#this was bigger but there was too much empty space and I wasn’t about to do a background Lol

[number1liftyandshiftyfan]

requesting more petunia x shifty plz

This was the perfect excuse for me to draw out this idea I had ��

she’s washing him cause he smells like garbage 🙄 (he doesn’t mind)

[tonycries]

Unmistakably Yours - G.S.

Synopsis. In which the strongest bends space and time - literally - after coming back from deatḣ, to do what he’s always wanted to do - you.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, best friends to lovers, Satoru goes a little (very) INSANE, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, manga spoilers, use of jujutsu powers, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, féral Satoru, heinous things, happy ending, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.5k

A/N. Yeahhh that poll was cooking up something devious heheh. Gege give me back my man.

Gojo Satoru was going to kill someone.

He was going to kill someone and it didn’t matter who. It didn’t matter how. It didn’t even matter if he had to haul his broken body - scarred and barely-healed - out of this stiff infirmary bed, because the great Gojo Satoru awoke and the world shook.

Because you weren’t here.

“Ah. The oh-so deadest one, I see you’re awake.” Satoru flinches at the sharp, exhausted drawl from his left. 

Slowly, he blinks away the haze in his aching eyes, desperately trying to adjust to the cold room. Shoko’s voice was too loud. The lights too bright. His waiting arms too empty - where were you? 

With a low hiss, Satoru’s body is moving before his mind, sitting up like a man possessed. Goosebumps prickle his skin as the thin blanket falls off his shoulders. Temples throbbing because the world was spinning and spinning and you-

“Calm down, Satoru.” Shoko sounds almost panicked now - as much as she could, anyway. Uselessly trying to push him back onto the mattress. “I don’t care if you’re the ‘strongest’. Sukuna did a number on you and you have to rest-”

“Where is she?”

---

It was the final nail on your coffin - that slight, steady rumble beneath your feet. So fleeting that you’d written it off as your weary brain, too goddamn tired from today. Heaving out a sigh, you rub your eyes in frustration, so fucking alone in this too-large penthouse. 

Fingers jittery, you rifle through your best friend’s closet for his box of blindfolds, because you knew he’d be complaining about the sensory overload at the infirmary if- when he woke up. Though, you think that was more an excuse for Shoko to send your wrecked self away than anything. 

Grabbing a few more than necessary, your heart lurches as you eye that dusty framed photo by his bedside. A much younger Satoru, Suguru, Shoko, and you - probably the last time any of you smiled so carelessly. 

One dead and the other just on the cusp of it.

He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He’s the strongest, right?

Swallowing heavily, you try to put your mind to something - anything - other than the memory of that battlefield and the blood. So much blood. Everywhere. 

God, you should’ve stayed. What if Satoru-

That was when you felt it. 

The tight, uncomfortable feeling of atoms standing at attention all around you. The air was so stagnant and heavy that it was almost hard to breathe. 

You don’t know how you realize what it is - but you don’t get the chance to wonder about it either. Because the thought has barely even crossed your mind before everything else is thrown at the window at those two words. 

Hoarse, and whispered, voice ever-so-slightly cracking at the end. One you recognized, one you knew you always would.

“My love?”

Satoru.

It was a miracle that you didn’t get whiplash from how fast you whirled around to face the doorway - and it was an even bigger miracle that you didn’t trip at how your legs were carrying you to that tall, familiar flash of white hair without a second thought. 

Hell, you don’t think you’ve ever run this fast in your life, and it still wasn’t quick enough when Satoru engulfed you in his arms. Letting out a soft sigh as he hugs you tight enough that it hurt, like he never wanted to let go. 

All familiar warmth and a rapid heartbeat that matched your own. 

A shiver runs down your spine at that scent of the infirmary, tinged with something so dangerously metallic, miles away from the usual hints of pine and candy. But you only pull Satoru closer - not even realizing the tears staining his snug t-shirt, nails digging into his sculpted back. 

“S-Satoru?” you murmur wetly, as if you still couldn’t believe it - even when you were in his strong arms. 

It killed you to pull away, and Satoru wasn’t any better, pulling you firmly to his heated body with a guttural grunt as soon as you showed any signs of shifting away. Grip almost bruising, fingers tight on your hips. But you didn’t mind, why would you? 

Because the strongest was nothing under your will - he always was. And it’s only once you break the embrace just a fraction of an inch that you confirm that this actually was Satoru - your Satoru. 

“You’re here.” you breathe out unsteadily, not knowing where to look first - his heaving chest, as if he’d run all the way here, or those faint scars along his exposed skin. Jagged, running down his pale skin like he was too impatient - too distracted - to let them heal properly. Satoru’s face was scarily blank, pretty lips set in a tight grimace like every second you weren’t locked in his arms killed him. 

He doesn’t answer - like he didn’t know himself. Nervously, you raise your eyes to meet his and-

Oh, Satoru, he was here. Alive.

Looking like he was ready to make sure that no one else was.

You just wondered where they’d pile all the casualties. Too many to bury at Jujutsu High if those tiny blue flickers of lightning at the corners of Satoru’s eyes were anything to go by. 

Gaze hooded, pupils blown, he didn’t look at you with that usual warmth. No, he looked at you like a man that had crawled back from death just to rip you apart. And you had half the mind to wonder whether this was some special grade curse that had just come disguised as your best friend. 

“Are you okay?” you try again, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Toru?”

Oh, you might as well have just signed your own will, because no sooner are the words out of your mouth before Satoru’s jolting. Like the mere sound of that stupid little nickname from high school was enough to shock him to his very core. 

Electrify him just enough to finally look at you like it was the first time. Like he was seeing you after a thousand years. “My love.”

There it was again, that quiet, strained little mantra. 

Followed very closely by the deafening slam! of the door behind him, so hard that you spy one of the hinges rattling off. Startled, you look over Satoru’s broad shoulders just to catch a glimpse of the single, large handprint charred into the wood, slight steam wafting from his hand.

Shit. He’s lost it.

Almost like the strongest has forgotten his restraint - or didn’t care about it either way. Heated, you wondered what this boded for you. 

Will you be lucky number one on his kill list? You wonder, as Satoru presses his mouth right above your pulse. Racing. Dangerous. Feeling the rapid thump! thump! thump! under his lips.

Breathing you in, dragging his nose up, up, up- He mutters into your skin, “Y’can kill me if you don’t want this.” Will you go down - if there’s anyone left to remember, that is - as the casualty that surely and officially signaled the honored one’s descent into madness? Only the second best friend he had to kill?

Or, Satoru pulls away slowly from his little haven, breath ghosting your lips as he gasps out a shaky, “No God can take me away without doing this.” Will it be something else entirely?

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

Because fuck, how could you not? This is Satoru, and this is all you’ve ever wanted since those late night convenience store runs in high school, hand-in-hand and teleporting away from a furious Yaga.

The same Satoru that had cockily winked at you goodbye before facing Sukuna - leaving you crying with nothing to hold onto but those cold, cold hands and wishes that you’d have just fucking kissed him before. Maybe even put aside your pride to just tell him.

But none of that mattered now, because Satoru was so desperate - drinking you in like you were the last breath of air on Earth. Like it hurt more to part with your lips than it was to be cleaved in half.

Such a mess of teeth and saliva, and you were addicted. Drunk off his sweet taste - like candy, almost, and those cheap mochi he always got from downtown - and the electricity pricking at you each time your skin grazed against his.

It almost hurt - but it hurt so good.

Gasping, you pull away for air - impossible with the way Satoru was like a madman, kissing your swollen lips again and again and-

“Toru!” you squeal, muffled through his lips. “Aren’t you-” His mouth drops into a soft oh! at the delicate strings of saliva snapping in the non-existent space between you two. Surging forward like he couldn’t help himself. “Battlefield- mmpf- now?”

With a pained grunt, Satoru finally halts, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the brief flicker of blue lightning all over his body. The way the lights flicker. 

“Special curtain.” he pants against your open mouth, a muscled thigh shoving between your weakening legs. “Time barely passes in here.”

You don’t know what your head is reeling more from his words or his hands - hands that kill - caressing you like a lover everywhere. Unable to decide between your hips, to your ass, to your pretty pretty face. Kiss-bitten lips uttering, “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“So?” Satoru lets out a humorless laugh. About an octave higher than usual, like he was at the end of his rope now. Eyes hazy and glowing, looking as if it took everything in him to not just tear off that uniform and take you right now. 

“But-”

“Shut up and let me ruin you, my love.”

Your back is hitting the mattress before you can even start to wonder what the fuck is happening. One second standing at the doorway and the other all sprawled out on Satoru’s bed.

Besides yourself, you blurt out, trying to make sense of the situation to both of you two. “Did- did you just teleport us?”

“Don’t know.” he answers. And Satoru sounded like he genuinely didn’t know, as bewildered as you were. Powers acting before him - way, way before he can think - as he fists your shirt in his hands. “Don’t care.”

And you half wondered whether Satoru was even aware of what he was doing as he pulls, down, down down. 

Rip!

It tears through the air - both the sound, and the way he’s just pulling your shirt to shreds. All depravity and no repentance as Satoru throws it behind God-knows-where. Buttons hitting the floor at a maddening little rhythm to which he was slowly losing his sanity. 

He was kissing you like he was angry - taking it out on your poor clothes. Because before you know it, he’s pulling your bra off. Fingers searing on your skin, skirt just tatters on the floor. 

“Waited too long.” he groans, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Always wanted to do this.” And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into the valley of your breasts, “Ever since I first saw you and oh-”

That was it - only one look at your panties, all flimsy and drenched - and you’re back to wondering what Satoru’s kill count would be. You shudder as his eyes widen, letting out a strangled gasp from some deep, primal part of himself. Voice so broken and starved as he muses, “-can’t believe I waited this long.”

Shit. You weren’t making it out alive.

Immediately, Satoru’s dropping further down the mattress, easily pushing your knees up all the way till they were at your breasts. 

And it was so unfair. 

Unhair how he was still fully clothed, while you were spread so shamefully. Unfair how he was sliding his underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Up and down, up and down up and- Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips before pulling, marveling at how sinfully soaked they were. 

And it was like something snapped - maybe his whatever restraint he had left, probably you by the end of this. Because just a split-second later, Satoru’s tearing right through your panties. Not even taking a second to breathe before burying his pretty face into your dripping cunt. 

Unfair how you were liking it so dangerously. Being so used. 

And Satoru knows - he thinks, with whatever rationality he has left intact - that he wants to admire your pretty lil’ cunt. To finally drink in what he’s been dreaming about for years all these lonely nights. But, no, that’s for later - for a different Satoru, one that didn’t feel like he was going to fucking die if he didn’t taste you right now. 

“Ah! Hngh- T-Toru-” you arch into his hot tongue, as he licks erratically up your folds, long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Lapping at your juices like he couldn’t stop.

“Tha’s right.” words muffled into your cunt. Throwing your legs over his sculpted shoulders. “Gimme more, use me. Use me- fuck fuck fuck- yeah.”

He sounded as delirious as you were already, flinching with each word spat into your sensitive cunt. Drunk off your pussy and so messy, like he was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

And it’s all you can do to sob so needily as he swirls his tongue around your sensitive clit. Seemingly unable to decide between sucking on it harshly and dipping into your sloppy hole. In and out. Wanting everything. Anything. 

“Fuck. S’too deep. Sh-shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he’s grinning, a cruel, cold little grin. You can feel it as he rolls his tongue against your clit over and over. “S’not deep enough.”

You pathetically try to close your legs around his head in shock, as the tips of his long fingers spread open your pussy further, teasing your entrance. 

But who were you against the strongest? The one that got everything handed to him on a silver platter since birth? Except you - until now, that is.

Because Satoru’s swatting thighs back open like it was a mere inconvenience, and feel your cunt clench in- fear? Anticipation? as you realize how gently he was throwing you around like a ragdoll, in comparison to that door from earlier. 

“No.” he sounds absolutely wrecked, babbling around your throbbing clit. “Need this- need you.”

And then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, so greedily that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Drinking in your pretty gasps of his name as he roams for that one spot he knows will have you seeing stars - only the best for his girl, right? The only thing on his mind right now, like a predator starved.

You can only tug on his hair and buck wildly underneath him, inching Satoru closer to where he was desperately searching for. Close - so close. 

“Toru-” you moan, like a prayer. 

But it wasn’t fast enough. 

Not for Satoru, at least.

Even through the haze in your eyes, you could make out that brief flash of electric blue in-between your legs, eyes widening as ah-

That cheat. 

You wondered if he even knew he was using his powers right now. Or whether Satoru was too far gone at this point. Way too smug with the way he hits that one spot. Hard. 

Ah, you quiver as something so dark sparks in his eyes. Looking like a man starved, that had finally come across his favorite meal. Moving with frightening accuracy as he pumps his fingers in and out, hitting it each and every time. 

“Shit, ngh-” you let out a shrill moan, “It’s too good. You’re so fucking-” 

One hand was so messy toying with your dripping entrance - the other digging into your hips. Dragging your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. 

Hard enough that you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. If you even made it that long, that is, if the tiny shocks of electricity at his fingertips told you anything. 

Desperate. Violent, even.

So it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same. “Fuck- m’cumming m’cumming, fuck fuck fuck-” You’re shaking as you cum, crying out Satoru’s name and delirious little moans that you’d otherwise be embarrassed of. 

And he doesn’t stop. Not when you’re blinking your vision back. Not when you’re shying away from his tongue, the stars behind your eyes too much with each flick of his tongue. 

“S’too much- too- fuck, sensitive, Toru.” you whine, big fat tears clinging to your lashes. 

Ah, there it was again. Just when Satoru was beginning to think that he might just be veering into a state of mind that could be considered sane - you have to call him that goddamn nickname again. And it’s only driving him wild. 

Well, he muses, fumbling with the hem of his t-shirt, it’s really on you then. 

You let out a fucked-out little whine as Satoru finally takes his shirt off, revealing such milky, toned skin. All sharp curves and dips like he was sculpted so meticulously, going down, down, down and- Your breath hitches at the large, pink scar standing out of his torso, so uneven and fresh that you feel a fresh wave of tears - different ones, this time. 

You take a steadying breath, eyes unmoving from the injury. “Satoru-”

“No.” Satoru’s tone is firm, so different from the metallic tinkling of his belt. He was moving now, shifting in between your legs to kiss those tears away. “Need this. Need you. Need you need you need you so bad-”

“But your…” you trail off. The words catch in your throat as he finally unbuckles his belt, pulling down his pants just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, soaked in precum. 

He was so…massive. Now, you expected your best friend to have a big dick, but this was ridiculous. He was so intimidatingly long, thick enough that you could feel the slick beading out of your sloppy hole already.

Yeah, you definitely weren’t making it out alive. 

Satoru sees it too, of course, because his cock twitches furiously. A low hiss leaving those pretty pink lips before he’s spitting on your quivering cunt. Once. Twice. 

And you know that if this shameless bastard could use six eyes to find your g-spot, then he could’ve done the same for this. But, no, he lets some of it miss, splattering against your inner thigh, smearing all over as Satoru thumbs in his saliva with your slick. 

God, he was treating you like some object. Wordlessly throwing your legs over his shoulders, dragging his weeping tip down your swollen folds. So fucking filthy. 

