ramp and saw him.

he walked slowly, deliberately. hoodie half-zipped, mic already in hand, eyes locked on you the entire time.

no smirk. no firework gestures. just that quiet, cutting intensity that made everything else feel like background noise.

he entered the ring without breaking eye contact.

and still didn’t speak.

you raised the mic. "so, you finally showed up."

the crowd stirred, already eating it up.

punk tilted his head, like he was studying you.

"i’ve been watching."

you kept your expression still, but your heartbeat kicked.

you leaned against the ropes, microphone relaxed at your chin. "watching what, exactly? the show? my matches? or just me?"

the crowd popped. chants started to bubble, something about "ship it! ship it!" already spreading like wildfire in the upper decks.

punk took a step forward. his voice was low, not a shout, not showy. just direct. just for you.

"watching how easily you play the game. how fast you smile. how hard they cheer."

you raised an eyebrow. "you sound almost impressed."

he closed the distance slightly. enough to feel it.

"i’m wondering if it’s real", he said.

you scoffed lightly, a smile playing on your lips. "that’s rich coming from you. mr. reality check."

he didn’t smile.

he leaned in, subtle, deliberate.

"you’re good at pretending. i’ll give you that. especially with rollins. and breakker." the crowd reacted. so did you.

your spine straightened a little. "that wasn’t in the script."

he stepped back, hands raised slightly, not apologetic. just amused. "neither was the way you looked at me last week."

the crowd lost it.

you fought not to react. this wasn’t the promo anymore. or maybe it was, maybe that was the trap. you didn’t know where the line was. you weren’t even sure he believed there was one.

you stepped in close this time, your move.

"let me explain something to you", you said, voice low. "just because they put us in the same ring doesn’t mean we’re on the same side. you want fire? son’t act surprised when you get burned."

you turned and dropped the mic cleanly. receiving a loud pop.

he didn’t move.

you walked up the ramp without looking back, but you felt him watching.

and somehow, the silence from him was louder than the cheers.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you stepped through gorilla with your heart still racing, your skin prickled with leftover adrenaline.

no one said anything right away.

the crew that had been buzzing before the segment was suddenly quiet, watching you out of the corners of their eyes. some of them smiled. some avoided looking at you entirely. you passed them with a practiced calm demeanour.

then you heard bron.

"there she is."

you turned as he came toward you, grin wide. he clapped your shoulder gently. "jesus, that was nuclear. you two just hijacked the whole night."

seth was behind him. slower. his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"didn’t feel like acting", bron added. "that line about watching you? that was... damn."

you gave a small, deflecting shrug. "he likes his improvisation. i rolled with it."

seth crossed his arms. "he didn’t improvise. he aimed. that’s different."

bron looked between the two of you, sensing something shift.

you tried to brush it off. "it worked. that’s the job. get a reaction."

seth didn’t laugh.

instead, he stepped in, lowering his voice just enough that only you heard it. his words were soft, not teasing this time. measured.

"you don’t need to sell anything that hard. not for him."

you met his eyes, caught something steely under the surface. it wasn’t jealousy. it was dislike, pure and rooted.

"i’m fine", you said. "he’s intense, but it’s all kayfabe. you said it yourself, he sells."

seth leaned closer, the edge sharpening. "yeah. i know how he sells. and i know what it looks like when he stops pretending."

that landed.

you looked at him longer than you meant to.

bron’s voice cut in, light but curious. "something i missed?"

you blinked, forcing your expression neutral. "just seth being seth."

seth stepped back, gave bron a shrug, and walked off without another word.

you stood there a second longer, the noise of the backstage area rising again around you, voices, wheels on concrete, laughter in the distance.

but under it, the echo of Seth’s voice lingered:

"i know what it looks like when he stops pretending."

and something about it made your stomach turn.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

your hotel room was quiet except for the hum of the old air conditioner.

it was almost 1 a.m.

you had showered, thrown on an oversized tee and sleep shorts, and collapsed face first into the mattress with your phone buzzing endlessly beside you, tagged photos, fan edits, and reactions flooding your timeline.

the promo had gone viral.

clips of you and punk were everywhere: the way he looked at you, the heat in your stare, the moment you walked away while he stood still. fans were screaming chemistry. shipping you. writing fantasy threads.

one tweet had over 200k likes. "they didn’t even touch but somehow i feel like i just watched a sex scene."

you laughed under your breath and locked your phone. you weren’t going to read too much into it. it was the job. it worked.

but the moment you rolled onto your side, your phone buzzed again, this time, just once.

a text.

unknown number.

we sold it

no emoji. no punctuation. but you knew exactly who it was.

you stared at the message for a second.

then you replied:

who is this?

three dots appeared. then vanished.

then came the response:

don’t be cute.

you sat up a little, the room still dim. no name appeared on the contact. just that blank grey circle and the words sitting heavy on your screen.

you hesitated, then sent back:

it’s late. didn’t expect to hear from you.

another pause.

then:

i don’t usually text people.but you looked different tonight.

your heart gave a little skip, not romantic. not quite fear either. more like falling forward into something and not knowing where the edge is.

you typed:

different how?

no answer.

the typing bubble came and went three times before he finally sent one last message:

like you stopped acting too.

you didn’t reply.

you just set the phone down, screen still lit, and stared at the wall for a long time.

#wwe #wwe fic #wwe fandom #wwe fanfiction #wwe raw #wwe smackdown #wwe x reader #cm punk #cm punk x reader #cm punk fanfiction #cm punk x fem reader #cm punk x y/n #dark cm punk #dark cm punk x reader #dark wwe

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hwaslayer · 5 months ago

Text

the space between us three (jyh) | four.

⇢series masterlist | series playlist

⇢summary: while juggling the demands of life, yunho continues to do his best to raise his independent 11 yr old daughter, seora. throughout the years, they've built a strong foundation, an unbreakable bond— one that consists of late night talks and food runs, father/daughter dates, and sideline cheerleading at her basketball games. so when you unexpectedly come into their world, things shift. despite the uncertainty and the fear of stepping outside of their comfort zone, yunho and seora eventually learn how to open their hearts and learn how to rebuild a home where three can thrive together.

⇢pairing: single dad!yunho x f. reader

⇢genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, single dad au | fluff, angst, eventual smut

⇢word count: 4.5k

⇢chapter content/warnings: cussing, mature language/ sexually implied content, sorry more of a filler chapter cause i need to build this up lol 😅 but more oc x yunho!!, taehyun & jihoon tryna play cupid, well ok i guess everyone is at this point lmao, seora and yunho have a lil heart to heart

Monday comes a lot quicker than expected, but you're glad the weekend was better than you thought it'd turn out. Running errands and spending the day with your parents was actually a lot calmer this time around— no bickering or arguing unnecessarily, mom wasn't picking at things or pointing out specific details just to work your last nerve.

It was good. It did make you feel bad for not being better about spending more time with them, though.

But, that's why you vowed to work on it with your brother and you knew you both were serious about making it happen. Better late than never, and you and Wonwoo could admit to your faults.

That's progress and a way forward, right?

Anyway, the agenda went as promised with your family— you ended up at the grocery store for about an hour before driving down to the pharmacy and different furniture stores until you and your parents settled on a new, good quality couch they were satisfied with. When you had gotten back to the house that afternoon, mom sent you away with towers of food and Yunho hadn't gotten back home yet.

Couldn't help but wonder what his typical weekend was like with his daughter. Was that weird? He seems so laidback [despite his dad tone coming out on Saturday before leaving], it just makes you wonder what him and his daughter do to fill their downtime together.

Must be cute.

When you got back home that afternoon, you had tidied up your place and showered off the early day's activities before preparing a charcuterie board, wine and other finger foods for Noeul and Sian's arrival. It was a much needed sleepover since it had been awhile since the last one— the three of you getting caught up with work and being too exhausted to meet outside of it. You and the girls talked about everything and anything; from new updates on old friends from college and highschool and analyzing every detail of their recent photos on IG, to love, dating and all the juicy one-nights, to what's been on the grocery list lately and then finally, openly exploring the topic of sex toys and all that glory.

Very, very much needed.

In fact, sleeping in the next day and getting breakfast with Noeul and Sian at the cute café nearby was the cherry on top. You finally got to taste that thick, milk bread with coconut-pandan jam sprinkled with tiny bits of sea salt.

Your weekend was better than expected.

For Yunho, it was a bit chaotic; filled with an impromptu sleepover with 11-going-on-12-year old girls screaming and singing at the top of their lungs after a long day of shopping and eating out. They all plopped onto the large air mattress Yunho set up in the middle of the living room, their voices slowly dying down as the hours went on. They didn't fall asleep until a bit past midnight, which is when Yunho decided to finally shut off his TV and get some shut-eye himself.

Then, the morning came and it was chaos all over again.

He overheard the girls talking and giggling until Seora gently knocked and walked into her dad's room to wake him up. His eyes fluttered open, his daughter sitting on the edge of his bed poking at his cheek. He sleepily chuckled and sat up, ruffling her hair messily while she asked if he could take them to a specific breakfast spot deep into the city.

A spot that has thick, milk bread with coconut-pandan jam sprinkled with tiny bits of sea salt and other unique delicacies.

Even though he's exhausted, he gets up and gets ready anyway. Not only because of Seora, but because he can finally get a taste of that fig sesame and honey danish and grab a bag of those milk bread dinner rolls for him and Seora to indulge in.

It's too bad he had just missed you leaving the same spot.

Monday mornings are usually a drag, especially coming from a much-needed, good, relaxing weekend. But today, you're powered up on coffee and making sure you have your things [and yourself] ready for your meeting with Yunho. You're not sure why you're nervous; perhaps, it goes back to you feeling lost and confused about different aspects of this project. You don't know much about the IT and clinical informatics side, and you don't wanna come off as dumb, clueless.

Especially in front of him.

You're just hoping for the best, and you've sat yourself in the booked conference room to go through old emails, old messages, to get yourself up to speed. You do remember being looped into certain threads, but not paying any attention to it because it didn't particularly concern you at the time— which, is a good thing you did because you definitely would not have known there were specifics about the ordering system that the higher-ups had already asked for and that they were already working on the build. You can ask Yunho where things are at from that point.

That’ll be a good start.

As you continue to busily type away for other aspects of the project and personal tasks, you almost miss the figure that passes by and walks into the room.

"Woah, you're here early. Why?" Your eyes slightly widen at Yunho's tall figure strolling in with a cup or coffee in his hand.

"Because I wanted to be early, but apparently you're earlier." He smirks, plopping down next to you. "Working hard already? Goodmorning, by the way.”

"Sorry, goodmorning.” You scrunch your nose a bit, embarrassed at how you greeted him. “I just.. don't wanna sound dumb in front of you so I've been getting all my notes together." He chuckles.

"Never? No question or thought is dumb, Y/N. I don't expect you to know everything about our team. It's complicated."

"Still, I wanna be prepared."

"You are." He reassures you and it instantly comforts you.

"Are you gonna sit there?" He looks at you with a brow cocked up.

"Yeah, why? Do you want me to sit across from you?"

"No, I'm just asking since it's us two. I wasn't sure if you'd be comfortable that way." You chuckle.

"Oh, sorry. I hope you don't mind. I invited Taehyun and Jihoon from my team. I thought they could come to meetings in case I'm not around for whatever reason." He shrugs. "Plus, it just helps me to have extra heads involved in case I needa delegate."

"Makes sense, I don't mind. The more the merrier."

"Is it okay to still sit here?" He smiles and you nod.

"Sure." You laugh. There's a small silence that falls between the two of you while you both type away, along with Yunho's Slack notifications going off. But, none of it feels uncomfortable.

"So, how was your weekend with your parents?"

"Good! I just tagged along and ran errands with them. Picked up some meds, groceries. They finally got a new couch for the living room, too."

"Your mom has been talking about getting a new couch for awhile."

"She's definitely happy now." You look at him. "You know, I.. did not know you were the neighbor my mom had been talking about."

"Good things, I hope?"

"Oh yeah, my parents love you and your daughter." You look at him.

"They're great. They take care of us a lot, and I appreciate it. Especially on days when I can't be home right away. Your mom looks after my little-but-not-so-little one." You give him a tiny smile. "I— how come you don't swing by often? If you don't mind me asking."

"Just busy, honestly. My brother, too. He's younger. We get caught up with work and plans."

"Your parents talk about you two a lot. They adore you both and they always hope you'll come by more often."

"I know." You look down at your laptop. "We just suck at slipping in time for them, I'm gonna admit. And it's just.." You pause, not wanting to dump your life story and feelings on Yunho on a Monday morning. He looks at you with a hint of concern in his eyes, but you brush it off. "Anyway, we're trying. We know we needa do better." He smiles a bit. "My brother and I have talked about it and have come up with a plan so that we're slotting in time for them."

"That's all that matters. Are you and your brother close?"

"Very, yes. If you're around next weekend, you might get to meet him because we'll be swinging by together."

"Hm." Yunho hums. "My daughter has a basketball game and it's about an hour out. We might be gone by then, but if you and your brother are around when we get back, I'll gladly stop by to say hi."

"Sounds good. How was your weekend?" You ask and Yunho lets out a small chuckle at the way you try to fill in the silence while waiting for Taehyun and Jihoon.

"Busy. I, uh, hung out with a friend on Friday." He clears his throat. "Then took my daughter and her friends out on Saturday. When I saw you.. that's where we were going."

"Aw cute. Where did you guys go?"

"Well, I picked up one of my bestfriends and we took them to the Samsung Star Mall."

"That's a big mall. Sounds like you were there all day."

"Damn near, yeah. Then, grabbed some takeout, let the girls pick up their things from their homes and headed back to the house. They were yelling and singing like crazy after dinner." You laugh.

"That's very cute." He does a slight head tilt.

"Anything for my daughter." His eyes are glued onto his screen.

"What's her name?"

"Seora."

"That's a beautiful name." He gives you a small toothless smile.

"It is, isn't it?" You nod.

"What'd you do on Sunday? I assume you were able to sleep in since the girls must've been tired."

"Kinda, but Seora ended up waking me and asking if I could bring them to a café for breakfast. They were so excited about it."

"Which?"

"We went to Morning Toast." You gasp and look at him.

"That morning? What time?"

"Like 11?"

"I had literally just left right before it hit 11!"

"Really? That's too bad. It would've been nice to see you." He chuckles a bit, and it makes the heat rise to your cheeks. "Though, I had temporarily adopted like, 2 extra daughters so it was a little crazy. I might've looked a little out of it." He thinks for a minute. "Maybe it was best you didn't see me at that moment."

"What do you mean? I'm sure it would've been fine if we did run into each other. I'm positive you probably didn't even look that way."

"How could you be so sure, hm?" He teases lightly before chuckling. "I've had pre-teens singing at the top of their lungs at the house and in the car all weekend. Pretty sure your parents probably heard them next door." You laugh.

"Sounds like your house is the place to be. Maybe I'll have to inquire about a quote for hosting my birthday there."

"I just need about 3 months advance notice." You look at him and shake your head, giggling. At this point, his team lead, Taehyun, walks in with a smile on his face though it's obvious he's a bit stressed and has been running around.

"Hi! Sorry! Was caught up with a ticket." He rushes in, slightly out of breath and frazzled. Behind him is another team member that you haven't met yet. He meets your eyes and gives you a tiny bow with a small smile, slipping into the seat next to Taehyun in front of you.

"Hey, I'm Jihoon." He sits. "Sorry I couldn't make it to the meeting last week. Was tied up with some urgent issues."

"Oh, no worries! It's nice to meet you. I'm Y/N. I'm one of the project managers, mainly supporting the pediatrics unit."

"Good to meet you, too." Jihoon smiles. "It's nice to get some communication from the peds side."

"Yeah, I feel the same." You chuckle. "So, I saw that the build was already in the process." They all nod.

