#this straight up launched me rolling on the floor

[ballsandbabes]

Karasuno + Ushijima/ Oikawa having a crush on their second manager

Authors Note: y/n = your name// not proof read// GIFs not mine // Have fun <3

Genre: Chaos but wholesome fluff.

🏐 Tobio Kageyama 🏐

Practice had just ended, and the gym echoed with the fading squeak of sneakers and the thud of volleyballs. You approached Kageyama with a clean towel and a sunny grin, offering it up like a peace treaty. “Good sets today, Kageyama!” you chirped.

He froze. His hand hovered mid-air, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “...I—uh—thanks—you too—wait—no—you didn’t—uh—play.”

You tilted your head in confusion as he fumbled the towel, accidentally catching a corner in his mouth. His ears turned a furious shade of red, and without another word, he bolted across the gym like the floor was on fire. Hinata doubled over, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bench. “Smooth, King,” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. Somewhere behind the bleachers, a loud thump suggested Kageyama had run straight into the wall.

🏐 Daichi Sawamura 🏐

Tanaka and Nishinoya were mid-handstand battle when your voice cut through the gym like a whistle, sharp and commanding. “Enough! Get back to drills or I’ll make you run laps until sunrise!” you barked, arms crossed with the authority of a coach. From across the court, Daichi stood frozen, hands on hips, watching you lay down the law.

Daichi’s brain: Wow. She’s terrifying. I respect that. I would die for her. Later, you walked over, clipboard in hand, and passed it to him with a smile.

“Here are the notes from today’s rotations,” you said.

He blinked, took it gently—as if it were a sacred artifact—and then promptly turned pink.

“You’re so organized. That’s… really attractive. I mean—not that your notes are attractive, I mean you—I MEAN THE SYSTEM—never mind.” You raised an eyebrow, amused, while Tanaka whispered to Noya, “Captain’s so gone.”

🏐 Hinata Shōyō 🏐

After practice, you handed Hinata a snack—his favorite onigiri, fresh and wrapped in a little cloth. He gasped as if you'd just given him a gold medal. “She remembered my favorite onigiri. She loves me.”

The moment those words left his mouth, his eyes sparkled with pure joy. He immediately began following you around, like an overenthusiastic puppy on a mission. He tried to act casual, but every time you turned around, there he was—“accidentally” bumping into you like six times in a row.

You raised an eyebrow. “Hinata, are you okay?”

He straightened up, puffed out his chest, and grinned like a fool. “I’m thriving. I’m thriving so hard.” You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of his uncontained excitement, though he looked far from cool. Hinata’s attempt to act nonchalant only made his affection even more obvious. He tripped over his own feet while trying to act casual and grabbed onto your arm for balance, his face turning bright red.

“See? Thriving,” he muttered, still holding on like he was claiming victory.

🏐 Yū Nishinoya 🏐

After a particularly impressive receive, you flashed Nishinoya a smile and said, “Nice job. That was a great save!”

He immediately turned to Tanaka with an exaggerated gasp, voice full of drama. “I have no choice but to marry her. She respects the art of defense.” From that moment on, he started pulling off rolling thunders everywhere—even when the ball was already going out of bounds.

"Watch this! It'll blow her mind," he grinned, launching himself into another unnecessary dive. You blinked, unsure whether to be impressed or worried for his back. Daichi, who was coaching from the sidelines, groaned. “Noya, for the love of volleyball, please stop. We’re not trying to impress anyone right now.”

But Noya was beyond reasoning, his eyes locked on you like a knight in shining armor—if that knight were also a human cannonball. Tanaka just shrugged. "Hey, he's doing it for the love of the game... and you, I guess." You tried not to laugh, but it was impossible not to smile as Noya grinned like he had won the lottery.

🏐 Ryūnosuke Tanaka 🏐

You casually held the gym door open as Tanaka jogged up, towel slung over his shoulder. He skidded to a halt, eyes wide with wonder, and whispered, “That’s it. That was a sign from the universe.”

Within the hour, he had declared your eternal bond in the team group chat—complete with twelve fire emojis and a photo of you holding a clipboard.

“Wrote a little something for you,” he said the next day, handing you a crumpled piece of paper titled ‘Ode to the Clipboard Queen’. He then dramatically offered you his hoodie during lunch—even though it was 90 degrees and he was already sweating buckets. Kiyoko sighed from across the table, muttering, “Again?” without even looking up. You couldn’t stop laughing, completely charmed by the absurdity of it all.Tanaka turned beet red, grinning so hard it hurt as he tried—and failed—not to puff out his chest.

He didn’t say it out loud, but inside? He was already planning what your matching hoodies would say.

🏐 Tsukishima Kei 🏐

You walked over during a break in practice, handed Tsukishima a bottle of water, and said, “Don’t forget to rest your knees, okay?”

He looked away immediately, adjusting his glasses like they’d suddenly become very interesting. “…Thanks,” he muttered, barely audible. But in his head? If anyone else tells her to hydrate, I’ll block their spike with my face.

The next day, you found your favorite snack waiting on the bench beside your bag. “Leftovers,” Tsukki said coolly, as if he hadn’t picked it out on purpose and walked three blocks to get it. This became a habit—your favorite treats mysteriously appearing every couple of days, always with the same deadpan explanation. Yamaguchi noticed, of course, and every time he caught Tsukki sneaking something onto your seat, he smirked like a cat who knew exactly what was going on.

Tsukishima would roll his eyes, but never stopped. Because if caring quietly was a sport, Tsukki was already MVP.

🏐 Yamaguchi Tadashi 🏐

During a tense moment in the practice match, you cupped your hands around your mouth and shouted, “Let’s go, Yamaguchi—you’ve got this!”

His serve landed perfectly, and when he turned to see you cheering, his whole face lit up like someone flipped a switch inside him. The next day, he nervously approached you behind the gym, holding a small wildflower clutched in his hand like it might blow away. Just as he opened his mouth, he tripped over absolutely nothing and flung the flower at your feet in true rom-com fashion.

“F-for you!” he stammered, cheeks bright red. “I mean—unless you hate flowers! Then it’s just… grass!” You laughed, crouched down to pick it up, and said warmly, “Tadashi, it’s perfect.” He blinked, stunned, and then smiled so wide it could’ve powered the entire gym. From a distance, Tsukishima muttered, “Disgusting,” but even he couldn’t hide a tiny smirk. Yamaguchi walked home that day like he was floating two inches off the ground.

🏐 Ushijima Wakatoshi 🏐

After a long scrimmage, you approached Ushijima and handed him a neatly wrapped protein bar. He took it gingerly, staring at it as if you’d just placed a fragile, magical artifact in his palm. “You… made this for me?” he asked, voice low with genuine disbelief. You nodded, a little shy. “It’s peanut butter and oats. Good for recovery.”

He took a slow, thoughtful bite—chewed, swallowed, and then looked you dead in the eyes. “I believe I might be emotionally compromised.” From that day forward, he began requesting joint practices with Karasuno more frequently, citing “valuable opportunities to observe new techniques.”

No one believed him. Especially not Tendō, who kept whispering, “He’s in love with the snack girl,” with a gleeful grin. Ushijima, unfazed, simply asked if you had any more protein bars—and maybe the recipe.

🏐 Oikawa Tōru 🏐

Oikawa was crouched down, tying his shoes with exaggerated flair, when you walked by and casually ruffled his perpetually messy hair back into place. He froze mid-bend, eyes wide, hands paused in his laces like he’d just seen the face of a god.

“Oh,” he whispered, breath catching. “Oh no. I’m in love.”

Later that day, he slipped you a piece of paper with a volleyball-themed haiku scribbled in glitter pen: Your hand—like a set, guides my heart into the spike— love hits me full force.

He turned to walk away coolly, tripped over a bench, and crashed into the water bottles. That evening, Iwaizumi found him sobbing into his shoulder in the locker room.

“You’re hopeless,” Iwaizumi sighed. “She touched my hair, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa whimpered. “My hair.”

[solace-saphylos]

Hi! I'm a huge fan of your Bully fanfic! The way you portray each character is awesome! Here's my fanart of your work😍 Hope you like it!

AAAAAAAA IM KICKING SCREAMUNG THROWIBG UP!!!!! I LOVE YOUR ART AND THIS THIS HTIS KDJABAJKDJDHHSHS

it looks like a legit book cover I'm ; v ; Thank you!

[verstappenverse]

hmm Max x leclerc!reader who maybe has had a crush on him since the inchident days and they’re rly cute together

Something Like a Crush

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader

Summary: Twelve years after the infamous 'inchident', you’re still trying (and failing) to pretend you don’t have a crush on Max Verstappen.

2.4k words / Masterlist

You were ten years old when you first saw him roll his eyes on camera.

Max Verstappen, just fourteen at the time, sitting beside your brother in that now-infamous press conference after “the inchident.” He looked small at the table, short legs barely brushing the floor, arms crossed too tightly over his chest, but his expression was all sharp defiance and unfiltered frustration. His hair was messy, his cheeks still a little round with childhood, but his eyes? His eyes were furious.

Charles had been irritated too, he always was when someone dared to challenge him on track, especially during those high-stakes junior karting weekends. But where your brother was learning to smooth the edges, to answer with careful diplomacy, Max hadn’t figured out how to bite his tongue yet.

He spoke with his whole body, fidgeting in his seat, hands moving wildly as he gestured through his explanation if it could be called that. More like a defence. A barely-contained storm. He interrupted. He scoffed. He looked like he wanted to launch himself out of the chair and straight back into the kart just to prove a point.

And you? You were completely, hopelessly captivated.

Not that you understood what it all meant at ten years old, but you watched every race, every replay, every interview that came after, and that press conference had something different. Something that made your skin prickle with attention.

All you knew was that this Dutch boy with the sharp voice and restless hands had the exact same look on his face your brother got when someone touched his kart without asking. That fierce, simmering expression that meant: This is mine. Don’t mess with it.

You liked that. A lot.

You didn’t even know the weight of his name then, not really. Just Max, muttered under Charles’s breath when he was in a bad mood. “Max this” and “Max that” and “bloody Verstappen.”

You were too young to call it a crush, but years later when you did understand what it meant to feel butterflies, when you found yourself staring a little too long across the paddock, you’d trace the feeling back to that grainy video, to the boy with fire in his chest and rage in his hands, defending himself against your brother like he had nothing to lose.

You’d watched that press conference more times than you’d ever admit.

And maybe, in a way that only ten-year-old girls with scraped knees and delusions of future karting glory can, you’d decided then and there that Max Verstappen was yours.

You’d only met him in passing back then. Dragged along to circuits while Charles went off to race. But one moment stuck in your memory, warm and a little fuzzy at the edges, like something pulled out of an old scrapbook.

You’d been in Spain, if you remembered right. One of those endless karting weekends that all blurred together, heat shimmering off the track, the smell of petrol and tire rubber, your mother fussing with your sunhat, Charles already stomping away helmet in hand.

You’d wandered toward the drivers' area, trailing a melting ice cream, and found Max sitting alone on a stack of tires behind one of the garages, elbows on his knees, brows furrowed in concentration as he picked at a busted glove.

You recognised him immediately, though you pretended not to.

He looked up as you approached and you stopped a few feet away, unsure if you were allowed to be there.

“Your brother’s mad at me,” he said, without preamble.

You blinked, surprised he even knew who you were. “He’s always mad at someone.”

Max grinned at that, a quick flash of teeth. “Usually me.”

There was a beat of quiet. You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of the ice cream dripping down your wrist.

“Want some?” you offered, a little shy. “It’s strawberry.”

He eyed it like you’d handed him a ticking bomb. “It’s pink.”

“So?”

“I don’t eat pink things.”

You frowned. “That’s stupid.”

He laughed then, really laughed and took the cone from you anyway, wiping the side with the edge of his sleeve before taking a bite. You watched him swallow like he was trying to decide if this had been a mistake.

“It’s not bad,” he admitted eventually.

“Told you.”

He handed it back without looking at you, but his smile lingered. “You’re cool.”

You’d gone red to your ears. You remembered that part especially well.

It wasn’t a long interaction. A few minutes, maybe. But it had been the first time you saw him not as Max Verstappen, the boy your brother fought with, but as just Max. A kid. A little proud. A little weird. Surprisingly sweet.

And maybe that was the worst part, how vividly it stayed with you. How that one stupid, sticky, sunburnt afternoon lived rent-free in your memory even now.

Sometimes you wondered if he remembered it too. Sometimes you hoped he didn’t, because that would mean he’d seen your flushed cheeks, your clumsy hands, your starry-eyed crush forming in real time.

And you’d never quite shaken it. Not even now. Not even when Max Verstappen stood across the paddock, a four-time world champion in Red Bull colours, watching you with a smirk like he already knew every single thing you were trying not to feel.

Twelve years later, yours had turned into something far more inconvenient. What had started as a childhood fascination, an innocent, fleeting curiosity about the boy with too much fire in his chest had rooted itself somewhere deeper.

You were no longer the little sister trailing behind Charles in the paddock, clutching your pass with sticky fingers and swinging your legs under folding chairs during debriefs. You didn’t just belong in the paddock anymore.

You were paddock royalty in your own right.

F2 Champion. The youngest in years. Newly announced reserve driver for Ferrari. The slightly younger, slightly less temperamental Leclerc sibling, still smiling for the cameras, still fluent in three languages, still polished enough to carry the family name, but fierce enough to make it your own.

People didn’t just ask about your brother anymore. They asked about you.

And yet, somehow despite all of it you were still, hopelessly, a little bit in love with Max Verstappen.

Which was a problem. A very stupid, very complicated, Charles-shaped problem.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Especially not with your brother still lurking in every corner of the paddock, always watching, always listening, still very capable of murder.

He had threatened Max once. Not outright. Not in a way that would ever make it into the press. Just a quiet, offhand comment delivered over a shared drink in the lounge after a chaotic sprint race in Austria.

“Don’t even think about it, I'll break your wrist.” Charles had said, calm as anything, not even looking up from his phone.

Max, to his credit, had just laughed, but you’d been there. You’d heard the edge in Charles’s voice. You’d seen the way Max’s smile twitched, like he knew exactly what was being said and exactly what would happen if he pushed it.

You remembered it very clearly.

Apparently, so did Max, because even now, years later, there was something deliberate about the way he looked at you. The way his gaze slid sideways instead of head-on. The way his jokes stopped just short of flirtation. Like he was holding himself back, not because he didn’t want to say the words, but because he didn’t trust the consequences if he did.

You weren’t sure if it made you want to strangle him or kiss him.

Sometimes both.

And the worst part? You didn’t know if the tension between you was real or just a shared, unspoken game that neither of you had the guts to end.

Because despite all the wins, the interviews, the champagne, you were still the girl who once gave him her half-eaten ice cream behind the garages in Spain. And he was still the boy who made your heart stutter when he smiled like he knew every version of you that had ever existed.

You stood at the edge of the hospitality suite now, your eyes flicking again to the Red Bull garage across the way. Max leaned against the wall like he hadn’t a care in the world, race suit unzipped to his waist, white fireproof clinging to him in a way that made your brain short-circuit.

He laughed at something his race engineer said, and your chest squeezed tight.

Beside you, Carlos didn’t even bother looking up from his phone. “You’re staring.”

You scoffed. “I’m not.”

“You’ve been staring at him since we walked in,” he muttered. “Since... 2011 really.”

You elbowed him, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

Carlos grinned. “One of these days, you’re gonna have to do something about it. Preferably when Charles is in another time zone.”

“I don’t have a thing to do something about.”

“Mmhmm.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, but your eyes still flicked back toward the garage, like they had a mind of their own. And of course that’s when Max looked up. Of course.

His gaze caught yours. Held it.

Your stomach dropped.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen you watching. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like he was amused and gave you a lazy, knowing half-smile that made your breath catch.

Damn it.

“He’s walking over,” Carlos said, not even pretending to hide his amusement.

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

Carlos stood abruptly, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Should I give you two some privacy? Or just text Charles now and save everyone the trouble?”

“I swear to God—”

But it was too late. You turned and Max was already close, just a few feet away, walking like he had all the time in the world, like he didn’t also look unfairly good under fluorescent lighting.

He smiled at you and Carlos, easy and warm, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long.

“Afternoon, Leclerc” he greeted smoothly, voice low and a little smug. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurted too fast.

Carlos grinned. “Her crush.”

You were going to kill him.

Max raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

You shot Carlos a glare so deadly he actually stood up, clearly deciding to spare himself. “I’ll leave you two,” he said casually. “Good luck with the… crush.”

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Max turned back to you slowly, arms folding across his chest, amusement dancing in his eyes. “So…”

You crossed your arms. “He’s an idiot.”

“Maybe,” Max agreed, then paused. “Is it true?”

You blinked. “Is what true?”

He tilted his head. “That you have a crush.”

“I—” You swallowed. “That depends.”

Max’s eyes twinkled. “On what?”

You tried to keep your voice steady. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

He stepped closer, just enough to make your breath catch. “Of course not”

There was a beat of silence. Your heart was doing gymnastics.

“Then maybe,” you said softly, voice barely above the noise of the paddock, eyes locked with his. “Maybe it’s true.”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to say it. Not really. You watched something flicker behind his eyes, surprise, maybe.

He didn’t speak right away just studied your face like he was trying to memorise it. Then, finally.