And then you feel like you’re been split apart - because Gojo Satoru was unforgiving. As was his aching cock. He’s barely even pressing through the first ring of muscle, and you already feel like he’s pushing all the way into your lungs. 

“T-Toru.” you yelp, glancing down at the way your pussy was stretched so lewdly around his thick cock. Quivering as he keeps pushing and pushing and- no mercy. Absolutely none at all. “Can feel you so deep inside ngh- I don’t think I can…” 

“No no no no no-” he’s panting into your open mouth. Fucking into your heavenly cunt in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to squeeze deeper inside. “Need this. Want this. Always did. God, fuck fuck fuck, you can do it-”

“But-”

God, Satoru can’t help but kiss you - to shut those cute lil’ whines up more than anything, he’s sure he’ll cum right there and right now if he didn’t. 

Because Satoru wasn’t any better. Body bowing into yours, eyes rolling to the back of his head, mouth falling into a delirious oh! as he finally bottoms out. Balls smacking your ass too hard, your pussy too tight, you too beautiful underneath him. 

Blindly, he reaches for the headboard - white-knuckling it so hard that it’s a wonder it doesn’t break. 

It does - and later you’ll find a pile of splinters behind the bed. It’s just that neither of you notice. Too high off the feeling of Satoru’s cock pushing inside you. You’re clawing at his back now, gasping for air. Letting him fold you in half to filthily lick away the tears pooling at your cheeks. 

“Shit- y’got this, my love. You gotta- ah- Breathe-” he can’t even speak properly, sharp tongue so heavy. Eyes glowing with such insanity as he rocks his hips harder into yours.

He was right - you needed to breathe. To finally wrap your head around the fact that this was Satoru - your best friend - the same one that binge-watches sappy rom-coms with you after every breakup. Every. Single. One. Somehow, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Both of you were barely-lucid at this point. And he was out of control now.

Funny, how in all his dreams when you were screaming his name - Satoru was always suave, methodical, playing with your pretty pussy like a fine instrument. Right now, he was anything but. Sloppy - like he didn’t have enough time, never would, even in this room where time slowed.

“Don’t you run away.” he grunts at the way you’re so adorably torn between running away from his cock and bucking for more more more- “Waited twelve fucking years for this. N’ m’gonna take it.”

You almost sob at the pressure as he laces his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper. Down, down, down. “S’too good, Toru. Wan’ more-”

“More.” Satoru breathes, more to himself than anything. Eyes widening almost comically, a fucked-out smile spreading all over his face. “Y’want more even when you’re filled to-” He traces an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “Here?”

“Yes.” you gasp as he reaches down to toy with your throbbing clit, drawing tight, frenzied little circles. Balls smacking your ass so painfully, thumb pressing down right where his tip was hitting your cervix - as if he used six eyes to see. “Always wanted more. Always have, Toru.”

And you swear you could see something physically snap inside Satoru. Because his eyes glaze over, grin dropping instantly from his face. 

If you weren’t so cockdrunk maybe you’d have caught the way the bedroom lights flicker, the one down the hallway bursting. 

“Always, huh?” he’s muttering, grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Wanted more like me?” Rocking into you so sloppily, cock twitching so painfully as he speeds up. Fingers just as desperate - as depraved as his hips.

And this time, he doesn’t even have to use six eyes to find that one spot. Knowing your body well enough to hit it over and over until you were sobbing. “More more more more- fuckin’ take it then.”

At this point you didn’t know whether Satoru was always this ruthless in bed or you’d just broken him. It felt so good that it was almost scary. And your delirious mind wandered into the thought that maybe the bed would break - and your bones to follow. 

Well, they would have if Satoru hadn’t been using reversed cursed technique. But you didn’t need to know that just yet. 

“Satoru-” you squeal as he only gets more erratic.  “I’m…”

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting, smacking his lips against your own.

It’s laughable, really, that muffled question - because Satoru knew you were close. Losing his fucking mind, actually, at how you were squeezing so hard around him. Balls squeezing so painfully right now, but he wanted you to cum first - needed you to cum first.

“Yeah, so close. Wan’ cum- Ah! Please-”

“Then cum. Fucking cum, wan’ed this so bad.” he’s babbling deliriously. Little sparks of lightning visible even to your glassy eyes, fingers humming with a dangerous little energy that stimulated you so good. “Yeah, yeah yeah yeah fucking cum, wanna hngh-”

And then you are. So sudden and hard that you don’t even realize it at first. Just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Rocking your hips into Satoru’s like such a slut. 

Oh, if heaven was really then the part of Satoru that can still form coherent thoughts thinks this just might be it. 

Because only the sight of you creaming all around his swollen cock and he’s cumming and cumming so hard that it hurts. Thick, hot ropes of cum that he can’t seem to stop. Doesn’t want to stop, and God he thinks he could cum until you beg and beg and beg it’s too much. Until you’re yelling for-

“Mercy!” you moan, head spinning with how fucking overfilled your pussy was. “Please, Toru-”

Satoru lets out a slight gasp, “Mercy?” Chuckling so cruelly at your dazed nod, “No mercy, my love. None at all.”

And God, it was so fucking hard to look at him too - eyes half-lidded and miles away, flushed and looking like he was anywhere but laid out on a hospital bed just a few minutes ago. In fact, Satoru looked like he was in heaven on Earth as he only milked his painfully hard cock on your snug pussy.

Pretty. Always so fucking pretty. 

And he kept whispering that, over and over in your ear as you both ride out your highs. Oh how he loved you.

Your eyes fly open, and Satoru knew he’d said that out loud. Shit. But, well, with the way you were immediately pulling him to collapse into your arms, he thinks he really doesn’t mind.

“Love you, love you. Love you so much. Always did, always wanted to love you- to fuck you.” You barely even notice him marking down your neck, sharp canines digging into the flesh like he wanted to break something. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood. “To ruin you.”

It was oozing out of you, both Satoru’s cum - dribbling down your legs in thick globs, pooling on the overpriced sheets below - and his power. Jolts of electricity running down all the way from your poor, abused cunt to your hazy mind. 

“So do it.” The air was crackling - crackling with intensity and the smell of jujutsu. It was in your veins, in your words as you whisper, “Ruin me. You’re the- ngh- only- one f’me, Toru. Always was.”

The lights go out. All of them - all across Tokyo, in fact. Shining so bright that it was blinding, until they burst. The last thing you see are his eyes - electrified with blue lightning, burning into your brain. 

And then it’s black. 

---

“I’ll be back before ya know it, my love.” he whispers against your forehead, cooing at the way you stir sleepily. “Gotta pest to take care of.”

Taking down that curtain wasn’t the hard part, the hard part was actually fucking regaining his senses enough to do so. 

And now, all cleaned up and fucked to sleep on his bed, you were looking so unbearably delectable that it made some part of Satoru just want to stay behind this curtain. To forget the waiting sorcerers on the battlefield. Saving the world be damned.

Well, no matter, Satoru had time. He was the strongest, right? After all, how could he give you the world if there was no world to give?

“N’ when I’m back, m’gonna kiss ya to death till you go out with me. Till everyone knows you’re unmistakably mine.”

A/N. GET IT - that unmistakable bit from the panel? 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[megumismyhusband]

you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the photo frame in your hands. it was the one picture of you both where rin actually smiled, a rare moment that now felt like a distant memory. you didn’t know when that smile had started to disappear, but you sure as hell knew it had. his absence felt like a gaping hole in your chest, one that only seemed to grow bigger with every second that passed.

it was stupid to think, even for a moment, that maybe he would remember. maybe this time would be different. but soccer had always been his first love. you had accepted that long ago. still, it stung like hell when you found yourself dressed up, waiting in vain for a man who was so lost in his own world, he couldn’t even spare a moment for you.

the dress you wore felt like an armor now, something to hide the hurt that was bubbling up inside. You could barely recognize the woman in the mirror anymore, the one who had once believed that maybe, just maybe, she was important enough to be his priority.

rin didn’t even notice the time slipping away as he came home, a faint scent of sweat and grass lingering on him. he stepped into the room, eyes scanning the space. his gaze fell on you, sitting on the bed, all dolled up, but it only caused confusion to flash across his face. "why are you dressed up?" he asked, voice detached and unbothered.

you didn’t answer immediately, still holding the frame in your hands. you could feel the tension between you two, the weight of all the unsaid words that had been building up over the years. finally, you looked at him, eyes empty. "no reason," you said in a voice so flat, it could have been mistaken for indifference.

he frowned but didn’t push further. instead, he walked to the closet to change into comfortable clothes, leaving you to stew in silence.

it wasn’t until you were in the kitchen, now dressed in sweatpants and a loose shirt, that rin finally spoke up. he walked in, standing in the doorway, his brow furrowing at the sight of you. "what’s wrong?" his voice was softer now, but there was an edge of frustration creeping in.

you leaned against the counter, staring at him. "take a guess," you muttered, unable to hide the bitterness in your tone.

he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in frustration. "You always do this, you never fuckin’ communicate. Use your fuckin’ words for once," he snapped, irritation slipping into his voice.

you laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh that conveyed humor. it was dry, devoid of life. "communication? is that really what you want to talk about right now? you’ve been so wrapped up in your own shit, i don’t even know why i bothered."

his face faltered, confusion overtaking his annoyance for a moment. "what the hell are you talking about?"

you shook your head, the anger finally boiling over. "you forgot again, rin," you spat, your voice thick with emotion. "you always forget. you’re always too busy with soccer, and i just—" you cut yourself off, not wanting to break down in front of him.

rin’s jaw clenched. "i’m sorry," he muttered, but it didn’t sound like an apology. It felt like an excuse, like he was saying it because it was the thing he was supposed to say.

"are you even happy?" you ask, your voice cracking.

his breath hitched at the question, the silence stretching between you both. "what?" his voice was softer now, less defensive. "of course i am, why wouldn’t i be?"

"then why does it feel like i’m the only one trying here? you always choose soccer over me, rin." the words were out before you could stop them, a raw confession of the frustration that had been eating away at you for far too long.

he hesitated, the words caught in his throat. "i don’t know what you want me to say," he finally admitted, his tone quieter, more vulnerable than you’d heard in a long time. "i’m doing the best i can."

"your best?" you scoff, your voice trembling. "rin, your best isn’t enough anymore. i’m not asking for much, just... for you to care, for once."

he took a step toward you, the frustration turning into something else, regret, maybe, or guilt. "i do care. i really do. i just—"

"you’re too busy for me," you finished for him, your heart aching at the realization that you’d been holding on to something that had already slipped through your fingers. "and i’m not doing this anymore."

he stood there, the words hanging in the air, both of you unsure how to move forward. you couldn’t tell if the relationship was salvageable. but right now, you weren’t sure you cared anymore. all you knew was that the man standing in front of you, the one who had once made you feel like you mattered, had long since forgotten how to make you feel that way again. and you were tired of waiting for him to remember.

rin opened his mouth to speak, but you turned away before he could say anything else. you weren’t sure what would come next—whether it was the end or just another cycle of waiting and hoping for change—but for now, you were done.

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter seven: Closer Than Before

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

previous | 7 | next

Series Masterlist

The rain hadn’t stopped since the afternoon, a constant thrum against the windows. The kind of weather that felt like the world was pressing in, making everything inside feel a little more closed off, a little more confined. You stood on the first level of the VIP room, eyes wandering over the cold, imposing space. It was beautiful in its own way, all sharp edges and dark marble, but it lacked… warmth.

You needed to change that.

The Frontman—still wearing his mask, as always—stood a few steps behind you, his figure tall and unreadable, like he was a part of the room itself. Silent. Unmoving.

“I’ve been thinking,” you started, turning to face him, your voice a little louder than you’d intended, breaking the silence. “About what I want to do with the VIP room. It’s… too cold. I think it needs something different.”

You looked at him, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze scanned the space, lingering over the walls, the large, dark staircase, the bar area layered along the far wall. The way he looked at it made it clear that he wasn’t just seeing the design, but feeling it too, like he could sense the emptiness in the room.

“Like what?” His voice finally cut through the silence, low and steady.

You shrugged, trying to explain. “I was thinking of doing something like… Ancient Greece. Dark marble walls, dark green plants… a more organic vibe. I could make the models like Greek statues. You know, the ones with the sheer togas—more like they belong in the room, not just… standing there. It’d be darker, but it would feel more alive.”

The Frontman was quiet for a moment, processing your words. You couldn’t tell if he liked the idea or if he thought it was too much. His mask hid everything. His silence made it hard to read him.

“I think it could work,” he said finally, his voice distant but not dismissive. “The space is big enough for it.”

You felt yourself exhale, not realizing how much tension had been in your shoulders until it started to ease. You’d expected him to argue, or at least poke holes in your plan. But he was… actually considering it.

“I’ll need to see the full plan when you have it,” he added. “If you’re sure about it, I’ll get the contractors to start working on it.”

“Of course,” you said, your voice lighter now. “I’ll get something to you soon.”

You both stood there in silence for a while, looking around the room. It was still cold, but now, there was a shift. You’d actually said something, made a choice about this place. And he’d listened. He hadn’t rejected you outright. It felt… like progress, in a way.

Once the silence lingered too long, you followed him as he started to walk toward the staircase, down to the second level of the VIP room. You didn’t even think about it, just automatically stepping behind him. You both descended the stairs and made your way toward the couches, the massive TV on the wall. Everything in the room felt bigger, more imposing the longer you stayed there, but now there was a faint connection between you two that wasn’t there before.

The bar area was silent as always. You could hear the soft hum of the air conditioning, the sound of your heels on the polished floor. You broke the silence first.

“Do you ever get tired of this place?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “All of this… the Games? The power? The way everything just feels like it’s running on autopilot?”

You glanced at him quickly. You weren’t sure if he was going to answer or if you’d just overstepped, but you couldn’t help it. Something about the heaviness in the air between you both made you feel like he might actually understand.

“I don’t have the luxury of tiring,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet. There was no edge to his tone, no anger, just… resignation.

You wanted to push further, to ask him about the cost of all this—about the man behind the mask. But something stopped you. Instead, you nodded, accepting his words, even though they didn’t answer your question.

Neither of you spoke again as you made your way back to your shared quarters. The walk was slow, deliberate, like neither of you wanted to break the delicate silence. During the walk, you couldn’t help but think about how you’d been married to the Frontman for a little over a month, and you still didn’t know his name.

He knew yours, so what’s the problem?

The thought lingered in your mind as you reached the door to your quarters, and for a moment, you hesitated before reaching for the handle. The Frontman stopped beside you, his gaze on the door, but for a brief moment, you could feel his attention shift toward you. You weren’t sure if it was because of what you’d just discussed or if it was something else, but the atmosphere between you had changed—just a little.

You swung the door open and stepped inside, the Frontman following closely behind. You both moved further into the quarters, but he stepped past you, on his way to his office.

“Goodnight,” you said softly, the word feeling heavier than usual.

He didn’t respond right away. You were about to turn away when his voice stopped you.

“Goodnight.” He said, his tone softer than before. He seemed to hesitate, stopping in his place in the hallway.

He turned to face you once more, and there was a brief pause before he added, almost casually, “My name is In-ho.”

The words hung in the air between you like a revelation—something you hadn’t expected but that you’d somehow been waiting for. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t some grand confession. It was just… simple. Human. In-ho. It didn’t feel like the name of the Frontman, the man behind the mask. It felt like the name of someone who was finally letting go, just a little.