"It sure is. But, I thought it'd be good to give you a brief introduction to both of the IT and clinical informatics team just so you know how we interact." Yunho connects his laptop to the TV, causing you to turn your attention towards the screen. "Is that okay?"

"No, please. I'd love that. Take the floor." He smiles before running his finger down his bottom lip and beginning his presentation. He starts off by re-introducing the three of them before going through the names of his other direct reports. The next bits of his presentation explaining the core tasks his team is responsible for and the differences with the clinical informatics team. He goes through the key people in that team and you find yourself typing away while glancing at the screen every now and then. You find his explanation incredibly detailed but simple enough for you to understand. It's super helpful, and you feel like you've definitely learned a lot from the meeting alone. This was the one area you weren't entirely familiar with, and it was nice that the three were open to answering your questions and clarifying anything that might've seemed confusing. You also learned that they've gotten a good amount of the planning and groundwork done for the main hospital unit. Now, they can focus a lot of their efforts towards the pediatric unit.

At the end of the meeting, Yunho gives you the floor to ask any more questions. You take the opportunity to clarify last minute things that come up before you're satisfied enough to finish up.

"So, let's plan on meeting with the full group next week. Then from there on, biweekly meetings? I'm sure the group won't be opposed unless there's absolutely no updates to provide in that time frame. We can always cancel if needed."

"Good with me, boss lady." Yunho says, giving you a small smile.

"Not even." You chuckle, typing up the last of your notes. "I'm just trying to coordinate and make sure things run smoothly."

"Which is a shit ton since you're overseeing the entire project." Jihoon laughs.

"Yeah. You're spearheading the whole thing and without you, it'd probably be a mess." Taehyun chuckles a bit. "We don't really communicate with the pediatric hospital much, so it's nice to have a bridge." You nod.

"I agree."

"Definitely boss lady if you ask me." Yunho looks at you, causing you to shy away for a moment.

"Maybe you and I can set up weekly meetings to update each other?" You look at Yunho, then Taehyun and Jihoon. "Or Taehyun, Jihoon—"

"Yunho is probably the best. He's everywhere. He knows everything." Taehyun chimes in quick. At first, Jihoon and Yunho are confused even though, it's definitely the right answer and they'll always defer to their manager in these situations— not because they don't think they can handle it or relay the proper information, but because it just makes them feel more comfortable doing so. Jihoon cocks a brow up before Taehyun meets his gaze and gives him a look that tells him he should play along and go with it.

"O-Oh, right. I agree." Jihoon stumbles on his words a bit before returning his full attention to you. "Yunho can answer all your questions without issue."

"Yeeeeah." Yunho says, slightly furrowing his brows at them before looking down at you. "Let's just keep it between us? If I really can't make it, I'll just email you with some notes or something."

"Okay." You chuckle, making a note to coordinate calendars with Yunho later and set a reoccurring invite. "I'll message you later about some good days and times. See if we have any matches."

"Cool."

"Well, thanks guys!" You smile at them brightly. "I really appreciate your time and for thoroughly walking me through everything."

"Of course." They all say in their own way as you shut your laptop and stand.

"We're gonna debrief in here for the remaining minutes before the next meeting comes in." You nod.

"See you next week? Feel free to email or slack me if anything comes up."

"You too." You wave at them before walking out of the room and shutting the door, finally feeling like you can breathe comfortably again. You speed off to your desk once you’re out of view, hoping to see Noeul and Sian at some point to talk about the meeting.

Meanwhile, Yunho watches as you leave— his eyes trailing your figure until you're no longer in view down the hallway, and Jihoon is snorting while typing away.

“Debrief time!” Taehyun says.

"Soooo." He finally breaks the silence post-laugh in a sing-song tone. "How'd your thing with Ara go?"

"Uh." Yunho laughs a bit and they both look at him confused. "No, it was fine. It's just.. I don't know? I don't think I feel anything for her to be quite honest."

"Well, first of all. What do you mean you don't know? What did you guys end up doing? How did we get to this point?" Taehyun asks, making Yunho do another head tilt.

"Tough crowd. Too many technical questions." They laugh. "We just had ramen at the new restaurant and then we hung out at her place." They both pause and look over their screens to meet his eyes.

"What happened to 'we're just gonna do a harmless dinner and call it a night?'"

"For the most part, it was."

"What about the other part that wasn't?"

"We ended up making out and then.. I stopped it." Yunho says calmly, which is confusing Taehyun and Jihoon.

"Oh shit." Jihoon looks at Yunho with an amused expression. "What?! You didn't feel anything for her?"

"I— no, not really."

"Damn." Jihoon ticks his head to the side.

"What'd she say when you stopped it?"

"She understood where I was coming from, I think? I tried to lay it down gently and I told her I didn't wanna do that to her. I thought we were good as friends, and she deserves someone that is sure of their feelings."

"That's good."

"Yeah. Well. I hope so? I hope it didn't ruin our friendship."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. She might need some space for a bit, but I'm sure it'll be okay. I know she appreciated it."

"Yeah." Yunho looks at them. "Anyway, back to the main discussion.” He laughs a bit. “I think we have our work cut out for us. We should continue to stay on top of those tickets and try not to let them pile up, but we should also prioritize securing the network for this unit. Making sure there's no roadblocks. I'll keep up with the clinical informatics team to keep mapping out the ordering system." The two ahead of him nod simultaneously. "Feel free to delegate things on your plate to other team members if you don't have the capacity to take them on right now."

"Got it, boss." Jihoon adds.

"You know, if I may say so." Jihoon and Yunho look at him, confused. "Y/N's pretty." Taehyun smirks.

“Oh, here he goes.”

"She's also really nice." Jihoon laughs, knowing exactly where this is going. "Seems like you two get along easily."

"I didn't know our team doubled up as a matchmaking service."

"Only for you." Jihoon snorts at Taehyun's remark.

"So, that's what the whole thing was about."

"What whole thing?" Taehyun acts dumb.

"Having her set up those meetings with me only. Even though the both of you have covered in the past.”

"I mean, it's only right." Taehyun smiles. "Besides, you can learn a lot about each other, too."

"Uh huh." Yunho looks at them before shutting his laptop. "We'll see how it goes."

"You agree though, right?"

"About what?"

"About Y/N?" Taehyun and Jihoon follow Yunho's lead as he stands and stretches, grabbing his laptop to prepare heading out back to their office.

"And if I say yes?"

"Then remember to thank me in the end when it all works out." Yunho laughs.

"Can't get anything past you two either, I see."

"Did Seora know about the date?"

"No, but I also think she has inkling because Hwa's dumbass let it slip." They laugh. "I called it a team dinner and he somehow let 'date' slip at some point during his stay with her."

"Ah, but I'm sure she'd be fine with it."

"I don't know. She's hard to read. We talked a bit about it this weekend but even as her dad, I can't really gauge what she means or how she feels."

⇢FLASHBACK

"Daddy." Yunho looks at Seora as they make their way home from dropping off her friends. Her voice is low, and it's obvious she's tired from her weekend but content.

"Mhm?"

"Thank you for letting my friends spend the weekend with me."

"Course, baby girl." He chuckles. "I'm glad you had fun."

"I did." Her voice is a bit raspy from all the yelling and singing they did all weekend. "It was so much fun. And I got so many cute things this weekend."

"You're welcome." Yunho teases.

"Thank you." She laughs. "You're the best."

"Mm." He hums. "I try to be."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot." There's a pause, and Seora is fiddling with the ends of her hair.

"Nevermind." She says close to a whisper.

"Ace." He turns to her at a green light.

"I just don't know how to ask. But, it isn't anything super important anyway. Let’s forget it—”

"No. You opened the door. Remember what I said about keeping an open communication between us?"

"Mhm." She hums. "Well..” She nervously fiddles with her fingers now. “I just wanna know if Uncle Hwa was right? Did you go on a date?"

"Hm, well. I went out to dinner with a friend. That's all."

"Do you like your friend?"

"No. We're really just friends." Pause. "Besides. I know you wouldn't be happy, right?" He chuckles a bit to make it a little light-hearted joke, but there's a genuine curiosity behind his question. He hasn't talked to his daughter about this, and he's a little surprised she even brought it up. But, maybe she too, had been curious.

"I mean." She sighs. "Uncle Hwa told me to keep an open mind about it."

"He did now? But, how do you really feel, Seora?"

"Of course I’d want you to be happy. It'll just be different, though. It's always been us two and we haven't really had anyone like that around besides mom. I can’t really see it right now.”

"I know." Yunho responds quietly.

"I want you to be happy, though. Just saying it’ll be weird if that ever happens. Might take time, I guess.” She looks at him sadly. “You won’t replace me or mom, right?”

“Never.” Yunho’s heart sinks. "When and if that time comes, I'll always prioritize you no matter what." She smiles. "Okay? None of that.”

"Okay." She giggles a bit when her dad reaches over to gently massage the top of her head.

"Now, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Do you miss mom?" He asks.

"Yeah. I do. I think about her sometimes, but it's hard when I don't have many memories with her."

"I know, I'm sorry. I wish you had more time with her."

"I do, too. At least I got some time with her." Yunho nibbles on his bottom lip when he feels her response hit him in the gut. Right now, he knows he's not ready to talk more about Eunha. He knows he can't handle it. He already feels himself internally panicking, the anxiety rising. So, he pivots.

He pivots because he just can't.

"Yeah, well. We have each other now and that's all that matters. You're stuck with your dad. Sorry ‘bout it.”

"Stop it." She laughs.

"Promise me you'll keep talking to me if you ever feel sad or alone, hm? Don't ever think you can't talk to me about these things, ace."

"I know. You never make me feel that way."

"Good."

"Love you."

"Love you, too." She smiles and leans her head back against the head rest. "I have one more favor to ask before the weekend ends."

"And what's that?"

"Can we have our own little slumber party in the living room tonight?"

"As long as you promise to shut off the TV at a reasonable time since you have school tomorrow."

"Promise." She puts up her pinky. "Pinky promise." Yunho multitasks and wraps his finger around hers.

"Let's do it."

⇢END

"It'll all work out how it should, don't worry, boss. It ain't gonna be like this forever." Jihoon adds as they finally make their way back to their office area.

"Thanks. And thanks for joining the meeting today."

"All good!" Yunho gives them one last smile before slipping into his office and settling down. He has a few more meetings and other tasks to tend to in a bit, but his first priority shifts when he sees a slack notification from you. He instantly pulls up the app on his desktop after connecting his laptop to the monitor, a small smile forming on his face when he sees your message.

you: should we just do mondays at 10am to keep things simple? i mean.. totally get if you don't wanna see me bright and early on a monday, we can check other days. 😊

yunho: no, mondays at 10am are perfect.

yunho: & don't say that. 🫤 it'll be nice to see you on monday mornings.

yunho: usually it's chaos or everyone's dead from the weekend. no in between.

yunho: you'll be the nice balance!

you: uh huh. just remember you said this, not me. 🫡 i’ll send an invite!

yunho: all good, i'll take full responsibility for it. haha. thank you!

"I'm gonna call it right now. You and Yunho are gonna get close and it'll be the start of something new." You shrug while Noeul reads the messages over your shoulder.

"I mean, whatever happens, happens. I won't be opposed to it. He's cute and super nice." You poke your bottom lip out.

"And your parents literally love him and his daughter to death already. It's a match-made in heaven."

"Well, no. I wouldn't say that." You look at Noeul. "Besides, I don't even know if he's single. Before the weekend rolled around, I saw him getting all smiley and smitten with one of the nurses at the hospital. I think they went out together."

"Ah, you never know! Just keep your options open, but definitely don't shut him out if he's dropping little hints. Get to know him more, see what he dishes out. If he's taken, then you've earned another friend and it could blossom into a great friendship. No loss there!" Noeul crosses her arms and smirks. "If not, then please make sure you enjoy yourself."

"Sometimes, I really hate when you and Sian are right. Makes me feel—"

Ding.

Your phone goes off at the corner of your desk with a new notification. You lean over to grab your phone and check, your eyes widening in the process:

yunou._.u started following you.

"Oh bitch, he is definitely single." You and Noeul quickly skim his page before you shake your head and plop your phone down.

"Stop it! You never know."

"That man barely has posts!" Noeul picks up your phone again and plugs in the code. "Look! Pics of his surroundings. His daughter. Him and his friends. That's it!"

"You're impossible."

"You are! You just won't accept the fact that an extremely hot dilf could be coming your way and I don't know why!"

"Don't say that!" You quickly look around. "Can you keep it down?!"

"I oughta smack you upside the head for that!"

"Go away, don't you have another meeting in like, 10 minutes?" Noeul looks at her phone and it's her turn to be surprised.

"Oh shit, more like 5 now. I gotta go and hop on this call." Noeul begins to rush away, but she turns back towards you again. "You better follow him back, Y/N!"

"I am! Go!" You wave her off and she turns halfway to finally head back down to her office— barely making it in 5. You look at your phone once more before giving it a few minutes, letting the notification settle before deciding enough time has passed since Yunho followed you.

You didn't wanna be too quick, right?

But, when the notification comes back on Yunho's phone saying that you've followed him back, he can't help but smile. The notification puts him in a good mood, enough for him to figure out his next plan on how to get to know you better.

He'll settle for a simple like on your latest photo. Maybe, the next one, too.

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nujins · 10 days ago

Text

[ 𓆩♡𓆪 ] for you... maybe — prologue: the first clash!

[ SYNOPSIS ] ━━ you and woonhak are in different friend groups, different classes, different social bubbles, but always find yourselves in the same place: the student council’s shared committee space. why? because the two of you and your friends somehow all, coincidentally, represent the student body despite all their hidden crazy. woonhak? doesn’t really care. you? cares a bit too much. disaster? abso-fucking-lutely. well your respective friends are very much over it. yeah, they all see what’s going on. all the bickering, the accidental eye contact, the weird tension when you’re both stuck doing posters together at 10pm. so they form an unofficial matchmaking pact. but because both sides can’t really rein in their chaos for shit, the plans are anything but smooth.

[ WARNING ] ━━ swearing/vulgar language, technical/graphic design talk, unedited time stamps (for the tweets), arguing

masterlist | previous | next

You weren’t the type of person to hate things.

Annoyed? Of course. Irritated? Occasionally. Mildly inconvenienced? Constantly—but that was just the fine print of everyday life, wasn’t it? Hate, though? That always felt like too strong a word. Too heavy, too melodramatic. You’d never been that kind of person. You were the kind of kid who shrugged when the vending machine ate your change, who calmly accepted it when the teacher forgot to call on you even though your hand had been raised for three minutes straight. You didn’t rage. You didn’t brood. You just… moved on.

Take-out place forgot your sauce? That’s fine. Someone else gets the credit for your idea in a group project? Annoying, but whatever. Your life wasn’t defined by petty grudges or disproportionate reactions.

You were the kind of person who was genuinely okay getting vanilla when they ran out of chocolate. Who didn’t throw a fit over middle seats, squished sandwiches, or bad group photos where you were blinking. You just adjusted, adapted. Made peace with it. A full phone battery, warm socks, and a smooth-writing pen could salvage even the worst day.

Your standards weren’t low—they were just realistic. And maybe a little flexible. When your friends got loud and chaotic and dramatically feral (as they often did), you didn’t bite back. You’d give them a pointed look, roll your eyes, maybe lob a dry remark in their direction if you were feeling spicy. Then it was over.

Eunchae’s constant fish jokes about Kim Dong-hyun from Class 2-3? Unoriginal, but harmless. Yuna’s endless nitpicking over your sentence casing? Pedantic, but fine. Jimin’s smug little I told you so smirks whenever she was right (which, unfortunately, was often)? You dealt with it. Anton being… Anton? Yeah, that one you’d accepted as a cosmic mystery long ago.

You liked to think of yourself as easygoing. You had strong opinions, sure, but they stayed contained. You’d argue them when necessary, then fold them neatly away again like a shirt in a drawer. You didn’t start fights. You didn’t hold grudges. You didn’t make enemies.