“You know Charles threatened to kill me once,” he murmured. “Told me not to look at you for more than five seconds at a time.”

You laughed nervously. “I remember.”

“I think I timed myself for a year after that,” he said with a soft smile. “Four seconds, look away. Four seconds, look away.”

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

His smile faded just a little, the teasing slipping from his features until only something soft remained, something honest. His eyes gentled, tone dropping into something more careful. “I’ve liked you since before I knew how to handle it. Since before it was allowed to be anything.”

Your breath caught.

He looked away briefly, then back at you, and there was something achingly sincere in the way he said it. “And then you started racing. Kicking ass. Winning everything. Being smarter than half the grid and not even pretending to downplay it. And you grew up, and I started seeing you for you, and then it was just…” He shook his head with a helpless little shrug. “Game over.”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your voice was quiet, uneven. “Seriously?”

Max nodded, almost shy now. “Inchident days.”

You blinked, dazed. “I was like… ten.”

“And you were already cooler than me,” he said, eyes crinkling a little, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious.

You laughed, sudden and bright, because what else could you do when the ground was shifting under your feet?

But it was short-lived, because your chest was suddenly too tight, your thoughts tripping over themselves, years of doubt trying to catch up to reality.

“I thought I was imagining it,” you admitted, and your voice cracked, just slightly. “I’ve felt like the idiot for so long, like it was just me stuck in some schoolgirl fantasy I never grew out of. You’d look at me and I’d feel it and then you’d blink and it was gone, and I’d spend hours convincing myself I made it all up.”

Max’s expression softened even further, and he stepped closer not enough to touch, not yet, but enough that you could feel the heat of him.

“It wasn’t just you,” he said again, firmer this time. “It was never just you.”

It felt like a mirage. Like something your brain had conjured in the haze of too many years and too many unspoken moments. You half expected it to vanish if you reached for it.

But it didn’t. Because Max was still looking at you like that with the quiet weight of someone who’d been holding this just as tightly, just as secretly, all this time. Your heart couldn’t tell the difference between disbelief and something dangerously close to joy.

He nodded. “Been wanting to ask for years, I think I've finally realised I’d rather risk getting punched in the face than keep pretending I don’t feel what I feel every time I look at you."

Your heart twisted, painfully fond.

“Okay,” you said, heart hammering. “So what now?”

Max shrugged. “Now I ask if maybe, hypothetically, you’d want to grab a drink. Or a walk. Or maybe let me kiss you in a place where your brother definitely can’t see us.”

You smiled, cheeks burning. “All of the above?”

His grin was slow, devastating. “Good choice.”

[finelinevogue]

OMG imagine kit and reader begin co stars in something and people making those compilations of them that are like “____ and ____ acting like a couple for 12 minutes and seven seconds straight” 🤭🤭🤭

oh im SOOO on for this🤭✨

the compilation

summary - you and kit are secretly dating but the fans are too perceptive and make a montage of your flirtiest moments

pairing - kit connor x co-star!reader

🫧🎥🫧🎬🫧🎥🫧🎬🫧🎥🫧🎬🫧🎥🫧🎬🫧

The video started with a short video of Kit being filmed for an interview, where he had to describe his co-star.

“What do I think about Y/N in 5 words?” He asked the man behind the camera.

The reporter confirmed the question and waited for Kit to respond.

“I don’t think there’s 5 words that are good enough.” Kit mumbled to himself but the microphone attached to him picked it up.

The rest of the people in the interview room swooned, but Kit was too busy trying to come up with a good enough answer to see.

“Okay…” Kit sat up straight, ready to answer properly.

“Kind. I know it’s a basic one, but it’s just true.”

“Funny. I’ve never known someone who could make me belly laugh before Y/N.”

“Compassionate. No matter how hard Y/N’s day is, you will always be granted a hug.” Kit laughed at that one, hearing how cheesy he sounded.

“Unpredictable. I feel like that needs no explanation.”

“And….” Kit smirked then, the camera zooming in on it, as he tried to think of an appropriate thing to say last, “I’ll go with safe.”

“Safe?” An interviewer questions.

“Yeah.” Kit responded with no intention to explain himself.

Once you watched the interview you would know exactly what he meant though, because you felt just as safe with Kit as he did with you.

🌊.

The next few clips were a compilation of videos that had been secretly recorded of you two from set or from friends.

The movie you’d been filming together had been a romance, which had only magnified your relationship seeing as you’d actually met through a mutual friend; Joe.

Joe would argue that he was the reason you were together. Kit would argue that it was his charm solely that got you together. You would argue that it was a bit of both, just to keep the peace.

The first clip that played was from a day that you visited the Heartstopper set.

You, Joe and Kit were all laying in “Nick’s” bed, laughing at something that Kit had just said. It must have been ridiculously funny because the next thing that happened was you rolling off the edge of the bed and onto the floor with a thump.

Kit had rolled to try and catch you but the thump on the floor suggested otherwise. The situation only made you laugh harder.

The second clip was something from Joe’s Instagram story, where he was filming a group of you walking down the River Thames. You were hitching a ride on Kit’s back, his arms around your legs that were wrapped around his waist. Your arms dangling around his neck and your cheek pressed against his.

The third clip was on the set of your new movie together.

You were both in Kit’s trailer and practicing some lines.

“You said you didn’t care!” You shouted, playing your character Rosa.

“Well I lied. I do care.” Kit shouted back, looking from his script to your face, playing his character Oscar.

“You’re insufferable.” You groaned.

“I’m sorry that me trying to figure out my feelings for you is insufferable.”

“F-feelings?” You questioned, your voice going quieter.

“I thought I was being obvious.” Kit chuckled, “Did you not think that there might’ve been a reason I cared that you kissed Danny?”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I cared because I wished you’d been kissing me instead.”

Then Kit broke character and launched himself on you, pretending to kiss you all over. You were belly laughing as Kit crushed himself over you, pushing you into the leather sofa that you’d been sitting on.

“Kit get off!” You laughed and then the video cut, leaving the viewers to question what happened next and curse whoever had decided to stop recording.

🌊.

The video then cut to an interview you’d done together and it had gone viral mainly for the way Kit had been looking at you throughout the whole thing.

It had been a normal interview and yet Kit had been feeling the extra love towards you that day, so he sat and watched you answer lovingly.

There had even been a point where he got caught, but that hadn’t worried him.

“And Kit? Your answer?” The interviewer asked.

He looked from you to the interviewer, realising he’d been asked something.

“Oh I’m so sorry. Could you repeat the question please?” He laughed it off, as did you and the interviewer.

“I was just wondering what attracted you to the role of Oscar?”

Kit hummed with a smile, forcing himself to not say your name as the answer. You nudged his shoulder to pull him out of his head.

“I think….”

🌊.

Then there was the interview where you’d been really anxious in.

It had been a rubbish day from start to finish, mainly because the anxiety weighing on your chest had been so heavy all day.

It was in an interview close to the end of the day that the small, intimate, moment came from.

“And I think that’s why we resonate–.” The interviewer was talking.

“I’m so sorry, can we stop for one moment please.” You interrupted in the most polite way you could.

“Yeah of course.” The interviewer nodded, sitting patiently.

It was not unknown that you suffered with anxiety, in fact you were pretty open about it. Why hide something that was such a huge part of you, especially when you were in a position where you could help break the stigma surrounding it.

Kit swerved his body so the cameras could no longer see you, just see his back. He knew the cameras would keep rolling and your mics would stay on, but he was trying to do whatever would be most comfortable for you.

“I’m sorry.” You could be heard saying.

Kit’s hands could be seen moving around to meet yours, both of your hands situated in your lap now. You’d often spoken out about how physical touch can ground you in these situations.

“No. Don’t be sorry.” Kit said, waiting for you to give the signal on whether he should or shouldn’t keep talking.

“Just felt a panic attack coming and I wanted to calm it before it actually came.”

Kit nodded.

“You did good. You’re doing good.”

“Thank you.” You whispered.

It was at least another three minutes before you felt okay enough to mentally return to the room. Kit turned back around in his chair, but kept ahold of your hand with his.

You apologised to the interviewer again, but she was completely fine with it and the producers had allowed her to regain her allotted interview time.

“Would you mind keeping that footage? I would quite like to share it to show that even ‘celebrities’ can feel like rubbish sometimes.” You laughed, Kit squeezing your hand in the process.

“Of course.”

“Ready?” Kit asked you once more. You nodded and the interview continued, Kit holding your hand for the rest of it and then for the rest of the day.

🌊.

The video ended the same way it began.

It was a similar interview to Kit’s, where you got asked to describe Kit in 5 words.

You couldn’t help but smile, because you love sharing the love so much - especially when it’s about your boyfriend who you care about a lot.

“Loyal. He’s so loyal to his friends and family.”

“Kind. He has so much love in his heart and he always shows it in the little moments.”

“Artistic. I don’t think he would agree, but he is.”

“Magnetic. Kit just attracts anyone and everyone to him, you can’t help but love him.”

“And one more?” The interviewer asked.

You pondered for a moment.

“Grumpy. You would not believe how much of a grump he is in a morning.” You laughed, not even thinking about the repercussions of admitting that you see Kit in the mornings.

It’s not a surprise that you’re both trending the next day and there’s a million theories about you two. Hence why the compilation video is made.

[maeintree]

pillow kingdom | s. reid

Summary: Dr. Spencer Reid may have three PhDs and an IQ of 187, but when it comes to battling his two tiny, chaos-loving children in an all-out Pillow Kingdom war, he never stood a chance. Pairing: father!Spencer Reid x fem!mother!Reader Word Count: 600 (oh.) Author's Note: genuinely wasn't thinking when i wrote this, saw my nephew and immediately got baby fever and just remembered spence being so good with kids and this is extremely mgg coded, so enjoy this fluffy 'lil one shot <3

You weren’t sure what was funnier—the fact that your two children had built an entire fortress out of couch cushions, blankets, and stuffed animals, or the fact that your genius husband, Dr. Spencer Reid, was dramatically attempting to “storm the castle” like a medieval jester on too much caffeine.

“You think you can defeat me? The all-powerful Dr. Spencer the Fearsome?!” he bellowed, holding a wooden spoon like a sword.

From the depths of the pillow fort, two pairs of eyes peeked out. Your daughter, Lily, narrowed hers suspiciously. “You don’t look fearsome.”

“Yeah,” your son, Max, added. “You look like you need a nap.”

You snorted into your coffee from your spot on the couch. They weren’t wrong.

Spencer gasped, clutching his chest like they’d just insulted his entire PhD collection. “A nap? A nap? Do you know who I am? I have an eidetic memory—I once stayed up for eighty-four hours straight during a case! I can outlast any of you!”

Lily pointed a tiny finger at him. “Then why did Mommy say you got cranky and cried over a vending machine that wouldn’t take your dollar?”

You nearly choked.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. “I—that’s slander! Your mother is a liar.” He turned to you for backup, but you just smiled innocently and sipped your coffee.

Max, meanwhile, picked up a stuffed T-Rex and threw it at Spencer’s head.

“ATTACK!”

The war was on.

Spencer ducked and rolled—dramatically, of course, like some kind of action hero who had absolutely no reason to be this extra—before lobbing a pillow right back at them. Lily shrieked and launched a plush unicorn in retaliation.

“You’ll never take our kingdom!” she declared.

“Oh, we’ll see about that!” Spencer bellowed, grabbing a blanket and spinning like a deranged superhero. “I have acquired the Cloak of Infinite Wisdom!”

Max squinted. “That’s just the throw blanket from the couch.”

Spencer gasped again, pointing at him. “You have your mother’s skepticism, and frankly, it’s terrifying.”

You grinned. “Taught them well.”

Just as Spencer lunged forward, Lily leaped from the fortress and wrapped herself around his leg. “I got him! I got him!”

Max charged next, full toddler-speed, ramming into Spencer’s side like an overenthusiastic linebacker. Your husband crumpled like a science nerd hit by reality.

“Oh nooooo,” Spencer groaned, flopping onto the floor. “My one weakness! Small, adorable children!”

“Victory!” Lily cheered, standing triumphantly on his stomach like she had just slain a dragon.

Max clambered on top of him next, sitting on his chest. “Now you’re our prisoner!”

Spencer groaned dramatically. “Curse you, tiny overlords.”

From your cozy spot on the couch, you smirked over your coffee. “See, this is why I married you. Not for your three PhDs, not for your genius IQ—but because you lose every single battle against two tiny humans.”

Spencer tilted his head up from the floor, where he lay pinned beneath his children. His curls were a mess, his glasses were slightly askew, and he looked utterly betrayed. “I don’t lose. I let them win.”

Lily gasped. “Traitor!”

Max grabbed another pillow and smacked Spencer square in the face.

And that was the day Dr. Spencer Reid was officially overthrown as ruler of the household.

this was soo rushed, and i'm sooo ughh. hope you enjoyed!! aha

[millalune]

suprise - park jongseong

pairing - boyfriend jay x reader

synopsis - when your long distance boyfriend jay decides to surprise you, you couldn’t be happier.

word count - 0.8k

You were sprawled out on your couch, wrapped in the softest blanket you owned, mindlessly scrolling through your phone.

The TV played in the background, something you had put on just for noise, but nothing really held your attention.

Your attention had been elsewhere all day on him.

Jay.

The distance between you two felt especially unbearable tonight. Maybe it was the weather, the way the rain tapped against your window like a reminder of how alone you felt without him here.

Or maybe it was just one of those nights when the ache of missing him weighed a little heavier on your chest.

You sighed, pulling your blanket tighter around you as you opened your messages with him.

Jay [6:12 PM]: “Busy today, but I’ll call you before you sleep, okay?”

That was hours ago. It wasn’t like him to go this long without at least sending a quick text.

You tried not to overthink it. Maybe he got caught up with something. Maybe he was exhausted. Maybe

A knock at your door made you jolt.

You frowned, glancing at the time. 11:43 PM. Who the hell was knocking this late? You hesitated, creeping toward the door cautiously.

“Who is it?” you called, your voice wary.

Silence.

Then—

“It’s me.”

Your heart stopped.

You knew that voice.

Your hands trembled as you fumbled with the lock, yanking the door open so fast you nearly tripped over yourself.

And there he was.

Jay.

Standing in your doorway, rain-soaked and breathtakingly real. A black hoodie clung to his frame, droplets of rain slipping from his damp hair onto his forehead.

He was carrying his bag, his suitcase resting beside him, as if he had just stepped off a plane and come straight here.

Your breath hitched. “You’re… you’re here?”

A slow smile tugged at his lips, his eyes filled with something tender, something that made your chest tighten. “Surprise.”

You didn’t think you just moved.

You launched yourself into his arms, the force nearly knocking him back. His bag hit the floor as he caught you, strong arms wrapping around you as he buried his face into your neck.

His scent familiar, comforting, intoxicating flooded your senses, and suddenly, the weight of missing him came crashing down all at once.

“You idiot,” you mumbled against his shoulder, gripping him tighter. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Jay chuckled, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Kinda ruins the surprise if I do.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face, your thumbs brushing over the slight stubble on his jaw.

His eyes searched yours, filled with something soft and adoring, like he was memorizing every inch of your face.

“How?” you asked, still in disbelief.

He grinned, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “Took the first flight I could. I couldn’t do another night without you.”

Your throat tightened. “You’re such a sap.”

Jay smirked. “And yet, you love me for it.”

You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t wrong.

Instead of answering, you kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate it was slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant.

His lips were warm against yours despite the rain, his hands slipping around your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Can I come in?” he murmured, voice laced with amusement.

You laughed softly, stepping aside. “Only because you traveled thousands of miles.”

He grinned, grabbing his suitcase and stepping inside. The moment the door shut behind him, you tugged him toward the couch, still unwilling to let go.

He didn’t mind he let you hold onto him, let you steal every second of warmth he had to offer.

Jay pulled you into his lap, arms encircling you as you nestled against his chest. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“This still doesn’t feel real,” you mumbled.

He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Better believe it, baby. You’re stuck with me now.”

You smiled against his hoodie, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

Jay tightened his arms around you. “Never.”

And just like that, the distance didn’t matter anymore. Because he was here, finally, where he belonged right in your arms.

milla’s note - I remember doing long distance that shit was so hard to be honest but if you really love the person it always works out in the end!

@millalune please don’t translate or plagiarize my work!

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

My Boss's Son

Y/N, an assistant to Anne Twist, forms an unexpected connection with her son, Harry, when he comes home for the holidays.

Word Count: 9,464

Content Warning: Mentions of alcohol, kissing.

Mostly fluff.

Part one of two.

The light filtered through the blinds, casting faint stripes of gold across the room. I blinked against the brightness, my eyes slowly adjusting as I stretched my arms out, feeling the tension in my muscles ease. A deep yawn escaped me, filling the quiet morning air. The world outside seemed to hum faintly, the distant chirping of birds blending with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.

I sat up, letting the covers slide off my shoulders. The room was still, yet alive with the promise of a new day. The faint aroma of coffee from the kitchen teased my senses, nudging me toward the day ahead. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I let my toes press against the cool floor, a gentle reminder that today was mine to shape.

As I stood, a faint shadow danced across the wall—a tree branch swaying outside the window. Something about the movement caught my attention, a quiet insistence that the day held more than routine.