You blinked, surprised, your throat tight. “In-ho,” you repeated, almost as if testing it, letting it sit in your mouth. His name. Not the cold title you’d been using all this time, but the real one.

He nodded once, short and simple, and then opened the door. But before he stepped inside, he paused for a moment, glancing back at you. “I won’t be hard to find, if you need me,” he said, voice soft, quieter than before. Then, without another word, he disappeared into the room.

You stood there for a while, processing what had just happened. In-ho. You didn’t know what it meant yet, but somehow, it felt like it mattered. Maybe not everything would change overnight, but this moment—this small shift—it was something.

It was a crack in the wall, a small opening that let you see a little more of him than before. And that was a start.

———————

This is chapter seven!! I have a few more coming tonight! Lemme know what you think!!

Tag list:

@sunny21200

@lucinda-reads

@shakysif

@whoisbriannaa

@allmylovegoestomusic

@swthrtbyeol

@strawberrychita

@hoddystark

@livelaughcelica

@foulbreadpaenut

@write-from-the-heart

@angelofthorr

@sylviavf

@missroro

@siloveyourmoms

@luv1ze

@audrey223

@khaylin27

@gay4hotmilfs

@mimis-u3u

@captainlunaxmen

@cdej6

@ritaaaz07

@chateaumarmontt

@eepgirls

@ushouldhmhas

@fedsvenable

@dahliawarner

@fyodorssimp1

@nanamilkbread

[ferrarifudds]

Hiii...

Can you write a long (pls) 😭😭 ollie bearman fic..(fluff)

In which she is a doc..

And he is very clingy (like really) and she also loves it.. and probably a cuddly fic where they are just adoring/loving each other maybe..

And than she does something so small to her but it made him realise like she is the one and he decided to introduce to her family ( i mean they know but finally an official yet casual meet uk)

And his siblings also loves her..

From The Start. ✷ Ollie Bearman

Pairing: Ollie Bearman x Gf!reader

Summary: When you and your boyfriend Ollie finally get to spend time with each other after months being apart.

Word Count: 4.6k Bang.

Disclaimer/s: very fluffy, Like. Extremely fluffy! talks about future, and whatnot. yeah.

Vera’s Voice! thoroughly enjoyed writing this after not writing on here in a fat minute… thanks for ur request!!!!! i kinda strayed away from what u asked for but it’s still rlly sweet!!!! hope u enjoy :’)

Ollie didn’t text you much today, which wasn’t unusual when he was busy with team commitments, training, or flying between countries.

You’d gotten used to the quiet patches in your relationship, filling the spaces with your own routines like classes, labs, and studying.

But, since he moved to Italy, the Bearman family had taken you in like one of their own. His mum always checked in on you, inviting you over for Sunday lunches or sending care packages during exam weeks.

His siblings treated you like their cool older sister, always asking you about university life or finding joy in spending time with you.

So today, when Terri Bearman mentioned she was working late and hinted at a busy week ahead, you’d offered to cook dinner for them.

You couldn’t do much for Ollie from afar, but looking after his family felt like the next best thing.

Standing in their cozy kitchen, you stirred a simmering pot of pasta sauce while keeping an eye on the bread in the oven.

A playlist hummed softly from the speaker on the counter, the familiar rhythm filling the cozy space. Your sleeves were rolled up, an apron tied snugly around your waist, and a wooden spoon in hand.

“You should’ve seen it,” Amalie said, eyes wide with excitement. “My instructor said I cleared the jump perfectly. Best I’ve done all month.”

“That’s amazing, my love,” You said, beaming at her. “Maybe we should celebrate with a little tea shop date this week? My treat.”

She laughed. “Can never pass up on a beautiful offer like that. Could we stop by a bookshop too?”

“Of course,” You replied, already picturing the stack of books she’d undoubtedly try to take home.

Thomas glanced up from his phone, a teasing smirk on his face. “You spoil her too much.”

“She deserves it,” You said with a shrug. “Besides, I like spending time with her.”

And that was true.

Spending time with the Bearmans had become second nature to you. Your parents were often away on business trips, leaving you with an empty house that felt too quiet and lonely.

Your dear boyfriend’s home, on the other hand, was always warm and welcoming—a place where you could laugh, cook, and be part of something bigger, even if he wasn’t always there.

Just as you were plating the pasta and setting the table, the sound of the front door opening caught everyone’s attention.

“Something smells incredible,” Terri’s familiar voice called out as she stepped inside, balancing her purse and a stack of folders from work.

“Hi,” You said, smiling warmly as you turned to greet her.

“Oh, love, thank you so much for this.” She said with an endearing laugh, setting her things down. She walked over to peek into the pot on the stove. “This looks incredible. What’s on the menu tonight?”

“Spaghetti with homemade sauce and garlic bread,” You grinned.

Terri placed a hand on your shoulder, her expression softening. “You’re a treasure, you know that? We’re so lucky to have you around. Ollie is lucky to have you.”

“Thank you,” You replied, blushing slightly.

As you worked on finishing the last few touches for dinner, Terri began chatting about her day. “David won’t be home for another hour so, don’t worry about setting him a plate, darling.” She assured.

“No worries, I can just leave him one so he can get straight to eating.” You insisted.

And Terri smiled that. “Well, I was on the phone with Ollie earlier,” She spoke, changing the topic and grabbing a glass of water. “He seems to be alright—said he’d call again tomorrow, but he’s keeping busy with training.”

Your heart squeezed at the mention of him. It had been months since you’d last seen Ollie, and even though you talked every chance you got, nothing could replace having him here.

Amalie perked up at the mention of her brother. “Did he say anything about visiting soon?”

“Not yet,” Terri said with a sigh. “You know how it is.”

You nodded, trying to hide the ache you felt. You missed him more than words could say, but you didn’t want to dwell on it.

“Come on, dinner’s almost ready,” You smiled, forcing a cheerful tone as you pulled the tray from the oven.

Unbeknownst to all of you, Ollie’s car had just pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, stretching after the long drive, and looked up at the familiar house.

He hadn’t told anyone he was coming—he hadn’t even planned to be home, but after months of constant travel and racing, he couldn’t resist the pull to see his family.

As he approached the front door, he could hear the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of plates. He paused for a moment, smiling to himself at the familiar comfort of home.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder. The sight before him made his heart stop.

You were standing in the kitchen, laughing at something Thomas had said as you wiped your hands on a dish towel. Amalie was reaching for a napkin, and Terri poured herself a cup of tea.

It was so ordinary, so perfect, and he had to blink to make sure it wasn’t some kind of dream.

“Am I interrupting?” Ollie spoke, his voice breaking through the moment.

Every head turned toward the door.

“Ollie?!” Amalie squealed, leaping off her chair and rushing to him.

“Ollie?” You whispered, frozen in place, your wide eyes locked on him.

“Surprise,” He said, grinning as Amalie threw her arms around him.

You were the next to move, practically running to him and throwing your arms around his neck. He dropped his bag and held you tightly, his face buried in your hair.

“Oh my goodness, you’re home,” You said, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re here!”

“I’m home,” He murmured, his grip tightening as if he never wanted to let go.

Terri stood by the counter, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes welled up. “You didn’t tell me you were coming back!”

“Didn’t tell anyone,” Ollie said, finally pulling back to look at you. His hands stayed on your waist, his gaze soft and full of love. “And I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I’m always here,” You said with a small laugh, brushing a tear from your cheek as he pulled away and walked over towards his mom to hug her.

“Even better,” He said, turning his head with a smile.

After a round of hugs and excited chatter, the room settled as Ollie shrugged off his jacket and set it neatly over the back of a chair.

He looked at you, a familiar warmth in his gaze, as you picked up the tray of bread and set it on the table.

“Hungry? You’re just in time for dinner,” You said, smiling as you motioned for him to join.

Ollie laughed softly, the sound filling the room like a melody you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. “Starving, actually.” He grinned, rubbing his hand over his stomach.

“Eat up, darling,” Terri chimed with an insisting hand, her eyes twinkling “Your girl’s been working away all evening. I think she’s better at this than me.”

“Hardly,” You protested with a playful roll of your eyes. “It’s just spaghetti. Nothing fancy.”

“Don’t downplay it,” Ollie said, already reaching for a plate. “If it’s anything like your pancakes, I’m probably about to have the best meal I’ve had in weeks.”

You blushed at his words, nudging him lightly as you passed by. “Try and flatter me all you want, but I’m not taking over Sunday roast duties if this is your way of convincing me.”

Amalie laughed as she slid into her seat. “You’d probably do a better job anyway,” She teased, earning a playful glare from her mum.

Once everyone had taken their seats, the table filled with the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs, the room warmed by laughter and conversation. You watched as Ollie dug into his plate, his smile only growing with each bite.

“Alright,” He said, leaning back after a moment. “I’m officially spoiled. Best meal I’ve had in ages.”

“I’m glad,” You said with a soft grin. “Happy to be of service.”

As the meal continued, Ollie reached under the table, his fingers brushing yours in a quiet, intimate gesture. You looked at him, and the soft smile on his face made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

It was so simple—dinner with his family, laughter filling the air, the small gestures between you that said more than words ever could.

And yet, it was everything.

“You’re amazing,” He said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Stop,” You whispered back, smiling as your cheeks flushed.

“I mean it,” He insisted, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you won’t ever have to find out,” You murmured, your heart so full it felt like it might burst.

Later, the kitchen was quiet, the lively chatter from dinner having faded as the family moved to the living room to wind down for the evening.

You stood by the sink, your sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in warm soapy water as you worked your way through the last of the dishes.

The faint clinking of plates and running water filled the space, paired with the occasional hum of the fridge.

Ollie leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, quietly watching you. His heart swelled as he took in the sight of you in his family’s kitchen, so natural and at ease in a place that meant so much to him. The warm overhead light reflected off your hair, and there was a faint smile tugging at your lips as you rinsed a glass. He thought about how much he’d missed this—missed you.

Without saying a word, he walked toward you, his footsteps light on the tiled floor. You didn’t hear him approach until his arms wrapped gently around your waist from behind.

“Ollie!” You gasped, startled for a second before relaxing into his embrace.

“Sorry,” He murmured, his voice low and soft against your ear. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You set the plate you were rinsing on the drying rack, your hands dripping with soap suds. “What are you doing?” You asked, though your tone was far from accusing.

“Nothing,” He said simply, resting his chin on your shoulder. His arms tightened slightly around your waist, as though anchoring himself to you. “Ive just missed you.”

You tilted your head toward him, your cheek brushing his. “I’m covered in soap,” You warned, though there was a smile in your voice.

“Don’t care,” He said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

You laughed quietly, leaning back against his chest. “You’re a little more clingy than usual,” you teased, though your heart was melting at his touch.

“Can you blame me?” He murmured. “It’s been months since I’ve been home.”

Your hands paused, stilling in the water. You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze, finding his eyes soft and filled with a mix of affection and longing.

“I’ve missed you,” You admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, and nuzzled closer. “You should leave the dishes,” He said, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “They can wait.”

“Can they?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mhm,” He said, pulling you a little tighter against him. “Because I really, really want you to just sit with me for a bit.”

You let out a small laugh and shook your head. “Fine,” You relented, drying your hands on a nearby towel. “But you’re drying the rest later.”

“Deal,” Ollie said, grinning as he took your hand and led you out of the kitchen. But before you left, he paused, turned back toward you, and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Thank you for being here,” He whispered.

“Always,” you replied, your voice full of warmth as you squeezed his hand.

Ollie’s room felt like the one place in the house that was always waiting for you. You’d spent countless hours in here over the months—whether it was to study when things got too noisy downstairs, or simply to nap when you wanted to steal a few moments of peace.

His posters, his racing memorabilia, and the soft scent of his cologne were all familiar, like a comforting embrace that never left.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, the fabric of one of his hoodies draping comfortably over you as you played with the cuffs. Ollie sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you as you made yourself at home in his room.

"I come in here to nap a lot," You admitted, glancing back at him with a grin.

Ollie raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah? Seems like you’ve practically moved in while I’ve been gone."

“Is that so bad?” You grinned, shrugging nonchalantly. “Besides, this is the comfiest room in the house.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t argue with that. I’ve always wanted a roommate anyways.” His voice sarcastic.

You laughed, rolling your eyes playfully as you leaned back into the pillows, feeling the warmth of his hoodie against your skin. Ollie, still sitting at the edge of the bed, raised his eyebrows as he noticed your gaze.

“What?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Can we trade hoodies?” You asked, your voice light and teasing, but there was a sparkle in your eyes that made him grin.

He looked down at the black Ferrari Driver Academy hoodie you were wearing. “Are you not wearing one of them right now?” He pointed with mock confusion.

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “I need a new one because it’s been months since you’ve been home, and the ones I have don’t smell like you anymore.”

His mouth dropped open in playful shock. “They don’t smell like me anymore?”

“Nope,” You said with a dramatic sigh, crossing your arms as though the tragedy was unbearable. “It’s kind of depressing, honestly.”

He laughed, his head tilting back, and ran a hand through his hair. “A little creepy.”

You scoffed playfully. “Rude.”

And he just laughed.

“Please,” You sent him a sweet smile.

Ollie shook his head, another laugh escaping him before he stood up and pulled his hoodie over his head. “Fine. Only because you asked nicely.”

You caught it eagerly, quickly switching clothes and settling into it with a satisfied smile. The scent of him—clean, familiar, and comforting—immediately enveloped you, making you feel like he was right there with you again.

Which was true anyways.

“Better?” Ollie asked, his arms crossed.

You nodded, grinning. “Much.”

He smiled and walked toward you, pulling you into his arms and settling down next to you on the bed. His chest felt warm against your back, his arms wrapping tightly around you.

As the night wore on, you both laid there, exchanging quiet words and soft laughter, letting the hours slip by as you relished the quiet moments together. And in his arms, with the scent of him surrounding you, you felt like you were exactly where you belonged.

Ollie’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “Seeing you in the kitchen tonight just…” He trailed off, his hand idly tracing patterns on your back.

“Just what?” You murmured, turning your head to glance up at him.

“Just made me happy,” he said simply, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Like, I can’t wait to come home to that every single day.”

Your brows rose, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across your face. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” He said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His eyes locked with yours, a flicker of something deep and certain shining in them. “When you and I are married. Living a life together.”

A warm rush spread through you at his words, your heart racing yet calm all at once. “Ollie Bearman, are you proposing to me in your bed right now?” you teased.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your cheek where it rested on his chest. “Not officially. You’ll know when I am. But it’s gonna happen.”

“You seem so sure,” You said, though you already knew your answer if—when—that day came.

“Of course I’m sure,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll live somewhere cozy. Nothing too fancy, just big enough for us and maybe a couple of kids running around.”

“Kids?” You repeated with a chuckle, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” he said, his hand stilling on your back as he thought about it. “Two, maybe three. What do you think?”

“I think med school might make that a little tricky,” You said, smiling at him.

“Well, you’ll finish med school first,” He said matter-of-factly, as if he’d already worked it all out. “We’ll make it work. I’ll travel less when we’re ready for all that, and you’ll have your dream job.”