It wasn’t a philosophy you planned on changing any time soon.

But then again, you hadn’t really met Kim Woonhak yet, had you?

On the other hand, on the opposite side of the school—philosophically, spatially, and in nearly every single way that mattered—Kim Woonhak preferred the unexpected, and hated feeling mundane.

He didn't just want to stand out. He needed to.

Fitting in felt like a punishment. Silence? Torture. Agreement? Boring. If certain people thrived on clean lines and quiet logic (which sounds a lot like you, but he doesn't really know that, not yet), Woonhak thrived on the glitch in the system. The hiccup. The spark that sent everything sideways just long enough for something interesting to happen.

Some people found it charming. Others found it exhausting. He, however, found that incredibly delectable.

He walked into every room like a song stuck in someone's head—loud, catchy, and could be mildly irritating if they weren’t in the mood. There was always a rhythm to him, a way he spoke that made you feel like he was half-joking, even when he wasn’t. He never said “hello” like a normal person, after all. It was always a dramatic entrance, a finger-gun, a spin in his chair, a deliberately too-loud sigh, or perhaps even a full-blown tantrum on the literal floor when he loses a game with his friends.

But it wasn’t just for show. Woonhak genuinely believed things should be fun, a little risky, maybe even a little chaotic. That’s probably why he agreed to run for student council. Or, at least, let Leehan (or Kim Dong-hyun to everyone else in this school) rope him into running for positions that would let the Canva-addicted boy put his graphic design experience to good use. It wasn't for the prestige or the college apps. Heck, not even because he cared that much about the school’s broken vending machine or outdated club funding policies.

Kim Woonhak, in all his "bold-lettered, all-caps type of vibe" glory, just liked a stage.

And the idea of going the meetings? To the debates? Just thinking about the way he would make people bristle and squirm when he eventually pokes at their carefully built arguments? He lived for it.

So when he remembers the reason why he can't stop bouncing on the soles of his feet, snapping his fingers to relieve the tension, all morning—Riwoo (a.k.a. Lee Sang-hyuk) dismissed him and said it was probably just his stimming, but he begged to differ—Woonhak grinned like he’d just been handed a mic and been told to freestyle.

Game on, he thought, slapping his phone on his hand with a thrilled grin.

He hadn't met everyone yet. Didn’t matter. He’d find the straight-laced one, the one who thought rules were sacred and compromise was noble. The one who couldn’t stand being wrong. The one who mistook calm for control.

He'd find them. He always did.

So that’s probably what jumpstarted this whole shenanigans in the first place. What with just ten minutes into the first student council meeting of the year, someone’s already arguing about fonts.

Not budgets. Not school-wide policy. Jesus, not even the embezzling rumors from last year’s prom.

The first argument of this ill-starred school year for the student council, was about goddamn fonts.

“Comic Sans is a literal war crime,” you say flatly, arms crossed, a soft pink highlighter in your hand. You held it tight in a vice grip, like a weapon, or at least trying to not repurpose it as one. Your voice is calm, but everyone at the table can feel the temperature drop a degree at every word. “This is a formal announcement. For a formal event. Why would we want it to look like a kindergarten flyer?”

Across the table, a stranger who spelled "chaos"—to you, at least, with his creased jacket, loose tie, chewing on a straw for his iced coffee like he’s halfway through a music video—blinks. Once. Then again, slower.

“It’s legible. And fun,” he shrugged. “Not everyone wants to read a funeral pamphlet, Your Highness.”

Gasps. Scoffs. A choked laugh from Eunchae. Someone drops a pen (you're pretty sure it was Anton). And just like that, Kim Woonhak makes his entrance.

Your eyes narrow. You don’t recognize him. He must be one of the new reps. You internally scramble for his name, but the irritation crowds out logic. Glancing down, right at his name tag, you zero in onto the neat print.

Kim Woonhak. Huh. You've heard of the name before—on the ballot, on the whispers that trailed through orientation week. Something about him being the wildcard pick, the kind of guy who ran for council because, quote, he was bored and liked arguing. You didn’t really expect him to be this… infuriating in person. Or this confident.

Either way, all you knew was that he’s wrong. Loudly, confidently wrong.

He leans back in his chair like he owns the room. Like he chose to be annoying today.

You don’t speak right away. You just stare right at him, unyielding to his sly smirk, expression neutral, but you could feel it. You may not be able to name it for now, but the others were quick to notice how the air crackles with something unmistakable: deep, instant resentment.

Jimin, the student council president, doesn’t even glance up from her tablet. “If one of you commits murder before homecoming, I’m not filling out the forms.”

Eunchae looks like she might spontaneously combust.

The treasurer’s eyes dart nervously between you and the co-design chair, like she’s watching two ticking time bombs edge closer to each other. She sends a silent SOS across the table to Yuna, who meets her gaze, raises her smoothie in a mock toast, and mouths oh my god before taking a dramatic sip like it’s the juiciest drama she’s seen all week. That says a lot already, as the red-haired secretary has always made a point to know everything about everyone in your school.

To your right, Jungwon shifts slightly—barely—but it’s enough. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he flicks a glance from the smug expression on Woonhak's face to your ever-stiffening posture. A single brow rises. Not a word, but the message lands loud and clear: this is bad.

Anton exhales through his nose like he was an exhausted professor grading failing essays. His pen scratches against paper, and whatever he’s writing carries the weight of someone deeply questioning their life choices. Possibly: transfer schools?

Meanwhile, across the table, the energy couldn’t be more different.

“Ten minutes,” Jaehyun mutters with a lopsided grin, pulling a water bottle from his bag and nudging it across the table like a peace offering—or a warning—to Sungho.

The vice president takes it wordlessly and unscrews the cap of the water bottle, downing half of it in one go. His hand trembles slightly. Jaehyun hands him another for backup.

Taesan (or to the rest of the student body, Han Dong-min) leans so far back in his chair it creaks ominously, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold like it’s a courtroom drama and he already knows who’s guilty. Riwoo leans in to whisper something under his breath—whatever it is, it makes Leehan snort before quickly covering it with a cough and a fake adjustment of his collar.

This isn’t a meeting anymore. It was a show. And the kicker? No one really gave them a program. No one warned them that Kim Woonhak’s favorite pastime is poking at anything tightly wound, and no one bothered to mention that you might just snap back like a mousetrap dipped in glitter and everything nice.

The tension in the room stretches—taut and waiting—then, complete stillness. Just half a second of silence too long, the kind that hangs in the air like a held breath. Thick. Brittle. Charged.

You break it first.

“Do you have a design degree I should know about?” you ask again, coolly.

“No, but I have eyes,” Woonhak replies, gesturing broadly to the poster mock-up presented on the TV screen at the front of the room like it's obvious. “It’s readable. That’s what matters. No one cares about your weird vendetta against fonts.”

“It’s not a vendetta,” you say incredulously, like the insinuation was comparable to a personal transgression. “It’s basic visual standards. And I’m not going to let the first event of the year look like a group of six-year-olds made it in Paint.”

“You’d be lucky if six-year-olds came,” he fires back. “People are already bored to death of the council. Let it be fun for once.”

“I’d rather it be respected.”

“Well, it’s not,” he says with a shrug. “Might as well lean in.”

Your jaw tightens. You don't yell. You never yell. It's something that was as unnatural for you as aliens actually existing out in the outer space. Instead, you just look at him like you're filing a complaint with the universe. And in your head, the decision is already made.

You hate him.

Not disliked. Not “he’s annoying.” Not “he’s loud.” No—hate. Pure, clean, and abso-fucking-lute. The kind that settles into your spine and announces itself like a new tenant. This... this asshat, whoever he is, has just made your list. Not to mention, he's actually been awarded the rare honor of being the first one on it!

And Woonhak? He doesn’t think about you that intensely. Not yet, he thinks. You were uptight, sure. Probably a little high-strung. The kind of person who probably color-codes your sock drawer and speaks in bullet points (the latter, you actually don't do, the former... eh, depends on the mood). He doesn’t hate you. He just finds you deeply irritating. Like a glitch in his otherwise good mood.

Still, something about your reaction sticks. Something about the way you looked at him like he was beneath you. Like he was wasting oxygen. He bristles. He didn't like that. Not at all.

So, suddenly, it clicks. It’s not about the font anymore.

Jaehyun sighs as the argument loops into a second round—this time about layout spacing.

“This is gonna be a long year.”

[ A. NOTE ] ━━ okay OOPS i couldn't help myself, i added some tweets. ik i did keep saying that the prologue was going to be written, and i stuck to my word mostly considering how freaking long this is lmfaooo but yeah, i wanted to show their the friend groups' online dynamic. what do you guys think? let me know what you verdict is on this. i think y/n and woonhak are so adorable even while arguing. married couple vibes, anyone? no? okay. anyway, stay tuned for chapter 1!

[ TAGLIST ] ━━ (open) @s0shroe @kazukazukiiii @beomev @sfnctzen @tempewra @aeminju @wondoras @mensisim @person-line @g3laatin @jungwonbropls @tkooooop @w3willris3 @woonbabie @prodkwh

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dragon-kazansky · 8 months ago

Text

The song in our hearts

Lestat De Lioncourt x Female Reader

A musician with a heart that sings and an admirer who wishes to see his songbird thrive. Two beings in different worlds get caught up in each other when someone threatens to steal his songbird's spotlight. Loving Lestat isn't simple, and your life will never be the same again. What is eternity without chaos?

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Nine - One last dinner

“You've been avoiding me.”

It's been three days. You had taken it upon yourself to avoid Lestat. Even when he called out to you in your head, you ignored him. No matter how much you wanted to see his pretty face.

“Yes.”

You're not even going to pretend you were busy or anything. Lestat would know you were lying. He knew everything there was to know about you these days.

Lestat takes a seat on the bench beside you. He had been watching you from the shadows for the last ten minutes, but enough was enough. He needed to talk to you, to see you properly.

“Have I upset you?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

You look at him. Those beautiful blue eyes of his had your heart rate increasing. The twitch of his lips indicated he knew the effect he had on you.

“The police are looking for the man I saw you kill. They keep asking questions to everyone around me. Eleanor is still in town, refusing to leave until she gets answers, and I don't know what to do. It's eating away at me that I know the answers, but obviously can't tell anyone. Lestat, I'm going crazy over here.”

The vampire leans in close to you and caresses your cheek gently with his finger. His gaze does not once look away from your face as he admires you. “You're worried they will suspect you.”

“Not really. They have nothing to prove I even saw him after the show.”

He hums in thought. “I'm not worried.”

“Of course you're not. Nothing seems to bother you.”

“You ignoring me bothers me,” he confesses.

You find yourself gently leaning into his touch. Lestat smiles and dares to put his arm around you. He pulls you in close.

“I'm sorry for ignoring you. I've just had a lot on my mind.”

“I know.” He moves his hand to your hair and begins to brush through the strands with his long fingers. “I have been unable to shake you from my own mind.”

You turn your head slightly and look up at him. “In what way?”

“All the things I would have done the other night, had you not left me to care for your friend.”

“I couldn't leave her…”

“Doesn't mean I was happy to see you leave. I had you in my arms.” His lips brush against your ear. His voice makes you shiver.

“Lestat…”

“I want you to be mine. Do you understand that?” His voice is so smooth. So deep. So alluring. “All. Mine.”

“What… does that mean?”

“Join me in the shadows, mon amour.” He uses his other hand to tilt your chin up. You can't help looking at his lips.

“What…?” You whisper.

“Let me turn you.” The grin on his lips is dangerous. The fact that he's even asking permission makes you wonder what he's really thinking. Lestat comes across as someone who wouldn't usually ask.

“You mean… to make me like you?”

He grins. “Yes. You and me… forever.”

That familiar shiver runs down your spine. The one only Lestat can make you feel. Yet, how can you willingly say yes to that?

“You want me to die for you?”

“That's one way to put it.”

There's a darkness in him that concerns you, but at the same time it pulls you in. He is something dangerous, different. He's exciting and terrifying all at the same time.

“You're thinking too much.”

“No. I'm thinking the right amount,” you tell him. “You can't just ask me to die for you. Lestat, there's too much to consider.”

“Stop thinking for once. Make a choice.”

His gaze is stern, slightly pleading, but also daring. He was making you feel all kinds of things at once. It was suffocating.

“Give me time to think.”

Lestat pulled a face. He didn't like waiting. As far as he was concerned this was something you didn't need to think about. Lestat wanted you by his side. He didn't want to ever let you go. There was no one here to stop him from getting what he wanted. He had chosen you. His heart had chosen you.

“Don't think about it for too long.”

You could see his patience already wearing thin. “24 hours.”

“Fine. You better have an answer for me by then.”

Lestat rises from the bench and leaves without further word. He disappears into the shadows. You sigh heavily as you let the conversation weigh on your mind.

You had 24 hours to decide if you wanted to die for him. No pressure.

By the time the sun rose you had received a total of 4 hours sleep, on and off. Lestat had been heavily on your mind all night, his words on repeat like a broken record.

‘I want you to be mine.’

‘Join me in the shadows.’

‘Let me turn you.’

To be a vampire wasn't just giving up your life to spend eternity in the dark, bit to also feed upon those still living. To give your soul for immortality. Lestat would be your master. Your lover. Your everything.

Yet, that knowledge didn't make your choice any easier. He was asking you to sacrifice everything that you were to be by his side.

Everything.

There was still Noah’s case to consider too. The police were still looking for answers. They had nothing to trace him to you or Lestat.

Eleanor wasn't going to leave until she got answers about her brother.

You could feel the guilt eating up at you.

If you had just spoken to Noah about his proposition, maybe he would then have understood what your music meant to you and would have left it. Maybe you would have even brought yourself to let him sing for you just once.

Maybe then Lestat wouldn't have felt the need to kill him.

Too many what ifs.

As you enter the theater you spot Eleanor with Jack and Amelie. They were all talking in the lobby. Jack spots you first and smiles at you. Both women then turn around to smile at you too.

“You look all bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“Ha. Ha.” You walk over to them. “What's happening here?”

“Eleanor has graciously invited us to dinner tonight. It would seem the little lady is in need of good company,” Jack says with a smile.

“You're invited too, of course,” Eleanor says politely.

“Oh, um….”

“Please come. I do so want to know about you.”

You can just imagine the look on Lestat's face when you tell him you can't give him an answer tonight because you have to go to dinner.

“Alright…”

Perhaps it will delay the inevitable.

“Splendid. Jack can fill you in on the details. I'll see you all later!” Eleanor waves goodbye as she leaves.

Amelie smiles as she comes up to you. “Nice girl. I hope she gets some answers soon though. She must be missing home terribly by now.”

“Yeah…”

Jack pats you on the shoulder. “Now, I have some wonderful news to share.” You look at him curiously. “I've been talking the tailor in town. With everything that's going on, I think it's time for a new look, don't you? She has some gowns that would make you shine when you play on Fridays. How does that sound?”

“What's wrong with the dresses I have?”

“Nothing, of course. I just think what we need is a new look. A refresh, if you will.” He smiles kindly.

“Alright.”

“Wonderful. I shall let her know to send the dresses over.” He grins happily. Jack will do anything je can to try and make things work around here.

As the sun begins to set you leave your house and make your way down the street. You're on your way to the restaurant Eleanor has chosen for you all. Jack had offered to come fetch you, but you declined, telling him you needed some time to yourself.

You were only hours away before the 24 hour time period was up. You needed to decide what you were going to do. We're you really willing to give up your life for a man you knew so little about?

It was like a spell when you were with him. His handsome face, his charming voice. He knew he had this power over you, and ne was using that to his advantage.

God, he drove you crazy.

A good crazy. A crazy you were almosted addicted to. You missed his face when he wasn't near. You missed his voice when too much time passed since you heard it last. You missed how it felt to be wrapped up in his arms as he kissed you senseless.