After finishing my coffee, I carried the empty mug to the sink, rinsing it absentmindedly as my thoughts drifted to the day ahead. The morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, filling the space with a soft, golden glow. I grabbed my phone from the counter and headed upstairs, each step creaking faintly underfoot.

Back in my room, I opened the closet door, revealing a neatly arranged array of clothes. My fingers brushed over the hangers as I flipped through the options—crisp blouses, tailored trousers, and a few statement pieces that Anne had complimented in the past. Getting dressed in the morning was never a struggle. My wardrobe was curated with care, blending professionalism with a touch of personality and casualness, just as my job required.

Working as a personal assistant to Anne Twist, a celebrated children's author based in the UK and mother to global superstar Harry Styles, came with its own unique blend of charm and challenge. Anne’s world was a whirlwind of creative projects, book signings, and interviews, and I was the one ensuring every detail went off without a hitch. It wasn’t just about organizing her calendar or prepping her notes—it was about anticipating her needs, often before she voiced them.

I finally settled on a simple navy blue dress with a subtle floral pattern, pairing it with a cardigan and comfortable flats. Anne had a penchant for warm, approachable styles herself, and I liked to reflect that in my own appearance. As I slipped on the outfit, I glanced at the framed photo on my dresser—a candid shot of Anne and me at a book launch, her arm draped over my shoulder, both of us laughing.

Today’s agenda was packed. A meeting with Anne's publisher, a conference call with a charity she supported, and later, a brainstorming session for her next book.I grabbed my bag and took one last look in the mirror. Polished yet approachable—that was the goal. Taking a deep breath, I smiled to myself.

The drive to Anne’s house was peaceful, the winding country roads lined with lush greenery and dappled sunlight. I rolled the window down just enough to let the cool morning air fill the car, carrying with it the faint scent of flowers and freshly cut grass. Anne’s home always felt like a retreat from the bustling world—a charming cottage with ivy climbing the walls and a garden that looked like it had been plucked straight from a fairytale.

As I pulled into the driveway, Anne was already at the door, her warm smile radiating the same comforting energy as her home. She waved enthusiastically, her auburn hair catching the sunlight.

“Y/N!” she called out, stepping onto the porch. “You’re right on time, as always. Come in, come in! I’ve just put the kettle on.”

I climbed out of the car, grabbing my bag from the passenger seat. “Morning, Anne!” I replied, smiling as I approached. Her energy was infectious, and it was impossible not to feel instantly at ease in her presence.

Anne pulled me into a quick hug as I reached the door. “It’s so good to see you. I hope the drive wasn’t too long. You know how these roads can be,” she said, ushering me inside.

The familiar scent of lavender and lemon greeted me as I stepped into the house. The kitchen table was already covered in papers—manuscript drafts, notes, and a plate of freshly baked scones. Anne was nothing if not prepared.

“I’ve got a lot to go over with you today,” she said, her tone cheerful but purposeful. “But first, tea. You can’t work properly without tea.”

I laughed, setting my bag down on a chair. “You know me too well, Anne. What’s on the agenda today?”

She poured steaming tea into two mismatched mugs, handing one to me. “Oh, the usual chaos,” she said with a wink. “We’ve got that call with the publisher at ten, and later I want to brainstorm ideas for the next book. Oh, and Harry might pop by later—he said he had something he wanted to drop off.”

I raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of the tea. “Harry’s stopping by? Should I be preparing for something out of the ordinary?”

Anne laughed, her eyes twinkling. “You never know with him, do you? But for now, let’s get through these notes. Come on, take a seat.”

I settled into the chair opposite her, notebook in hand, ready to dive into the day’s work.

As Anne and I worked through her notes, my mind kept drifting back to what she had said earlier. Harry might pop by. I hadn’t met him yet—despite working with Anne for nearly a year now. He was always away, either on tour or traveling, and our paths had never crossed. But today might change that.

“Anne,” I said hesitantly, setting down my pen, “so… about Harry. I guess I’m a little nervous to meet him.”

Anne looked up from her notes, her expression warm and understanding. “Nervous? Oh, Y/N, you’ve nothing to be nervous about! He’s a sweetheart. Truly.”

“I’m sure he is,” I replied with a nervous laugh. “But, I mean, he’s Harry Styles. He’s this global superstar, and I’m just… me. What if I say something awkward? Or trip over my words?”

Anne chuckled, setting her glasses on the table and leaning back in her chair. “Y/N, you have nothing to worry about. Harry’s as down-to-earth as they come. He’s more likely to be the one tripping over his words than you are.”

Her reassurance made me smile, but there was something in her tone—something playful—that piqued my curiosity. Before I could dwell on it, Anne leaned forward slightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Actually,” she said, a little more thoughtfully, “I think it’s good you two are finally meeting. I’ve always thought you and Harry would get along wonderfully.”

I raised an eyebrow, my cheeks warming slightly. “You do?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, nodding with certainty. “You both have such similar energies—kind, thoughtful, creative. And you both love to laugh. I can already picture the two of you chatting away like old friends.”

I laughed nervously, unsure how to respond. “Well, I guess we’ll see. No pressure, right?”

Anne smiled knowingly, taking a sip of her tea. “No pressure at all, my dear. But sometimes, the best connections happen when you least expect them.”

Her words lingered in the air as we returned to our work, but my mind couldn’t help wandering. 

The day passed in a flurry of productivity. Anne and I tackled everything on the agenda—the publisher’s call went smoothly, the brainstorming session brought to life some fantastic ideas for her next book, and even the smallest tasks seemed to fall perfectly into place. By late afternoon, the papers on the kitchen table were neatly stacked, the mugs washed, and the scones just a crumb-filled memory.

As I started gathering my things to leave, Anne stopped me, her warm smile ever-present. “Y/N, don’t rush off just yet.”

I glanced at her, surprised. “Oh, I thought we were done for the day?”

“We are,” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder, her tone gentle and inviting. “But Harry should be here soon, and I think it would be lovely if you stayed for dinner. I’ve already got everything prepped, and I promise it’s nothing fancy—just a good, home-cooked meal. Besides, you’ve worked so hard today, and I’d love the company.”

I hesitated, glancing at the time. “Are you sure, Anne? I don’t want to intrude.”

Anne shook her head firmly, her expression softening in a way that reminded me of my own mother. “Y/N, you’re not intruding. You’re family—more than just an assistant to me. I don’t say that lightly.” She gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. “Now, stay. Let me spoil you a little.”

Her words warmed my heart, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. Anne had always treated me with such kindness, but hearing her say it so plainly made me feel truly appreciated. “Okay,” I said, smiling. “I’d love to stay.”

“Good,” Anne said, beaming. “You can help me set the table. And don’t worry, you’ll love Harry. He’s just like me, only taller and a bit scruffier.”

I laughed, the nervous flutter in my stomach returning. The idea of meeting Harry still felt slightly surreal, but Anne’s confidence that we’d get along eased my nerves—at least a little.

Together, we walked back to the house, chatting about everything from her garden to potential titles for her next book. Anne’s warmth and humor made the transition from work mode to relaxation seamless, and by the time we reached the cottage, I was already feeling at home.

As we stepped inside, Anne gestured toward the dining table. “You start on the plates, and I’ll grab the drinks. Harry should be here any minute now.”

I nodded, moving to set the table as instructed, but I couldn’t help the little flicker of excitement—and anxiety—that danced in my chest. 

Moments later, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house, followed by a familiar voice calling out.

“Mum? I’m here!” Harry’s voice carried easily, warm and slightly teasing.

Anne, busy at the counter pouring drinks, shouted back, “In the kitchen, love!”

I froze mid-step, clutching a plate in my hands. My pulse quickened as the reality of meeting Harry—Anne’s son and global superstar—hit me square in the chest. A part of me wanted to disappear into the background, but before I could even think to move, the sound of footsteps approached.

Then, there he was. Harry walked into the kitchen, his casual stride and easy grin instantly lighting up the room. He was dressed simply—jeans, a T-shirt, and a beanie pulled snugly over his brown curls—but his presence was anything but ordinary. His green eyes scanned the room before landing on me.

He stopped, his smile widening with playful confusion. “Well, you’re definitely not my mum.”

I blinked, caught off guard, before laughing nervously. “No, no, definitely not.”

Anne turned from the counter, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Y/N, meet my son, Harry. Harry, this is Y/N—my assistant, though I prefer to call her my second daughter.”

Harry’s expression softened, and he stepped forward, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Mum’s told me loads about you.”

I set the plate down carefully before shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you too. She’s told me a lot about you as well.”

He raised an eyebrow, a glint of humor in his eyes. “All good things, I hope?”

“Of course,” I replied, feeling my nerves ease slightly under the weight of his charm. “She’s very proud of you.”

Harry shot Anne a look, his smile turning fond. “She’s not bad herself, is she?” Turning back to me, he added, “So, you’re the one keeping her so organized. Must be a full-time job.”

“It is,” I said with a small laugh. “But I love it.”

Anne interjected, carrying the drinks to the table. “All right, enough chatter. Harry, help Y/N finish setting the table. And no teasing—you’ll scare her off.”

Harry chuckled, grabbing a stack of silverware. “Scare her off? I’m charming, Mum.”

Anne gave him a knowing look but didn’t argue. As Harry handed me the silverware, his smile was soft, his teasing replaced by genuine warmth.

“Don’t let her boss you around too much,” he joked quietly, leaning in just enough for only me to hear. “But I’ll warn you, she’s usually right.”

As we worked together to set the table, Harry struck up a conversation, his natural curiosity evident in the way he asked questions.

“So, Y/N,” he began, placing the silverware neatly beside the plates, “Mum says you’ve been working with her for about a year now. But I’m curious—how’d you end up here? Not many people just casually relocate to the middle of England.”

I smiled, stacking the napkins as I spoke. “Well, I’m originally from New York, but I came to England a few years ago to study abroad. It was supposed to be temporary, but I ended up falling in love with the country. Anne and I met while I was finishing up my studies, and things just kind of fell into place.”

“New York to England, huh?” he said, his tone thoughtful. “That’s quite a leap. What made you want to stay? Was it the tea, the rain, or Mum’s scones?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Definitely not the rain. But honestly, I think it was the pace of life here. It’s different from New York—slower, in a good way. Plus, I felt like I’d found a second home when I started working with Anne. She’s been amazing.”

Harry glanced over at his mum, who was busy fiddling with the oven, her back turned to us. His expression softened. “Yeah, she has a way of making people feel that way, doesn’t she?”

“She really does,” I agreed, my voice warm. “She’s been more than a boss to me—more like family.”

Harry smiled, leaning casually against the edge of the table. “That sounds like her. She’s always taking people under her wing. So, what were you studying before you decided to make the big move?”

“English literature,” I said, straightening one of the forks. “I’ve always loved books and writing, so it just felt like the right path. Meeting Anne was kind of serendipitous. She needed an assistant around the same time I was trying to figure out what to do next, and the rest is history.”

Harry nodded, his interest clearly genuine. “That’s brilliant. Sounds like it was meant to be. And now you’re here, working with Mum, dealing with her endless sticky notes and brainstorm sessions. She ever drag you out to the garden for ‘creative inspiration’?”

I chuckled, nodding. “Oh, plenty of times. But I don’t mind—it’s always an adventure with her.”

Harry’s grin widened. “I can imagine. And do you still write yourself, or is it all Mum’s projects now?”

The question caught me off guard, and I hesitated for a moment. “I try to write when I can, but it’s mostly little things—nothing serious.”

“Well,” he said, his tone encouraging, “maybe one day I’ll get to read something of yours. If Mum’s spoken this highly of you, I bet it’s brilliant.”

His compliment made my cheeks flush slightly, but I managed a smile. “Maybe. But for now, I’m happy helping her bring her stories to life.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. But don’t forget about your own stories, yeah? Something tells me they’re worth sharing.”

The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard, but before I could respond, Anne interrupted, calling us to the table.

“All right, you two, enough chatter! Dinner’s ready. Harry, stop hogging Y/N’s attention and help me bring the dishes out.”

Harry smirked but obeyed, shooting me a quick wink as he moved to help his mum. “Guess that’s my cue,” he said, grabbing the serving tray. “But I’m not done with my questions, Y/N. Consider this round one.”

I laughed softly, feeling a strange mix of nerves and excitement as I took my seat at the table. Round one, huh? This evening was shaping up to be much more interesting than I’d anticipated.

As Harry walked toward the kitchen to help his mom, I began fiddling with the edge of the napkin in front of me, still processing our earlier conversation. His natural charm and easygoing nature made him surprisingly approachable, and yet I couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in my stomach.

I was just settling into my seat when I heard his voice drift from the kitchen. It wasn’t loud, but the playful tone caught my attention.

“Mum,” he said, his voice carrying just enough for me to overhear, “you forgot to mention how pretty she is.”

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My heart began to race as I tried to process what I’d just heard. Was he talking about me? It was hard to mistake the sincerity in his tone, even laced as it was with a hint of teasing.

Anne chuckled in response, her reply warm but matter-of-fact. “I didn’t think I needed to, love. I figured you’d see that for yourself.”

The sound of clinking dishes followed, but I couldn’t focus on anything else. My cheeks grew hot as I stared at the table, trying to act like I hadn’t heard a word.

What did that even mean? Was he just being nice? Or was there something more to his comment? The idea made my chest tighten, equal parts flattered and overwhelmed.

Moments later, Harry and Anne returned to the dining room, each carrying a dish. His expression was as casual and easy as ever, as if he hadn’t just said something that was now on a loop in my head. He caught my gaze briefly as he set down a bowl of roasted vegetables, flashing me a small, almost knowing smile before turning back to his mom.

“Right, all set?” Anne asked cheerfully, glancing between the two of us as she placed the final dish on the table. “Let’s dig in!”

I forced myself to smile, hoping it didn’t look too forced. “Smells amazing, Anne. Thank you.”

As dinner began, Harry struck up conversation again, his questions lighthearted and easy, but I couldn’t help noticing the occasional glance he sent my way. Maybe it was nothing—or maybe Anne had been right all along. Whatever it was, one thing was certain: this evening was turning out to be far more eventful than I had expected.

After everyone had eaten their fill and the plates were cleared, I stood to help Anne gather the dishes, but she waved me off with a smile.

“Sit and relax, Y/N. You’ve done enough today,” she said warmly. “But if Harry’s volunteering, I won’t say no to an extra pair of hands.”

“I’ll help too,” I insisted, ignoring her gentle protest as I followed Harry to the kitchen with a stack of plates.

Harry grabbed a dish towel, tossing it over his shoulder as he started rinsing the dishes. He glanced at me with a grin. “Looks like it’s just us now. I’ll try not to scare you off with my terrible washing-up skills.”

I laughed, rolling up my sleeves. “Don’t worry—I’m no professional either.”

As we worked side by side, the atmosphere felt lighter, more relaxed. Harry, ever curious, turned to me with a playful tilt of his head. “So, Y/N, I feel like I barely scratched the surface earlier. Let’s dig a little deeper. Do you have any pets?”

I smiled, handing him a clean plate to dry. “No pets, unfortunately. Growing up in New York, we didn’t really have the space for them. But I’ve always wanted a dog. What about you?”

He nodded, his grin widening. “Mum’s got a cat—Dusty. Though I think she likes Dusty more than me most days.”

I laughed at his self-deprecating humor. “I doubt that. Anne talks about you like you’re her pride and joy.”

“Good to know I’m still in her good books,” he teased, then shifted gears. “Okay, next question. Favorite movie?”

I bit my lip, thinking it over. “That’s a tough one. Probably Pride and Prejudice—the Keira Knightley version. I’ve seen it a hundred times, and it still makes me swoon. What about you?”

Harry pretended to look thoughtful. “Hmm, Pride and Prejudice is solid, but I might have to go with The Notebook. Classic romantic drama.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Am I?” he said with a playful wink, taking another dish from my hands. “Okay, next one: Favorite bar in London?”

“That’s easy,” I said, sliding another plate toward him. “The Churchill Arms. It’s so cozy and covered in flowers—it’s like stepping into a storybook. What about you?”

“Great choice,” he said, nodding approvingly. “For me, it’s The Spaniards Inn. Proper old-school vibe and great music.”

“I’ll have to check it out sometime,” I said, filing the recommendation away.

He paused, glancing over at me with a curious glint in his eye. “I could show you, if you’re up for it. You know, give you the full Harry Styles bar tour.”

The suggestion caught me off guard, but his smile was so genuine, it was impossible not to mirror it. “Maybe,” I said, trying to sound casual despite the warmth spreading in my chest. “If I can keep up.”

“Oh, I think you’ll manage,” he replied, his voice light and teasing as he placed the last clean plate on the rack. “But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet. I’ve got plenty more questions.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Something tells me you’re not going to run out anytime soon.”

“Not a chance,” he said, his smile widening as he grabbed the dish towel to dry his hands. “You’re far too interesting for that.”

As the evening wound down, the cozy energy of Anne’s home lingered in the air. Harry leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, chatting with his mom while I finished drying the last of the dishes. His laugh filled the kitchen, warm and effortless, and I couldn’t help but glance his way more often than necessary.

But soon, it was time to leave. Harry had to fly out the next morning to start recording for his next project, and I knew my days ahead would be busy helping Anne finalize the manuscript for her latest book. It felt bittersweet—our paths had just crossed, and yet, they were already diverging.