You stared up at him, overwhelmed by the ease with which he spoke about the future—a future with you. “What if I want four kids?” You teased, testing him.

He chuckled, his grip tightening slightly. “If you want four, we’ll have four. Two mini versions of you, two mini versions of me.” He laughed softly, the sound low and warm.

You grinned, looking up at him. “You’d be the best dad,”

His gaze softened, his thumb gently stroking your hip. “And you’d be the most gentle mother,” he said with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Our daughters with your fluffy brown hair and sweet little smile,” you murmured.

“And our sons with your eyes and your cute nose that I love so much,” he added, his voice warm with affection as his hand cupped your cheek.

A light laugh escaped you. “Are we putting them into racing?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone playful but resolute. “That’s not even a question.”

“What if they don’t want to race?” you asked, raising a teasing brow.

“Then we’ll support whatever they want to do,” Ollie said, brushing his lips against your forehead. “But come on, imagine it—“ He paused.

“I’ll retire after winning my fifth World Drivers’ Championship,” Ollie said with a sly grin.

“Fifth?” You repeated, raising your head to look at him, your brow quirking.

“Are you doubting me?” He asked, feigning offense.

“Maybe…” you teased, trying to hold back your laughter.

Ollie narrowed his eyes at you, his lips twitching. “Think you’re funny?”

“I am a bit funny,” You replied with a grin, unable to resist.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

You snorted, nudging him lightly. “Please, you’d miss me if I wasn’t here to keep you humble.”

“Humble? Me?” He laughed. “I’m a five-time champion in this scenario—there’s no humbling that.”

“Oh, whatever.” You scoffed.

The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet again, your hands lacing together as you lay against him.

Ollie grinned as he leaned back against the pillows, his arms wrapped securely around you. “And although you’ll be working away at a hospital most of the time, the times you do decide to show up to my races…” He trailed off with a teasing smirk.

“What about them?” You asked, tilting your head curiously.

“That’s when fans will go absolutely nuts,” he said confidently. “Everyone’s favorite doctor wag, walking through the paddock with this aura—like you belong there, like you run the place.”

You laughed, nudging him gently in the chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m serious!” Ollie protested, catching your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “They’ll talk about how good I treat you, how I’m completely obsessed with you. And they’ll love how effortlessly gorgeous and brilliant you are. I mean, come on—my wife, saving lives and still showing up to support me?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Of course, I have,” He said with a grin. “Imagine: You in my team colors, maybe holding a little hand of one of our kids in the paddock. Everyone will lose it.”

Your heart warmed at the thought, but you shook your head with a laugh. “You’re living in a fantasy. I’m not exactly going to be a regular in the paddock.”

“And this fantasy will be my reality,” He admitted, his voice softening. “When you do show up, it’ll be like the sun came out just for me. Lighting up the entire paddock, just like you do everywhere you go.”

You blushed, feeling your chest tighten at the sincerity in his voice. “Such a way with words.”

“Only when it comes to you,” Ollie said, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“And I really mean it. I can’t wait to come home to you every day. To have all of this—our little family, our home.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Me neither,” you whispered.

You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest, and the two of you fell into a rhythm of imagining your future together.

“Hm, but what about the wedding?” You asked, turning so you could see him better.

Ollie grinned. “Big. Really big. I want all our family and friends there.”

“Big sounds good,” You agreed. “But we’re talking classic, right? Elegant, maybe outdoors somewhere beautiful—”

“—like the countryside,” He interrupted from too much excitement. “Rolling hills, lots of greenery, a massive tent with lights everywhere.”

“And a live band,” You added.

“Good food too,” He said quickly.

“Obviously,” You laughed. “We’re not letting anyone leave hungry.”

He nodded, his grin softening into something more sincere. “I just want it to be the best day of your life.”

“Our life,” You corrected, reaching up to brush a stray eyelash from his cheek.

“Our life,” He repeated.

You tilted your head to the side with a playful smile. "Well, make a wish!" You said softly, presenting your finger with the little eyelash.

Ollie looked at you, the corners of his lips curving into a grin. “Hmmm…” He paused, closing his eyes as if he were deep in thought. “I already have everything I’ve ever wished for.”

You scoffed softly, the playful tone of his voice making you laugh. “Well, too bad. You still have to make a wish.”

He chuckled at your insistence, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he thought about it. Finally, his eyes fluttered closed again, and he spoke with a touch of playfulness. “Okay… I wish to marry the girl right beside me one day.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and a soft sigh escaped your lips as you stared at him. His grin grew as he blew the eyelash off your finger, and for a moment, everything felt perfect, suspended in that sweet, quiet exchange.

You couldn’t help but smile softly, a little teasing gleam in your eye. “Okay, but you said it out loud, now it’s not coming true…” You gave a playful scoff, your voice light with amusement, but your heart fluttered in your chest.

Ollie’s arms tightened around you, and his gaze softened as he pulled you closer. “Nope. It’s coming true,” he said, his voice low and serious despite the playful words. “I’m not losing this under my watch.”

His words made your breath catch in your throat, and you pulled him closer, if that was even possible. In that simple moment, you realized just how much you meant to each other—how all the little things, like a stray eyelash and a wish, tied you even closer together.

“You’re my person forever,” You whispered, the thought clear and undeniable in your heart.

“And you were always mine from the start,” He murmured in return, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he held you.

And it wasn’t just a promise.

It was a certainty.

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and pls Lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list

tags! @pedriache @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[mysoulbelongstothe60s]

Pairing: FEM!Reader x Caregiver!Elvis Presley (Late 70s)

Warnings: Age regression themes, tantrums, crying, mild angst, hurt/comfort, sweet and fluffy moments, babyish speech (e.g. replacing "l" with "w"), emotional reconciliation

Summary: After a month of Elvis being away on tour, the reader is left at Graceland feeling abandoned and neglected. His cold phone calls only add to her frustration, leading her to throw a tantrum when he finally returns. Accusing him of not caring, the reader lashes out at Elvis, the Memphis Mafia, and everyone around her. But as the dust settles and she reflects on her actions, she realizes that Elvis was simply doing what he loves—singing for his fans. In an attempt to make things right, she writes him a heartfelt apology letter and goes to find him, hoping to patch things up and show him how much she truly loves him.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Graceland felt bigger when Elvis wasn’t there.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. You knew his tour schedule by heart, marked the days with little stars in your head, whispering, One day closer. The first week, his absence was manageable—his voice still fresh in your ears from late-night calls, the lingering scent of his cologne on his pillow. The housekeepers doted on you, Red and Charlie checked in, and the routine stayed the same.

But then, the days stretched. The calls got shorter.

By the second week, Elvis was different on the phone. Tired. Distracted. Sometimes, cold. You’d cling to the receiver, voice soft and needy, only to be met with clipped answers and heavy sighs. “I know, honey. I miss ya too. But I gotta go, alright?” The dial tone would ring in your ears long after he hung up.

By the third week, you stopped expecting warmth. You stopped hoping he'd say something sweet before hanging up. You still answered every call, still waited by the phone like a lost puppy, but the excitement had dulled into something else. Something bitter. Because even when he was there, he wasn’t really there. “Ain’t got time for this, darlin’. You know I love ya. Don’t make me feel guilty.” And just like that, the conversation would be over before it ever really began.

The house felt colder. The staff—bless them—tried their best, but they weren’t him. They didn’t fill the empty space in your bed or stroke your hair when the quiet got too loud. They didn’t hum soft lullabies when the world felt too big, too lonely.

By the fourth week, you were mad.

Mad that he left. Mad that he didn’t sound sorry. Mad that no matter how bratty you were, how much you stomped your foot or refused to eat dinner, he didn’t see it. He wasn’t here to fix it, wasn’t here to scoop you up and tell you he understood. You could cry all you wanted, but it wouldn’t reach him through the wires of a telephone.

But today, he was coming home.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to run into his arms or make him suffer the way you had.

The day passed in slow motion.

You should be happy. You should be running to the front door, counting the minutes until you saw him again. But all you could think about was every cold phone call, every rushed goodbye, every moment you spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for something—anything—from him.

So you didn’t bounce out of bed. You didn’t even rush to get dressed. You stayed curled up under the blankets until one of the housekeepers came in, gently coaxing you up with soft words and a warm smile. You let her dress you, comb your hair, but you didn’t say much. You just let it happen, your mind somewhere else.

Downstairs, the staff was busy. The house had been cleaned top to bottom, fresh flowers in the vases, food being prepped in the kitchen. The Memphis Mafia moved through the halls, making sure everything was perfect for Elvis’ return. Someone made a joke about how you must be counting down the seconds until he walked through the door, and you just forced a tight-lipped smile, gripping the hem of your dress between your fingers.

You weren’t counting. Not this time.

By noon, you could hardly sit still, but not in the way they expected. There was no excited bouncing, no impatient peeking out the window. Instead, there was a slow burn in your chest, something bubbling under the surface. You pushed your food around your plate at lunch, barely answering when someone asked if you were okay. You ignored the fond looks from the housekeepers, the way they seemed to expect you to light up at any moment.

But how could you?

He was gone for weeks. Left you here, alone, with nothing but half-hearted phone calls and clipped goodnights. And now, he thought he could just walk back through the door like nothing happened? Like you hadn’t spent the past month missing him so much it made your chest ache?

No.

You weren’t going to run to him. You weren’t going to let him think it was okay.

So you stayed stubbornly curled up on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the front door but refusing to move toward it. The sun dipped lower in the sky. The hours stretched. The tension coiled in your belly, tighter and tighter.

---

You heard the door open.

He was here.

The sound of voices downstairs made your stomach twist even tighter. You gripped your stuffed bunny, pressing it against your chest as you listened to the laughter, the deep rumble of Elvis’ voice mixing with the Memphis Mafia’s greetings. He was happy to see them. Chatting. Taking his time. Not rushing upstairs to see you.

Your bottom lip trembled.

You knew this was going to happen. He left you alone for a whole month, barely called, acted all cold on the phone, and now he was taking his sweet time saying hi to everybody else before coming to see you? Like you weren’t the one who missed him the most? Like you weren’t up here, waiting and waiting and waiting—

A sob bubbled up in your throat, hot and angry. You kicked your legs against the bed, gripping your bunny tighter.

"Stupid Ewvis!" you huffed, voice thick and wobbly. "Don’t even cawe ‘bout me no mowe!"

You threw your bunny across the room, watching it flop onto the floor with a huff. Then you kicked your feet against the mattress again, just to make noise, just to make somethig happen.

Downstairs, the voices kept going.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

He was still down there.

Tears pricked your eyes as frustration boiled over. You scrambled off the bed, snatched up the closest stuffed animal—a big ol’ teddy bear Elvis gave you last Christmas—and hurled it at the door.

THUMP.

The sound was loud, but not loud enough.

You grabbed another toy, a soft little puppy, and threw it next. Then another. And another. Each one hit the door with a dull thud, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. You wanted him to hear you, to know you were mad, to fix it.

Then, finally—

Footsteps. Heavy boots on the stairs.

You froze, breath hitching, hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The doorknob turned.

Elvis stepped inside, still in his travel clothes, dark sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. He looked tired, but when he saw the mess of toys scattered across the floor, his eyebrows shot up. His lips parted, like he was about t’say something but then his gaze landed on you.

Curled up in the corner, face red, hands trembling.

And that’s when it hit him.

You weren’t just mad.

You were still little.

His expression softened instantly. "Aw, hell, baby…"

You sniffled, curling in on yourself. "Don’t wanna tawk t’you."

He sighed, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. "C’mon now, sweetheart, ain’t gotta be like this. Daddy’s home."

You glared at him, bottom lip jutting out. "Don’t cawe! Didn’t even come see me! Tawked t’evewybody ewse f’so wong!"

Elvis exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I know, baby, I know. Was jus’ tryna—"

"Don’t cawe!" you interrupted, voice cracking. "You weft me! You was mean on da phone! Now you back ‘n you don’t cawe!"

His jaw tensed, guilt flickering across his face. He took another step toward you, slow and careful, like he was approaching a skittish little thing. "Sugar, y’know that ain’t true. Missed ya somethin’ fierce."

You huffed, turning your face away, curling tighter into yourself. "Don’t bewieve you."

Elvis let out a breath, then crouched down beside you, close but not too close. His voice dropped to that soft, low drawl he used when he was trying t’calm you down. "Baby, look at me."

You refused.

Elvis was patient. He always was with you. But right now, that only made you madder.

You didn’t want him to be soft and sweet, not after what he did. You wanted him to hurt the way you did, to feel as bad as you felt all those lonely nights when he didn’t call, when he sounded cold and distant.

Your little hands balled into fists, shaking with frustration. "No! Don’ wanna tawk t’you! Don’ wanna see you!"

Elvis sighed, staying crouched beside you, reaching out again. "C’mon, sugar, I know y’mad, but—"

"No!" you shrieked, smacking his hand away before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal—a big ol’ floppy-eared puppy—and hurling it right at him.

Elvis barely flinched. The toy bounced off his shoulder and hit the floor. "Ain’t gonna help nothin’, baby."

That only made you madder.

You grabbed another stuffed animal—your big teddy bear—and threw it even harder. "You weft me!"

THUMP.

"Didn’t caww me!"

THUMP.

"Was so mean t’me!"

THUMP.

"Bet you was wiff otha giwws!"

That made him pause. His brows pulled together, lips parting slightly like he couldn’t believe what you just said. "What?"

You were breathing hard now, chest rising and falling fast, eyes blurry with angry tears. "You heawd me!" you spat, voice shaking. "Bet you was wiff pwetty wadies ‘n you didn’t caww ‘cause you didn’t cawe!"

Elvis’ jaw tightened. He exhaled slow, like he was trying to keep his patience. "Ain’t never done that, baby, and y’know it."

You sniffled hard, shoulders rising to your ears. "Do I?"

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, darlin’…"

But you weren’t done.

"Bet you was huggin’ ‘em, t-touchin’ ‘em, givin’ ‘em kisses—"

"Now stop it," Elvis cut in, voice low, firm. "Ain’t never been like that, sugar, not ever."

You huffed, tears spilling over as you reached for another stuffed animal. "Wiar!"

You threw it at him. Then another. And another.

One hit his arm. One hit his knee. One bounced off his boot and landed in the middle of the floor.

Elvis sighed. Long and heavy.

Then, without another word, he stood up. Straightened his jacket. Adjusted the sunglasses still perched on his head.

And walked toward the door.

You froze. "W-Where you goin’?!"

Elvis didn’t turn around. "Ain’t gon’ sit here ‘n let ya scream at me, sugar," he said, voice calm but tired. "Y’need t’calm down, ‘n I ain’t helpin’ none by sittin’ here lettin’ ya throw things at me."

Your chest tightened. Panic bubbled up, mixing with the anger. "Nuh-uh! No weavin’!"

Elvis opened the door.

"Daddy!" you wailed, voice cracking.

That made him stop. Just for a second. His shoulders rose, like he was taking a deep breath, but he didn’t turn around.

Then, just as slow, he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

And just like that—

He was gone.

The room was quiet now. Too quiet.

You sat there, knees pulled up to your chest, surrounded by the mess you’d made. Stuffed animals scattered across the floor, the covers on your bed twisted and thrown aside, little sniffles still hiccuping out of your chest.

Elvis was gone.