You were far more than in love with him.

“Where are you off to? My house is the other way.”

You stop and turn quickly to see the man of the hour looking at you with those piercing blue eyes. He was leaning up against a post, a hat on his head and a sharp suit leaving little to the imagination.

“Lestat.”

“You owe me an answer.” He stalks toward you.

“It will have to wait. Something has come up,” you tell him. Lestat stops right beside you, peering down at you with a sharp expression. He was tired of waiting.

“Convenient.”

“It was very sudden. Dinner plans.”

“A date?”

“What? No. Dinner with Eleanor. Jack and Amelie are going to be there, too.” You explain to him quickly.

“Is that so.” He hums in thought. “Well, I will not let you get out of this.” He grabs your hand and loops it with his arm. “I am your plus one.”

You look at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“I'm not letting you escape me.”

You can feel your heart racing. Lestat can hear it. He has a wolfish grin on his face. “Don't look so fearful. I shall have my answer tonight, Chéri.”

Lestat walks with you arm in arm to the restaurant. You both head inside and you give Eleanor's name to the host. He guides you over to the table where everyone else is waiting. You were the last to arrive.

Jack looks a little surprised to see you with Lestat. Amelie doesn't. Eleanor looks at him cautiously. She doesn't know this man and you hadn't mentioned him. After all, you hadn't intended on him coming along.

“Hello.” You greet the table.

Lestat pulls out your chair for you and you sit down. He sits down right beside you, grabbing a chair from the table behind him and aotting as close as possible to you. His arm rests around the back of you. He removes his hat and smiles at the others. He's playing along.

“I don't believe we've met,” Eleanor says, eying him.

“Non. We haven't.” Lestat grins. “Lestat De Lioncourt.”

Eleanor just stares at him suspiciously. You swallow nervously. Does she know? She couldn't possibly.

The waiter comes over. You feel nervous as you look at Lestat. He doesn't look bothered. Can he even eat food? He'll have to order something as to not seem even more suspicious.

As the waiter nears the table Lestat leans in close to your ear. “Order whatever you desire. This may very well be your last meal.”

His words sent your nerves alight. You knew he would expect an answer from you tonight.

One by one the table orders. You choose a meal you know you enjoy every time you have it, but the idea that it may be the last time has your tummy turning.

Then the waiter looks at Lestat. The vampire smiles and orders the same as you. You try not to look at him.

The waiter leaves.

“Well, this is nice,” Jack comments with a smile.

“Very. I walk past here all the time, never come in,” Amelie says happily.

“Me either,” you say softly.

Lestat gently reaches out to caress your shoulder with him finger. You feel your skin tingle under your clothes.

“What do you do, Lestat?” Eleanor asks, eying him again.

“I spend my days admiring the arts,” he replies with a grin.

Very funny.

“Is that so? You like music?” She asks.

“Very much.”

“So you're an admirer of this pianist then?” She gestures to you.

“Much more so.”

“Oh?”

“He's her sponsor. As long as she keeps playing at the theater, we receives donations from him,” Jack admits proudly.

“Did my brother not have a sponsor?”

“No one else at the theater does,” Amelie replies.

“How curious,” Eleanor says, deep in thought.

You feel a chill run down your back. It feels like an interrogation almost. Eleanor was coming off as suspicious and it was making you feel sick. You may have lost your appetite.

“I only sponsor the most talented of souls,” Lestat grins.

“My brother was talented.”

You can feel Lestat grow tense. “Matter of opinion, I suppose,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You glance around the table and see Amelie and Jack exchanging glances. Amelie sips her wine awkwardly, trying not to make eye contact with Lestat or Eleanor.

Luckily your food comes out in perfect time to put an end to the conversation. Everyone tucks in and drinks are topped up, though Lestat holds his hand over his glass to stop his from being poured.

Not much conversation takes place during the meal. Other than a few compliments about the food and artwork on the walls. Even Lestat had nice things to say about the art.

You savour your food. Despite how nice the evening is, the looming dread of what's yet to come lingers on your mind.

Lestat, one hand still over the back of your chair, picks at his food. He's eating it, but does not comment on the taste. You watch with mild interest. Though, the thought of not being able to taste the food makes you feel rather sad. He has no idea how lovely this meal is.

When dinner is done, conversion continues. Dessert is ordered. Lestat encourages you to have something sweet. He does not order for himself. You and Amelie order the same dessert and talk about how nice it is.

Lestat plays with your hair a little as he watches you eat.

“This has been lovely,” Jack says with a smile. “Thank you for this.”

“No, thank you for joining me,” Eleanor smiles back.

“We should come here again,” Amelie comments, looking at you. All you can manage is a smile in her direction, and you hope she doesn't notice it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

Eleanor pays for everyone and you all head outside. Jack offers Amelie a ride home, she accepts. You stand beside Lestat as you wave to them and watch them go.

Eleanor turns to you. “I'm glad you came.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“It was my pleasure, though…” She leans in a little closer, “your gentleman friend is a little strange.”

“He's mostly harmless.”

“Mostly?”

“Chéri?” Lestat calls.

“I have to go, Eleanor. Thank you for tonight.” You take Lestat's arm again. Eleanor says nothing as you leave with him. You can feel her eyes on your back.

Lestat has a determined look on his face. There was no escaping him now.

@awanderingghost @theprettiesthead @cosmixstar @theblueslytherin @katherine2098 @sawendel @floofdeloop @sitkafay @bigbaddie45 @bluscryn

@secretisme4 @darkqueen1995 @bridkesby @caribbeangal @sarcasticandfangirl @missjadesfics @kaybart19 @whereismymindnow @chauchirem @angelrenee239 @ppureheroiine

#the song in our hearts #lestat de lioncourt x reader #lestat de lioncourt #interview with the vampire #iwtv #dragon's lair

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mama-qwerty · 5 months ago

Text

Sonic 3 - Knuckles

Okay, so I’ve been wanting to do some deep dives into the different characters of Sonic 3, addressing their motivations, reactions, and mindsets throughout the film.

And first, to absolutely no one’s surprise, is Knuckles.

Buckle up, kidlets. This’ll get LOOOOONG.

Sonic 3 spoilers ahead

At the beginning of the film, we see Knuckles being competitive, but not aggressively so. From the first few minutes we see him, we notice he’s not leaning hard into his warrior role. He’s not taking every competition as some serious challenge to his status, and overall seems much more relaxed than we’d seen him up to this point.

The events of the series helped to temper him, to show him that it’s okay to have fun, it’s okay to unclench sometimes, and it’s okay to be the kid he is. He’s part of a new family, a new tribe, and he’s thriving in it.

Yet when the opportunity arises to go into battle once more, he’s ready to do so. He’s eager for a challenge, and Shadow gave him more of a fight than he was expecting. He got his tail handed to him, and although he was likely injured to some degree, his pride was what really took the pounding.

But he shook it off.

Shadow kicked all three of their butts, easily, and instead of getting angry and losing himself to that rage, he followed Sonic’s lead to pull back so they could regroup and get some more information.

The Knuckles of Sonic 2 would not have done that. That Knuckles attacked Sonic without warning, without getting all the facts, without allowing his opponent to properly fight back. Picked himself back up after getting run over by a speeding car and gave chase. Attacked the car, holding on even when it flew over the edge of a cliff. Threw himself off a plane so he could attack a giant robot, without contemplating or coordinating any other plans or angles of attack first.

That Knuckles would have seethed after Shadow’s victory, angry that he’d been bested, and eager for a rematch as soon as possible.

But he didn’t. He listened to Sonic.

At the Chao Garden we see him having a little fun at Tails’ expense. They’d just engaged in a battle with a stronger, unknown foe, and lost, but he’s relaxed enough to engage playfully with his brothers, and take in the atmosphere of the restaurant.

Ya know what that showed? It showed that Knuckles had accepted Sonic and Tails as his allies, people he could trust and look to for alternate strategies in any challenge. Were he on his own, he would have hunted Shadow down endlessly, much like he did with the Master Emerald, to restore his perceived lost honor.

But he’s not on his own anymore. He looks to Sonic and Tails for their thoughts on a situation, and trusts them when it seems his own brand of dealing with something is ineffective.

Once they follow Stone and realize his identity, Knuckles doesn’t immediately engage in battle over the events of the last movie. Even when they go aboard the crab bot and see Robotnik, Knuckles still doesn’t immediately attack. He doesn’t threaten the man, or exhibit any anger toward him over the way Robotnik double crossed him, stole the ME right out from under him, and left him for dead.

When Tails admits that working with Robotnik is the only way to find who’s behind releasing Shadow, Knuckles agrees. He trusts his youngest brother’s ideas, as he knows the fox is more clever and able to see a bigger picture than he is. If Tails says this is a good idea, especially if it involves technology and finding a foe that seems otherwise untrackable, then Knuckles will agree.

Surprising no one, Robotnik double crossed them, and they only managed to escape thanks to Knux’s quick thinking and strong bite reflex.

Back home, he happily let Tails take the lead once more, concocting a plan to get into GUN HQ and retrieve the second key to prevent the use of the Eclipse Cannon.

Knuckles is a great warrior. He kept himself alive for the ten-ish years he traveled the galaxy, searching for Sonic and clues to the Master Emerald. He can face down nearly any foe. But his strength is a full frontal assault, not so much stealth and espionage. He himself knows this, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

It may have simply seemed like an easy few jokes regarding his desire to “break the glass”, but this is a dangerous mission, and he doesn’t like to feel like he’s simply sitting on his hands, waiting for his turn in battle. He knows Tails’ plan is a good one. He knows going in fists first isn’t going to get them anywhere. But it still bothers him that he is told to simply “wait until we need you.”

But he was there when they did. He acted the moment he was called into action. Everything he did was to further the plan, to keep his tribe safe. And to him, crushing the floor pad controller should have stopped the machine from functioning. When he’d accidentally crushed the toaster at home, it stopped working. Same with Sonic’s cell phone. And Maddie’s. And the VR headset that he totally didn’t freak out over.

Electronics are delicate, and if they are broken, then the thing they are designed to do will stop, too.

But it didn’t work that way, and instead he was lifted into the air, unable to help. His tribe was trapped, and the building he’d destroyed on the way in was threatening them. And he couldn’t help them.

And everything just went downhill from there.

Tom was hurt, and Maddie was . . . oddly quiet.

Knuckles was used to danger. To people getting hurt. He’d lost his tribe and his father all those years ago, so he wasn’t a stranger to feeling that fear or pain.

He himself had been on the receiving end of Shadow’s blows, and knew how painful it could be. But whereas he and his brothers could mostly shrug off those kinds of hits, push through those injuries within minutes, humans didn’t seem as resilient. Weren’t as ‘sturdy’ as they were. And there was a real possibility that Tom could die from such a blow.

A sobering idea.

The head of their tribe was gravely injured, and that meant Knuckles was the eldest warrior in charge. His whole demeanor changed the minute the ambulance pulled away. Gone was the more kid-like echidna, who let his brothers take the lead. He was now the eldest, the one who needed to look after the others.

Sonic was understandably angry, but when Tails tried to soothe him, the hedgehog turned his anger on the fox. Knuckles stepped between them, keeping Tails safely behind him as he focused Sonic’s anger on himself. He stayed calm and level-headed, trying to talk Sonic down. At the mention of using the Master Emerald, Knuckles still remained calm. He understood Sonic’s anger, his pain, but he knew from experience that did not make for good decisions.

And when Sonic insisted, when he threatened to fight Knuckles for it, Knuckles almost took the bait. He geared up, ready for battle, before backing down. Fighting would solve nothing. It wouldn’t take Sonic’s pain away. It wouldn’t diffuse his anger. It would only waste precious moments, and allow the Robotniks to continue with their plan to harm the planet unopposed.

Ultimately, Knuckles knew the only way to stop this weapon was for Sonic to go Super. And the only way for Sonic to go Super, was to use the Master Emerald.

And maybe, in that moment, Knuckles was hit with a sense of deja vu. It wasn’t that long ago that he himself had been so blinded by revenge he’d allowed an enemy to escape with a dangerous weapon. Had he not fought Sonic so hard, had he not been so focused on destroying the hedgehog, would he have recognized Robotnik’s plan to steal the Master Emerald for himself? Could he have stopped Robotnik before he got that close to the Emerald in the first place?

Yes. Yes he would have. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with his anger toward Sonic—because of his association with Longclaw, and by extension the other owls—if he hadn’t been so enraged because his entire tribe had fallen that day, all those years ago, then he would have noticed Robotnik going for the Emerald. And everything that had happened after wouldn’t have.

And maybe it was that thought, that experience, that made him back off. He knew the anger inside Sonic. But he also knew Sonic’s heart, and it was that knowledge, that hope that Sonic was not so far gone, that the warrior’s heart that beat within the hedgehog’s chest would keep him from going too far.

And that was what made Knuckles let Sonic go. He didn’t approve of Sonic getting the ME while he was in that state, but they had precious little time to talk it over.

And he’d been right.

He wouldn’t quite know what happened between Sonic and Shadow, but seeing them work together to take on the Eclipse Cannon confirmed he’d made the right decision.

And when the effects of the Master Emerald wore off, and Sonic plunged toward the Earth, he trusted Tails’ idea to go after him. Sonic was falling too fast for both of them to leap out and catch up, but with that extra throw from Knuckles, Tails could reach him.

It was only a few moments later that Knuckles leapt from the failing ARK. He watched Tails grab onto Sonic, clinging to him as they plummeted, but then the fox went as limp as the hedgehog. The force of reentry had knocked him unconscious and now they both ragdolled in a freefall.

Knuckles fists were large enough to protect him as he entered the atmosphere, and he kept his eyes locked on the glint of gold as the portal ring slipped from Tails’ hand. His more streamlined form meant he descended faster, his experience with gliding aiding him as his tail acted as a rudder to maneuver the wind sheer to reach them.

Ring caught and thrown, and brothers safely tucked beneath each arm and held close to his body. The change between the atmospheres as they fell through the ring hit him like a punch to the chest, and he barely had enough time to spin them around so he took the brunt of the impact when they landed, before they hit the ground hard.

He had only one thought in his mind. PROTECT.

And when they awoke, and found that they’d been successful, he could go back to being pissed at Sonic for challenging him. Because even though everything had worked out, he didn’t like being put in the position Sonic had put him in. But when Sonic apologized, Knuckles believed he’d seen the severity of his actions. And his heart had stayed pure.

This movie proved that Knuckles is the bestest big brother, and will step up whenever necessary to ensure the safety of his tribe. That even though he’d lightened up, he will still kick ass, and take his role as protector very seriously.