As I grabbed my coat from the hook near the door, Harry walked over, slipping his hands into his pockets. “So,” he began, his voice casual but his eyes searching mine, “looks like it’ll be a bit before we see each other again.”

I nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah, sounds like you’ll be busy.”

“Same for you,” he said, tilting his head. “Mum keeps you running around, doesn’t she?”

I chuckled. “She does, but I don’t mind. She’s worth it.”

Harry’s smile turned a little softer at that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Well, seeing as I’m about to disappear for a while, how about we exchange numbers? Just in case Mum ‘accidentally’ forgets to pass along messages.”

The suggestion caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered, pulling out my phone. “Sure,” I said, feeling a flutter of nerves as we traded numbers. His fingers brushed mine briefly as he handed my phone back, and I wondered if he felt the same quiet spark.

“Now you’ve got no excuse not to check out The Spaniards Inn,” he joked, his voice light but his eyes holding something a little more serious.

“Guess I don’t,” I said, smiling.

Anne appeared then, wrapping an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “All right, you two, no plotting mischief without me,” she teased. “Harry, don’t keep Y/N standing here all night—she’s got work in the morning.”

Harry rolled his eyes playfully. “All right, all right. I’ll let her go. For now.”

We said our goodbyes, and as I walked out to my car, I couldn’t help but glance back. Harry stood in the doorway with Anne, waving, his easy smile still lingering even as I pulled away.

Weeks turned into months, and the holiday season crept closer. Between Anne’s projects and the quiet hum of my own life, I found myself thinking of Harry more than I cared to admit. We’d exchanged a few texts here and there—mostly casual check-ins or jokes—but nothing too deep. Still, every time my phone lit up with his name, it brought a smile to my face.

Then came Anne’s annual Christmas party. The cottage was aglow with warm lights, garlands, and a massive tree Anne had insisted on decorating herself. Guests milled about with glasses of mulled wine, laughter and conversation filling every corner.

I was in the kitchen, helping Anne plate some hors d'oeuvres, when a familiar voice made my heart skip.

“Surprise,” Harry said, leaning casually against the doorway, his signature grin firmly in place.

I turned, my breath catching slightly. He looked effortlessly stylish, dressed in a festive green sweater and black trousers, his hair tousled as though he hadn’t tried at all. “Harry,” I said, smiling. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Neither did I,” he admitted, stepping further into the kitchen. “But I couldn’t miss Mum’s party—or the chance to see you again.”

Anne smirked knowingly, handing me the last platter before excusing herself with a suspiciously cheerful “I’ll leave you two to catch up.”

I rolled my eyes at her retreating figure but couldn’t suppress the warmth spreading through me. “So,” I said, turning back to Harry, “how’s recording going?”

“It’s good,” he said, his voice softening. “Busy, but good. Though I’ll admit, I’ve been looking forward to this party for weeks.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Because of the mulled wine?”

He grinned, his eyes meeting mine. “Something like that. But mostly because I knew you’d be here.”

The sincerity in his tone made my heart flip. I wasn’t sure what to say, but before I could respond, he gestured toward the door. “Shall we? I think Mum would kill me if I didn’t mingle.”

The party buzzed around us, but Harry and I had found a quieter corner of the living room, where the lights from the Christmas tree cast a soft glow. He handed me a glass of red wine, his fingers brushing mine briefly, and leaned casually against the wall beside me.

“So,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass, “tell me—what’s been the highlight of your year? And if you say one of Mum’s scone-baking experiments, I’ll know you’re lying.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Well, those have been a journey, but I think meeting her in the first place takes the top spot. It’s been a whirlwind, but a good one.”

He smiled, his gaze warm. “That’s a solid choice. I’d say meeting you is up there on my list too.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the subtle sincerity in his voice, but before I could respond, Gemma’s voice rang out across the room.

“Oi, Harry!” she called, her tone dripping with playful mischief. “Do you two know you’re standing under the mistletoe?”

My eyes shot upward instinctively, and sure enough, the little sprig of green was hanging above us, tied neatly with a red ribbon. My cheeks flushed as laughter rippled through the room. I turned back to Harry, who had the audacity to look completely shocked.

“Mistletoe?” he said, feigning innocence as his eyes darted upward. “Would you look at that? What a coincidence.”

I narrowed my eyes, catching the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression. “Coincidence, huh?” I asked, my tone skeptical.

Gemma smirked from across the room. “Well, rules are rules!”

The guests around us were clearly entertained, their chatter fading into encouraging murmurs. Harry turned back to me, his grin widening as he leaned in slightly, his voice low enough for only me to hear.

“Guess we’ve got to follow tradition,” he said, his tone teasing but his gaze steady. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint everyone.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my heart pounding as he leaned closer. His lips brushed mine softly, the warmth of the moment washing over me despite the playful shouts and applause in the background. It was sweet, unhurried, and—dare I say—perfect.

When he pulled back, his grin was back in full force, but there was a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Merry Christmas, Y/N,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Merry Christmas,” I managed, my cheeks still flushed as the room erupted in laughter and cheers. Gemma gave us a knowing look, and Anne, from the kitchen, was clearly trying not to look too pleased with herself.

As the night went on, the party blurred into a haze of warmth and laughter, but that moment under the mistletoe stayed crystal clear in my mind. 

The party continued, the festive atmosphere filling every corner of Anne’s home, but I couldn’t shake the giddy feeling in my chest. Every so often, I’d catch Harry glancing my way, and each time, his warm smile made my heart skip a beat. It felt as if the mistletoe moment had shifted something between us—something unspoken but undeniably present.

After the laughter and teasing died down, Harry and I found ourselves back in the cozy corner of the living room, wine glasses in hand. This time, the conversation felt lighter, more natural, as if the small barrier of formality had finally fallen away.

“So,” I teased, swirling my glass, “did you actually plan that mistletoe stunt, or was it pure luck?”

Harry smirked, not even bothering to deny it. “What can I say? I might have noticed where Mum hung it earlier and thought it’d be a good spot to stand. But in my defense,” he added, leaning in slightly, “I wasn’t sure you’d go along with it.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he said with a wink, his grin softening as he studied me. “But honestly, I’m glad it happened. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with you.”

His words caught me off guard, and I found myself searching his expression for any sign of teasing, but there was none—just quiet sincerity. “You have?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“Of course,” he said, his tone genuine. “You’re… well, you’re amazing. Mum’s always going on about how much she adores you, and honestly, I get it. You’ve got this way about you—calm, funny, kind. It’s refreshing.”

I felt my cheeks heat under his gaze, unsure of how to respond. “Harry, that’s… really sweet of you to say.”

He shrugged, his smile turning a little sheepish. “Just being honest. And, well, I guess I should probably thank Mum for hiring you and convincing you to stay in England.”

I laughed softly, the nerves I’d felt earlier slowly fading. “She is very persuasive.”

“Isn’t she?” he said, laughing along. “So, what about you? Are you glad you stayed?”

I took a moment to think about his question, the warmth of the room and the sound of soft music in the background making the moment feel surreal. “I am,” I said finally, meeting his eyes. “I’ve built a life here I never expected, and it’s been… wonderful.”

Harry’s gaze softened, his smile easy but full of something deeper. “I’m glad to hear that. And, for what it’s worth, I hope I can be part of what makes it even better.”

Before I could respond, Anne appeared, beaming as she handed us a tray of leftover mince pies. “You two look cozy,” she said with a knowing smile, clearly pleased with herself. “Don’t let me interrupt, but someone has to make sure these don’t go uneaten.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Harry said, chuckling as he took the tray. As Anne walked away, he turned back to me, his smile lingering. “What do you say? Mince pie and more conversation?”

I nodded, feeling my heart flutter again. “I’d like that.”

And as the night wore on, surrounded by laughter and the glow of Christmas lights, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something special.

Guests filtered out one by one, their laughter and goodbyes echoing softly through Anne’s cozy home. I slipped into the hallway to grab my coat, the frosty chill of the night visible through the windows. Snow was falling in gentle flurries, blanketing the ground in a soft, sparkling white.

“Thanks for everything, Anne,” I said, hugging her tightly. “The party was wonderful, as always.”

Anne smiled, her arms warm and motherly around me. “It’s not the same without you, my dear. Stay safe getting home, all right?”

“I will,” I promised. “I’ll call an Uber.”

Before I could pull out my phone, Harry appeared, shrugging on his own coat. “Don’t bother with an Uber,” he said, his voice casual but insistent. “I’ll drive you.”

“Harry, you don’t have to do that,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s late, and it’s snowing—”

“All the more reason not to let you sit around waiting for a car,” he cut in, flashing me that easy smile. “Come on. Let me play chauffeur.”

Anne smirked knowingly from the doorway, but she said nothing, simply waving us off with a cheerful “Drive safe, you two!”

The snowflakes danced in the headlights as we drove through the quiet streets. The world outside felt still, the kind of calm that only came with late winter nights. Harry hummed softly along to the radio, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

“So,” he said after a moment, glancing over at me, “did you have fun tonight?”

“I did,” I admitted, smiling. “Your mum really knows how to throw a party.”

“She does,” he agreed, grinning. “But I think the mistletoe was her favorite part.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m sure it was.”

We fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Then, as we turned a corner, Harry suddenly slowed the car, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

“That’s it,” he said, pointing to a warmly lit building just ahead. “That’s the bar I told you about—the one I wanted to take you to.”

I followed his gaze, taking in the charming old-fashioned pub with its twinkling lights and ivy-covered sign. “It looks amazing.”

“Good,” he said, shifting the car into park. “Because we’re making a pit stop.”

I blinked in surprise. “What? Now?”

“Now,” he said firmly, already unbuckling his seatbelt. He turned to me with a playful grin. “Come on. You’re not getting out of this one.”

Before I could protest, he was out of the car, circling around to my side to open the door. The cold air rushed in, but his outstretched hand and infectious enthusiasm warmed me more than my coat ever could. Smiling, I took his hand, letting him help me out of the car.

The snow crunched softly beneath our feet as Harry led me to the pub’s entrance. The wooden door creaked open, revealing a cozy interior filled with warm lighting, laughter, and the soft hum of music. He held the door for me, his eyes sparkling as he followed me inside.

“This,” he said as we found a quiet corner table, “is one of my favorite spots in the city. Figured it was about time I shared it with you.”

I smiled, taking in the quaint charm of the bar. “I’m glad you did.”

Harry leaned back, his grin softening as he looked at me. “So am I. Now, what are we drinking?”

I glanced at the menu briefly before setting it down with a grin. “I’ll start with a shot of Fireball,” I said, glancing at Harry for his reaction.

He raised an eyebrow, laughing. “Straight to Fireball, huh? You’re full of surprises.”

“What can I say? It’s festive,” I replied with a shrug. “What about you?”

“I’ll take a whiskey neat,” he said, flagging down the bartender.

As our drinks arrived, I picked up the small glass, holding it up in a toast. “To impromptu pit stops and good company.”

Harry clinked his glass against mine, his smile warm. “To that.”

I knocked back the shot, the cinnamon burn spreading warmly through my chest. Harry watched, clearly amused, before sipping his own drink. The atmosphere in the bar was cozy and alive, the soft murmur of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter adding to the charm.

After a few moments of quiet, Harry set his glass down, his fingers fidgeting with the rim. “Y/N,” he began, his tone more serious now, “I owe you an apology.”

I tilted my head, surprised. “For what?”

“For not texting much while I was recording,” he said, meeting my gaze. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. Quite the opposite, actually.”

I stayed silent, giving him space to continue.

“It’s just… I felt drawn to you, and I didn’t know how to handle it,” he admitted, his voice softer. “I didn’t want to make things harder for either of us if I couldn’t be around, or if our schedules didn’t line up. It felt unfair to pull you into something when I couldn’t guarantee how often we’d see each other.”

His honesty caught me off guard, but in the best way. I leaned forward slightly, my elbows resting on the table. “Harry, I get it. You’ve got a lot on your plate, and it’s not like I expect constant texts or updates. But… I appreciate you telling me that.”

He let out a small breath, his shoulders relaxing. “I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t interested. Because I am. Very much.”

My cheeks warmed, and I took another sip of my drink to buy myself a moment. “Well, for what it’s worth, I thought about you too. A lot.”

His smile returned, soft and genuine, as he leaned forward. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said, laughing softly. “I just didn’t know if it was mutual or if I was imagining things.”

“You weren’t,” he said, his voice steady. “Not even for a second.”

The weight of his words settled between us, the unspoken feelings finally taking shape. The noise of the bar faded into the background as we held each other’s gaze, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“Good,” I said finally, breaking the silence with a small smile. “Because I’m not imagining this either—this pit stop? Definitely worth it.”

He chuckled, raising his glass to me again. “Here’s to more pit stops, then.”

I clinked my glass against his, the warmth of the moment spreading through me.

Harry waved down the bartender and ordered himself one more drink, a smile playing on his lips as he looked over at me. “You go ahead, though—order another if you want. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

His words, coupled with the warmth in his voice, made me feel completely at ease. I grinned, raising my hand to flag the bartender. “All right, two more for me, then.”

As we chatted and finished our drinks, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Harry’s wit and charm kept me laughing, and I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so at ease with someone. When the bartender cleared away the empty glasses, Harry glanced at me with a teasing grin.

“Ready to call it a night, or do you want to take over the jukebox and turn this into a dance party?” he joked.

I laughed, shaking my head. “As tempting as that is, I think I’m ready to head home.”

He stood, offering his hand to help me up. “Then let’s get you back.”

The snow had lightened as we drove through the quiet streets, but it still sparkled in the streetlights, blanketing everything in a serene white glow. I leaned back in my seat, the warmth of the car lulling me into a calm state as I watched Harry. He looked focused yet relaxed, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested casually on his lap.

After a moment, as if sensing my gaze, he reached over and placed a hand on my thigh. The gesture was simple, but it sent a warm jolt through me, grounding me in the moment. His touch was light, reassuring, and yet it carried a weight that made my heart race.

I looked at him, smiling softly. “You know, you’re really beautiful.”

He turned to glance at me briefly, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Beautiful, huh? Don’t let the lads hear you say that—they’ll never let me live it down.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m serious. You are. Inside and out.”

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing against my leg in an almost absentminded motion. “Thanks, love. But you should know—it’s not every day I get called ‘beautiful.’ Pretty, maybe. Gorgeous, occasionally. But beautiful? That’s new.”

I laughed again, warmth blooming in my chest. “Well, you should hear it more often.”

He glanced at me again, his eyes soft and filled with something I couldn’t quite place. “I think I like hearing it from you the most.”

The car fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the faint crackle of snow beneath the tires. I found myself wishing the drive could stretch on forever, the intimacy of the moment something I didn’t want to let go of. 

When Harry pulled the car into the small lot outside my flat, he turned off the engine and stepped out, circling around to open my door before I could even reach for the handle. His gentlemanly gesture brought a small smile to my lips as I stepped out, the cold night air brushing against my cheeks.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said, his voice low and warm.

“You really don’t have to,” I started, but he shook his head, giving me a pointed look.

“Not up for debate,” he said, his grin softening any potential protest. “Come on.”

We walked together toward the building, the snow crunching softly beneath our feet. The tipsy warmth in my chest made everything feel slightly dreamlike—the glow of the streetlights, the way Harry’s shoulder brushed against mine, the sound of his laugh when I nearly slipped on a patch of ice but caught myself.

When we reached my door, I turned to thank him, but he stepped closer, his expression both amused and fond. “You’ve got a little something,” he said, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered for a moment, his touch soft and deliberate.

The simple gesture made my heart flutter, and he noticed. His grin turned playful. “Still feeling a little tipsy, are we?”

“A little,” I admitted with a laugh, leaning back against the door for balance. “But I’m good. Thanks for making sure I got home.”

“Well, someone had to,” he teased, his voice light but his gaze steady. Then, after a pause, his tone softened. “I’m really glad we did this tonight.”

“Me too,” I said, my voice quieter now.

Harry stepped just a fraction closer, his hands resting lightly in his pockets. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower, “I’ve been thinking about that kiss earlier. I’d really like to kiss you again.”

His words sent a thrill through me, and without even stopping to think, I reached for his jacket, pulling him toward me. His hands instinctively found my waist, steadying me as I leaned up and pressed my lips to his.

This kiss wasn’t like the one under the mistletoe—this one was deeper, more purposeful. His lips moved with mine, warm and unhurried, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The cold air, the snow, the late hour—none of it mattered.

When we finally pulled apart, his forehead rested lightly against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “You’re full of surprises,” he murmured, his voice laced with both amusement and something deeper.

I smiled, my cheeks flushed from more than just the cold. “Goodnight, Harry,” I whispered, unlocking my door.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, his tone soft and lingering.

When I woke up the next morning, the soft light of a snowy winter day filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. My head felt light—not from drinking too much, but from the events of the night before. As I stretched and reached for my phone on the bedside table, a small smile spread across my face when I saw a text from Harry.

Harry: Morning, love. What are you doing for Christmas? Are you seeing your family?

I stared at the screen for a moment, my chest tightening slightly. My family was back in the States, and with everything going on, traveling wasn’t an option this year. I had already come to terms with spending Christmas alone. It wasn’t ideal, but it was fine—I’d planned a quiet day at home.