For a while, you were still mad. You sat there, arms crossed, glaring at the door like you expected him to come crawling back, begging for your forgiveness. He should come back. He should feel bad. He should be the one apologizing, not just leaving you like that.

But he didn’t come back.

Minutes ticked by.

Five.

Ten.

And then, slowly, the stubborn little fire in your belly started to cool.

You rubbed your face with your sleeve, sniffling again, and thought about what you’d said. Bet you was wiff otha giwws. Your own words rang in your head, sounding smaller now, weaker. Elvis had looked hurt when you said that. Not angry. Not mad. Just… tired.

And maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t been fair.

You peeked at the door, like maybe he was standing right outside, waiting for you to call for him. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just silence.

You flopped back onto the bed, gripping the edge of your blanket, heart twisting in your chest.

Elvis did love you. He always made sure you were safe, made sure you had everything you needed. He built you this room, filled it with your favorite things, just so you’d never feel alone when he was away. And yeah, he’d been mean on the phone sometimes, but maybe he hadn’t meant to be. Maybe he was just tired, worn out from all the traveling, the singing, the meetin’ fans—

Oh.

Your breath hitched.

That’s what he’d been doing.

He wasn’t ignorin’ you. He wasn’t bein’ mean on purpose. He was just doin’ what he loves.

Singing for his fans. Performing. Being Elvis.

And what had you done when he got home?

Thrown a tantrum. Yelled at him. Threw things at him.

Your stomach twisted into a guilty little knot.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your puffy eyes. You had to say sorry. But words were hard, and you were still too shy, too stubborn to just go find him and say it out loud. No, you needed somethin’ else.

An apology letter.

You scrambled off the bed, digging through the little desk in the corner of the room. Crayons, paper, scissors—there! You grabbed a sheet of pink paper and started cutting, tongue poking out in concentration as you shaped it into a big, wobbly heart. It wasn’t perfect, but neither were you.

Then, gripping a chunky red crayon, you started writing.

“Deaw Daddy,

I sowwy.

Didn’t mean to be so mean. Didn’t mean to frow my toys at you. I miss you so so much ‘n I wuv you so much ‘n I know you wuv me too.

I know you gotta sing and see yo’ fans ‘n do what makes you happy. I jus’ missed you so bad I didn’t know what to do. But I shouldn’ta been a bad giww.

You awe my bestest best fwiend and da onwy pewson I evew wanna be wiff fowevew ‘n evew. I pinky pwomise I’ww twy t’be bettew next time. Pwomise!

Pwease fowgive me?

I wuv you so so so much.

Yo’ baby y/n”

You finished the letter with a big, wobbly heart at the bottom, then grabbed a sparkly sticker from your desk and stuck it right in the middle for extra cuteness. You sniffled, holding the letter to your chest for a moment, trying to build up the courage to go find him.

But you couldn’t just go empty-handed. You needed somethin’ else. Somethin’ that would make him really know you were sorry.

Your eyes flicked around the room before landing on your stuffed bunny—the one you never let anyone else touch, the one you slept with every single night. It was soft and well-loved, its ears a little floppy, but it was your favorite.

Slowly, you picked it up.

It hurt a little, thinking about giving it away, even just for a little while. But if anyone deserved it, it was Elvis.

With a deep breath, you tucked the letter under the bunny’s arm, clutching them both close as you padded toward the door.

Time to find Daddy.

---

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

You peeked down the hallway, then slowly crept toward the staircase, clutching your bunny tighter. You weren’t sure where Elvis had gone, but you had a feeling he was downstairs. Probably sitting in his chair, all tired and grumpy, maybe talking to the guys or drinking a Coke.

Your tummy fluttered with nerves as you made your way down. The Memphis Mafia was still around, lounging in the living room, talking and laughing, but Elvis wasn’t with them. You felt tiny standing there, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs, bunny squeezed against your chest.

Jerry spotted you first, his expression softening. "Hey there," he said gently. "Feelin’ a little better?"

You nodded shyly, but you didn’t stop. You just kept walking, poking your head into different rooms until—

There.

Elvis was in the den, sitting on the couch with his head back, one arm draped over his face like he had the worst headache in the world. He hadn’t even changed clothes yet, his boots still on, his shirt rumpled from travel. He looked tired.

Your heart squeezed.

For a second, you almost turned around. Almost ran back upstairs.

But no. You had to do this.

Slowly, hesitantly, you shuffled into the room, feet barely making a sound against the carpet. Elvis didn’t move. Didn’t look at you.

You took a deep breath, then stepped right up to the couch and held out the bunny and the letter with both hands.

A tiny, timid whisper left your lips.

"Fow you…"

Elvis didn’t move right away. For a long moment, he just sat there, eyes still covered by his arm, like he didn’t even know you were standing there. But then—

His arm slowly slid off his face, his eyes blinking up at you, surprised but soft, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You stood there, holding the bunny and the letter like it was all you had left in the world. Your fingers were trembling. You tried to keep your gaze steady, but you could feel your heart racing in your chest.

Elvis stared at the bunny for a second, and then his eyes flicked up to meet yours. His voice was low and gentle when he spoke.

"What’s all this, sugar?"

You bit your lip, your eyes going down to the floor for a second. You didn’t know how to say it—how to tell him you were sorry, how to make up for everything that had gone wrong.

But you had to.

"I… I sowwy, Daddy," you murmured, voice shaky. "I didn’t mean to be so mean. I just… I missed you so much, I got mad, and… I know you had to be away, but… I wuv you so much. So much, Daddy. I… I jus’ wanna be with you."

Elvis' expression softened, and he sat up slowly. His big hands reached out to take the bunny from you, fingers brushing gently against your own. He looked at it for a moment—your favorite stuffed animal—and then back at you.

"Sugar, you ain't gotta apologize. I know y’missed me."

He pulled you toward him gently, your body soft and small in his arms. You could feel the warmth of him, that familiar sense of safety, and for a moment, all the tension you’d been holding onto melted away.

He held you for a second, and you buried your face in his chest, feeling a few tears escape. Elvis didn't rush you. He just let you cry.

"I’m so sowwy, Daddy…"

"Shhh, darlin', it’s alright," he said softly, stroking your hair. "You don’t gotta apologize. I should’ve been better, shoulda checked in more. But, sugar, you know I love you, right? I love you more than anything, more than the world. I’d never leave you on purpose. Just had to do what I do, y’know? Sing, see my fans, that’s my job. But you’re my world, baby."

You sniffled, your tiny hands clutching onto the sleeve of his shirt as you nodded. "I know, Daddy. I know you wuv me... I jus’ got so sad 'n mad. I... I wanted to be wiff you, but I was being a big baby."

Elvis chuckled softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek, wiping away your tears. "You ain’t a baby, sugar. You’re just... my little girl, and sometimes, little girls get upset. I understand, okay?"

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with wide, soft eyes. "You fowgive me?"

"Course I do," he said, his voice full of warmth. "Ain’t nothing to forgive. I love you. Always will. You’re my girl, ain’t no doubt about it."

You smiled a little, the weight in your chest starting to lift. You’d made up. You’d said what you needed to say.

"Can we pway now?" you asked quietly, shifting from side to side. "I just wanna stay wiff you, Daddy..."

Elvis smiled, that familiar twinkle in his eye. "Course we can, sugar. We got all the time in the world."

He helped you climb up onto his lap, the bunny resting between the two of you. You snuggled into him, feeling his arms around you, secure and warm. You could hear the sound of his heartbeat, and everything felt right again.

"I love you, baby," he whispered.

"I wuv you too, Daddy," you replied, your voice small and soft.

And just like that, everything felt better.

_________________________________________________________________________

Hey everyone! This is my first time posting any of my writing, so I just wanted to say this is my first time posting any of my writting and I’d love to hear any feedback or advice you might have! I’m still learning and trying to improve, so please feel free to point out anything that could make it better ! Thank you! :)

[antonsbf]

Unspoken

chapter 2- once more to see you

⤷ summary: a slow-burn, emotional story about childhood friends torn apart by time and dreams—only to meet again years later as rising stars in the spotlight. Between secrets, past feelings, and second chances, they learn that some things never really fade.

⤷ pairing: idol/actor!ni-ki x actor!male reader

⤷ wc: 1.5k

⤷ warnings: heavy angst! slow-burn! secret feelings! yearning male reader! childhood friends!

⤷ read chapter 1

"it's not like i'm going to disappear. we'll still talk. i'll be back soon enough, i promise."

that had been the promise he swore he wouldn’t break. the one i clung to long after he turned and walked away that night by the creek. even when other words were spoken, and even after time pulled us apart, it was that single vow that stayed with me—the last real thing i had to hold onto.

he had been the person i grew up with. the one who had always been there, even when nothing needed to be said. the one who made me laugh through the rough patches and somehow always knew exactly how to push my buttons when i needed it. the one who, without even trying, felt like home.

and maybe that’s why it hurt so much—because even when everything else faded, that promise never did. not for me.

✦ ✦ ✦

five years later. five years and ni-ki had become a memory i tried not to touch too often.

life had a way of moving on even when you didn’t want it to. and somehow, without meaning to, i learned how to live with the space he left behind.

at first, it was little things, his contact slipping lower and lower down my favorites list. the empty spot beside me at the creek the summer after he left. the inside jokes that stopped making sense because no one else was there to laugh with me. the days where i'd reach for my phone without thinking, fingers hovering over his name, only to pull back and pretend it didn’t sting.

then bigger things, the day i realized i didn’t know what song he was obsessed with anymore. or whether he still cracked his knuckles when he was nervous. or if he even thought about me at all. whether he still missed the way our hometown smelled after it rained, or if he remembered the way we used to sneak out just to sit under the stars and talk about stupid dreams.

he had been chasing a dream, and i-i had been left behind trying to figure out what mine even was.

sometimes, when it got really quiet, i could almost imagine he was still here. that if i closed my eyes long enough, i could hear his laugh from down the hall. feel the familiar thud of his sneakers against the wooden porch steps. catch the scent of fresh grass and summer sweat and the cheap cologne he used to over-spray before every "big moment" in his life.

sometimes, i hated how easily i could still conjure him.

✦ ✦ ✦

acting wasn’t something i’d planned. it wasn’t like i woke up one morning and thought, hey, i want to be a bl actor.

it just... happened.

a friend dragged me to an open audition when i was nineteen. "you've got the face for it," they'd joked, shoving a script into my hand. i didn’t even take it seriously at first—just read the lines, half-laughing, not thinking anyone was actually paying attention.

but someone had been. someone saw something i didn’t even know i was showing.

the first role was small. background. hardly more than a name in the credits. but it led to another. and another. and suddenly, somehow, i was y/n, rising bl actor with a growing fanbase and a face that people started recognizing on the street.

funny how that worked. when i was a kid, i used to think the only way to matter was to stay next to ni-ki. now people screamed my name at fan meetings, shoved letters into my hands, told me i saved them without even knowing it.

i smiled through it all. smiled for the cameras. smiled for the fans. smiled for the interviews where they asked me about "first loves" and "inspirations" and i lied through my teeth because the real answer was someone who hadn’t even seen me become this person.

and yet... none of it ever really filled the space he left.

there were nights i would come home after a long shoot, collapse onto my bed, and stare at the ceiling, feeling like a stranger in my own life. nights where the applause felt deafening but the silence afterward was worse. nights where i wondered if he would even recognize me now.

✦ ✦ ✦

i wasn’t bitter. at least, that’s what i told myself. bitterness was too ugly of a word. i was just... realistic now. ni-ki was never coming back to the life we had. not really. fame changes people. time changes people. and maybe the worst part was that he wasn’t the villain. he hadn’t broken his promise on purpose. life just... pulled him too far away for promises to keep.

and me? i survived.

i built a life out of auditions and scripts and interviews where i smiled too brightly and told polished stories about my dreams. i learned how to cry on cue, how to fake laughter, how to pretend a love story was real when the cameras were rolling and forget it the moment they cut.

i was good at pretending. maybe too good.

✦ ✦ ✦

when my manager handed me the new script, i didn’t think much of it. another bl drama. another love story. another faceless co-star to pretend to fall for.

i flipped through the pages on the ride home, half-distracted, until i hit the name. the stage name at the top of the character list. a name i hadn’t heard in too long. but one that felt like it had been carved into my ribs.

nishimura riki. his real name. not a character. not a role. him.

at first, i thought i was hallucinating. or maybe someone else just had the same name. but a quick search confirmed it: ni-ki. idol turned rising actor. making his debut in the very same project i’d just signed onto. of all the projects. of all the people. of all the times.

life had a funny way of laughing at you when you thought you’d finally moved on.

✦ ✦ ✦

the first day of filming felt like waiting for a storm you knew was coming.

i spent the morning getting my makeup done, my hair styled, my outfit prepped. i laughed when the staff joked. smiled for behind-the-scenes cameras. played the part of "friendly, easygoing y/n" so well i almost believed myself.

but under it all, my hands wouldn’t stop twitching. my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. i told myself it didn’t matter. that it had been five years. that he probably barely remembered me.

but when the director finally called for rehearsal and i turned around there he was.

ni-ki.

older now. taller. still awkward in the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. still ni-ki in the way his mouth tilted into a half-smile the second he saw me.

he looked like someone i used to know and someone i hadn’t met yet, all at once. familiar and foreign and terrifying. and all at once, it hit me like a punch to the chest: all the years i spent trying to forget, trying to move on, trying to survive, none of it worked. because the second our eyes met, it was like no time had passed at all.

✦ ✦ ✦

"hey," he said, voice deeper than i remembered.

i swallowed hard. my mouth opened, but no words came out.

there were a thousand things i could have said. "you left." "you broke your promise." "i missed you." "i hate you for not missing me back."

but all that came out was, "...hey."

the director called us over before either of us could say anything else. we fumbled through the first rehearsal, stiff and awkward. the kind of awkward that had nothing to do with inexperience and everything to do with all the things between us left unspoken.

when the scene ended, ni-ki glanced at me. his mouth opened like he was going to say something.

but the staff swarmed us with notes and touch-ups and schedules before he could.

and maybe that was a mercy.

because i wasn’t sure if i was ready to hear whatever he had to say. or worse, what he wouldn’t.

✦ ✦ ✦

later, as i sat alone in the makeup room, wiping off the fake sweat from a fake emotional scene, i caught sight of myself in the mirror. i looked the same as always. polished. put together. exactly the way the world expected me to be.

but inside, i was thirteen again, knees scraped from climbing trees, laughing until i couldn't breathe while ni-ki teased me about losing another race. i was sixteen again, heart pounding too fast when his hand brushed mine under the summer stars. i was eighteen again, standing by the airport window, watching the boy i loved walk away, too scared to ask him to stay.

time was supposed to heal things. wasn’t it?

so why did it feel like the wound had just been ripped wide open all over again?

i leaned forward, resting my forehead against the mirror, letting the cool glass soak up the warmth of my skin. i told myself to breathe. to be patient. to remember that this was just another scene. just another project. just another co-star.

but no matter how much i lied to myself, the truth was simple.

he was here.

he was real again.