I loved the way they portrayed him. He was so perfect.

~~~

Check out my other Sonic 3 analysis posts

#sonic 3 #sonic 3 spoilers #knuckles the echidna #sonic the hedgehog #tails the fox

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belit0 · 2 months ago

Note

Izuna babysitting Madara's granddaughter

How would that go?

I LOVE THIS OMFG IZUNA IS MY BABY BOY I LOVE MY IZUNA SO MUCH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA PLUS HE'S SUCH A BAD INFLUENCE BUT THE FUNNY UNCLE AT THE END OF THE DAY (let's call them uncle/nice just to make it easier, I always mess up with those things xd)

Babysitting gone wrong (or right, if you ask Izuna)

Madara crosses his arms, fixing Izuna with a stare so sharp it could cut stone. His granddaughter stands beside him, her small hands folded neatly in front of her, watching the exchange with wide, expectant eyes.

-Listen to me carefully, Izuna.- Madara’s voice is grave, as if entrusting him with the fate of the entire clan rather than a seven-year-old child. -No chaos. No dangerous activities. No setting anything on fire. No encouraging bad behavior. Just watch her until I return.-

Izuna leans back, tilting his head. -Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Got it.-

Madara narrows his eyes. -Repeat it.-

Izuna exhales dramatically. -No chaos. No fun. No good time whatsoever. No training in the art of war. No leading her down the righteous path of Uchiha rebellion. Basically, be a Senju for the day.- He grins. -I’d rather die, but okay.-

Madara pinches the bridge of his nose. -Just keep her alive.-

-Alive? That I can do.- Izuna shoots his niece a smirk. -But thriving? That’s a different story.-

Madara sighs. -I’ll be back before sundown. Don’t make me regret this.-

With one last suspicious glance, he leaves.

The second Madara disappears, his granddaughter tugs on Izuna’s sleeve, eyes gleaming with barely-contained excitement.

-Uncle, I want to do something fun.

Izuna crouches down to her level, considering. -Kay... we can burn a tree if you want?-

Her face lights up. -Yes!-

Izuna grins. -That’s my girl.-

And thus, chaos begins:

Wrestling a particularly aggressive rooster in a neighbor’s yard

It started as an innocent challenge.

-Do you think you could take on that rooster?- Izuna had asked.

-I know I can,- his niece had replied, rolling up her sleeves.

The rooster won. (Temporarily. Until Izuna intervened. Now the rooster has a newfound fear of Uchihas.)

Throwing shuriken at apples balanced on each other’s heads

-Precision is an important skill,- Izuna reasoned, carefully placing an apple on his niece’s head.

-Are you sure about this uncle?- she asked, already lifting a shuriken.

-Absolutely.

-Okay, but if I hit you instead of the apple, don’t be mad.

-I would be proud.- (She missed three times, but that’s beside the point.)

Dueling with real swords (but, like, carefully)

-Uncle, Grandpa said I'm too young to handle a sword.

-That’s because Grandpa Madara is boring.

-Are you sure I won’t cut myself?

-Of course not!- (He was not sure at all.)

Miraculously, neither of them got seriously injured—though Izuna now has a suspiciously long cut on his sleeve that he will absolutely lie about later.

Trying to summon a toad with a stolen summoning scroll

-Wait, uncle, this isn’t yours?

-Semantics.

-Is this allowed?

-We’ll find out.- (They found out. It was not allowed. The toad was also way bigger than expected.)

Challenging a merchant to a spicy food contest and almost passing out

It started when Izuna spotted a vendor boasting about his "hottest dumplings in the land."

-That’s a challenge,- Izuna muttered, dragging his niece over.

-Uncle, I don’t think this is a good idea.

-Your lack of faith disappoints me.

…Izuna immediately regretted his life choices. His niece fared slightly better but still had tears in her eyes. They both swore never to speak of this again.

Riding a makeshift sled down a dangerously steep hill

-This is a bad idea,- his niece whispered as they positioned themselves on a wooden plank.

-The best ideas usually are,- Izuna countered, pushing off.

It was all fun and games until they hit a bump and launched into the air, landing in a muddy pond.

-That was awesome!- she cheered.

-…Don’t tell Grandpa Madara,- Izuna wheezed from the ground.

Madara Regrets Everything

He returns early. Not because he trusts Izuna—precisely the opposite.

He knows his brother, knows that the longer he is left unsupervised, the higher the chance something catastrophic will happen.

By the time he is back, Izuna and his granddaughter are sitting in the yard, covered in mud, scratches, and suspiciously singed clothing.

A nearby tree is still smoldering.

Madara takes one long, slow inhale, rubbing his temples.

-What. Happened.

Izuna tilts his head. -That’s… a broad question Aniki.-

His granddaughter pipes up. -We fought a rooster, set a tree on fire, tried summoning a toad, and!—

-STOP.- Madara’s eye twitches. He turns to Izuna. -I trusted you with one thing. One.-

-And I kept her alive!- Izuna gestures to the small child, who is grinning. -Look at her! She had the time of her life!-

Madara’s granddaughter nods eagerly. -We did so many cool things, Grandpa!-

Madara exhales sharply, looking like he is seriously considering murder.

Izuna leans over to his niece. -Next time, we’ll find an even bigger tree.-

She gasps. -Really?-

-There won’t be a next time.- Madara’s voice is final.

Izuna smirks. -That’s what you think.-

#naruto shippuden #naruto #naruto imagines #uchiha clan #uchiha izuna #izuna #madara uchiha #uchiha madara #izuna uchiha #madara

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peachycheekz · 14 days ago

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Come What May Creator's Challenge #13

May 25th Mend/Mayhem a/n: craving something sweet. Also I wrote three different takes on the prompt words and they're all so vastly different, wow. I was all over the place today. WC: 1.4k

read on ao3 previous, next part 2

Soft to the touch

If Eustass Kid was great at one thing it was causing chaos.

Getting into fights and getting himself hurt were his specialties. And refusing treatment after his forte. And not listening to a word out of your mouth was his personal favourite hobby. He thrived off of making you worry, it seemed.

The latest fight against a marine brigade had left most of the crew on the Victoria Punk in pretty bad shape, the captain included. Not to mention the ship itself. Poor girl.

Most of them were glad they had you to take care of them. That you stuck around even though you didn't have to. Well, everyone except for Kid actually. Somewhere between getting kidnapped from a marine ship and becoming the Kid pirates' unofficial doctor you had managed to gain the trust and friendship of the crew. And Kid was regretting ever thinking taking you along was a good idea.

Every time he saw you laughing about a stupid joke with Killer or having one of those absolutely ridiculous girls' days with Emma and Quincy he damned the moment he'd thought kidnapping you was a great idea. He couldn't even pinpoint the moment you turned from prisoner to friend. One day Wire had just refused to put you back into the glorified broom closet Kid had assigned your cell and the next day Emma had you sleeping in the girls' quarters and then you sat at dinner and every meal thereafter. He had missed the time frame in which he could've gotten rid of you. If he tried now, he was pretty sure his crew would lynch him.

You were infuriating. Annoyingly so. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

"Have you seen Kid?" you asked Heat after bandaging up the last of the injured. You'd only seen him briefly after the battle but from what you could glimpse he was hurt pretty badly. "Try the workshop," he responded. "He'd sooner weld himself together than let you take a look but good luck."

Kid's workshop down in the belly of the ship was a sacred space, one you'd learned the hard way was off limits. But your need to make sure he was okay forced you to take the steps. He may not be the nicest person towards you but he did tolerate you on his ship so the least you could do was take care of his crew and him. If he let you that was. He usually kept his distance from you. As if you were something possibly poisonous. Dangerous.

You knocked softly, he grunted in response. "Kid?"

"Fuck off." That was surprisingly civil for his standards. He must really be in pain.

Getting ready to get screamed at for entering his space, you slowly pushed open the door, wood creaking over the sound of his colourful swearing.

His shirt hung off of him in tatters, the once white fabric more similar in colour to his hair. The bleeding should've stopped by now, but there were still fresh rivulets dripping out of several wounds across his torso and side. He looked pale, sickly. Weakened.

Seastone bullets.

You were by his side before your brain caught up with the rest of your body.

"Sit down, you look like you're going to pass out."

"I said fuck off." He shoved your hands off, settled a levelling glare on you but you were used to his antics and weren't scared of his ill-tempered reactions anymore. He swayed, hand gripping the surface of his workbench so hard his knuckles turned white.

You pulled up a chair behind him. "And I said sit down."

Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was the seastone addling his senses but he huffed, irritated, and let himself sink down on the chair with a thud. Small wins.

You'd done this a thousand times before, back when you were still a nurse for the marine outpost you were taken from. Treat big men with bigger egos. But you were persistent and maybe a little stubborn and Kid was probably a little delirious.

"I can handle this myself. I don't need your help." He slurred his words, watching through half lidded eyes as you fished what you needed from your emergency kit. You definitely would have to restock after this day.

"Oh, quit the act, you big baby." He arched a brow, unused to such bite from you. Armed with forceps and a clean cloth you knelt by his side, ignoring his grumbled protest. It was halfhearted anyway.

He didn't flinch when you started digging around in his wounds, pulling out the seastone splinters that were giving him such trouble. With every piece removed he seemed to sit up a little straighter, seemed to gain a bit more colour. Seemed less close to passing out.

Kid watched you work with rapt fascination.

Your brows were furrowed in concentration, your hands steady. Unsurprisingly soft. Not that he had spared a thought to the state of your hands.

He couldn't quite grasp the reasoning behind your friendliness towards him, especially given the fact he wasn't exactly nice to you. Ever. Especially considering the fact he'd kidnapped you. You were the oddest thing he'd ever seen.

You moved to sit between his legs and Kid was glad he could attribute the hitch in his breath and the tensing of the muscles in his abs, his chest to the injuries he'd sustained. You pulled the last bit of the damned stone shards out of his body and he wanted to relax but you wouldn't stop touching him.

Skilled fingers found scratches he didn't even know were there, gashes he hadn't noticed until you disinfected them. And then you stood and cupped his face in your agonisingly smooth hands and he made the mistake of looking at you.

There were specks of a different colour around your pupils, he noticed offhandedly. He was close enough to see the faint freckles dusted across the bridge of your nose, your cheekbones. A faded scar, barely visible, adorned the ridge of your left eyebrow.

You had pulled your bottom lip between you teeth, absorbed in your work and the most absurd thought crossed his mind.

Heat spread to the tips of his ears and he averted his eyes, fixing them on something that wasn't you. You were too close, too gentle, too pretty and Kid wasn't able to form a coherent thought anymore.

"You really should be more careful. You're not indestructible, you know?" Your genuine worry took him by surprise. You stroked a thumb over his cheek soothingly before pulling away and taking a step back, out of his personal space. Kid fought tooth and nail not to lean into your touch, not to chase after your hand like some touch-starved stray dog.

"What do you care?" He grumbled embarrassed by his own body's reactions to your close proximity. He couldn't even muster up the nerve to be mad at you for whatever it was he usually was mad at you for.

"I care a great deal about my captain's health." Kid's heart skipped a beat in a way he couldn't chalk up to any of his injuries. You hadn't missed a beat calling him that. Hadn't hesitated. When did he become your captain?

Your smile was disarming. Distracting.

"I don't remember recruiting you."

"Then let me off at the next port."

"No," he said too fast, too panicked. Too honest. Your smile widened and whatever game he didn't know he was part of, he'd just lost. "You're of use to the crew." He quickly tried to cover his slip up with technicalities but you only hummed, packing your things together. Amusement tugged at your lips.

"I'd be a fool to let the only person with sufficient medical knowledge in this place go." He didn't manage to sound the way he wanted to. Cool, aloof, disinterested and you noticed. You turned his way again, hands on your hips.

"Then you better get used to my fussing if you can't keep yourself out of trouble, Captain." He liked the way your lips curled around the word far too much.

Hidden in the shadows of the hallway, Killer couldn't suppress a grin beneath his mask. Wire snorted a laugh. "How long do you give him?"

"Couple months tops. He's smitten."

"Try a couple weeks," Quincy chimed in, nodding to where Kid made space on his workbench so you could sit and catch a quick break from tending to wounds all day. He even managed a quiet 'thank you'.

"Seems about right."

Kid was a goner.

#come what may creators challenge #cwmcc2025 #one piece #one piece fanfiction #eustass kid x reader #eustass kid fanfic #fluff

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meteor752 · 2 months ago

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The Watchers, my take on the lore

I love me some characters, and I love me some lovecraftean entities, so this was honestly inevitable

Most watcher lore seem to kinda group the watchers together as one entity, with very little room for individuality for them, which I think is kinda boring, so you know I’m changing that for funsies. This is not gonna be based on Martyn’s lore fully, I’m gonna keep some elements and then just kinda run with it because why not you know lol. Also I’ve only watched a little of EVO, but it’s not really gonna be based much on what happened in that series anyways.

So Grian, or Xelqua or whatever, created the concept for the games when he first became a Watcher, but despite that he’s not the actual gamemaster. Every series has had a Watcher in control, who’s been looking over the games, made sure they ran smoothly, and also occasionally meddled. With the existence of eight games now, we’ve therefore met eight Watchers.

First we’ve got Ihcá, the gamemaster of Third Life. Ihcá is very by the books, to an almost scary degree. You give them a task, they will complete it exactly as you asked it to be completed, no funny business. It’s because of this that the rules of Third Life are the most simple, the initial pitch for the life series was just that, three lives, red life you get bloodthirsty, once you’re out you’re gone. Unlike the other Watchers, Ihcá did not spice this up to any degree, as they saw no need to. They are cold, distanced, and keep to themselves.

I also wanna go over the relationship every gamemaster has to their respective winner, which is an interesting case for Ihcá, since their winner is not only a fellow Watcher, but also someone who broke the rules of the game. Grian and Ihcá could not be more different, and they never really cared much for him, even after he ascended to Their ranks. What did matter to them however, was when he killed three people with a trap, even as he was a green. If it had been anyone else, Ihcá would have taken them out right then and there, but Grian does have immunity against their powers thanks to his status. They do resent him for ruining their game, but it’s not something they mull over. As I said, they’re quite detached.

Next we’ve got Quevik, the gamemaster for Last life. Unlike their predecessor, Quevik changed up a lot of the initial design of the games, all to make it worse and more brutal for the players. The difference in the amount of lives you start with to spark more jealousy, only one enchanter to encourage stealing, and of course, the boogeyman, a seed for deception and betrayal. Quevik is creative and adaptive, they saw what the players focused on in the first game, and went in hard on it. They thrive in chaos and unease, and especially likes to feed on loneliness, hence the rules that Red Names were to be shunned from their teams. To them, Last Life was perfect in every way, except for one.

This is to no one’s surprise, but Quevik absolutely detests Scott. Just like how Grian defied Ihcá’s rules, he had defied Quevik’s, and they were not happy. The betrayals that the boogeyman curse brought was to their absolute delight, their favourite players were easily BigB and Bdubs because of it, but here stood Scott, refusing to take the life of his teammates, and instead going down to red. Quevik heavily considered just killing him right then and there for his infringement, but since it was right before the final session, they allowed him to live, just for the possibility of him betraying his allies in the final battle. Not a day has gone by where they haven’t regret that decision, you can still sometimes Hear them grumbling about it.

Tae & Nha is the watcher for Double Life. Tae & Nha is an interesting case of being two entities, but still only being one individual. They function very strangely, often switching between which primary voice to use when speaking, especially when interacting with players. Watchers feed on all emotions, and one of their favourites is confusion. For Tae & Nha, the soulmate system was a very obvious choice. After all, they are two entities with one “soul”, so they just took from their own experiences when designing it, made it easier. Most of the soulmates pairs were made random, but they did customise some things, such as Martyn’s separation from Ren, and Grian and Scar being together. So simple, yet effective way to torture them both.

Just like the winners before her, Pearl broke the rules of the game by not sticking to her soulmate, even if it wasn’t by choice. But despite that, Tae & Nha love her. From the beginning, Tae & Nha knew that there would only be one winner, and that the despair that the final pair would feel when they found out they would have to fight and kill the person they had spent all season with would be delicious. But Pearl delivered that devastation and more in the very first session, and retained it throughout all the series. Scarlet Pearl was such a delight to them in fact, that they let her keep some of those feelings even after the series ended, and the next one began. They delight in their winner, and the suffering they let her keep.

For Limited Life we have Gemíín, one of the most powerful Watchers in the roster. Gemíín is also one of the most daring ones, taking the concept that was first laid out by Grian and changing it up a lot. They’re kinda the opposite to Ihcá, and the rest of the Watchers in general, always thinking outside of the box. They are however more short tempered than most of their kind, and more quick to jump to extremes, especially when it comes to punishments. Why do you think Grian was unconscious for an entire session, or Cleo and Pearl got possessed? It’s not a good idea to piss Gemíín off, they won’t kill you but they will get to you.

There is no place this is reflected better than with Martyn. The Listeners favourite, one of the biggest nuisances back on EVO, and just someone generally disrespectful. The previous three may have mainly let him be in favour of not interfering with the games, but Gemíín is more spiteful. Taking away his beloved king was the easy part, but it wasn’t enough for Gemíín. Throughout the entire game they were whispering, whispering words that they knew that he would Hear. Encouragements, lies, threats, just about anything. Two out of three victors lost their humanity to win their series, and Gemíín was aiming for a third. A goal which they achieved, as Martyn struck down his own ally, and backstabbed his way to the top.