I typed out a response, my fingers hesitating briefly before hitting send.

Y/N: Good morning ☺️ No big plans—just staying home this year. My family’s in America, so it’ll be a solo Christmas. But I don’t mind.

Setting the phone down, I shuffled out of bed to start my morning routine. By the time I returned, Harry had replied.

Harry: Home alone? That doesn’t sit right with me. Come to ours—Mum would love to have you, and so would I.

The offer tugged at something in me, his kindness shining through even in a text. But as much as the idea of being surrounded by his family sounded wonderful, I didn’t want to intrude. Christmas was their time to be together, and I didn’t want to take away from that.

Y/N: That’s really sweet of you, but you should spend Christmas with your family. It’s their day with you, and I wouldn’t want to interrupt. I’ll be okay, I promise.

His response came quickly, and I could almost hear the concern in his tone.

Harry: You wouldn’t be interrupting. You’re part of the family now, you know.

I smiled at his words, warmth spreading through me, but I stayed firm in my decision.

Y/N: You’re lovely, but I’ll be fine. Thank you for the offer, though—it means a lot.

Harry: If you’re sure… but I’m still not entirely convinced you’re okay with it.

His care made my chest tighten, but I knew this was the right choice.

Y/N: I promise, I’m okay. Have a wonderful Christmas with your family.

As I set my phone down, I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, knowing someone cared enough to ask. While Christmas would be quiet this year, the warmth from Harry’s offer lingered, making me feel less alone than I’d expected.

The day passed slowly, but pleasantly. I spent the morning baking cookies, letting the warm, sweet scent fill my flat. It was cozy, and for a while, I didn’t mind being alone. After tasting one (or three) cookies to make sure they turned out right, I curled up on the couch for a nap, letting the peaceful quiet of the day lull me to sleep.

When I woke, the snow outside had thickened, blanketing the world in a soft white hush. I made myself a cup of hot chocolate, grabbed a blanket, and put on a Christmas movie, letting the cheerful music and festive scenes brighten my evening.

I was halfway through the film, laughing softly at the antics on screen, when a sudden knock at the door startled me. My brow furrowed in confusion. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and my neighbors rarely stopped by unannounced.

I set down my mug, tightened the blanket around me, and went to the door. When I opened it, my mouth fell open in surprise. There, standing on my snowy doorstep, was Harry, grinning mischievously, a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas, love,” he said, his tone light. “Santa’s here, and he’s traded in the sleigh for a Mini Cooper.”

I blinked, too stunned to respond at first. Finally, I laughed, shaking my head. “Harry, what are you doing here? I thought you were spending the day with your family.”

He shrugged, his grin softening into something warmer. “I was. But it didn’t feel quite right, knowing you were here alone. So, I figured Santa could make one more stop.”

My heart swelled at his words, and I stepped aside to let him in, the cold air rushing in briefly before I closed the door behind him. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” I said, smiling.

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” he teased, slipping off his coat and placing the bag on the counter. “I brought some things—thought we could make Christmas a little less solo.”

I glanced at the bag, curious. “What’s in there?”

“Just a few essentials,” he said with mock seriousness, pulling out a bottle of wine, a small box wrapped in festive paper, and a Tupperware container. “Cookies from Mum. She insisted.”

I laughed, shaking my head as I watched him. “You really didn’t have to do this, Harry.”

“I know,” he said, meeting my eyes. “But I wanted to.”

The sincerity in his voice made my chest tighten, and I felt a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the cookies or the hot chocolate. Christmas, it seemed, had just gotten a whole lot better.

As Harry set the bag down on the counter, he pulled out a small, carefully wrapped box and handed it to me. The paper was simple but elegant, with a festive bow on top, and it made my heart flutter.

“What’s this?” I asked, looking between the gift and him, my brow furrowing in surprise. “Harry, you didn’t have to get me anything.”

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter. “I know I didn’t have to. But I wanted to. Go on—open it.”

I hesitated for a moment, my fingers brushing over the smooth wrapping paper. With a small smile, I carefully tore it open, revealing a beautiful hardback book with an embossed cover. My breath caught as I realized what it was.

A special edition of The Great Gatsby.

The gilded details on the cover shimmered in the soft light, and the pages had the kind of crispness that only came with a brand-new book. I traced the cover with my fingertips, momentarily speechless.

“You… remembered,” I said softly, looking up at him. “This is incredible, Harry.”

He smiled, his eyes warm and slightly amused. “Of course, I remembered. You told me it was your favorite. Plus, you lit up when you talked about it that night at Mum’s party. I figured it might be something you’d like.”

“Like?” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “I love it. This is… it’s perfect.”

Harry shrugged, though the grin on his face told me he was pleased. “Good. I wasn’t sure if you already had this edition, but I figured even if you did, a backup wouldn’t hurt.”

I hugged the book to my chest, still marveling at the thoughtfulness behind the gift. “Thank you, Harry. Really. This means so much.”

He stepped closer, his expression softening. “You’re welcome, love. Merry Christmas.”

For a moment, we just stood there, the cozy warmth of the room and the quiet snowfall outside wrapping around us like a blanket. I couldn’t help but feel that, somehow, this was exactly where I was meant to be.

I clutched The Great Gatsby to my chest, still basking in the warmth of Harry’s thoughtful gift, but a pang of guilt crept in as I realized I hadn’t gotten him anything in return.

“Harry,” I said, biting my lip. “This is so thoughtful, and I feel terrible—I didn’t get you anything.”

He shook his head, his grin easy and reassuring. “You don’t have to give me anything, Y/N. Seeing you smile like that is enough.”

Still, I wanted to do something for him, no matter how small. My eyes lit up as I remembered the cookies I’d made earlier. “Wait! I do have something.” I rushed over to the kitchen counter, grabbing the plate of freshly baked cookies. “Okay, maybe it’s not as fancy as a special edition book, but these are homemade, and I promise they’re pretty good.”

Harry’s eyes lit up as he took one from the plate. “Homemade cookies? Now, this is a proper Christmas gift.”

He bit into one, his expression immediately shifting into mock seriousness before he let out a low, exaggerated moan. “Oh, my God,” he said around the bite. “Y/N, this is… ridiculous. These are so good.”

I laughed, watching his dramatic reaction. “Are you being serious, or are you just trying to make me feel better?”

He swallowed the bite and held up the cookie like it was a rare treasure. “Dead serious. These are unreal. You’ve been hiding this talent from me? What else are you secretly amazing at?”

I rolled my eyes, unable to stop smiling. “They’re just cookies, Harry.”

“No, no,” he said, grabbing another one. “These aren’t just cookies. These are a masterpiece. Like, I’m calling Mum tomorrow and telling her to step up her game.”

I couldn’t help but laugh again, his infectious humor and over-the-top enthusiasm making the moment feel so much lighter. “Well, I’m glad you like them,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll have to bake more if it means getting this kind of reaction out of you.”

Harry grinned, crumbs on his lips as he reached for yet another cookie. “Deal. But fair warning—I might show up at your door every time I get a craving now.”

“Good,” I said, surprising myself with the ease of my response. “You’re welcome anytime.”

He paused, his grin softening into something more genuine as he looked at me. “I might just take you up on that.”

The way he said it made my chest tighten in the best way, and as we stood there, sharing cookies and laughter, I couldn’t help but think that this Christmas, though unexpected, was quickly becoming one of my favorites.

As we stood there, the room cozy and filled with the faint smell of cookies, my eyes wandered to Harry. His sweater sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, leaving his tattoos exposed, a striking contrast to the softness of the moment. The intricate designs on his arms seemed even more captivating in the warm light of the flat, and I couldn’t help but notice the way they moved slightly as he reached for another cookie.

I felt a wave of warmth rush through me, one that had nothing to do with the heat of the oven still lingering in the air. My gaze flicked to his face, his lips curved into an easy smile as he chewed, oblivious to the way he had completely stolen my attention. Something about him—the way he looked at me, the way he was simply here—felt too perfect to ignore.

Before I could overthink it, I leaned forward, lightly pressing my lips to his. It was soft, almost tentative, but enough to make my heart race.

Harry froze for just a moment, clearly caught off guard, before he set the cookie down and reached for me, his hands resting gently on my waist. He pulled me closer, deepening the kiss with a passion that made my knees feel weak. His lips moved with mine, slow yet deliberate, as if he wanted to savor every second.

When we finally broke apart, I stayed close, my forehead resting lightly against his. His green eyes searched mine, his expression soft but tinged with a flicker of something playful.

“What are your plans for New Year’s?” he asked, his voice low and warm, his breath still mingling with mine.

The question caught me off guard, but I managed a small smile. “Nothing planned yet,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Why?”

He grinned, his fingers brushing lightly against my sides. “Because I think we should make some cookies. Together.”

I felt my heart skip a beat, the thought of spending New Year’s with him lighting up something inside me I hadn’t expected. “I think I’d like that,” I said, my voice steady despite the nervous excitement building in my chest.

His grin softened, turning into something more sincere. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

[littlesoulshine]

"little to the left, bun—"

you duck and kick straight into the vamp’s ribs before dean can even finish. the force sends it crashing into the wall, splintering wood and shaking the whole damn room.

"jesus," dean mutters, but there’s no time for commentary.

another one lunges, fangs showing, claws outstretched—sam’s alreadygot his machete up, ready to swing, but you’re already moving. to help him, you launch yourself forward, jumping off the coffee table, and slamming both feet into the vamp’s chest.

it hits the ground hard, wheezing as the air rushes out of its lungs. before it can recover, you roll, grab the machete off the floor—probably dean's, lost in the scuffle—and in one fluid motion, you’re on it, straddling its chest, blade pressed against its throat.

"say goodnight, evil bitch," you growl.

the machete swings, clean and precise. head off. blood drips from your knuckles, splattered across your torn tank top, but you’re smiling ear to ear with an adrenaline rush as the vampire crumples to the ground at your feet.

"nice one, bunny," dean huffs, wiping his blade on his jeans before kicking the body for good measure. "you been holdin’ out on us?"

you laugh, breathless, flipping the machete in your grip before sliding it back into its sheath. "you guys never let me fight. i had to show off a little."

sam exhales, shaking his head, but there’s pride in his eyes, even as he reaches out to brush his fingers over a fresh scratch on your arm. "still reckless," he murmurs, thumb swiping over your skin.

you pout up at him, bouncing on the balls of your feet. "but i got him first."

dean snorts, stepping up behind you, his chest pressing to your back, warm and solid. "yeah, and almost gave me a fuckin’ heart attack in the process. what were you thinkin’, charging at a vamp like that?"

"i was thinkin’ i could handle it," you tease, tilting your head up, letting your nose brush against his jaw.

his hands tighten on your hips, possessive, his breath warm against your cheek. "you’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart."

sam chuckles, stepping closer, towering over you as he tilts your chin up with two fingers, his hazel eyes scanning your face. "still. let us take the lead next time, yeah?"

you hum, pretending to consider, before flashing a wicked little smile. "hmm…maybe."

dean groans. "jesus, she’s impossible."

you giggle, and after a second sam’s lips are on yours, his hands framing your face, tilting you up as he kisses you slow, deep. you melt, fingers curling into his jacket, sighing into his mouth.

then dean’s grip tightens, and before you can catch your breath, he’s tugging you away from sam, pressing his own kiss against your lips, rougher, hungrier. his teeth graze your bottom lip, and you squeak—he loves that sound, eats it up like it’s his favorite thing in the world.

when he finally pulls back, you’re dizzy, with your plush lips swollen as you breathe in shallow, shaky gasps.

dean grins, smug. "told ya. lucky you’re cute."

sam sighs, rubbing a hand down his face, but he’s smiling, too. "c’mon, let’s get you patched up, troublemaker."

you giggle again, still giddy, still warm from their hands, their mouths.

"fine, but only if i get the best bed at the motel."

dean and sam exchange a look.

"rock, paper, scissors."

tags: @soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel

[missmatchablossom]

acting on every urge to annoy the fuck out of your boyfriend, satoru gojo

a/n: fluff, female reader, slightly suggestive scenes

tags: @kenqki @sad-darksoul

~

Gojo Satoru had an annoyingly nice ass - rounded, perky, enough to fill out all tight-fitting pants he liked to wear. And the perk about being his girlfriend was that you got to admire it all the time, which was exactly what you were doing. Gojo had his back to you as he sauted something on the stove for the dinner he was preparing for the two of you, blissfully unaware of the intrusive thoughts brewing in your head.

He somehow had a 6th sense for whenever you were about to smack his ass, always catching your hand right before it made contact. But you were feeling lucky today.

You launched up from your spot on the couch, running at him full speed as you wound your hand up and smacked it against his ass with more force than what you intended on using. Gojo jerked forward, grunting as the spatula that was in his hand fell to the floor. He snapped his head around to look at you with wide eyes and his jaw dropped in disbelief - but you were too busy laughing your ass off.

“Woman where the hell did that gorilla strength come from,” he said begrudgingly, rubbing his ass with both palms.

“Sorry,” you said, catching your breath in between laughs. “You’re just standing there all caked up, I couldn’t help myself.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, laughing along with you.

“When I pay you back though,” he began, stalking towards you. It happened so quickly, the way he bent you over so your hands were braced against the kitchen counter, your ass flush against his front.

“It’ll be in this position,” he said, giving your ass a squeeze before he released you like nothing happened, resuming his cooking.

~

Another blissful benefit of being Gojo’s girlfriend was that he liked to sleep in just his boxers. It was your nightly routine to cuddle up against his bare chest, pressing your cheek against his smooth skin and reveling in his sweet post-shower scent.

You trailed your nose along the skin of his collar like you usually did, squeezing against him as close as possible. He stroked your back absentmindedly as he scrolled through his phone, until the urge to bite him suddenly overtook you. You placed a light kiss over his shoulder before sinking your teeth into him.

Gojo let out a dramatic series of “ow, ow, OW”s as he backed away from you, sliding far into his side of the bed.

“The hell was that for?” he said, brows adorably furrowed in confusion at the grin on your face.

“Just for being cute and smelling so good,” you said, scooching closer to him again. He smiled at the compliment, but his brows remained scrunched up.

“Last time I checked you liked how cute and sexy smelling I was, so why are you punishing me for it,” he asked, so close to the edge of the bed that he’d fall off if he moved any further from you.

“It’s cute aggression. Think of it as love bites,” you said sweetly, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his hips, trapping him.

“Should I be turned on or scared?” he joked, raising a perfect brow at you. You laughed as you smacked his shoulder.

“Neither. You should be honored. Think of each bite as me saying I love you,” you said, unable to keep a straight face.

Gojo easily freed himself of your grip, flipping so he was laying on top of you with the full weight of his body over yours the way you liked it.

“Kinky. But alright, if thats how you want to be loved then,” he said, before he bent his head down, nipping every inch of exposed skin he could access.

~

You had terrible blood circulation, resulting in a chronic state of frozen fingertips and toes. It was especially worse during the winter - and unfortunately for Gojo, it was an especially cold day.

You unlocked the door to your home, heart warming at the sight of Gojo cozied up in one of your favorite outfits of his: grey sweatpants and a fitted black longsleeve. He looked up from the game he was playing to welcome you home with a smile, beckoning you towards with him with outstretched arms.

You stripped off your outerlayers in record time, practically jumping into his warm embrace. You couldn’t help yourself as you slid your frigid fingers into his shirt, warming your hands against his abs. He hissed as soon as your hands made contact with his skin, tensing up while you sighed in relief at his warmth.

“Ah, so nice and warm,” you said airily, the feeling returning to your fingertips. Gojo mock-glared at you, but made no move to remove your hands.

“You just wanted an excuse to feel my abs huh,” he teased, flexing himself under your fingertips. You rolled your eyes as you laughed, removing your hands from under his shirt.

He reached out towards you, tugging you into his lap as he wrapped both of you in a blanket.

“If your hands are still cold I have something big and warm you can ho-” he began, but he froze as soon as you pressed your frigid toes against the warm skin of his calves.

[shybluebirdninja]

Sleep Striker

Summary: You discover that Bucky sleepwalks—and it’s not the calm, peaceful kind of sleepwalking. You wake up to find him in full-on combat mode with the couch.

Pairing            : Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend!Reader

Note                : fluff

The night was supposed to be peaceful. You’d spent the entire evening watching Netflix with Bucky, eating popcorn, and joking around like any normal couple. By the time you both hit the sack, you were expecting nothing but a quiet night’s sleep, maybe punctuated by Bucky’s usual snores.

But no.

Around 2 AM, you woke up to the sound of something crashing in the living room. Your heart leapt into your throat, thinking for a second that maybe someone had broken in. Instinctively, you reached for the baseball bat you kept beside the bed (Bucky insisted on keeping a knife there, but you’d settled on a less dramatic weapon). Slowly, you tiptoed toward the door, already mentally preparing yourself for some horror-movie showdown with a burglar.

But what you found was so much worse.

There, in the dim glow of the living room lamp, was Bucky Barnes—your sweet, grumpy, 100-year-old boyfriend—throwing punches at thin air like he was in the middle of a battle.

“What the hell…” you whispered, blinking in disbelief.