✦ ✦ ✦

taglist: @kaiyunsim @deliousberry @arequiem4u  @yourmaple17 <33 (leave a comment to be added for future chapters)

[keisgirl]

2.0 ; miya atsumu

pairing; atsumu miya x reader

wc; 5k

is being miya atsumus clone the best thing in the world, or will she find a way to carve out her own identity on the volleyball court?

you grew up with the miya twins, tangled in the mess of their rivalry and camaraderie, always in the middle, always keeping up.

they called you the girl version of atsumu, from the moment you first stepped onto the court. same position, same drive, same reckless grin when you won. number seven stitched onto your back like it was meant to be there. you were quick, sharp, loud-mouthed, just like him.

and they never let you forget it.

"oi, girl-tsumu," atsumu would call, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "yer servin’s slippin’. ya gonna let me take the crown this year?"

"dream on, miya," you'd shoot back, flicking his forehead hard enough to make him whine. osamu would snicker, always watching the two of you go back and forth, never stepping in—just there to witness the chaos.

as kids, it was fun. as kids, it felt like being part of something bigger than yourself, like belonging. you bleached your hair when he did, let the color burn your scalp just to prove you could. you matched him beat for beat, dive for dive, living in the shadow he never meant to cast but did anyway.

but then you grew up. and suddenly, it wasn’t as fun anymore.

because when atsumu got praised, you got compared. when atsumu won, you were just second place, the girl version of him, as if you weren’t your own person. the name ‘miya’ carried weight, and even though it wasn’t yours, they tied it to you like a leash. you thought you could be his equal, but all they saw was an echo.

“yer too sensitive,” atsumu says one day, after you snap at a teammate for calling you ‘atsumu with a ponytail.’

your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms. “maybe yer too blind.”

atsumu blinks. “huh?”

“yer too blind to see that i ain’t you.”

the words hang in the air between you, sharp and cutting. you see the moment he realizes, the moment he pieces together every forced smile, every tense laugh, every time you swallowed down the bitter taste of second place.

his mouth opens, but you don’t wait to hear whatever he has to say. you just turn and walk away, wondering if you’ll ever stop being a reflection.

suddenly, you don’t play volleyball anymore.

suddenly, you’re not inarzaki’s genius girl setter.

suddenly, you have black hair.

suddenly, you don’t feel like yourself.

suddenly, you don’t talk in class.

suddenly, you’re first in grades, not in physical education.

suddenly, the girl who used to be on the court screaming at her teammates is now the one sitting in the back of the classroom, silent, unnoticed.

and people start to notice.

your teachers hesitate before calling your name, expecting the loud, confident voice that used to answer so easily. your classmates steal glances at you when tests get handed back, murmuring about how you’ve replaced your talent for setting with perfect grades. the volleyball team stares at the empty space on the court where you used to stand, the absence of your presence a hole they can’t seem to fill.

osamu, usually unbothered by everything, nudges atsumu one afternoon. “ya talk to her lately?”

atsumu scoffs, crossing his arms. “she’s the one avoidin’ me.”

“yeah?” osamu raises an eyebrow. “or maybe ya just never noticed how much she hated bein’ ya shadow.”

atsumu doesn’t have a comeback for that. because deep down, he knows. he just never thought you’d actually leave. never thought you’d change so much, that the fire in your eyes would be replaced with something distant, unreachable.

so one day, he corners you after school, standing in front of your desk before you can escape.

“what the hell’s goin’ on with ya?” he demands.

you don’t look up from your notebook. “nothin’.”

“bullshit,” he huffs, grabbing your pen and tossing it onto the desk. “ya dyed yer hair, quit the team, don’t even look at me no more—how the hell is that nothin’?”

you sigh, finally meeting his gaze. there’s something tired in your expression, something he’s never seen before. “it ain’t sudden, ‘tsumu.”

and that’s what scares him the most. because if it wasn’t sudden, then that means it was happening all along. and he just never saw it.

“i left alive, but at the same time, i felt like atsumu miya, ya know?” you murmur, voice quieter than he’s ever heard it. “like i wasn’t myself. i was just... you.”

atsumu stiffens, his breath catching.

“besides,” you continue, leaning back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. “the girls’ volleyball team can manage just fine. it’s not like we ever made it to spring high anyway.”

third year. the last year.

atsumu feels the weight of your words settle deep in his chest. there’s something final about them, something irreversible. and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

atsumu tries to ignore it at first.

he tries to act like nothing’s changed, like you’re still the same person who used to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, the one who used to bicker with him over who had the better toss, who used to swear up and down that one day, you’d be the setter people remembered most from inarizaki.

but he can’t ignore it. not when you won’t even look at him, not when every interaction between you now feels like he’s talking to a stranger.

he watches from the court, gaze flicking to the empty space on the benches where you used to sit. back when you stayed after practice even if you didn’t have to, back when you’d drill him on his serves and let him rant about whatever was on his mind. back when he never had to think twice about where you’d be—because you were always there.

except now you aren’t.

he lasts a month before he finally snaps. before he marches into your classroom after school, ignoring the way your classmates whisper as he looms over your desk.

��we’re talkin’. now.”

“no, we’re not.”

atsumu’s jaw clenches. “yer bein’ real difficult, ya know that?”

“not my problem.”

his patience wears thin. “what the hell happened to ya?”

you exhale through your nose, flipping a page in your notebook like he isn’t standing there, like he isn’t practically shaking with frustration. “i grew up, atsumu. maybe ya should try it sometime.”

“bullshit,” he hisses. “growing up don’t mean abandoning everything ya cared about. ya loved volleyball.”

“yeah? well, maybe it didn’t love me back.”

that shuts him up. because he doesn’t know what to say to that—doesn’t know how to argue against something so heavy, so full of something he doesn’t understand.

his fists tighten at his sides. “ya really just gonna throw it all away?”

“what’s left to throw away?” you mutter, finally looking up at him. and there’s something in your eyes, something hollow and tired and so unlike you that it makes his stomach twist. “i was never really playin’ for myself anyway.”

he swallows hard. “that ain’t true.”

but you only shake your head, gathering your things before standing, brushing past him like he’s not even there.

“if it ain’t, then why did it feel like i had to disappear to be seen?”

and atsumu has no answer for that either.

“ya got it bad,” osamu remarks one afternoon, watching atsumu glare at his untouched lunch.

atsumu scoffs, stabbing his chopsticks into his rice. “shut up.”

“yer miserable,” osamu continues, undeterred. “and ya know why.”

atsumu doesn’t respond, just shoves a bite of food into his mouth like that’ll stop his brother from talking. it doesn’t.

“always hoverin’ around her, always lookin’ like a kicked puppy when she ignores ya.” osamu shakes his head, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “if ya ask me, it’s kinda obvious.”

atsumu scowls. “nothin’s obvious.”

“except that ya like her.”

he nearly chokes on his food. “what?!”

osamu raises an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. “oh, come on. ‘tsumu, ya been in love with her since we were kids.”

“yer talkin’ shit.”

“am i?” osamu leans back, arms crossed. “then why does it bother ya so much that she’s not playin’ anymore? why can’t ya let it go?”

atsumu opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. because as much as he wants to deny it, the truth is sitting right there, laughing in his face.

he’s spent years trying to outrun it, masking it with teasing and rivalry, with stupid fights and mindless competition. but now that she’s gone—now that she’s slipping further and further away—he realizes that osamu’s right.

he’s always been in love with you.

he finds you after school, waiting outside the gates, hands shoved into his pockets like it’s just another day.

“what now, atsumu?” you sigh, stopping in front of him.

he exhales sharply, staring at you like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he should’ve figured out years ago. “yer right,” he says finally. “i never saw it.”

you blink, caught off guard. “saw what?”

“that i was losin’ ya,” he admits, voice quieter than usual. “that ya weren’t just my reflection. that ya were yer own person this whole time.”

there’s something vulnerable in his face, something raw, and it makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.

“i don’t want ya to disappear,” he continues. “not from volleyball, not from me.”

you hesitate, searching his expression for any sign of insincerity, but all you find is honesty. and maybe a little desperation.

“i dunno if i can go back to the way things were,” you murmur.

atsumu nods. “then let’s make somethin’ new.”

he’s close now, closer than he’s ever been, and suddenly, you’re not just thinking about volleyball, about rivalry, about anything other than the fact that atsumu miya is looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“i mean it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t want ya to just be the girl version of me. i want ya to be my girl.”

your heart stumbles in your chest, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re standing in his shadow. you feel like you’re standing beside him.

and this time, you let yourself smile.

atsumu had already confessed.

it had been awkward and kind of messy, because he’s atsumu and of course it was, but it was real. undeniable. a moment so big and sudden that it left you standing at a crossroads with no map, no clear direction except the weight of his words anchoring you to the present.

so you said yes.

not just to him, but to volleyball. to trying again.

except trying again means stepping back into a world that’s always seen you as someone else’s shadow. and no matter how much you want to believe that things will be different this time, it’s hard not to slip back into old habits.

“damn, ya even move like him.”

it’s a passing comment from a teammate, said with no real bite, but it still sticks. the way it always does. the way it always has.

you shake it off, try to ignore it, but the more you play, the more you notice it too. the way your hands twitch into the same mannerisms, the way you call plays with the same sharp confidence, the way your presence on the court starts to feel less like yours and more like his.

and maybe that wouldn’t bother you so much if you hadn’t fought so hard to be something else.

“what’s goin’ on with ya?” atsumu asks one day, watching as you linger in the gym long after practice has ended.

you don’t turn to face him. “nothin’.”

“bullshit.”

his footsteps echo against the polished floors, stopping just behind you. you know he’s waiting for you to talk, but you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to explain the creeping feeling of losing yourself all over again.

“i just…” you exhale, gripping the ball in your hands. “it’s stupid.”

“it’s not.”

he says it so easily, so confidently, like it’s a fact. and that alone makes something tighten in your chest.

“everyone still sees me as your copy,” you admit finally. “i don’t know how to play without fallin’ back into it.”

atsumu is quiet for a moment, and then, gently, he reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, thumb brushing against your pulse.

“then stop tryin’ to be different from me,” he murmurs. “just play like you.”

your breath catches.

because you never thought of it that way before. you’d spent so much time trying to prove that you weren’t just another miya atsumu that you forgot to figure out who you actually were.

“easier said than done,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite to it.

he grins. “yeah, well, lucky for ya, i happen to be an expert at bein’ myself.”

it’s stupid. it’s so stupid. but it makes you laugh anyway, and when he leans in to steal a kiss, you let him, because for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re drowning in someone else’s reflection.

you feel like you.

playing like yourself, as it turns out, is just playing like him.

but that’s okay, you think. because this time, you’re not fighting against it—you’re making it your own.

and maybe that’s why, for the first time in inarizaki’s history, both the boys’ and girls’ teams qualify for spring high.

It happened fast. one practice game, then another, and suddenly, the tickets are in your hands, the realization sinking in. you’re going to spring high. and apparently, word has spread fast enough that university scouts are interested in watching you play.

but that’s a thought for another time.

because right now, you’re in a gym, tying your freshly bleached hair back into a ponytail, watching as atsumu scowls at you like you personally offended him.

“what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

he gestures vaguely at your head. “yer tryin’ to steal my look.”

“please,” you scoff. “if anything, i pull it off better.”

“ya wish.”

“i know.”

before he can throw a comeback, osamu saunters over, phone in hand, suna right behind him.

“oi, oi,” suna muses, tilting his head as he looks between you and atsumu. “this is gettin’ kinda creepy.”

osamu hums, nodding. “y’know, we always joked about ya bein’ the girl version of ‘tsumu, but now? now yer just his clone.”

“take a picture,” suna says, already pulling his own phone out. “this moment deserves to be remembered.”

“yer both the worst,” atsumu grumbles, but he doesn’t move away, and neither do you.

because as much as you roll your eyes, as much as you pretend to be annoyed, there’s something warm about the way osamu adjusts the camera angle, about the way suna snickers under his breath before snapping the photo.

it’s a moment that feels like childhood and the future all at once—like proof that, no matter what happens, you’ll always have this. always have them.

spring high awaits, but for now, you let yourself enjoy this. let yourself smile as suna shoves the phone in your face, as atsumu ruffles your hair, as osamu mutters something about how he’ll use this to embarrass you both later.

it’s stupid. it’s so stupid.

but it’s yours.

spring high is everything you expected and nothing like you imagined.

the energy is electric, the anticipation thrumming under your skin as you step onto the court. it’s bigger than anything you’ve ever played in before, and yet, it doesn’t scare you. not this time.

maybe because you know you belong here. maybe because, when you glance at the boys' court in the other venue, you know he’s there too.

it’s funny. for so long, you hated being compared to atsumu. hated the way people called you his copy, his shadow. but now? now you don’t care. because you’re not his copy—you’re his equal.

but not everyone sees it that way.

on the way to the restroom before your next match, you overhear them—two university scouts talking in hushed voices.

“she plays just like miya atsumu,” one says, almost amused.

something tight coils in your chest, the words digging under your skin, itching like an old wound. but before you can turn away, the other scout hums thoughtfully.

“or maybe,” they say, “miya atsumu plays just like her.”

that gives you pause. because for the first time, it isn’t a comparison meant to diminish you. it’s a statement that acknowledges you—your skill, your presence, your worth.

and suddenly, the tension melts away, replaced with something lighter, something almost giddy.

you hold onto that feeling as you return to the court, and later, when you catch atsumu during a break between matches, you can’t help but tell him about it.

“guess what i heard?” you start, rocking back on your heels as he tilts his head at you.

“somethin’ dumb, probably,” he says, deadpan.

“nah,” you grin. “somethin’ real nice, actually.”

you pause for effect, then smirk. “some scouts said i play just like miya atsumu.”

he scoffs. “duh.”

“but,” you add, savoring the moment, “the other scout said maybe miya atsumu plays just like me.”

that makes him pause. his brows lift slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he considers your words. then, after a beat, he huffs a laugh, reaching out to ruffle your hair.

“‘bout time someone got it right.”

when you step onto the court again, you play the way you always have—with precision, with instinct, with a fire that matches his in every way. you don’t have to fight against it anymore, don’t have to deny the way your movements sync up, the way your presence commands the game just like his does.

it’s a hard game. the best teams in the country are here for a reason. but you push through, setting perfect balls, making impossible saves, throwing yourself into every point like it’s the last one you’ll ever play.

and then you win. not the whole tournament—not yet—but the match, the one that guarantees you another game, another chance to keep going.

when you walk off the court, chest heaving, jersey damp with sweat, there’s someone waiting for you near the sidelines.

“ya looked good out there,” atsumu says, arms crossed, a stupid grin on his face.

“you too,” you reply, shoving his shoulder as you walk past.

but he catches your wrist, spinning you back around before you can go. there’s something in his eyes, something different. something you’re still getting used to.

“yer the real deal,” he says, softer this time. “not just ‘cause ya play like me. ‘cause ya play like you.”

your heart stumbles in your chest, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in this massive stadium, the rest of the world fading away.

then he grins again, tugging you closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “but i gotta admit, we do look good together.”