The Secret Life gamemaster is Vdari, who’s almost on the same power level as Gemíín. Vdari did what no other Watcher had done before and involved themselves directly in the series with the role of “The Secret Keeper”. Going into Secret Life, Vdari had a very similar mindset as Quevik, in that they looked at the previous series to see what was the most effective, and doubled down hard on that. This being, deception, and resentment. The series is built around lies, around unstable alliances, around not being able to trust one another, and without regeneration, a simple punch, push, or even just a friendly nudge is huge, and grudges will be held. An unfortunate side effect of the series structure is that Vdari stretched themselves extremely thin, with needing to constantly keep track on every player at all time, to see if they failed their task or not. Because of this, they tended to pay less attention to the players who’d already finished their tasks, which meant that when Scott and Lizzie traveled to The End they payed them no mind, which is why they weren’t able to stop Lizzie from falling into the void, thus ending the Canary Curse. They tried to do damage control, killing Jimmy as quick as they could, but in the end it didn’t matter. The other Watchers were…not happy.

And maybe they could’ve made sure that no one would have died before Jimmy, if they hadn’t been so preoccupied with Scar. Vdari had Seen Scar in previous seasons, and the way that he would get when pushed over the edge, and more importantly, the way that that would affect Their dear Grian. So Vdari made him the villain. They kept him in isolation with his tasks, forcing him to do more and more vile things to his fellow players. What Vdari hadn’t expected was how fun it would be to see Scar suffer, how much enjoyment one can get from being the reason a person breaks. They hadn’t intended for him to be the winner, but they were so delighted when Pearl fell, so delighted in fact that they kept him alive, instead of going to the winners lounge with the others. It’s truly a win win situation, Vdari gets to keep their tortured pet around, and the other Watchers are satisfied with poor Grians confusion and devastation over his absence.

Then we’ve got Armhék for Real Life, who is quite different from the previous gamemasters , in the way that they truly just wanted to get their game over with. They like doing one thing and one thing only, Watch, and is not interested in actually running a game, but was unfortunately forced to because it was their turn. They gave the most half assed attempt, just reusing the Third Life formula, but distorted the players visions and messed with their limbs, all to make them all die quicker, and then just set them loose. Since Vdari had already broken the canary curse, Armhék didn’t make an attempt to uphold it (Honestly, they probably would have broken it themselves cause they truly did not care). But yeah, their lack of any and all effort worked out in their favour, and Real Life is the shortest series that has taken place thus far. Every other Watcher is very annoyed.

If you somehow got the ability to ask Amhék who won their game, yeah they’d have no clue, Cleo means nothing to them, which like considering the way that Vdari is toying with Scar, that might be the best outcome for her.

And then, Wild life, with the surprising gamemaster of Grian himself. It was a controversial decision to let him lead the next game, but despite being a runaway, he’s still a Watcher, and so it was decided to let him hold the reins, under close scrutiny of course. Grian’s decision to lead the games was rooted in one simple fact; fun. The last couple of games had been rough on all of them, but especially the victors, so Grian designed Wild Life to be differing and fun to play. His only mistake was the snails, that turned out to be way deadlier than he thought, and so he ended that session early, which was an almost fatal decision, as the Watchers do not enjoy having their entertainment cut short. It was agreed that Grian could continue with the series, as long as he would never do anything like that again.

It was because of Grian’s attempt to keep the games friendly and fun, that Joel became the first victor since Last Life to win his game with his sanity intact, which we applaud. It’s once again something that the Watchers scold him for, but since it’s technically not a requirement to break your winner, it’s not something they can condemn.

And then, finally, the gamemaster of Simple Life, Zghula. Somehow, Zghula being chosen as the next gamemaster managed to be even more controversial than Grian, because Zghula was young. And I mean, really, young. There is no official ranks amongst the Watchers, but They all can tell who among them is more powerful, and therefore deserves more respect, and a lot of these powers come from experience and age. The best way to describe it, is that Zghula is basically the Watcher equivalent of an intern. They’d only ever Seen two games prior to Simple Life, so when it came to designing it they were very inexperienced, especially when it comes to the limits of what Players can take. Like, Armhék’s game was short on purpose, but for Zghula it was a complete accident. They just had no idea that a flat world could be so deadly, or that a few simple mobs were strong enough to take half the players to red. So yeah, whoops. Also, no one told them about the canary curse, and since no game they’d witnessed had had it, they didn’t even think to have Jimmy die first.

Somehow, Simple Life managed to bring shame not only to Zghula, but even more so to poor Quevik. Because not only was their victor someone who defied his game, no, now they had to share him with another, much weaker, Watcher. Like I said, not a day has gone by where they haven’t regretted keeping Scott alive for the final session of Last Life.

Other Watcher things!

The two EVO watchers have not been gamemasters, and therefore were not included here. I do headcanon them to be the two strongest Watchers, and so the de facto “leaders”. They are the ones who chooses who’s the next to lead a game, though as a Watcher you can put in a request to do so. If you’ve been chosen, you can’t refuse. The EVO watchers are named Kvī (Watcher 1) and Jagail (Watcher 2)

Kvī and Jagail are the two that came up with the idea of having death games in the first place, and are also the makers of the curses. Some of them, like Jimmy’s canary curse or Grian’s widow curse were planned from the beginning, while others, like Tango’s Inferno curse and Joel’s Red Haze curse came up as the games progressed. If a gamemaster fails to uphold a curse, without Kvī and Jagail’s explicit permission to break it, there will be dire consequences.

The reason for the blindfolds is mainly to keep them grounded. When wearing it, a watcher can still see everything around them, but if you’re for example hiding behind a wall or something, they can’t see you. If they take off the blindfold, they immediately get omnivision, and can see everything on the server. They for the most part tend to keep their blindfolds on, as they can otherwise be overwhelmed, but when leading a game a gamemaster always keeps their blindfold off

The blindfolds also make them more approachable and appealing to players, as when they’re off, all their multitudes of eyes can be seen, so they mostly keep them on the few times they actually approach a player. If they’re aiming to intimidate or scare however, the blindfold is always off

The reason Grian doesn’t wear a blindfold is that since he wasn’t “born” as a Watcher but ascended into their ranks, he doesn’t have the omnivision They have, at least not to the same scale

Grian is not the only person in their ranks who’s ascended, though he is the only one who’s ever rebelled, ever

The Watchers all have individual voices, but when one speak they all speak. If two Watchers were to be having a conversation, both of them would be saying all the words, but the one who’s actually speaking’s voice would be more prevalent than the other voices. It’s very confusing to listen to, and if you’re not used to it you will mix up who’s saying what.

Watchers tend not to speak much tho, as they are technically a type of hive mind. Their thought, opinions, and feelings are all shared between one another, so they rarely find a need to say anything to each other.

All the Watchers were made using Hero Forge

Also if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask :)

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missmadella · 2 months ago

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Falling again (Oikawa x Reader)

Summary: After years of separation and avoiding the feelings that were left unresolved, the reader reconnects with Oikawa

Words: 9416

You had known Oikawa Tooru since childhood. You, Iwaizumi, and Oikawa had been inseparable ever since you could walk. The three of you used to play together in the garden, and that was also where you first picked up a volleyball—clumsily tossing it around with no real rules, just laughter. Even then, despite the chaos, you could already see the raw talent in both Oikawa and Iwaizumi.

You loved those two idiots with all your heart, and you were there for every step of their journey toward becoming professional athletes.

After high school, life naturally pulled you all in different directions. You followed your dream and became a full-time, paid artist—doing what you loved every day, and you couldn’t be happier.

Well... almost.

The only thing missing was them. Oikawa and Iwaizumi. It had already been two years since you'd last seen them. Of course, you kept in touch—calls, texts, the occasional voice message when time allowed—but aligning your schedules was always impossible. Oikawa was busy playing professional volleyball overseas, which made you proud beyond words. And Iwaizumi was thriving as a personal trainer, always on the move.

You let out a soft sigh, eyes clouding with memories. You missed them. You missed them more than you were ready to admit.

It seemed like your wish was finally about to come true. One evening, a message popped up in your old Aoba Johsai group chat. One of your former teammates suggested organizing a reunion in Tokyo to catch up and relive old times.

You hadn’t seen some of them in years, and while the idea filled you with a warm sense of nostalgia… you weren’t entirely sure if going was the right decision.

Your thoughts were cut short when another notification suddenly lit up your phone. The name Oikawa Tooru appeared on the screen—just one simple message, yet it was enough to fill you with a rush of unexpected joy. “You better not ghost us, Y/N-chan.“ You couldn’t help but smile brightly at the message. Right then and there, you knew you couldn’t say no—not when you missed his goofy ass way too much for that.

_____________________________________________________________

And there you were—standing in the floor of a tall apartment building, where you could already hear the cheers and laughter of your friends echoing faintly through the open balcony. With a deep breath, you finally gathered the courage to press the buzzer to Iwaizumi’s apartment.

The door buzzed open with a soft click, and you stepped inside the building, heart beating faster with every floor the elevator climbed. It had really been two years—two long years since you last saw any of them face to face.

The elevator doors slid open, and a familiar warmth immediately hit you. Laughter, music, and the faint scent of snacks and beer drifted into the hallway. You walked toward the open door of Iwaizumi’s apartment, your hands slightly sweaty, nerves dancing under your skin.

“Y/N?!”

Your name was shouted before you could even step fully inside.

Iwaizumi was the first to reach you, eyes wide before his usual serious expression melted into the softest smile. “About time,” he muttered, and then pulled you into a tight hug that nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You laughed into his shoulder. “You got stronger.”

“Damn right I did,” he grinned, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You look good. Really good.”

Before you could respond, someone else called your name.

“Matsukawa!” you grinned as he strolled over, pulling you into a side hug while Hanamaki shouted from the couch, “Y/N lives! Someone grab her a drink!”

The apartment looked lived-in but cozy—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, pillows scattered on the floor, and the balcony doors wide open to let the summer air in. People were lounging around with snacks and drinks, already caught up in conversations and half-drunk laughter.

It felt like stepping into a memory.

And then… you felt it. That presence.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Leaning casually against the kitchen counter, drink in hand, wearing a loose button-up and that same smug little smile that hadn’t changed a bit.

Oikawa.

His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the noise around you faded completely.

He didn’t move. Neither did you.

But the tension that sparked in that tiny pause… was undeniable.

“Hey, Tooru,” you said softly, a bit shy as his eyes stayed locked on you, unmoving. He didn’t respond right away—just stared—until Iwaizumi nudged him lightly in the side with an elbow.

Tooru blinked at Iwaizumi’s nudge, then finally snapped out of whatever trance he’d been in. “Oh—uh, hey,” he said, voice a little too casual, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t expect you to actually show up.”

You raised an eyebrow, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome.”

“I just meant—” “Relax,” you chuckled, brushing past him toward the kitchen counter. “Still as dramatic as ever.”

But despite the familiar banter, the air between you stayed weird. Not cold—but different. Like both of you were waiting for the other to say something first, and neither of you wanted to go there.

You mingled with the others, laughing at dumb inside jokes, accepting a drink someone handed you, trying not to glance at him too often. But every time you did, he was already looking. And then quickly pretending he wasn’t.

Then Matsukawa clapped his hands together.

“All right, we’re doing this—truth or drink, losers. Don’t wimp out.”

“Already sounds like a mistake,” Hanamaki added, grinning while passing out shot glasses.

Before you could protest, you were being dragged onto the carpet with the rest of the group, cushions and drinks forming a messy circle. And just your luck—Tooru ended up right across from you.

As the game went on, the questions got bolder, the answers messier. Iwaizumi rolled his eyes every five minutes. Someone confessed a high school crush, someone else drank instead of admitting to a bad hookup.

Then it was your turn.

Matsukawa turned to you with a sly grin. “Y/N, tell the truth… did you ever have a crush on someone in this room back in the day?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“I—what kind of question is that?”

“Oikawa’s definitely hoping it’s him,” Hanamaki teased, sending a wave of laughter around the circle.

Oikawa rolled his eyes, cheeks faintly pink. “As if. She was always more into Iwaizumi, anyway.”

“Wrong again,” you shot back before you could stop yourself.

The circle oooh’d, drinks sloshing.

Oikawa’s brows shot up, and for the first time all night, the smirk on his lips felt familiar.

“Well, well,” he said slowly. “Guess some things do change.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a heat creeping up your neck. “Shut up, Tooru.”

“You shut up,” he shot back with a grin.

And just like that—there it was. That spark. That old rhythm. Teasing, bickering, dancing around something neither of you wanted to name yet.

The awkwardness hadn't disappeared completely, but it had started to crack. And under it was something dangerous.

And electric.

____________________________________________________________

As the game wound down, the party slowly started to lose steam. The loud, chaotic energy of the night gradually turned into scattered goodbyes. People stumbled toward the door, promising to meet up again soon, while others lingered in the living room, still caught up in their own laughter.

You grabbed your jacket from the back of the couch, ready to head out with the others when you noticed Oikawa leaning against the balcony doors. He hadn’t moved much throughout the night, only occasionally joining in on the conversations, but you couldn’t deny that the lingering tension between you both was very palpable.

He looked over at you, a subtle invitation in his eyes, and nodded toward the balcony. "I think we need some air, don't you?"

You hesitated for a moment, glancing at the door as people started to say their goodbyes, then back at Oikawa. The quiet pull of curiosity and something else you couldn’t name won out.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

Both of you finally sit down after you made your way over onto the balcony and watched the city light enlighten the streets. It was a beautiful night in Tokyo and you enjoyed the view a lot. Tooru plastered himself right next to you closer than you had expected. Maybe because you both were drunk to the core. The silents was not very uncomfortable and you decided that you wanted to talk to you Tooru more than ever. What you did not expected that he started the conversation first this time.

You know,” he says, his hand running through is messy hair. “I thought you wouldn’t show tonight.”

“Why?” you glance at him, amused. “Because you left me on read three months ago?”

“Oof. Low blow.” He laughs. “Deserved.”

You both smile, but it sits heavy between you. The unspoken things. The “almosts” that never happened. How you used to talk every night until you fell asleep. How that stopped.

“Things are different now,” he says suddenly. “You… look different.”

“It’s called maturing, Oikawa.”

“No,” he says softly, eyes lingering. “You just seem… far away.”

You don't respond to that. Because he’s right. You both feel it—the distance that time carved into your friendship. And yet, here you are, sitting shoulder to shoulder under warm lights like nothing changed.

“Do you ever think,” you murmur, “about what would've happened if you didn’t leave?”

He goes quiet. The air between you thickens.

“I think about a lot of things when it comes to you,” he replies, barely above a whisper.

Your stomach flips. Your heart stutters.

You look up, and he's already watching you. His gaze drops to your lips and lingers, just a second too long. Your breath catches.

“We’re drunk,” you say.

“Are we?” he asks. “Or just finally honest?”

Your hands tremble slightly, resting on your lap. You should look away. You want to look away. But you can’t.

So when he leans in, you don’t stop him.

The kiss is slow, almost cautious. His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You lean in. Let yourself sink into it.

And then it deepens.

His hand slides to the side of your neck, thumb grazing your jaw. Your hand fists the front of his shirt. You taste the heat of whiskey and something distinctly him. Your mind blanks—every nerve alive.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless.

His eyes search yours. Confused. Hungry. Regretful.

“Shit,” he murmurs, pulling slightly back, running a hand through his hair. “That… wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“But it did,” you whisper.

A long silence.

You push off the couch, grabbing your phone, anything to distract yourself.

“We’re drunk. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Yeah,” he says—but his voice is too quiet. Too unsure.

As you walk away, you don’t look back.

You don’t have to. You can feel his eyes on you the whole time.

____________________________________________________________

The morning after the party felt like a haze. You woke up in the same guest room where you’d asked Iwaizumi if you could crash for the night, too overwhelmed by the excitement to think about going anywhere else. Of course, he had guided you to the guestroom where you’d stayed, without a second thought. The sunlight streaming through the half-open curtains. The party had ended late, but somehow, you’d still managed to drift off with thoughts of Oikawa swirling in your mind. That damn teasing grin of his, you thought. How could he still affect me so much?

You tried to shake off the thoughts, but they lingered in the back of your mind, refusing to fade away.

You groaned as you pushed yourself up from the bed, glancing at your phone. A few messages from friends, nothing urgent. A text from your mom asking how everything was going. You sighed, setting the phone aside, but your mind kept wandering back to him.