Bucky, still completely asleep, ducked and weaved as if he were dodging invisible enemies, his fists flying through the air with lethal precision. His face was set in that intense, focused expression he wore when he was in full-on Winter Soldier mode, and for a moment, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of fear and… laughter? This was ridiculous. Your boyfriend was sleep-fighting in the living room.

You set the bat down carefully, still trying to process the situation, when Bucky suddenly spun around and landed a full-force punch on the couch.

The couch.

It made a sad thud as the cushions absorbed the blow, but Bucky didn’t stop. He kicked out at the coffee table next, sending it skidding a few inches across the floor.

“Bucky!” you hissed, trying to keep your voice low but urgent. “Hey, babe, wake up!”

He didn’t hear you. Instead, he crouched low, as if he were avoiding gunfire, and rolled behind the armchair, his metal arm glinting faintly in the darkness. You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh, but it was impossible. This was like watching an overgrown toddler reenact an action movie in his sleep.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, “how the hell do I handle this?”

You’d heard about sleepwalkers before, and you were pretty sure you weren’t supposed to wake them up. But you couldn’t just let Bucky wage war against your furniture all night. The man had already drop-kicked the coffee table, and at this rate, he’d be suplexing the bookshelf by sunrise.

You crept a little closer, careful not to startle him. “Bucky, babe, it’s just me. You’re, uh, safe. There’s no Hydra agents in the apartment, I promise.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he launched himself toward the couch again, this time pulling off a move that looked like it came straight out of a Captain America fight scene. He tackled the poor couch as if it had personally offended him, his arms wrapping around the back cushions in a chokehold.

“Bucky, stop! The couch isn’t the enemy!” you half-whispered, half-yelled, trying to stifle your laughter. “Oh my god, you’re gonna kill the couch…”

He grunted, still deep in his dream, and threw a wild punch that just barely missed the coffee table. You winced at the near miss. That could’ve been bad. Like, broken furniture and a pissed-off Bucky kind of bad.

At this point, you realized you had to do something before your apartment looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Slowly, cautiously, you approached Bucky like you were approaching a wild animal—because, let’s be real, that’s kind of what he was right now.

“Bucky…” you said softly, reaching out a hand. “Come back to bed, babe. You don’t have to fight the couch anymore. You won. It’s dead.”

He hesitated for a moment, his muscles twitching like he was on the verge of launching another attack. But instead of another round of couch-punching, he slowly stood up, blinking groggily as if he was coming out of a fog.

You let out a breath of relief. “Thank God.”

But your relief was short-lived. Because as soon as Bucky turned around, he spotted the kitchen chairs—lined up perfectly in a row by the table—and apparently, in his half-asleep mind, they were the next Hydra targets.

“No,” you groaned, as Bucky lunged toward the chairs. “Not the chairs! I like those chairs!”

He grabbed one, flipping it over like it was an enemy combatant, and before you could stop him, he had another chair in a headlock. You stood there, watching in sheer disbelief as Bucky Barnes—the most feared assassin in the world—battled a set of IKEA furniture like it was the final boss fight of his life.

“Bucky, babe, please!” you shouted, a mix of panic and laughter bubbling out. “I can’t explain this to the landlord!”

Finally, in a last-ditch effort, you ran over and grabbed his arm—his metal arm, because that seemed like the safer bet. “Bucky, it’s me! You’re sleepwalking!”

At first, he didn’t respond. His eyes were still glazed over, lost in whatever dream battlefield he was trapped in. But then, slowly, he blinked. His metal arm relaxed under your grip, and he looked down at you, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“...What the hell?” he muttered, blinking again.

You let out the biggest sigh of relief. “Oh my god, thank you. I thought you were gonna destroy the whole apartment.”

Bucky glanced around, still looking dazed. “What… what happened?”

“You, uh… kinda went to war with the furniture,” you said, biting your lip to keep from laughing again. “You were sleepwalking.”

His eyes widened. “I did what?”

“You attacked the couch. And the coffee table. And, um, the chairs,” you explained, gesturing to the wreckage around the living room. “It was… a lot.”

Bucky groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shit. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, no,” you reassured him quickly. “I’m fine. But the couch… not so much.”

He looked over at the couch, which was now sagging slightly from the multiple punches it had taken. “Damn,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Guess I really went at it, huh?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Babe, you suplexed the couch. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Bucky winced. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” you interrupted, grinning up at him. “It was kind of… impressive, honestly. I mean, you took out an entire living room while asleep. That’s some next-level stuff.”

He gave you a sheepish look, still clearly embarrassed. “I’ll fix it in the morning.”

“You better,” you teased. “But for now, can we please go back to bed before you decide to fight the fridge or something?”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll… I’ll stay away from the appliances.”

You wrapped an arm around his waist, guiding him back toward the bedroom. “Good idea, soldier. Let’s just stick to sleeping from now on.”

As you both crawled back into bed, you couldn’t help but steal one last glance at the wrecked living room, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Bucky?” you whispered, snuggling up next to him.

“Yeah?”

“If you ever get the urge to fight the couch again, maybe, like, wake me up first?”

He groaned, pulling the covers over his head. “Don’t remind me.”

You giggled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Goodnight, Super Soldier Sleepwalker.”

“Goodnight,” he muttered, already halfway back to sleep.

But this time, thankfully, without the couch-wrestling.

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Styles: The documentary (Harry Styles Fic)

General Masterlist

Summary: A documentary is being filmed about Harry’s life, and as his fiancée, you’re interviewed to share your perspective. Reflecting on how you met, your first date, and the special moments that brought you closer, you open up about your relationship and the journey you’ve taken together.

A/n: Hello my loves, this is something i've wanted to finish and now i had the chance! it's just fluffly moments, i hope you like it! i'd love to make even more moments around this, let me know if you'd like that too

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: it jumps from past to present many times so i tried my best to make it clear!

“Is it on right now?” You fixed your hair one more time, sitting up straight on the stool. In front of you was a big camera, a large light to your left pointing directly at you, and crew bustling all over the recording studio.

“Yes, now rolling,” said Drew, the cameraman who had been following you and Harry everywhere lately.

“So…” You chuckled nervously. It was the first day of filming Harry’s documentary. As his long-time girlfriend and newly fiancée, you were obviously a part of it. Today, they were shooting a series of interviews, starting with yours.

“How did you meet Harry?” Drew asked, smiling kindly. Out of everyone on the crew, he had the best knack for making people feel at ease, which was crucial for getting personal stories on camera.

“Oh… that’s a good one,” you said, smiling as your mind wandered back, recalling every detail.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

FLASHBACK

“I’m here for an interview,” you said to the receptionist, a nice woman seated at the front desk of a towering building.

“Company?” she asked, typing something into her computer.

“Pleasing,” you replied confidently. Somehow, one of your favorite brands had noticed you. Your portfolio had managed to shine among the sea of other creative directors. You weren’t actively searching for a new job, but when the email popped up in your inbox, you thought it was spam—or maybe a prank. But no, it was as real as Harry Lambert himself, the co-creative director of Pleasing. You had needed two full cups of coffee just to process how to respond.

“Third floor. You’ll need to wear this visibly.” She handed you a lanyard with a visitor badge.

...

“Y/N Y/L/N!” a cheerful voice called from inside a large, boldly decorated office. Taking a deep breath, you stepped inside.

You’ve got this. You’ve got this.

“Please, sit,” said Lambert, gesturing toward a chair in front of his desk, which was cluttered with photos, papers, and scattered sketches. The room smelled of vanilla and cloves, matching the warm, colorful furniture.

“Thank you,” you replied shyly as you took your seat. Normally, in your position at your job, you felt powerful, commanding respect and creativity daily. But now, in this space, you felt… small.

“Thank you for taking the time to come,” Lambert said warmly.

He’s thanking me?

“We don’t usually hire for such a high position, but I’m stepping away to focus on a personal project, and H is already stretched too thin. So, this isn’t really an interview; it’s an offer—and a chance to get to know you.”

You blinked, a bit stunned. Shaking yourself out of it, you managed to reply, “Yes, of course. I completely understand. But… can I ask? How did you find me?”

“Your boss is an old friend of mine. He talks endlessly about your talent, and, well… I’m stealing you from him,” Lambert said with a grin.

“Oh… yeah… I mean, Mark is great, and I’ve loved my time there. But Pleasing? It’s like a creative playground for me. Honestly, I’m honored.”

Lambert smiled knowingly and launched into an explanation of the job—the highs, the challenges, your responsibilities, the budget. You hadn’t even officially said yes, but he was already discussing deadlines and brainstorming future campaigns. It was overwhelming, but you were exhilarated. Somehow, in the middle of all this, your dream job had landed in your lap.

One Month In

“Y/N, they need you in the meeting room,” your assistant, Faye, called as you inspected samples—16 shades of pink, to be exact.

“Who’s ‘they’?” you asked, still scanning the swatches.

“H and Lambert,” she replied in her usual high-pitched tone.

“Sure, I’ll be right… wait, who’s H?” you asked, eyes widening. Could H be who you thought it was?

She just nodded, and you grabbed your iPad, practically sprinting to the meeting room. You paused at the door for a quick breath before stepping inside. “Good morning…”

And there he was—H.

He immediately stood and approached you with a warm, genuine smile. “It’s so good to finally meet you,” he said in his low, raspy voice, shaking your hand firmly.

“The feeling’s mutual. I was starting to think Lambert’s ‘H’ was an imaginary friend,” you joked nervously.

Harry chuckled. “Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been in Italy for a while, but I’ll be in London for the next couple of months.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Two months later, we kissed for the first time in Lambert’s office. Sorry, Lambert, if you’re seeing this—I promise it was just a kiss," you said with a shy smile, hoping to win over your boss in case he ever watched this.

"We started texting every day," you continued, leaning into the camera as if sharing a secret. "He used to send me a selfie every morning, and I was just over the moon every time." Your voice softened, a dreamy smile spreading across your face.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

FLASHBACK

You woke up to the familiar ping of your phone. It was 7:30 AM, and Harry’s name lit up your screen with a picture of him holding a cup of coffee and a simple "Morning ☕. Don’t forget the samples today!"

You couldn’t help but grin at the message. How could such a small thing make your entire day brighter? You replied with a selfie of your own—bed hair and all—typing, "Morning! Samples are ready. How’s the coffee?"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in the present, you chuckled at the memory. "I don’t know how it happened so quickly, but I fell for him completely. He made even the smallest moments feel like the biggest deal."

"What do you think made Harry fall for you?" Drew asked, his tone genuinely curious.

You hesitated, biting your lip in thought. "I don’t know if it was one thing," you admitted. "But I think it was how we balanced each other out. He’s... larger than life in so many ways, and I think I grounded him."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

FLASHBACK

It was a particularly chaotic afternoon in the studio. Harry had been bouncing between meetings and photo shoots all day, his energy starting to wane. You noticed the way his shoulders slumped as he walked past your desk.

“Hey,” you called out, holding up a cup of tea.

He stopped, looking at you with a mix of surprise and gratitude. “Is that for me?”

“No, it’s for the imaginary friend Lambert keeps talking to,” you teased, handing it over.

Harry chuckled, taking the cup. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I know,” you replied with a wink, feeling a flicker of pride at the way his expression softened.

First Date

You arrived at Harry’s place with butterflies in your stomach, a small box of macarons in hand. The walk from the bike stand to his house had given you just enough time to psych yourself up, and now you stood outside the door, adjusting your jacket nervously.

The door opened before you could knock. Harry stood there, barefoot and wearing a soft cream sweater with sleeves slightly too long for his arms. His smile was instant and warm. “Hi,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“Hi,” you replied, holding out the macarons. “Thought these might go well with dessert or something.”

His eyes lit up. “You brought dessert to a pasta night? You’re already winning me over.”

The house smelled incredible—garlic, fresh basil, and something else warm and inviting. The kitchen was open and bright, with bowls of ingredients scattered across the counter. A pasta machine sat proudly in the middle of it all.

“Is this where the magic happens?” you joked, pointing at the setup.

“Absolutely,” he said, walking over to roll out a piece of dough. “I figured we’d do this part together. Homemade pasta tastes better when it’s a team effort.”

You laughed, slipping off your jacket. “Are you sure you trust me with this?”

He handed you a small rolling pin and an apron. “Only one way to find out.”

For the next hour, the two of you worked side by side. Harry showed you how to feed the dough through the machine, laughing when it got stuck and you both had to wrangle it out together. You took turns sprinkling flour on the counter, and at one point, he smudged a bit on your nose with a cheeky grin.

“Hey!” you protested, trying to retaliate, but he dodged you effortlessly.

By the time the pasta was cut and ready to boil, you were both a little flour-dusted and very much at ease.

Dinner was simple but perfect—pesto pasta with a side of roasted tomatoes and a bottle of wine. You sat at the dining table, which Harry had set with candles and a small vase of wildflowers.

“This is amazing,” you said, twirling your fork in the pasta. “I didn’t think you’d actually be this good.”

He leaned back in his chair, pretending to be offended. “I’ll take that as a compliment, even though I’m choosing to ignore the surprise in your tone.”

You laughed. “No, really. This is... perfect.”

As you reached for the roasted tomatoes, your fork slipped, sending a small drop of sauce onto your light dress.

“Oh no!” you exclaimed, glancing down at the stain. It was right on the front, glaring and impossible to ignore.

Harry froze, looking concerned. “Do you need a napkin? Or—”

But you just waved it off, smiling. “It’s fine. It’s just a dress”

He blinked, then let out a laugh. “You’re sure? must be expensive”

“It's okay" You dabbed at the stain with your napkin half-heartedly and shrugged. “No sense in crying over spilled... sauce.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Most people would be freaking out.”

“Well, I guess I’m not most people,” you said playfully. 

For the rest of the night, the stain stayed there, but it didn’t matter. Harry found himself admiring how little you cared about it—how relaxed and unpretentious you were. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was magnetic.

At one point, as the conversation turned to childhood memories, he caught himself thinking: Yeah, I could get used to this.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Back in the present, you smiled at the camera, recalling that night. "That first date was... easy. It felt like I’d known him forever, but also like I was discovering someone entirely new. And he was just so... kind. It’s funny—he was trying to impress me, but really, he didn’t need to do anything at all."

Harry, now sitting across the studio, interrupted with a teasing grin. "I worked hard on that pasta, you know!"

You chuckled and rolled your eyes "He used to tell me that I made him feel calm," you said, your voice growing quieter. "And I think he gave me confidence—like, the real kind that sticks."

Drew leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. "That’s beautiful. Any final words for this session?

You smiled, glancing toward Harry, who was now watching you from across the studio, his headphones hanging around his neck. "Yeah," you said, your tone lighter now. "It’s been a wild ride, but I wouldn’t change a single thing. Except maybe… I’d have said yes to dinner sooner."

From across the room, Harry laughed, his voice carrying over. "I wasn’t that bad, was I?"

You turned back to the camera with a mischievous smile. "Let’s just say persistence pays off." You held up your hand again, showing off the engagement ring, the studio chuckling as Drew called out, "And cut! That’s a wrap for this session"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

General Taglist: @hermionelove @mads3502

[strongermonster]

the desk chair i have came with this type of wheel

which are utter fucking garbage oh my god. i've had the chair around a year and a half or so and every single one is broken. they're gummed up with my long-ass curly hair and my cats hair and whatever random fibres it seems to magnetically attract where it weaves them into some sort of evil yarn ball.

the plastic is pitted to hell from where it dented/embedded random crap from running over absolutely anything that might have been on the floor and absorbing it into the shitty plastic. if you were to judge me by nothing but the state of my chair wheels, you would think i live in some kind of fucking gravel pit. i swear to you i sweep my floors.

the wheels are made of 2 plastic disks on a metal axle and i just my weight + rolling around caused about half of them to either fully pop off or to bend at an angle, meaning they DRAG horrendously and have scraped my floor to shit. it's impossible to scoot closer to my desk to sit comfortably. trying to roll anywhere just grinds the plastic horribly along the concrete floor making a noise that sounds like if you threw lego and gargoyles at a belt sander. moving in any direction is an uphill battle.

i tried a couple weeks ago pulling them off to clean them out, re-grease them, and put them back on, but some had cracked entirely, and others had turned white and deformed at the joining part from being dragged for so long.

so i ordered some of the roller blade style wheels and just now installed them and when i righted my chair and went to sit down, i yanked it like i used to have to with the old shitty wheels, but these new babies GLIDE smooth as all fuck, so what i actually did was launch my chair entirely across the room where it lost approximately 0 momentum until it slammed into my bookcases and sent my sleeping cats running for the hills through a meteor shower of novels and knickknacks.

when i put it back at my desk (it was like pushing air, oh my god??) i went to sit and just the weight of my thighs kissing the seat sent the whole chair effortlessly swimming along out of my ass's reach, nearly sending me straight to the floor. when my cat jumped up in my lap, the force of her small body moved us both.

ten outta fuckin ten, exactly what i wanted, i love these. i could probably send myself across the room with a sneeze.

[a-aexotic]

✫𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒏𝒆, i can see you.