“oh my god,” you groan, yanking your wrist free. “don’t make me regret bleachin’ my hair.”

he laughs, easy and warm, and when you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching.

because this time, you’re not walking alone.

nevermind, spring high is chaos.

it’s sweat and exhaustion, adrenaline and pressure, the deafening sound of the crowd screaming for a win. it’s the last chance for third-years. it’s everything and nothing at once.

the boys’ team blazes through their matches, tearing down opponents like it’s their only purpose, and you do the same. for the first time in your life, you’re not just keeping up with atsumu—you’re standing beside him, in your own court, your own battlefield, chasing the same dream.

but dreams don’t always end the way you want them to.

it happens fast. the boys make it to the finals, just like everyone expected them to. but across the net is karasuno. an unpredictable team, a team that shouldn’t have even made it this far, a team that plays with something reckless and untamed in their veins.

it’s a war. point for point, neither side gives in. atsumu is sharper than ever, his sets perfect, his serves cutting through the air like a weapon. you winced when his set was a bit off then sighed when osamu reached it. but on the other side, there’s hinata. and kageyama. and something about them just doesn’t break.

and then, just like that, it’s over.

inarizaki loses.

for a moment, there’s only silence. then the reality crashes down, the weight of it pressing against their shoulders. suna looks pissed but resigned. osamu looks torn between frustration and acceptance. and atsumu—

atsumu is staring at the scoreboard, jaw clenched, hands in fists, like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through his fingers.

you don’t say anything, don’t try to tell him it’s okay, because you know it isn’t. so instead, you wait until the crowd thins, until the interviews and formalities are over, until he’s finally sitting in the hallway outside the locker room, staring at the floor.

“it wasn’t enough,” he mutters when you sit beside him.

“it never is,” you say.

he laughs, but it’s hollow. “yer not gonna tell me we did great?”

“nah,” you lean back against the wall. “you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

he exhales, sharp and tired, then turns his head to look at you. you meet his gaze, steady and knowing, because you’ve both lost before. you’ve both fought for something and had it slip through your fingers. you know what it feels like.

but you also know that this isn’t the end. not for him. not for you. not for any of you.

“yer up next,” he finally says, nodding towards the girls’ side of the tournament. “ya better win.”

“duh.”

and maybe that’s enough. for now.

because even in the aftermath of loss, there’s still the next game. still the next step. still the future waiting for both of you.

and you’ll be ready.

when you step onto the court for the semifinals, the crowd stirs. whispers ripple through the stands.

“number seven…? looks exactly like that number seven on the boys’ team.”

“they play the same too, don’t they?”

“no, she’s sharper, her feints are cleaner.”

“nah, atsumu’s serves are better.”

“but she’s fast. like—really fast.”

you hear it all. you always have. but this time, it doesn’t weigh as heavy. this time, when you glance towards the stands, atsumu’s sitting there with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face like he already knows you’re about to shut them all up.

and you do.

by the time the match is over, there’s no more comparisons. no more questions. you make sure of it.

you blaze through sets, direct plays with the precision only someone like you can manage. the semifinals are grueling, the longest, most exhausting game you’ve ever played. your body aches, your lungs burn, but you don’t stop—because this is your last year. your last chance. and you won’t let it slip away.

when the final whistle blows, you don’t even register it for a second. you’re staring at the scoreboard, at the impossible score, at the realization hitting you like a tidal wave.

inarizaki’s girls’ team made it to the finals.

before you know it, you’re being tackled, arms wrapping around you, voices screaming in your ears. your teammates are crying, laughing, shaking with disbelief. and when you finally glance towards the stands, atsumu is on his feet, cheering louder than anyone else.

“she’s good.”

“she’s atsumu’s twin.”

“nah,” the voice comes from a coach sitting close to the court, watching you with interest. “maybe atsumu is hers.”

when you hear it, your lips twitch into a smirk.

later that night, you tell atsumu, smugly, playfully. he groans, ruffling your hair even though it’s already messy from the match.

“shut up.”

“not my fault you got overshadowed.”

“yer my girlfriend, you should be nice to me.”

“i am nice. i let you sit next to me.”

he flicks your forehead, but his grin is unmistakable.

and maybe—just maybe—that’s the best part of all of this.

not the wins, not the competition, not even proving yourself.

but knowing that no matter what, you and atsumu will always be standing next to each other, pushing each other forward, even if the world only sees one shadow.

but the night after the boys' loss is quiet, too quiet. (maybe cause they got lectured after being praised)

even with the weight of victory on your shoulders, you can feel the air around you, heavy with disappointment. the inarizaki boys were supposed to go all the way, to take the championship, to cement their names in history. instead, they lost. and no matter how well they played, no matter how hard they fought, the sting of it is still fresh.

atsumu hasn’t said much. osamu is silent, suna is brooding, and the rest of the team is lost in their own thoughts. but even with all that, they still show up for you. still cheer for you. because you made it. because the girls' team, the brand-new, barely-established girls' team, is in the finals.

“yer gonna win,” atsumu says that night, his voice hoarse from shouting during your semifinals. he leans back against the wall in your hotel room, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “yer gonna bring back that trophy.”

“you sound so sure,” you murmur, stretching out your leg, wincing slightly.

his gaze flickers to you, narrowing. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

it’s a lie. your knee has been screaming at you since the second set of the semifinals, but you didn’t say anything. didn’t let it show. you don’t have time to be injured. not now. not when you’re one game away from winning it all.

atsumu watches you for a second longer, then sighs, ruffling his hair. “don’t push too hard.”

“i always push too hard.”

he lets out a breath, something almost like a laugh. “yeah. i know.”

later that night, as the team settles in, as exhaustion weighs down on everyone, you stay awake. staring at the ceiling. feeling the dull ache in your knee, feeling the pressure settle on your chest. you think about everything that’s led you here, about the hours, the sacrifices, the moments of doubt and frustration.

and then you think about tomorrow.

one more game.

one more chance.

and no matter what, you’re going to take it.

the finals.

the first set is smooth, clean. you send a perfect toss to your wing spiker, and they score. your movements are fluid, precise,muscle memory carrying you through. you can feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the gym, hear the murmurs in the crowd.

“number seven…?” someone whispers the same phrase heard multiple times again. “looks exactly like that number seven on the boys’ team.”

atsumu’s name is everywhere, floating through the stands. comparisons, expectations, judgments.

second set, things start slipping. your sets are a little off, the timing just a fraction of a second late. you don’t miss, but you don’t feel right, either. the moment the ball leaves your hands, you can feel the weight of atsumu and osamu’s stares from the stands. especially atsumu’s.

third set. you send a toss too far, forcing your spiker to stretch for it. you grit your teeth. something is wrong.

you dump the fourth ball yourself, surprising the blockers, earning a point. but your team is still trailing by three.

fifth set. you go for a quick set to your middle blocker, jumping–-

pain. your knee gives out mid-air.

you don’t hit the floor hard, but the moment your knee buckles, the entire gym gasps. you wince, not in pain, but in frustration, in disgust. because you already know what comes next. you can already hear atsumu’s voice in your head, his inevitable lecture. he cares—he always does—but the competition is bigger than that. and you? you didn’t even last the first full game to three.

as the referee calls for a timeout and your coach rushes over, you swallow hard, forcing yourself to sit up. you don’t want to look at the stands, don’t want to see the expression on atsumu’s face. you already know what it’ll be.

but the game isn’t over yet.

and you sure as hell aren’t done.

“you’re done.”

atsumu’s voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the gym like a blade. he stands (spawns??) in front of you, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles are white. there’s a fire in his eyes, something between anger and worry, something barely held back.

“no, i’m not.” your voice is steady, but your body betrays you. your knee screams when you try to straighten up, the weight of your stance unsteady, but you refuse to let it show. not to him.

“yer knee just gave out,” atsumu says, voice rising with frustration. “you can’t even stand properly, dumbass. ya think yer gonna play like that?”

“watch me.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “yer so goddamn stubborn. do ya even hear yourself? ya wanna wreck yerself for this one game? ya wanna throw away everything ya worked for, all for what?”

“you wouldn’t back down.”

the words are like a slap. atsumu flinches. his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. for once, he has nothing to say.

so you press on. “if it were you, you’d keep playing. you wouldn’t give up just because of some stupid knee pain.”

his hands curl into fists at his sides. “yeah, maybe i would. but that ain’t the point.”

“then what is?” you snap, stepping closer. “you don’t get to lecture me about pushing myself when you’ve done the exact same thing! you don’t get to stand there and tell me to stop when you never have!”

his jaw clenches. “it’s different.”

“how?!”

his voice finally cracks. “because i ain’t watchin’ someone i care about destroy themselves in front of me!”

the words hang in the air, heavy, suffocating. your breath catches in your throat.

the gym is too loud, the echoes of sneakers squeaking against the floor, the sound of the crowd buzzing in your ears. and yet, all you hear is him.

you swallow hard. “i’m playing.”

atsumu exhales sharply, shaking his head, something like defeat flickering across his face. “yer impossible.”

“and you talk too much.”

he lets out a dry laugh, bitter and frustrated, but he doesn’t stop you. he just mutters, “fine. go. see how far ya get.”

so you do.

the deuce drags on. and on. and on.

34-34. then 35-34. then 35-35.

you can hear the announcers losing their minds. you can hear the crowd buzzing, the tension so thick it makes the air feel heavy. no one is backing down. no one is letting up.

every muscle in your body screams. your legs are barely holding up. every time you land, the pain ricochets up your knee like a gunshot, but you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek and keep going. keep setting. keep pushing.

38-38. then 39-38.

one more point.

one more chance to finish this.

your hands tremble as you wipe your palms on your jersey, blinking back the tears blurring your vision. not from emotion, not from frustration—from pure, unbearable agony. you can’t feel your legs anymore. your arms are heavy, your body is screaming, but you refuse to stop. you refuse to let it end here.

atsumu’s voice echoes in your head.

“ya wanna ruin yourself for one game?”

“yer impossible.”

you take in a shaky breath, shaking his voice out of your mind. you have to focus.

the next serve flies over the net like a bullet. your libero gets under it, barely keeping it up. you sprint forward, nearly stumbling, fingers reaching for the ball—

you set.

perfect.

your spiker jumps, swinging, hitting clean, sending the ball crashing into the court on the other side.

40-38.

match point.

but you don’t get to celebrate.

because the moment the ball hits the ground, the moment the whistle blows, your legs give out.

you collapse.

the world tilts, your vision spinning, the sounds around you muffled and distant. you barely register the hands grabbing at you, the voices shouting your name. all you can feel is the burning in your lungs, the numbness in your legs, the tears slipping down your cheeks, unchecked, unstoppable.

you don’t know if you won. you don’t know if you lost.

all you know is that it’s over.

[moonandstarshyuck]

"Always."

lando norris x gn!bf!reader

notes: I haven’t written since 2019, so bear with me. I’ve found myself thinking about a little blurb for Lando recently (actually a lot of ideas, but this one is sticking with me more than the others at the moment).

For some context, Lando’s been receiving a huge amount of hate online (and in-person) recently. I haven’t been a fan for that long—I got into F1 this summer, in 2024—but I’ve grown to care about him. I was there for Lando losing the championship, and while I think we all knew it would come to this (Max winning felt inevitable) but I’m proud of Lando for pushing so hard this entire year.

Still, with all the hate directed at him, I’m seeing a new side of him, and I’m learning that he’s a person with feelings like anyone else. I can tell he doesn’t always have the highest opinion of himself and tends to take the blame for anything that goes wrong during his races. What struck me about this is how much I relate to it. I blame myself for things out of my control or when I mess up. What sucks with Lando is that his small, human errors are what so many people focus on to criticize him—whether it’s why he didn’t win the championship or why they think he’s a bad person (which he absolutely isn’t).

The inspiration for this came from an interview he did after the Brazilian GP. At that point, everyone knew it was almost mathematically impossible for Lando to win the championship, and he talked about struggling in the aftermath: “I literally couldn’t sleep for the first two days…So I did like, what, 36-40 hours straight. So that probably made everything worse. When you’re tired, you’re more moody, and that kind of thing…I was just sat at home alone. It probably would have been better if I had been with my friends. But they don’t live in Monaco. They also have lives and are busy doing other things. And I’m a big overthinker, so like the whole flight home, the whole week, it just played over and over in my head. What could I have done differently? Why did I do that? Why did I not do this? You start thinking of all the scenarios that you kind of blame yourself for, why it’s now not possible, that kind of thing. And yeah, because I overthink and I struggle with that kind of thing, that took a bigger toll in the days after. It wasn’t an easy time.”

And I keep on finding myself wishing someone could have been there for him in person, so that he was okay. So, I wrote this. The reader in this is dating Lando but is written as a gender-neutral character that uses They/Them pronouns. The reader also has a service dog, a Bernese Mountain Dog named Thunder, to help with their own depression and anxiety (I’m not an expert on service dogs, so this many not be 100% accurate).

They woke up that early morning to the sunlight shining on their face, streaming in from the window outside. The bliss of sleep clung to them as they lay there, cocooned in warmth, the covers snug around their body. They stretched lazily, blinking their eyes open.

Instinctively, they turned to look beside them—only to find the space next to them empty. It’s too early in the morning to be anywhere else but in bed, even for training, they thought. Lando should still be here.

The realization pulled them out of their sleepy haze. The past couple of days had been not kind to Lando. They knew that he had a tendency to keep his feelings bottled up and beat himself up over his perceived failures. They understood that feeling all too well—the guilt, the constant sense of disappointment, the nagging thought that were never good enough. They had wrestled with those feelings since they were a child.

It wasn’t something that had an easy fix. If they had found the answer, they would have shared it with Lando years ago. But they had learned that the best way to fight those thoughts wasn’t isolation. Talking to someone, writing feelings down, even simple positive affirmations—thought they might sound silly—could help push back against the negative spiral. They had told Lando this countless times.

But Lando had a problem with not wanting to “inconvenience” anyone with his emotions. No matter how many times they reassured him that they were always there for him, he struggled to let himself. They didn’t blame him—it was human to struggle against your own mind.

What made everything worse was the constant online hate. Every little mistake or sarcastic comment from Lando seemed to turn into an avalanche of criticism. They remembered the first time they’d seen him like a hateful comment about himself on Instagram—the little heart next to a cruel statement, paired with note: “Creator liked this.” It had broken their heart. How could the Lando they loved ever believe such awful things about himself?

After Brazil, it had been clear that he wasn’t okay. He’d barely spoken since coming home, choosing instead to himself. They had given him space, hoping he’d find a way to process his feelings. But by the second morning, when he still hadn’t come to bed—almost forty hours after returning home—they knew they couldn’t stand by any longer.

That morning, they rose slowly from the bed, a plan beginning to form in their mind. Lanod needed someone to step in—someone to remind him he didn’t have to face his struggles alone. They were determined to be that person for him.  They couldn’t take it anymore, seeing the person they loved so badly, punishing himself over his ‘failures.’

The first step was to confirm where he was. Grabbing their phone, they opened Twitch and navigated to Max’s stream. After a few moments of watching, they heard Lando’s voice—tired, strained, but unmistakably his. He was joking with Max, his words clipped, like he was holding himself together with sheer willpower. It was enough to break their heart. They opened their messages with Max.

Thunder's Owner

Lan’s streaming with you rn?

Sent at 7:48 AM.

After a few seconds, Max replied.

Maximilian

Yeah he’s on voice-only.

Sent at 7:50 AM.

Gonna do something about him?

Sent at 7:50 AM.

Max knew. Of course he did. He probably heard the exhaustion in Lando’s voice, the edge self-loathing that came with overthinking. They typed back quickly:

Thunder's Owner

Yeah

Sent 7:52 AM.