The events of the night before kept replaying in your head like a bad movie. The teasing, the jokes, the banter. The way his body had been so close to yours on the balcony. The heat of his breath, the way his gaze had locked onto yours, daring you to cross the line that neither of you had crossed in years.

But you had. Even if it had just been with words, you both had stepped into territory that was far from friendly. And now, that unspoken tension hung heavy between you.

What now?

You pushed yourself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom, splashing your face with cold water to try to wake yourself up and clear your head. It didn’t work.

After getting dressed, you wandered down the hallway, hoping to avoid running into Oikawa. You had no idea how to act around him now, especially after the almost-awkward-but-not-really moment on the balcony. But as you reached the kitchen, you froze.

There he was.

Oikawa stood at the counter, coffee in hand, his back to you. His messy hair was the same, but there was something different about him. The way he held himself was… guarded. Like he was avoiding looking at you.

You hesitated, not sure whether to approach him or just turn around and leave. But you couldn’t. Something was tugging at you, pulling you toward him like a magnet.

“Good morning,” you said, your voice sounding more distant than you intended.

He stiffened for a second before turning to face you, his usual grin plastered on his face. But it didn’t reach his eyes. “Morning, Y/N. How’d you sleep?”

You shrugged, forcing a nonchalant expression. “Fine. Just... still a little tired.”

He nodded, sipping his coffee, his eyes shifting away from yours for a moment. The silence between you felt awkward, and you hated it. You hated how normal it used to feel to be in the same room together, to talk without any tension.

“Did you sleep well?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Oikawa glanced back at you, his gaze briefly meeting yours before quickly darting away. “Yeah. Fine.” He didn’t elaborate, and that was all he said before a heavy silence filled the room again.

You tried to think of something else to say, but your brain was stuck. The words wouldn’t come. He wasn’t helping either, his body language distant and closed off. After last night, you didn’t know what you were expecting, but this? This awkward avoidance felt worse than anything else.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, Oikawa cleared his throat. “Well, I should probably head out soon. Got practice.”

You blinked, unsure if you should feel relieved or disappointed that he was about to leave. “Oh. Right. I didn’t even know you had practice today.”

He shrugged, turning his gaze back to the coffee cup in his hands. “Yeah, a quick one. You should—uh—enjoy your day.” He said the last part almost too quickly, like he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

“Sure,” you muttered. “You too.”

Another beat of silence passed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The tension was too thick in the air, and neither of you knew how to cut through it. So instead, you both opted for avoidance.

Oikawa finished his coffee in silence, then set the cup down with a soft clink. “I’ll see you later, Y/N.” His tone was oddly formal.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice betraying the weight of the moment. “Later.”

He turned to leave, but before he could step out of the kitchen, he hesitated. His back was to you, but you could almost feel the unspoken words hanging in the air between you.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird last night,” he said quietly, without turning around.

You blinked, unsure whether to answer. You knew what he was talking about—the close call on the balcony, the teasing, and the playful intimacy that had almost turned into something more.

“Me neither,” you replied softly.

There was a pause, but then he straightened up, pulling himself together. “Right. Well, I’ll see you around. Don’t avoid me, okay?”

And with that, he left, leaving you standing there in the kitchen, heart pounding, a thousand thoughts racing in your head.

You stared at the empty doorway for a long time after he was gone.

_____________________________________________________________

Even before you stopped texting each other when he left for Argentina, it never felt this difficult to talk to him. It was awful. Every time you met up with Iwaizumi and Oikawa, it wasn’t just avoidance—it was like there was an invisible wall between you. You barely spoke, and neither of you could bring yourselves to make eye contact. It was almost hilarious how both of you were doing everything in your power to avoid talking about what happened just a week ago on the balcony.

You sat on the couch, your fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. The room was quiet, almost painfully so, with only the distant sounds of Iwaizumi and Oikawa talking in low voices. You could tell they were discussing something about volleyball—probably practice or training—but you couldn't bring yourself to pay attention to the conversation. Your mind was still racing, stuck on the way Oikawa had looked at you on the balcony, the teasing, the close call that neither of you had dared to address.

It was ridiculous. You had known him for years. This... weird tension was new. You'd always been able to talk freely with him—tease him, laugh with him. But now? Now, every word felt forced, like it had to be measured before it was spoken. You couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then, catching his eye for a split second before both of you quickly looked away.

Iwaizumi was clearly aware of the atmosphere, though he didn't comment on it directly. He never did. Instead, he just sat there, silently sipping his drink, eyes flicking from you to Oikawa, clearly amused by the situation, even though he never said a word. It was one of the things you loved about Iwaizumi—his way of silently watching everything unfold, without interference, letting you and Oikawa figure things out for yourselves.

Finally, the silence became unbearable. You stood up, pretending to stretch, and said, “I’m going to get some air.” You were desperate for a break from the uncomfortable atmosphere, and the balcony was the perfect excuse.

Iwaizumi gave you a knowing look, but said nothing. He just raised an eyebrow at Oikawa, who had been unusually quiet since you’d entered the room.

You slipped out onto the balcony, the cool evening air hitting your face as soon as you stepped outside. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest, but the moment you closed the sliding door behind you, you heard footsteps. A few seconds later, Oikawa appeared, leaning against the doorframe, a lazy smile on his face, but his eyes weren’t as carefree as usual.

You didn’t say anything at first. The silence was different out here—less suffocating, but still full of that same tension you were trying to avoid.

Oikawa shifted slightly, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t think you were the type to run away from things, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “I just needed a little break from all the awkwardness.” You made sure to look anywhere but at him.

He chuckled softly, the sound familiar and warm, but with an edge of something else. “Awkward, huh? You think we’re awkward now?”

You finally met his gaze, but you couldn’t tell if you were relieved or frustrated by the way his eyes were fixed on you. “I think you made things awkward,” you shot back, trying to keep your tone playful, but it came out sharper than you intended.

He laughed again, this time louder, and pushed himself off the doorframe, stepping toward you with that same confident swagger. “Me? I’m the one who made things awkward? Maybe you’re just scared, Y/N.”

“Scared?” You scoffed, crossing your arms defensively. “Of what exactly?”

Oikawa stopped just in front of you, too close for comfort. “Of what’s been between us all these years,” he said softly, his tone now far less teasing and more serious. “I know you’ve been avoiding it, but we both know what happened last week. We’re not as clueless as we like to pretend we are.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I’m not avoiding anything,” you said quickly, but the lie felt thin, like it might unravel any second. “I just... I just don’t know what you want me to say.”

He stepped closer, his gaze intense now. “I don’t need you to say anything. I just need you to stop pretending it didn’t happen.”

You swallowed, the words caught in your throat. You had thought you could avoid this—this conversation, these feelings—but here he was, pulling it all out into the open. You could feel your resolve cracking.

"You're really good at pretending, aren't you?" he said, his voice softer now, almost like a challenge.

You felt your chest tighten. "And what does that mean, Oikawa?" You were afraid you knew exactly what he meant, but you refused to acknowledge it.

He leaned in just a little closer, his breath warm against your skin. "It means we both know what happened last week wasn’t just some random thing. And you can keep pretending it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing, Y/N.”

Your pulse quickened. "Maybe it’s just better if we forget it."

His lips curved into a knowing grin, but this time, there was no playfulness in it. “Is that what you really want? To forget about it?”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, unspoken and heavy.

You felt your chest tighten, the air around you becoming suffocating. The weight of Oikawa's words, the intensity of the moment, was too much to bear. It felt like everything you’d been avoiding for weeks was crashing down all at once, and you needed to escape.

Without thinking, you turned on your heel and walked briskly toward the door.

Oikawa called after you, but you didn’t stop. You heard him shouting your name as you quickly pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway, your heart pounding in your ears. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed to get away.

Iwaizumi had been right behind you, still sitting at the table in the living room, probably caught up in his own thoughts. But the moment he heard the door slam, he shot up from his seat and came after you. “Y/N! What the hell’s going on?” His voice was strained, the worry in his tone obvious. You could tell he knew something was wrong, but he was just as confused as you were about what had happened.

You didn’t answer him as you walked down the stairs, your mind too clouded with emotion. You could feel Oikawa’s presence just behind you, his footsteps following you too closely. The last thing you needed was to have another conversation with him.

Iwaizumi reached you at the bottom of the stairs, grabbing your arm gently but firmly. “Talk to me, Y/N. What’s going on?” His voice was calm but insistent. You stopped, but didn’t turn to face him, your body tense under his grip.

Before you could say anything, Oikawa arrived, looking flushed with frustration. “Iwa-chan, just—just let her go,” he started, but Iwaizumi wasn’t having it.

“No!” Iwaizumi snapped, voice rising. “You’ve been ignoring this entire situation. What the hell happened up there? She’s been fine, and then you two—” He gestured between you and Oikawa. “What is it, Oikawa? You’ve been pushing her away, and now you expect everything to just magically go back to normal?”

Oikawa’s eyes darted to you, but he didn’t seem to know what to say. Iwaizumi wasn’t done. “Fix it. Now.”

There was a tense silence between the three of you. Finally, Oikawa ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath before turning to you with a look that was both apologetic and frustrated. “Y/N, please. I—”

“I can’t do this,” you cut him off, voice shaking with frustration. “I don’t know what you want from me, Oikawa. I’m not some game you can keep playing with.”

You turned away from him, but before you could get far, Oikawa rushed up behind you, catching your arm as you tried to walk past him. The contact was enough to send a jolt through your body, but you didn’t turn to face him. You couldn’t. Not now.

“Let me go,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to shake his grip off, but his hold only tightened.

“I’m not letting you walk away from this,” Oikawa snapped back, his voice laced with frustration. His hand on your arm pulled you toward him, the closeness overwhelming, making your heart race even faster. “We need to talk, Y/N. You can’t keep running from me.”

You tried to pull away again, but before you could, he pushed you toward a nearby alleyway, away from the noise of the street and the prying eyes. The air felt colder here, more isolated, but it only seemed to intensify the charged silence that hung between you.

“What the hell is your problem?” You demanded, spinning around to face him. Your voice was louder than you intended, but you couldn’t help it. “You make things so complicated! We were fine before, and now look at us! Everything feels off, Oikawa. You made it weird.

He took a step closer, eyes blazing with anger and something else—regret? “I don’t know what you want from me, Y/N. Every time we’re together, you act like you’re fine, but you’re not. I know you’re not. You avoid me, you ignore me, and it’s driving me insane. It’s driving me crazy.”

You laughed bitterly, wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen. “You’re crazy? Don’t make me laugh. You’re the one who keeps acting like nothing’s wrong when we both know everything’s messed up. It was fine before—before you kissed me, before everything became a mess.”

Oikawa’s face softened, though the anger in his voice still remained. “I never meant to make things worse. But I can’t pretend I don’t feel something, Y/N. I can’t.”

You took a step back, shaking your head. “Then stop pretending you know what you want, because you don’t. And I’m not going to keep waiting for you to figure it out.”

With that, you turned, ready to leave—ready to run from the overwhelming emotions swirling inside you.

But Oikawa grabbed your wrist again, this time pulling you back towards him with a force you hadn’t expected.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he demanded, his voice low and desperate.

“Let go of me, Oikawa,” you snapped, trying to wrench your arm from his grasp. “You don’t get to keep doing this to me. You don’t get to—”

“Stop it, Y/N!” He shouted, his frustration finally bubbling over. “I’m trying here, okay? I’ve always tried, but you won’t let me in.”

You were shaking now, torn between anger and confusion. “I’m done,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’m done with this. You have your life, and I have mine. I’m leaving.”

With that, you pulled your arm free from his grip, pushed past him, and walked out of the alleyway. You didn’t look back. The silence of the street was deafening as you made your way down the sidewalk, your heart heavy with everything unsaid, everything unresolved.

You didn't need to say another word. You needed to leave.

______________________________________________________________

You walked fast, not looking back as you tried to put distance between yourself and the chaos you left behind in that alley. The city felt colder now, the lights overhead too bright, like they were shining down on everything you wanted to escape from. Every step you took echoed in your ears, matching the rhythmic pounding of your heart. The adrenaline from your argument with Oikawa was still coursing through your veins, but beneath it all, there was an aching emptiness that you couldn't ignore.

Your mind was a whirlpool of emotions—anger, frustration, confusion. You were angry at Oikawa for making everything so complicated, for pushing you to the edge. But part of you also felt something else, something you didn’t want to admit, something that hurt too much to face: you missed him. You missed the connection you used to have, the way things had been before the kiss, before everything got so messy.

Before you even realized it, you found yourself standing outside the small café you used to visit with him and Iwaizumi. It wasn’t far from the apartment, and yet, it felt like you had just walked miles away from everything. You weren’t sure if you came here to hide or because some part of you hoped you’d find the peace you so desperately needed.

But the moment you stepped inside, the doorbell ringing softly as you entered, you felt it. The unmistakable presence behind you.

Oikawa.

You froze, the door clicking softly as he stepped inside, breathless and wild-eyed. He looked like a man torn between wanting to chase you and something else—something unspoken. His dark eyes found yours immediately, but this time, there was no teasing. No cocky grin. Just... raw honesty.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The café felt like the most silent place in the world, with only the soft hum of quiet conversation around you. He took a cautious step forward, his expression unreadable, but you saw the effort it took to approach you without demanding an answer.

"You shouldn't have run," Oikawa said softly, voice tinged with regret. "I... I didn’t mean to push you away. I don’t want to make things worse. I’m sorry. I was just... afraid."

You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. You wanted to yell at him, tell him how much he hurt you, how confused you were. But there was something in the way he looked at you now, something vulnerable that made you hesitate.

“Afraid?” you repeated, the word slipping past your lips in disbelief. “You were afraid?” Your voice cracked, and you immediately cursed yourself for sounding so weak. You wanted to be stronger than this.

He nodded, stepping closer, his eyes locked on yours. “Yeah. I was. I didn’t know what to do, Y/N. I didn’t know if you’d hate me after that kiss, or if we could go back to how things were. But I kept pretending it was fine, and that just... made everything worse. I’m sorry. I’ve been an idiot."

The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. You wanted to stay angry. You should be angry. But standing in front of him now, seeing the way he was looking at you, hearing the raw emotion in his words—it all melted away the walls you’d put up to protect yourself.

You blinked rapidly, trying to steady your breath as the tears you hadn’t let fall earlier began to sting your eyes. You didn’t want to break down in front of him. You didn’t want to seem weak, but you couldn’t stop it.

“I... I don’t know what to do, Oikawa.” You shook your head, your voice trembling. “I’m so confused. Everything felt so good when we were together. But now... I don’t even know who you are anymore. Or who I am when I’m around you.”

With that you turned again and made your way home, leaving him at the busy street.

______________________________________________________________

The evening was too quiet, the silence in your apartment almost deafening as you lay in your bed, staring at the ceiling. Your mind was racing, replaying the conversation from the café, the argument, the kiss, everything that had happened between you and Oikawa. Every word, every glance, felt like it was burned into your memory, but no matter how much you tried to settle your thoughts, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

You hadn’t expected any of this. The kiss. The distance. The awkwardness between the two of you. You didn’t know why it was so hard now, why it felt like you were walking on eggshells when, not so long ago, you could laugh and joke and share your thoughts without hesitation.

But now, everything felt so complicated. You tried to push it all out of your mind, telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal. That it was just one mistake, just one heated moment—but you knew better. You knew that what you felt for him wasn’t a simple crush. It was deeper than that. Much deeper.

You sighed heavily, sitting up in bed, the covers tangled around you. Your fingers brushed your lips, where Oikawa’s kiss still lingered, and it hit you like a punch to the gut. You wanted him. You wanted him more than anything.

The truth was, you had never stopped wanting him. Not really. You tried to convince yourself that you were over him after all the time that had passed, that you could just move on and forget about everything that had been between you. But it wasn’t that simple. You knew that now.

The memories of your childhood together, the way his smile could light up a room, the way he always made you feel special and like you mattered—it all came rushing back. The years you spent together as friends, as more than friends, and the connection you shared… It was never something you could just turn off.