✫ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fighting, swearing, tristan being an asshole, breaking things (not too graphic promise LOL) ✫ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | hey yall, i'm back! i hope everyone enjoys! also i tagged everyone who seemed interested, i'm sorry for the VERY late update. i'm back, mwahhh. also planning a nate archibald series, who'd be interested? lmk! ✫ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | @colbybrocks @weepingwitchofthewest @shady-writtingtalk @zulpix-blog @wheelerslover @dogmom600 @damnhati @remussbitch @yourmumstoyboy2-blog @1-800-starkindustrie

The front door opened suddenly and she whipped her head to make eye contact with... Tristan Dugray? Oh, so that's where she's heard that name!

Y/N couldn't control as her mouth flew open. She also couldn't control the words that came out of her mouth as she saw him. "Oh, you've gotta be shitting me."

After Y/N had locked eyes with Tristan she whipped her head to face her father. "You're engaged to Tristan's mother?!"

Her father and Kristan looked surprised — they both exchanged glances before they looked back at her. "Yeah, I guess I am?"

His answer sounded more like a question rather than a straight up reply. He didn't know why she was now seemingly opposed to the idea of him being engaged to Kristan simply because of Tristan.

Y/N looked shocked, her jaw practically on the floor. "You're engaged to Tristan's mother." Instead of a question, it sounds more like a statement.

Before any of them could reply, Tristan spoke. "Oh, hello step-sister." You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. He was enjoying see your shocked expression. Tristan's smug remark only fueled your growing frustration and utter disbelief. You shot him a glare that could freeze lava before turning back to her father and Kristan, your mind racing with a whirlwind of emotions.

"So, this is what you meant by wanting me to spend time with my old 'friends'?" Your tone was laced with sarcasm as she addressed her father. "You conveniently forgot to mention that my 'old friend' is now my soon-to-be stepbrother?"

Her father shifted uncomfortably under her accusing gaze, realizing he had failed to properly prepare Y/N for this bombshell. "I... I thought it would be best to tell you in person."

Your frustration mounted with each passing second. "Well you thought wrong, Dad."

Kristan interjected, her voice gentle yet firm. "I understand this is a lot to take in, Y/N. But we're all going to be a family now, and I hope we can find a way to make this work."

Y/N fought the urge to roll her eyes at Kristan's attempt to diffuse the tension as she gave her a sarcastic smile. "Right, a family. How convenient."

Tristan leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed with a smirk still playing on his lips. "Well, this should be fun. Welcome to the family, stepsis."

Y/N resisted the urge to launch herself at him as she shot daggers with her eyes. "Don't call me that."

Kristan shot a glare at her son as she turned to you once again. "We didn't realize it would be such a shock to you,. We should have handled this better."

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside me. You knew you couldn't blame her father entirely, but the whole thing still felt like a betrayal. "I just need some time to process all of this," Y/N muttered, her voice tinged with resignation. "Excuse me."

"I thought that went great." Tristan mumbled as his mother shook his head, your father pulling her in closer.

You turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, leaving your father, Kristan, and Tristan as your retreated to her old bedroom, you couldn't shake the feeling that your carefully constructed world was crumbling around you, and you had no idea how to pick up the pieces.

You stepped out of the car, dramatically slamming the door as you took in the school: Chilton Prep School, where she would be going to school from now. She heard footsteps from behind her, she already knew who it was.

"Welcome home, Cromwell." Tristan's voice rang. You gritted her teeth at the sound of Tristan's voice behind you. You turned slowly, fixing him with a glare that could cut through steel.

"Save it, Dugray," you snapped, your tone dripping with disdain. "This is hardly my idea of home."

Tristan raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering. "Well, get used to it. Looks like we're going to be seeing a lot more of each other from now on."

Tristan raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering. "Feisty as ever, Cromwell. I'm just offering a friendly welcome to our new classmate, no need to get all... bitchy."

You narrowed your eyes at his remark, resisting the urge to roll them. "I'll take that as a compliment, Dugray. And I don't need your welcome. I know my way around just fine."

Tristan's smirk widened, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of you. "Oh, come on, Cromwell. Where's that famous New York charm? You're going to need it to survive in this stuffy place."

"I'll manage just fine without your help," you shot back, your voice dripping with determination. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than stand here and listen to your bullshit."

You turned away from Tristan, walking into Chilton. You already hated it, everyone looked so pretentious and elitist, just like Tristan. But you weren't going to let that intimidate you. You had faced down Manhattan's elite, and you could handle a bunch of snooty prep school kids. You had grown up with these kids, they couldn't be that hard.

As you made your way through the halls, you couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place. The students eyed you with curiosity, whispers following in your wake. But you held your head high, refusing to let them see any hint of insecurity.

Chilton was a far cry from the bustling streets of Manhattan, and you couldn't shake the feeling that you were in for a rough ride. But you were Y/N Cromwell, and you didn't back down from a challenge.

With a flick of your hair and a confident stride, you made your way to your first class, ready to show Chilton Prep that Y/N Cromwell was a force to be reckoned with.

"Where are you two going?" You popped a grape in your mouth as you watched Kristan grab her purse from the chair as your father tightened his tie.

"I told you earlier, we have a date."

You raised an eyebrow at your father's response, a hint of skepticism in your voice. "A date? You two are acting like lovesick teenagers."

Kristan chuckled, smoothing down her blouse as she shot you a warm smile. "Well, your father does know how to sweep a lady off her feet."

You rolled your eyes as Kristan and your father shared glances. You all knew what that meant, you had to be left alone with Tristan. You had barely managed to tolerate his presence since arriving at your father's house, and the thought of spending an evening alone with him was enough to make you want to crawl out of your skin.

"Well, have fun on your date," you forced out, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

With a quick goodbye, your father and Kristan headed out the door, leaving you alone, turning around and seeing Tristan in the spacious living room. He caught your gaze and his lips curved up into a smile.

You felt a shiver run down your spine as Tristan's gaze met yours, his smirk sending a wave of irritation coursing through you. You knew exactly what he was thinking – that he had you right where he wanted you, trapped in his company for the evening.

Suppressing a sigh, you turned away from Tristan, refusing to let him see how much he was getting under your skin. Instead, you busied yourself with anything that would distract you from his presence – flipping through a magazine, checking your phone, anything to avoid acknowledging him.

But no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, Tristan was a persistent presence in the room. You could feel his eyes on you, his smug smirk burning into the back of your skull.

Finally unable to take it anymore, you turned to face him with a glare. "What do you want, Tristan?" you snapped, your patience wearing thin.

Tristan's smirk widened, his gaze flickering with amusement. "Just enjoying the view, Cromwell," he replied casually, as if your irritation was nothing more than entertainment to him.

You let out a bitter laugh as you shook your head. "Real classy, Tristan."

Tristan's smirk only widened at your remark, his amusement evident in every line of his face. "Oh, come on, Cromwell," he said, his tone teasing. "You can't tell me you're not used to being the center of attention. You were in New York for five years and you're telling me you didn't have the boys throwing themselves at you?"

You narrowed your eyes at Tristan, refusing to let his words rattle you. "I don't need validation from boys like you," you retorted, your voice dripping with annoyance. "Unlike some people, I have more important things to focus on than relationships."

Tristan's smirk faltered slightly at your cutting remark, but he quickly regained his composure. "Touché, Cromwell," he replied, his tone laced with amusement. "But don't act like you're immune to a little attention. I've seen the way you strut around like you own the place."

"And you don't? Please, I see the way every girl at Chilton looks at you. And I know you well enough to see how much that strokes your already, inflated ego." You paused, your voice laced with sarcasm as you leveled a pointed gaze at Tristan. "But hey, who am I to judge? If you want to bask in the adoration of your fan club, be my guest."

"Oh, I will, Y/N." Tristan let out a laugh as he watched you get all heated. He continued you watch you as you scoffed, turning your head back to the magazine.

You could feel his eyes on you, his amusement practically palpable. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. You weren't about to let him see how much he was getting to you. With a determined flick of your wrist, you closed the magazine and stood up from the sofa, shooting Tristan a glare.

"I have better things to do than sit here and listen to you," you declared, your voice laced with determination. With that, you turned on your heel and marched out of the room, leaving Tristan behind with his smug smirk and his insufferable ego.

You refused to let him drag you down to his level – you had bigger things to focus on than his petty games, like actually getting back to Manhattan where you belonged.

As you walked away, Tristan's amusement turned to frustration. He wasn't used to someone challenging him like this, especially not someone like you. With a determined stride, he followed after you, catching up just as you reached the hallway.

As you stormed out of the room, Tristan's smirk faded into a scowl. He watched you go, frustration bubbling up inside him. How dare she walk away from him like that? Without a second thought, Tristan followed after you, his footsteps echoing in the hallway as he caught up to you just as you reached the foyer.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Tristan called out, his voice sharp with annoyance.

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him with a glare. "Away from you," you replied sharply, crossing your arms over your chest. "I can't stand being around you for another second."

Tristan's jaw clenched, his own temper flaring. "Oh, please," he scoffed, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Like you're any better. You're nothing but a spoiled brat who thinks she's better than everyone else."

The words hit you like a slap in the face, igniting a firestorm of rage within you. "At least I'm not a narcissistic asshole who gets off on belittling others," you spat, your voice rising with each word. "You think you're so much better but you're not."

Tristan squared his shoulders, meeting your gaze head-on. "I want to know what your problem is," he replied, his tone angry. "You've been acting like you a complete bitch when I'm all trying to do is be your friend."

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. "Oh, spare me the act, Tristan," you shot back, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "We both know that's not what you're after. You just want to play your little games and stroke your own ego."

Tristan's jaw clenched, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "And what about you, huh?" he retorted, his voice rising in anger. "You act like you're too good for everyone, like you're above it all. Well, let me tell you something, Y/N – you're not as special as you think you are."

"You know what, Tristan. I don't care about you or your stupid games because all I'm trying to do is get back to New York. All this shit is just a rock in the road," you spat as you turned around, walking away.

"Oh really? What about your obvious drinking problem, that's why your mom sent you away, right?"

You stopped in your track as you took in Tristan's words. Fury was etched across your features as you spun around to face him, your fists clenched at your sides. "How dare you," you seethed, your voice trembling with rage. "You stupid asshole!"

You pushed him as hard as you could, causing him to trip and fall into a table. You heard a loud shattering and both of you just stared at each other before looking down to see glass everywhere.

"Shit, that's my mom's vase." Tristan's eyes widened in shock as he glanced at the shattered remains of the vase on the floor.

Your chest heaved with anger as you glared at Tristan, your fists still clenched at your sides. "You deserved it," you spat, your voice thick with venom. "You had no right to say that."

"Y/N, this vase is like two grand. It was my mom's favorite vase," Tristan scoffed as he stared down at the ground. "She's gonna be fucking pissed, idiot."

You stared back at him with anger but you knew that you needed to figure something out. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you clenched your jaw and met Tristan's gaze head-on. "I know I messed up," you admitted begrudgingly, your voice tight with frustration. "You shouldn't have been a bitch."

"Well you shouldn't have pushed me, like an psycho." Tristan's voice was sharp, but there was a hint of surrender beneath his irritation. He knew that pointing fingers wouldn't solve anything, but he couldn't help but feel defensive in the face of your accusation.

"Well I'm not apologizing-"

"Y/N, we need to figure out what to do before they come home."

And right on cue, the front door opened, revealing your father and Kristan, who froze in shock at the sight of the shattered vase and the two of you standing next to it.

Your father's expression hardened as he took in the scene, his disappointment evident in his eyes. "What in the world happened here?" he demanded, his voice a mix of frustration and disbelief.

masterlist !

series masterlist !

[chunniwritesalot]

lessons with the hamiltons - lh44

in which reader is a teacher, but hates kids

HIII OKAY THIS IS JUST A SILLY LITTLE THING I STARTED AND THEN I COULDN'T STOP WRITING LMAO!! i might make a part 2 if someone asks! dont mind the no lewis header i have no time to make one hahah

cw: ksi's new song mentioned, cursing maybeeee, lewis being a bighead

wc: many

“I hate kids.” You huffed as you walked into the apartment you shared with your husband, kicking off your shoes with an aggressive thud. “Hate, hate, hate them.”

It was ironic, of course. Being a teacher meant you were surrounded by children all day, one of the few jobs where you were supposed to like them—or at least tolerate them. Good thing you were also an amazing actor, masking your exhaustion with a smile every time you stepped into that classroom.

Lewis looked up from his laptop, raising an eyebrow. “You’re a teacher,” he said, as if reminding you of the obvious. “You’re literally paid to not hate them.”

You rolled your eyes, tossing your bag onto the floor before flopping onto the couch beside him. “Yeah, yeah, thanks for the revelation, Captain Obvious. Match my freak for once, would you?”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What does that even mean? Is that… new slang or something?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious but clearly out of his depth with your words.

“Yup, some of the kids started saying it,” you replied with a sigh, running your hands through your hair. “I guess I picked up on it without thinking.”

Lewis chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You teach 12 year olds. Doesn’t it freak you out a little to be adopting their slang?”

“Nah,” you said, leaning your head against his chest as he wrapped an arm around you. His warmth and the familiar scent of him—a mix of cologne and home—started to ease the tension you had carried through the door. “What freaks me out is how much I despise them today.”

He smiled at your melodramatic groan, rubbing small circles on your back. “What happened this time?”

“Everything. The noise, the constant whining, the way they somehow always know how to get under my skin. It's like they have a radar for it.” You shut your eyes, sinking deeper into the couch. “It’s exhausting pretending to like them.”

Lewis kissed the top of your head, his voice a little softer. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You let out a long breath, feeling some of the weight lift. “I know,” you whispered. “Thank God for that.”

There was a brief moment of silence, the kind that lingered just long enough for Lewis to think you’d finally calmed down. Then you broke it with a frustrated huff.

“You know what I had to deal with today?” You asked, your voice rising with the exasperation that had been bubbling beneath the surface all evening. You didn’t wait for him to respond before launching into your story. “Two boys in my class—two—decided to break out into song right in the middle of my lesson.”

You paused for effect, locking eyes with him to emphasize the absurdity of it all. Lewis raised an eyebrow, already bracing himself for the punchline.

“And they wouldn’t shut the hell up, mate,” you finished with a dramatic flourish, throwing your hands up in frustration.

He let out a low chuckle, trying to keep a straight face. “What were they even singing?”

You groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “Something ridiculous. Some TikTok trend or whatever, something about being on a screen and then a ring... Doesn’t matter, though—they were so off-key I couldn’t even tell what it was supposed to be.”

Lewis shook his head, biting back a smile. “And let me guess, they thought they were absolutely killing it?”

You shot him a look. “Oh, of course. They were acting like they were auditioning for a Broadway show. Hand gestures, facial expressions, the works. Like, I was just waiting for them to ask for a standing ovation.”

Lewis laughed outright at that, the sound of it making you feel a little less annoyed, though you’d never admit it. “And what did you do? Join in?”

You gave him a deadpan stare. “I kicked them both out of class.”

He snorted, covering his mouth to hide his amusement. “Classic. Just no patience left today, huh?”

“None.” You sighed, leaning back and closing your eyes, allowing yourself to relax for the first time all day. “Zero tolerance for teenage karaoke. I just wanted to get through my lesson without a circus.”

“Well, Mrs. Hamilton,” Lewis teased, emphasizing your formal title with an exaggeratedly prim tone. “I’m sure you handled it all with grace and professionalism.”

You let out a scoff, shooting him a sideways glance. “Yeah, if ‘grace and professionalism’ means nearly chucking a whiteboard marker at them, then sure.”

Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sure you’re everyone’s favorite teacher,” he added, a grin tugging at his lips.

You snorted, throwing your head back against the couch dramatically. “Oh yeah, I can just feel the love. Nothing says ‘favorite teacher’ like the daily chorus of, ‘Can we go home early?’ or ‘Miss, this is so boring.’”

“They only say that because they can’t handle your brilliance,” Lewis quipped, giving you a knowing look. “You’re too much for their fragile little minds.”

“Oh, definitely. I’m just intellectually overwhelming,” you deadpanned, rolling your eyes. “How could they ever appreciate my passion for algebra?”

Lewis burst out laughing, pulling you closer. “Exactly. They don’t even realize they’re sitting in the presence of greatness. Legends are never appreciated in their time.”

“Legend? Please,” you said, swatting him lightly. “If anything, I’m the stuff of nightmares. The teacher who ruined their dreams of becoming TikTok stars.”

“Hey, at least you’re memorable!” Lewis smirked, leaning in a little closer. “In 20 years, they’ll be telling their kids about the time Mrs. Hamilton shut down their music career before it even began.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Fantastic. I’ll be a cautionary tale.”

“Better than being forgotten,” he teased, raising his eyebrows. “Plus, you’re probably giving them some quality meme material. They’ll thank you later.”

You shot him an amused glare. “Oh, so that’s my legacy now? Being the ‘meme teacher’?”

“Hey, memes are forever,” Lewis said with a mischievous grin. “That’s practically immortal in today’s world.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his ridiculous logic. “I hate that you’re kind of right.”

Lewis leaned back, smug. “I’m always right.”

“You were just confused about slang 10 minutes ago,” you pointed out.

“Details, details,” he waved a hand dismissively. “The important thing is, your students secretly adore you. And if not, well…” He shrugged. “At least you’ve still got me.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered playfully, sinking back into his arms with a contented sigh.

“Hey, not everyone is in the presence of a seven-time Formula One World Champion!” Lewis shot back, puffing out his chest dramatically and poking your cheek for emphasis.

You groaned, shoving his hand away with a playful glare. “Your ego is huge, Lew. Like, it barely fits in this apartment.”

He smirked, unbothered. “What can I say? It’s all part of the package.”

“Oh, is that what it is? A package?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Well, I hope it comes with a refund policy because this ego is too much.”

Lewis laughed, pretending to think for a moment. “Nah, sorry, no returns. You’re stuck with me—and the ego. Non-refundable, no exchanges.”

You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes. “Great. Just what I wanted. A husband and his oversized confidence.”

“Hey,” he said, feigning offense. “It’s not confidence. It’s facts.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Right. ‘Facts.’ I swear, if you had an award for every time you talked about your seven championships, we’d need a separate room just for the trophies.”

Lewis grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Funny you mention that. I was just thinking we could clear out the guest room and—”

“No,” you interrupted, giving him a playful shove. “Not happening.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. “Fine, fine. But you can’t blame me for being proud. You did marry a legend, after all.”

You snorted. “A legend with an ego the size of a racetrack.”

“Hey, you’re the one who chose this life,” he teased, kissing the top of your head. “No refunds, remember?”

You sighed, leaning into him with a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Guess I’ll just have to live with it.”

“Sooo,” Lewis started, drawing the word out with that familiar grin you knew meant trouble. “Ever think of wanting… kids together?”

You blinked, then slowly turned to face him, squinting suspiciously. “Kids? Together? Us?”

Lewis grinned wider, leaning in. “Yeah, you know—tiny humans that look like us, say funny things, and maybe, just maybe, follow in my footsteps. Mini-Hamiltons.” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically, clearly enjoying the moment.

You raised a hand to stop him. “First of all, you’ve clearly forgotten the part where I just said I hate kids. Secondly, tiny humans that are half you? Lewis, I barely manage one of you.”

He laughed, completely unfazed. “Come on, you love me. Imagine—little curly-haired kids running around, making you laugh, driving you crazy. It’s the dream.”

You snorted. “The nightmare, you mean. I already have to keep your ego in check. Now you want me to manage a whole pack of baby egos that think they’re Formula One drivers straight out of the womb?”

“Exactly,” Lewis teased, poking your side. “Imagine—little racers, pulling wheelies on their tricycles, practicing pit stops with toy cars. We’d be unstoppable.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “No. Absolutely not. I already see it—them racing in the house, breaking things, you teaching them how to do donuts in the living room.”

Lewis gave a mock shrug. “Well, they’d have to learn from the best, right? Legacy, babe. It’s all about legacy.”

You buried your face in your hands, laughing in disbelief. “A legacy of destruction. Fantastic. Let me just call the furniture store now and order everything in crash-proof material.”

Lewis leaned in closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Okay, but imagine this: family go-kart days, mini helmets with Hamilton written across the back, and you as the team principal. We’d be unstoppable.”

“Team principal?” you deadpanned, lifting your head from your hands. “Lewis, if I’m in charge, the first thing I’m doing is banning anything with wheels in this house.”

Lewis burst out laughing, pulling you into a hug. “Alright, alright, no go-karts in the living room… yet. But seriously, can’t you see it? You’d be an amazing mom.”

You paused, softening a bit as you looked up at him. “I don’t know, Lew. I mean, if our kids inherit your energy, we might need to hire a whole pit crew just to keep up with them.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “That’s what makes it exciting. We’d make a great team.”

You sighed, half in amusement, half in surrender. “We’ll see. For now, let’s focus on surviving you, okay?”

“Deal,” Lewis said, laughing as he held you close. “But I’m telling you, one day, we’re gonna need matching family race suits.”

You groaned, but smiled. “God help me.”

-fin-

PLEASE SEND REQUESTSSSSSS IM BEGGING OMFGGG I'M FINALLY A LITTLE BIT FREE

[sh-ttycook]

Just a silly oneshot i wrote in the spur of a moment, inspiration from a comic i saw made by @noraschweeps !! Go check them out, I go feral for their zosan?!?

Mutual pining!!

"A Kiss With A Fist."

Sanji was enjoying a peaceful evening. They had just departed from an island. He didn't have to see Zoro's stupid face all day, and he had an amazing haul of local ingredients from the island. In his eyes, nothing could ruin this day. Well, until he heard the kitchen door open and the heavy thud of boots against the floor. That stupid fucking marimo...

"What have I told you about coming into my kitchen?!-.."

Sanji felt himself freeze as he whipped around to berate Zoro, only to see him wearing his shirt. His favourite one too.. blue with the black stripes.. He gripped the pot of stew in his hands harder, pink oven mitts straining beneath his fingertips as he grit his teeth

"Marimo... WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WEARING MY SHIRT?!"

Zoro blinked as he looked over, the bottle of booze he held in his hand still pressed to his lips as he sighed, responding in a grumble

"Nami and Usopp ganged up on me and threw all my damn clothes in the wash. Everyone else's clothes were far too small to fit me, and yours were the next best option."

The swordsman yawned, bringing the bottle back to his lips for another swig.

Sanji's shirt was a bit too big on him as Sanji was taller due to those damn long legs of his, but it was better than the alternative.

Though, as Sanji stared at him longer, he could feel his face begin to heat up hotter than the stew he'd just freshly taken off of the stove, biting down on the cigarette he held between his lips as his gaze shot away from Zoro.

"Just make sure it's been scrubbed down before you give it back. I don't want your sweat and germs all over it.. I'll have it returned with moss sprouting!"

Though Zoro didn't seem too fussed over the complaints as he sat upon the edge of one of the tables, a smirk pulled at his lips while he leaned back on his hands. He couldn't help but eye Sanji up as he took another swig from his bottle. It wasn't that he liked him or anything.. he just knew how to appreciate a pretty face when he saw one.

"Don't worry. I know how to wash clothes. You're not my mother."

Sanji rolled his eyes, trying to concentrate on cooking despite the fact that his hands were practically trembling. Zoro looked good in his shirt.. too good.. it made him want to goad the shitty swordsman into punching him. Though, the swordsman seemed happy just eyeing Sanji. He could see his hands trembling, almost making him want to rile him up more. He took another swig from his bottle, finishing the last of the booze before placing it down on the table.

"You're acting weird, shitty cook. It's just a shirt."

Sanji placed the stew aside and took his oven gloves off. He didn't like the feelings that seeing Zoro in his shirt stirred up. He needed to fight him. That was it. Having made up his mind, he strolled right over and launched a swift kick straight into the swordmans chest

"JUST A SHIRT?! YOU'RE GOING TO GET YOUR CRAPPY SPORES ALL OVER IT, YOU MOLD INFESTED BASTARD!"

Zoro let out a grunt of pain as Sanji's kick landed, though he was quick to recover, a grin tugging at his lips as he raised up to his feet.

"OH, IS THAT RIGHT, SHITTY COOK?! YOU WANNA GO THEN?!"

He lunged at Sanji, his fist flying straight for the cook's jaw, aiming to knock that stupid cigarette right out of his mouth.

Though.

Sanji didn't bother blocking it. Or even attempting. He would never admit it, but he liked it when they fought. He wasn't sure why. He supposed a kiss with a fist was better than none.

His cigarette dropped to the floor, ash faintly scattering over the tiles as his expression hardened

"DAMN RIGHT I FUCKING DO, YOU CRAPPY SWORDSMAN!"

With a knee jutting into Zoro's jaw, he grabbed him by the shirt- no, HIS shirt. He was beginning to get lost in thought again when he suddenly felt a hand grasping his wrist, twisting it harshly to make him let go

"You're a damn masochist, you know that?"

His other hand collided with Sanji's gut, causing him to stagger back with a few throaty coughs

"Oh yeah? And how the hell am I a damn masochist?!"

Sanji hissed right back, wincing as he held on tightly to the shirt. He was pretty sure his hand wasn't meant to bend that way...

"Oh, come on, don't give me that. The way you act when I hit you. It's like you love feeling my fists on you."

Zoro sneered, getting right in the cook's face as he used his grip to pull him closer until they were only inches apart.

"You get off on it, don't you?"

.

.

.

Sanji knew he DID get off on it. But he would never dare say that. He didn't like Zoro like that. He wasn't- he wasn't gay? He liked women..

"You should keep your sick fantasies about me to yourself! I only get off to beautiful women!"

He snapped right back in response, his knee slamming into Zoro's crotch, watching as his expression crumpled and his grip faltered, the swordsmans next words coming out strained

"You bastard.. That's low! Even for you!"

His hand reached up to grab Sanji's throat, pushing through the pain to slam the cook into one of the kitchen counters

Blood.

Where was it coming from?

Oh. A nosebleed.

Sanji let out a small grunt of pain, feeling the warmth drip down his nose and pool at the intersection between his lips.

He could pass that off as an injury from Zoro's earlier punch.. right?

"Yeah, well, with the way you're speaking, it makes it sound like you're gay!" He spat, "no use for kids if you only want MEN!"

Zoros eyes narrowed as he felt those words hit far too close to the bullseye for his comfort. He wasn't gay.. he just appreciated men.. and didn't find that much of an interest in women.. God- why was he even wasting time thinking about this?! He gripped Sanji's neck tighter, growing more irritated

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you think I'm gay because I like beating your ass?"

That earned a strangled noise from Sanji, a flush creeping up his neck

"Don't fucking word it like that, you big oaf?!"

He sputtered, hands tightly clenching the counter below him. Though, when Zoro noticed how red Sanji's face had grown, he couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips

"Oh, so I'm right, huh?"

He leaned in closer, pressing himself right up against Sanji, trapping the cook between his body and the counter. His grip on Sanji's neck loosened slightly, but his hand remained there, brushing against the cook's Adams apple.

Sanji bit his tongue, scowling harshly at Zoro as his foot connected with his chest and sent him flying back into the table.

The cook could taste the blood on his lips. He half wondered if that's what Zoro's would taste like back in thriller bark when he-...

What the hell was he thinking?

"Moss infested piece of shit.."

Zoros gaze hardened on Sanji. These mixed messages were driving him insane.. Sure, he wasn't gay, but if he was then Sanji really didn't seem like that bad of a choice!

"You've got some serious anger issues, you know that?"

He grunted, slowly pushing himself up from the shattered pieces of the table and dusting himself off.

"Whatever. Just get out of my damn sight until dinners ready. And get Franky to fix the table while you're out there.

[scribblesofagoonerr]

— Separate ‖ | © scribblesofagoonerr

pairings: leah williamson x jordan nobbs x separate reader!buddy x chaos fc reader!monkey

summary: buddy is reunited with monkey, and there up to no good already.

here's the start of the cross over nobody asked for but i wrote anyways, featuring everyones' chaotic fc reader, monkey.

also thank you to @alotofpockets for putting up with me sending my ideas for this and word jumble.

Sure enough with a bit of encouragement, you slowly came out of your shell enough to move to sit in Leah's lap and get in all of the cuddles that you had missed throughout the last week.

Until you hear the front door open, and you knew who it is straight away.

"Ello'? I'm home!" You hear your favourite person shout aloud and your quick to jump up from Leah's lap and race towards the front door, "Where's my favourite little buddy?" She asks.

"Here I am!" You all but launch yourself into the arms of the older girl.

"There you are!" Monkey exclaims, squeezing you gently as she spins you around in her arms, "I've missed you loads!"

"I've missed you too!" You can't help but giggle as your lowered back onto the floor, "Look! We're doin' Lego!" You pull her in the direction of the lego blocks scattered on the floor where you had left Leah and Jordan in favor of Monkey.

"Aw, wow! So you like the lego set, huh?" Monkey grins as she slumps down on the floor and your quick enough to drop down into her lap, the two older women completely forgotten about now that your favourite person is here.

"She's been waiting for you to come back," Leah states, smiling at the pair of you together.

Monkey gasps dramatically before she beams a wide smile, "You have? Well I'm here. Where've you been?" She asks, tickling you under your ribs.

"I went on holiday with my mama, silly!" You exclaim, bursting into a fit of giggles right there, "Where you been?" You wonder, curiously.

You know Leah and Monkey went somewhere, but you can't exactly remember where.

Or if you were told, you didn't really listen much to it.

"Oooh right, of course you did!" Monkey facepalms herself and you can't help but laugh again, you sometimes think your favourite person is the funniest person in the world, "I went to Nashville and I was in my cowgirl era. I even had a lad try hit on me and I told him to kiss my--"

"Monkey!" Leah exclaims, cutting the girl off, "She's 3, she doesn't need to hear that!" She scolds her, which you find it even funnier.

Monkeys' always known to get herself into trouble, sometimes you're corrupted and like to join in with her as well.

It's even more fun when Kyra comes to visit as well.

The three of you have so much fun!

You find it funny sometimes when you watch Leah and Kim tearing their hair out with your favourite person.

"I wasn't even gonna say anything," Monkey holds her hands up in self surrender, smirking at Leah.

You look at Leah to see her giving Monkey one of her usual stern facial expressions. You see it happen a lot, but never usually directed towards you at least.

It's always Monkey.

"And just like that we're forgotten about," Jordan jokes, seeing you happy enough again with being in the company of monkey, "I should probably go." She suggests to Leah, knowing it's the easier option that wouldn't lead to tears.

Leah hums in agreement as she watches you and Monkey together, "That's probably a good idea," She replies before she turns to look at you, "Mamas' gonna go home now, Buddy. Shall we go and say bye?" She questions.

You nod and scramble up from the older girls lap to throw yourself directly at Jordan's legs, "Bye, Mama! 'Ove you!" You exclaim.

"I love you too, my little Buddy," Jordan crouches down and plants a gentle kiss on the top of your forehead, "Be good for your mummy, okay? No getting led astray either." She tells you, glancing in the direction of your favourite person.

"Accusations. False accusations!" Monkey screeches loudly and dramatic, which of course makes Leah roll her eyes in response, "I don't know what yer' even talkin' about there!" She insists, shrugging her shoulders.

"You and I both know what I mean," Jordan remarks, chuckling at the older girl as she ruffles her hair, having the height advantage being stood up while Monkey is still sat down.

"Pft," Monkey scoffs and stands up off the floor, "I'm still an inch taller than you!" She insists, smirking at Jordan.

Leah shakes her head at the antics of your favourite person, "That's enough, Monkey!" She states, firmly before the older girl can continue to wind up Jordan any more, "Stop being a menace, go and do something productive!" She tells her.

Monkey pouts and slumps her shoulders, "I'm bored though and I can't talk to Kyra because she's asleep still!"

"Kyra!" You squeal at the mention of the Aussie girls' name, "I wan' talk to Kyra!" You insist.

Leah gives Monkey a pointed look, "See? Look what you've done now," She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Oops," Monkey gives the blonde a guilty facial expression.

"I wan' speak to Kyra!" You insist once again.

Shaking her head, Leah turns to look at you, "Buddy, you'll see Kyra when she comes back home, but you can't talk to her because it'll be night time for us when she's awake." She explains.

"I wan' speak to Kyra," You whine, not entirely understanding the whole aspect of time zone differences.

"Ooo, Buddy! I know who we can talk too!" Monkey perks up with the idea as she grins at you, "How about we go and talk to Lessi instead?" She suggests, hoping that you'll agree to that.

"Lessi!" You cheer excitedly, forgetting about the Aussie women for now.

"Yeah, Lessi!" Monkey repeats before she sweeps you up into her arms, "You wanna go fly around the house?" She wonders, knowing exactly what you like and don't like.

"Yeah! Yeah! Fly!" You squeal in delight, squealing even more as Monkey balances her hand under your tummy and you're in the air within seconds.

"All aboard Russo airlines," Monkey jokes, making fun of the blonde for her celebration, "Neeeeeawww!" She makes the noise of a plane, running through the house with you in her arms.

"Don't drop her, Monkey!" Leah and Jordan both shout in sync, almost both of them having heart attacks seeing it happen.

"Sounds like you got your hands full there," Jordan remarks, shaking her head.

Leah chuckles slightly in response, "I'm not sure who's more of a handful at times," She replies.

"Definitely Monkey," The older women out of the two replies, grinning at her ex-girlfriend, "Right, I'll be goin' then. Her teddies in the front pocket of her backpack if she wants it."

"Thanks," Leah nods in agreement, "I'm sure she hasn't asked for it yet when she loves that thing." She adds.

That thing that Leah was referring to was Mr. Bear, a stuffed brown bear that was gifted to you from your great-grandma and ever since you got him, you carried him everywhere with you, even going as far as almost dropping him out of the window one time and Jordan had to stop the car and jump out to retrieve him to save any of the tears.

"Yeah, me neither," Jordan agrees with her ex, "And her blanket, if she needs it is--"

"Jord, don't worry. I've got it, Leah interjects, chuckling slightly at her ex girlfriend, "She's my daughter too, remember? I can figure these things out."

"Yeah, of course, sorry force of habit," The older women out of the two gives her ex a sheepish smile and nods, while shoving her hands in her pockets, "Ehm, I'll be here on Friday at 2 to collect her for the weekend then." She tells her.

"I'll see you then," Leah nods curtly, opening the front door to let Jordan out, "Safe drive back."

Jordan smiles slightly at Leah, "Yep, thanks. See you on Friday." With that, she waves at her ex girlfriend before she departs down the driveway and climbs back into her car for the long drive back home.

© scribblesofagoonerr