You tossed the covers off, feeling restless. The clock on your nightstand blinked 2:17 AM. You should be sleeping, but the weight of your thoughts was too heavy, and the silence too suffocating. You could still hear the echo of his voice in your mind, the sincerity, the apology in his words. The way he looked at you, like he was searching for something—something that had been lost between you two, but he wasn’t sure how to fix it.

And then, as if a switch had been flipped, you knew what you had to do. You needed to go to him.

Without thinking twice, you grabbed your jacket and slid your feet into your shoes. You didn’t want to overthink it. You didn’t want to give yourself time to second-guess the decision. The streets were quiet, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you walked with purpose, your heart pounding in your chest with every step.

It felt like the longest walk of your life, but before you knew it, you were standing in front of Oikawa’s building, the familiar hum of the city around you. Your hand hovered over the doorbell, hesitation creeping up on you.

What were you doing? You were about to knock on his door in the middle of the night, uninvited, and—what? Beg him to fix things?

No. You weren’t begging. You didn’t need to beg. You were just... going to see him. To fix it, whatever it was.

With a deep breath, you pressed the doorbell, and the chime echoed through the empty hallway. Your heart skipped a beat when you heard the sound of footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. The door opened, and there he stood. Oikawa Tooru. His dark hair tousled, wearing a loose T-shirt, looking surprised to see you standing there in the middle of the night.

Without a word, you lunged at him, throwing your arms around his neck and pressing your lips against his. The moment your lips collided, it felt like everything that had been unsaid between you both came rushing forward. It wasn’t a soft, tentative kiss—no, it was urgent, filled with pent-up desire and frustration. The electricity that had always existed between you two was crackling in the air, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. You needed him.

His hands immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. His body was solid, warm, and it sent a wave of heat through you. His lips were firm against yours, moving as if he had missed this just as much as you had. Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt, tugging him even closer. You felt the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, and it matched the wild rhythm of your own.

You pushed your body into his, your chest pressing against his, and for a moment, it felt like everything in the world faded away except for the two of you. The kiss deepened as you slid your hands up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as if you were desperate to become one.

Without warning, Oikawa broke the kiss, and before you could process what was happening, he swiftly shut the door behind you with a soft thud, trapping you both in the small hallway. His hands slid to your sides, pushing you lightly but firmly against the door. The sudden movement caught you off guard, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, your breath hitched in surprise as his lips immediately found yours again, this time with more intensity, more passion.

The pressure of his body against yours felt electrifying. Every part of you was in overdrive as his lips slid across your jaw, trailing kisses down your neck, his breath hot and quick against your skin. You gasped as his hands moved, one sliding to your back, the other threading through your hair, pulling your head back slightly to deepen the kiss.

He was everywhere, his touch, his warmth, his scent, overwhelming your senses. You could feel him hardening against you as your bodies pressed closer, the kiss only growing more desperate. His lips trailed lower, his teeth grazing against your skin just enough to send a wave of shivers down your spine.

You moaned softly, hands tugging at the fabric of his T-shirt, your heart racing. Your body was on fire, aching for him in ways you couldn’t explain. Oikawa’s hands moved to your hips, lifting you just slightly so you were even closer to him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The movement was seamless, like this was something you both had done a thousand times, and it felt just as natural as the first time you’d ever kissed.

For a brief second, you broke the kiss, your forehead resting against his as you both gasped for air, your breaths coming in uneven bursts. Oikawa’s hands were still firmly gripping your waist, his thumbs brushing the skin beneath your shirt. His eyes were dark, filled with desire, but also something softer—something more real, more vulnerable.

“Y/N…” he breathed your name, his voice hoarse and full of emotion. “I’ve missed you. God, I’ve missed you so much.”

You didn’t need him to say anything more. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he was holding you like he never wanted to let go. The kiss that had started out so frantic now became something more—something that spoke of all the longing, the regret, the love that had been building between you two for so long.

You brought your lips back to his, slow and gentle this time, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him. It was no longer about the heat of the moment, but about making up for all the lost time, for all the things you had kept locked inside. Your lips moved together, a rhythm both of you knew so well, and for the first time in so long, you didn’t feel confused or unsure. You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

His hands slid under your shirt, brushing against your skin, sending sparks through your body. You let out a shaky breath, and that was all the encouragement he needed. He lifted you slightly again, pushing you further into the door as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as he explored your mouth, claiming you in the most delicious way.

Your body pressed harder against the door, the cool surface cold against your back, but it only heightened the warmth between you. The pressure of Oikawa’s body against yours, the intensity of the kiss, it was overwhelming—and yet, you didn’t want it to stop.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your chests rising and falling rapidly as you both tried to gather your bearings. He was still holding you tightly, his forehead resting against yours, eyes closed as if he was savoring the moment.

“I’ve wanted this for so long, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

You smiled softly, your fingers running through his hair as you pulled him back down to kiss you again—this time, softer, slower, as if savoring every second of the reunion you’d both waited for.

The kiss deepened again, slower this time, but just as intense. Every nerve in your body seemed to come alive as Oikawa’s lips moved against yours, his hands gently cupping your face, as though he was afraid to let you go even for a moment. His touch was tender but possessive, a mix of desire and desperation, as though he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long.

You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the heat between you two undeniable. The memories of the past, the time spent apart, the confusion, and the longing—it was all melting away in this one single moment. It was just the two of you now, alone in his apartment, with nothing else mattering but this kiss, this connection.

Oikawa’s lips moved to your neck, kissing you lightly at first, then with more urgency, his hands now resting on your hips, pulling you even closer. You let out a soft gasp when you felt the heat of his breath against your skin, the sensation sending shivers down your spine.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice rough and full of longing. “I need you to know how much I’ve missed you. Every day I’ve thought about you. About us.”

You closed your eyes, the words settling deep in your chest. His sincerity—his raw emotion—was more than you had expected. You’d known him for so long, and yet, hearing him speak so openly, so vulnerably, made your heart ache in the best way.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back up to kiss you once more. “I never stopped.”

The kiss became more heated, more desperate. There was no holding back now, no pretending like nothing had happened. Both of you knew what was at stake—this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It wasn’t just about the physical connection, but about everything that had been buried beneath the surface for years.

His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you up again so that your legs naturally wrapped around him. Without hesitation, he carried you toward the couch, but before he could sit down, you pulled him back into another kiss, your hands moving down his chest, eager to feel more of him.

He groaned into the kiss, hands gripping your hips tighter as he lowered you gently onto the couch, his body hovering over yours. His lips left yours, trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, making you shiver in anticipation. Every kiss, every touch, was a promise, a silent declaration that neither of you had ever really let go.

You could feel the tension between you both, the need to bridge the distance that had been there for far too long. It was overwhelming, the mix of desire and emotions swirling within you. You wanted him, yes, but it wasn’t just about the desire anymore. It was about feeling whole again, feeling complete in a way you hadn’t in years.

Oikawa paused for a moment, his lips hovering over your skin, his chest rising and falling with his shallow breaths. He looked at you, his gaze intense, searching for something. You saw it—the same uncertainty, the same vulnerability that had been there the night of the party, the moment he’d kissed you on the balcony.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, voice low, almost as if afraid of the answer.

You didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”

With that, he kissed you again, softer this time, almost reverent. As his lips gently caressed yours, the weight of everything that had been left unsaid finally began to dissipate. The distance that had kept you apart for so long was fading, piece by piece, as the connection between you grew deeper.

You could feel the warmth of his hands against your skin, the steady rhythm of his heart beating in sync with yours. The two of you were no longer avoiding what had been so painfully clear. There was no more running, no more pretending like nothing had ever happened. This was real. This was you and him.

And as the kiss continued, you realized that this was where you were meant to be all along.

______________________________________________________________

The soft rays of the morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm golden glow across the room. You slowly woke up, the lingering feeling of Oikawa's embrace still enveloping you. You were nestled into his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he never wanted to let go. The steady rhythm of his breathing was soothing, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist. It was just you and him, together in this quiet cocoon.

You shifted slightly, resting your head against his chest, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his arm. His skin was warm against yours, and the memory of the night before was still fresh in your mind—his touch, his kisses, the way he had held you so gently but with such overwhelming need.

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of how everything had unfolded. It had been a whirlwind of emotions—confusion, hesitation, desire—but now, in this moment, you couldn’t deny how right everything felt.

Oikawa stirred, his breath hitching as he woke up. He slowly opened his eyes, and when they met yours, a soft smile spread across his face. It was tender, like he was still trying to wrap his mind around everything that had happened the night before, as though he, too, was afraid it might slip away.

"Morning," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep, but there was something in it—something that made your heart skip a beat. He lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin lightly, sending a small shiver down your spine.

"Morning," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel the weight of everything unsaid between you two, yet the air was thick with something warm—comfort, safety, and a little bit of nervousness.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt... peaceful. You breathed in his scent, a mix of his cologne and something uniquely Oikawa, and felt yourself relaxing even more in his arms.

Oikawa shifted slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand moved to rest on your back, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For a moment, neither of you said anything. It was like you were both savoring the closeness, unwilling to break the perfect silence.

Finally, Oikawa broke it, his voice low and almost hesitant.

“I’ve been thinking…” He paused, his fingers drawing small, absent circles on your back. “Last night... it wasn’t just about the physical stuff. I need you to know that.” He shifted slightly so that he could look you in the eyes, his expression serious. “I’ve missed you for so long, Y/N. I thought about you all the time. And then when I saw you again… I knew that I couldn’t just walk away. I—I didn’t want to.”

You felt your heart tighten in your chest as you gazed at him, seeing the raw sincerity in his eyes. He was never one to be vulnerable, always masking his emotions with that playful attitude of his, but this… this was different.

“I know,” you said quietly, your voice filled with emotion. “I thought about you too. Even when we were apart, it felt like there was something unfinished between us. I didn’t want to admit it at first, but… you were always in my heart, Tooru. Always.”

Oikawa's hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. The look in his eyes was soft, almost vulnerable. “I’m sorry for everything that happened between us. I didn’t know how to make it right. I thought I could move on, but I never really did. I’ve always wanted to be with you, Y/N. I just… didn’t know how.”

You smiled, your fingers finding their way to his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat—steady, strong. “We both made mistakes,” you said softly. “But we’re here now. We don’t need to hide anymore, do we?”

He shook his head, a small, genuine smile breaking through his usually playful demeanor. “No. We don’t.”

For a moment, everything was still. There was no rushing, no overwhelming need to do anything other than just be there, together, in that space. It felt like everything had finally fallen into place.

“I love you, Y/N,” Oikawa whispered, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity. “I’ve loved you for so long, even when I didn’t know how to say it.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you met his gaze, your heart swelling with emotion. You had always known it, deep down. You had known that you loved him, but hearing him say it aloud—finally acknowledging it—felt like a weight lifting off your chest.

“I love you too, Tooru,” you whispered back, your voice barely audible, but the words were real, the truth of them resonating in your heart. “I never stopped.”

He leaned in, his lips gently brushing against yours in a kiss that was soft, tender, and full of all the emotions you had both been holding back. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—just pure, unfiltered love.

_____________________________________________________________

1 month later:

The morning sun streamed through the windows of the cozy apartment you now shared with Oikawa, casting soft, warm light across the room. You’d grown used to the rhythm of life here in Argentina—Oikawa’s training schedules, the quiet mornings where you could focus on your art, and the way the city buzzed outside as you sat in the peace of your shared space.

You had settled in surprisingly quickly, your artwork taking center stage in a small corner of the apartment you had transformed into your personal studio. The walls were lined with your paintings, sketches, and drawings. It was a place where you felt truly at home. Oikawa had made sure you felt comfortable, giving you space to work while always supporting your art.

Right now, you were in the middle of adding final touches to a canvas, the light from the window illuminating the rich colors you were working with. The sound of the coffee machine in the background was familiar and comforting, a steady rhythm that you’d come to love.

As you focused on your art, Oikawa walked in, still dressed in his training gear. He had just returned from a morning practice, his face flushed from the exertion. His hair was messier than usual, and he looked as effortlessly handsome as ever.

"Morning, beautiful," he said, his voice warm and affectionate as he walked over to you, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. His presence felt like an anchor, grounding you even in the moments you spent lost in your work.

"Morning," you replied, your heart swelling with happiness as you turned to look up at him. The past month had been everything you’d hoped for and more—being together like this, away from the tension, away from all the misunderstandings. It was just the two of you, living your own little piece of paradise in Argentina.

Oikawa grinned, reaching out to brush his fingers against your cheek before cupping your face gently. His touch sent a warm shiver through you, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

"You look beautiful when you’re focused like that," he teased, his voice low and soft, filled with affection. "I still don’t understand how you manage to make such amazing art."

You shrugged playfully, setting the brush down and standing up to face him. "I don’t know. It just comes to me."

"Well," he grinned, "I’m glad it does." Then, his expression shifted, becoming a little more serious. "I’m glad you’re here, Y/N. I know I’ve said it before, but I can’t tell you enough how happy I am that you decided to move here. I’ve missed you for so long… and now having you here with me every day—it feels unreal."

Your heart warmed at his words. You knew this decision hadn’t been easy, but in the end, it felt like the right one. You had your art, he had his volleyball, and together, you had everything you needed.

“I’m happy too, Tooru,” you said, your voice soft as you reached up to trace the lines of his jaw with your fingers. "I never thought I’d be here, but now that I am… it feels like home."

Oikawa’s eyes softened, a look of tenderness in his gaze that made your heart flutter. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss, one that spoke volumes about everything that had happened between you two. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ve loved you for so long, Y/N. I never want to lose you again."

You smiled softly, feeling the weight of those words settle into your heart. "I love you too, Tooru," you whispered back, your hands tracing circles on his chest as if to reassure yourself that he was real, that this was real. "I never want to lose you either."

For a moment, neither of you said anything, just enjoying the silence and the connection between you two. The world outside seemed so far away, and all that mattered was this simple moment of peace in each other’s arms.

After a beat, Oikawa stepped back with a playful grin. "Now, how about we go get some lunch? I’m starving."

You laughed, following him out of your little studio, still wearing his jersey, the one he had worn during that game where everything had changed. You had made a home together here, in this new chapter of your life, and everything felt as it should.

As you both made your way to the kitchen, Oikawa leaned in, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. “By the way, I still can’t believe you’re wearing my jersey,” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, but there was a playful smile tugging at your lips. “I like it,” you replied, teasing him back, “It’s comfortable. Maybe you should buy me more.”

Oikawa laughed, pulling you close again as he twirled you around before giving you another kiss, this one full of warmth and promise. "If you want more, I’ll buy you as many as you want."

You couldn’t help but laugh along with him, feeling the joy of having him here, of sharing this life with him in Argentina.

And as the day went on, you knew—this was only the beginning. The future was uncertain, but as long as you had each other, you felt like nothing else mattered.

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