Going to unplug his setup and drag him out of there.

Sent 7:52 AM.

Maximilian

Lol.

Sent 7:52 AM.

I’ll keep an eye out for when he disappears.

Sent 7:53 AM.

Thunder's Owner

Thx

Sent 7:54 AM.

They quietly made their way to Lando’s gaming room and eased the door open. Lando sat at his desk, controller in hand, headset clamped over messy curls.  He looked worn down, his shoulders slumped as he focused on the screen. His voice through, muted put playful, as he bantered with Max.

For a moment, they just watched him. Even now, he was handsome, but the tiredness in his expression made their chest ache. He deserved rest. He deserved to feel okay. And he wasn’t going to get that by sitting here punishing himself.

As soon as Lando died in-game and leaned back in his chair, they seized the opportunity. They crossed the room, catching his attention when they came into view.

“Why’re you—” Lando began, frowning, but they didn’t let him finish. Reaching down, they unplugged everything from the wall.

“What the hell—” he exclaimed, spinning around in his chair.

“No,” they said firmly, cutting him off. “I’m not you hurt yourself anymore. Get up.”

Lando blinked, clearly taken aback. “You can’t just do that!” he protested, but they were already tugging gently at him arm, urging him out of his chair.

“Angel, what are you—”

“No,” they repeated, their voice steady. “Get up,”

Lando hesitated for a moment before letting out a resigned sigh and standing. They took his hand, leading him out of the gaming room and down the hall to the living room. He didn’t resist, but he followed like a man in a daze. Once they reached the couch, they turned to him. “Sit,” they said, pointing at the cushions. Lando raised an eyebrow, opening his mouth to argue, but they shook their head. “Stay.”

They turned to Thunder, who had been waiting for them in the hallway, and told him, “Thunder, guard,” while pointing at Lando.

The dog immediately moved into position, standing alert in front of the couch. Lando’s eyes widened slightly as Thunder fixed him with an unblinking stare. He shifted as if to get up, but Thunder’s stance didn’t waver.

“Jeez, I wasn’t going to get up,” he mumbled to Thunder, but Thunder just sat there and watched him until he fully relaxed back into the couch.

The thought ran through Lando’s head, how he had honestly forgotten how menacing his own dog could look. He knew Thunder was trained, saw reminders of it daily with how he interacted with his partner, but he was still shocked at how trained Thunder really was at that moment.

Thunder was still staring at him when he pulled out his phone from his pocket, opening up his texts with Max.

LN

I was just dragged out of my gaming room and told to sit on the couch and like a dog.

Sent at 8:05 AM.

Not against it, but how tf did they get so determined?

Sent at 8:05 AM.

Thunder’s watching me right now.

Sent at 8:06 AM.

I forgot how menacing he could be.

Sent at 8:06 AM.

*Picture attached.*

Lol.

Sent at 8:06 AM.

Max (The 1st One)

He’s like ‘try me, I dare you’

Sent at 8:06 AM.

LN

Yeah, I don’t particularly want to try him

Sent at 8:07 AM.

Max (The 1st One)

Lol.

Sent at 8:07 AM.

They told me before they did it

Sent at 8:07 AM.

I just let them. Lol.

Sent at 8:07 AM.

LN

Helpful. What if they were trying to  kill me?

Sent at 8:08 AM.

They wouldn’t have had to if you kept doing what you were doing.

Sent at 8:09 AM.

Lando’s let out a quiet sigh, Max’s words sinking in. He glanced at Thunder, who hadn’t moved, and felt a pang of guilt. He’d pushed himself too far again, and this time it had clearly worried his partner.

A few minutes later, his partner walked back into their living room. He thought they looked beautiful, wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of boxers. They were entirely focused on the bowl they were carrying, and only looked up when they got close enough to hand it to him. He gently took the bowl, looked into it and saw it was one of his prep meals. While not his favorite breakfast, he knew he just needed to eat first, so he started taking bites.

He glanced up every so often, and each time he did, his partner was just sitting there and watching him eat. Lando almost chuckled at his own thought that they looked just like Thunder when watching him, and he smiled into his bowl at the thought. His partner didn’t see his smile, but he continued to eat until he had finished the bowl.

When he was done eating, he set the bowl down, and his partner again pulled him up by the crook of his arm. He just let them do so, having a thought of what was going to happen next.

His partner led them both down the hallway to their bedroom, and opened the door, leading him to sit on their bed, then they turned around and went to close their blinds and draw their black-out curtains to cover up the sunlight from the window. They had turned on their bedside lamp earlier, and the soft orange glow of the lamp permeated the room. They walked past him again, going to close the door after letting Thunder in, then they walked back to their side of the bed, and pulled him to lie down against them.

As he settled against their chest, he felt a bit odd, it being a bit of a difference to feel how much he was loved by them. How much they cared for him. And he finally spoke again, “Thank you.”

“Always, Lan. Always.” They replied, pressing a kiss to his hair.

And for the first time in days, he let himself sleep.

author's note: got inspired to actually write something for once...ty @koalapastries for the inspiration (unknowing inspiration but ty) (also sorry for using your layout outline

comments & reblogs appreciated

and i made the dividers :)

[hatsbuckets]

Body Swap AU - Ghost x Soap

Body Swap AU Based off of this post Pairing: Ghost x Soap (?) Warnings: None WC: Short

a/n soap is in Ghost's body; Ghost is in Kyle's in this one

Price dismissed them to the showers. They smelled, and there was no way they were figuring this out now. So sure, a shower made sense.

Soap’s boots thudded heavily against the locker room tiles, the sound louder than he was used to. Everything about Ghost’s body felt bigger, heavier, more deliberate. His balance was off, his arms swung too wide, and he could barely squeeze between the benches without bumping into something.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, his deep, unfamiliar voice echoing back at him. “How do you not knock over walls?”

Better yet, how'd he sneak around? Moving like a shadow on missions? Acting like he wasn't larger than nearly every other person on the Task Force? 'Ghost' for more reasons than one, of course.

Soap—with Ghost's hand—yanked open one of the lockers, the motion harder than he intended. The metal door clanged against the frame, the sound rattling through the empty room. Soap winced. He wasn’t used to having this much strength at his fingertips. Everything felt like it needed to be handled gently, like he was walking around with a wrecking ball attached to his arms.

He let out a breath, his hands moving up to the edges of Ghost’s mask. It was hot, suffocating, and the fabric clung to his skin like it had been welded on. How did Ghost breathe in this thing? Let alone wear it for hours on end?

Clothes removed, and every urge in his being keeping him from scoping out all of Ghost's scars and angles and other things this close, Soap hooked his fingers under the mask, ready to pull it off. He needed air. Just for a second. It wasn’t like he’d be exposing Simon’s face to the whole world. It was just him, here, about to take a shower after the roughest, weirdest mission of his life and—

A hand clamped around his wrist.

Soap reacted instinctively, yanking back harder than he intended. Gaz—Ghost in Gaz's body, he reminded himself—stumbled, his grip loosening as his borrowed legs faltered under the force. The movement was all wrong. Ghost wasn’t supposed to stumble. Even in Gaz’s smaller frame, he should’ve been steady, precise.

But Simon wasn’t used to being Gaz any more than Soap was used to being Ghost. Any more than Price was used to being Soap and Gaz was used to be Price.

Ghost caught himself against the lockers, his breath coming quick and sharp. He straightened slowly, the awkwardness in the motion so uncharacteristic it almost made Soap laugh. Almost.

Soap glared, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. “What the hell, Ghost? You don’t just grab a man like that.”

Ghost didn’t answer right away. He adjusted his stance, his borrowed body visibly fighting to find a balance that should’ve been second nature. “Don’t take it off,” he said finally, his voice low and even.

Soap frowned, his hand still resting near the edge of the mask. “What’s your problem? It’s just me, in your bloody body, trying not to die of heatstroke. I’m about to get in the shower, for Christ’s sake.”

“Leave it,” Ghost repeated, softer this time.

Soap hesitated, the tension in Ghost’s voice catching him off guard. He’d expected a snarky comment, a barked order—something with the usual bite Simon carried. But this?

Soap’s frown deepened. “Simon, come on. It’s just me. I’m not parading your face around. I’m about to wash your bloody body.”

“It’s my face, Johnny." Ghost interrupted, his tone barely above a whisper. He crossed his arms, Gaz’s body shifting with a stiffness that didn’t suit it. "And I don’t want to see it.”

That stopped Soap cold. He stared at Ghost—or Gaz—or whatever the hell he was supposed to process right now—and felt the weight of the words settle in the space between them. The mask wasn’t just for show, Soap knew that. But still...

Soap let his hand drop, the mask staying firmly in place. He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Fine,” he muttered. “Mask stays on. Happy?”

Ghost nodded, the tension in his borrowed shoulders easing just slightly.

Soap turned toward the showers, his movements still clumsy and heavy as he adjusted to Ghost’s frame. He hesitated at the doorway, glancing back at Ghost one last time. “You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “you could’ve just asked.”

Ghost didn’t respond, but the faintest flicker of something—relief, maybe—crossed his borrowed face. That stoney expression didn't fit Gaz's face one bit. Soap shook his head and stepped into the showers, the water already running hot. Way too fuckin' weird. The mask stayed on.

[nameless-jamie]

MY OUR HOUSE

Glimpse Into the Future - Jamie Tartt x fem!PA reader

Masterlist

A/N: AHHHH! First one of this series! Let's gooo. Please read the PA x Jamie Tartt series first, so you'll get it! I hope you love it, hardcore fluff!

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes

Yup, they finally did it. Jamie Tartt and Y/N, his trusty assistant have been together for over a year now. They’ve been through the awkward stages—the miscommunications, the unresolved tension, the late-night talks about feelings they hadn’t yet fully admitted. But they were solid now. The days of pretending they were just an assistant and her prickish football player boss are over. As a couple, they’d found their rhythm and pulse together. How, you ask? Well, that happened a year ago and it's a totally different story. Now they are the happy couple, that everyone predicted they would be. And though they didn’t have it all figured out all the time—Who did?—there was a certainty now. A warmth in knowing that they were on this wild ride together. No matter what.

Currently, they have one problem, though. Jamie and Y/N were tired. Tired of commuting between Jamie's huge bachelor mansion and Y/N's small flat. So, today, they were taking a massive step. After weeks of debating where to live, they were finally choosing a place to call their own.

And it all started like this: Y/N stood in the middle of Jamie’s house, looking around with a mixture of disbelief and a lack of affection. She could see the effort Jamie had put into this space, making it the perfect bachelor pad—though she wouldn’t call his million-dollar mansion "homey," it was very much his—but there was something about it that felt cold, empty even. A place that might look good in a magazine but never felt lived in.

"Honey, I love you, but your place is a fucking nightmare," she said, her voice a little softer than usual. It wasn’t criticism—just an honest statement. She loved him more than anything, but the house… not so much.

Jamie, dramatically clutching his chest like she’d just insulted the very foundation of his existence, gasped. “Babe, you take that back. My place is well nice!” His grin was infectious, but it didn’t quite convince her.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, an exhale slipping from her lips as she glanced around. "Jamie, it looks like a footballer’s bachelor pad exploded and no one cleaned it up."

Jamie scoffed. "It’s modern. S’called style."

Y/N crossed her arms, her lips forming a playful but pointed frown. “It’s sterile, and way too big for one person. How do you even live here?” She gave the room another glance. “It’s like a showroom for nothing.”

“Modern,” Jamie repeated, more to himself than to her, before shrugging with a little smile. “And, it’s... practical.”

Y/N chuckled, her shoulders softening. “Yeah, for someone who’s single and ready to mingle.”

That made Jamie smirk...the perverted kind. "Nah, I'm taken...still ready to mingle, though...If you're up for it." He said with wiggling brows.

"Nope, not until we fix this commuting situation or this Playboy mansion..."

Jamie grinned. "S’pose I should get someone to move in, then."

Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Well yes maybe. D'you have someone in mind, yet?”

They both paused the air between them thick with the unspoken. Moving in or not? She knew he wasn’t wrong; they’d spent months now navigating their relationship—learning each other’s quirks, arguing and laughing, and eventually learning how to move forward from it all. They've known each other long before that, even lived together for like a week (scratch that, that was a nightmare). But this? This was a bigger step.

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jamie, we’ve been dating for a year," she continued, her voice a little quieter now, but firm. “We spend almost every night together, but neither of us wants to live in the other’s place. What does that tell you?”

Jamie blinked. "That you should stop bein’ stubborn and move in with me?"

Y/N groaned. "Jamie!"

"What?!"

Y/N chuckled, rolling her eyes. "It means we should get a place together. Something that actually feels like ours. Not just a place that’s convenient. Not just your empty bachelor pad."

Jamie’s grin faltered slightly, just for a second, as if he was still trying to figure out how to reconcile her vision with his own. And then, slowly, a warmth spread across his face. She wants to go all in, he thought. It wasn’t just the cheeky grin she knew so well of him; it was something more vulnerable, something real.

“Yeah,” he murmured softly, his voice taking on a quieter, more sincere tone, his heart full. “Yeah, we should. I would love that, baby.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered, surprised at how deeply those words resonated. This wasn’t about the perfect space, the perfect decor, or the perfect house—it was about the two of them finally deciding to make a space for themselves. Something that belonged to both of them, something that could hold their life and their future together.

The house-hunting process was… a disaster at first.

Jamie hated anything that didn’t have state-of-the-art amenities.

“Babe, the shower pressure is shite,” Jamie had groaned when they toured a particularly swanky house, clearly unimpressed with the plumbing.

Y/N wanted a place that felt warm, lived in, and a home that would make them feel grounded. Jamie? He had other priorities.

Y/N hadn’t even blinked while looking through another very steril, very fancy home. “Jamie, this house has zero personality.”

Jamie had flashed her a sheepish grin, clearly not understanding what she meant. “It’s got everything, baby.”

She shook her head, exasperated. “It’s a showroom, not a home. Where’s the character?”

They had almost given up.

And then, as if by fate, they stumbled across a house just outside the city. A little larger than what Y/N had imagined, but perfect in every other way. The second they walked in, there was an overwhelming feeling of comfort. The high ceilings, the natural light that poured in through every window, the spacious kitchen that was begging to be used—it felt like the kind of place where their lives could unfold, messy but beautiful.

They stood in the living room, not speaking for a few seconds, just taking in the space.

It was perfect.

Big, but not ridiculous. Warm, and welcoming. It even has a freakin' garden.

“Sooo,” Y/N finally said, voice soft and a little teary-eyed. “This one, yeah?”

Jamie wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he looked around, letting out a long breath. Finally, their home. “Yeah. I think so. That's the one.”

And for the first time, Y/N realized they weren't just talking about the house. They were talking about the future they were building together.

Jamie’s voice broke the silence, low and teasing as his fingers traced patterns over her waist. “Loads of space,” he murmured, looking around at the open floor plan. “For all your books. For all our shoes. For me trophies.”

Y/N laughed, but it wasn’t just the usual teasing. There was something more in her heart, something deeper. She was happy. She shot him a knowing glance. “You mean your one trophy?”

Jamie gasped in mock disbelief, hand dramatically placed over his chest. “Babe. Unbelievable.”

Y/N grinned. "Anything else?"

Jamie grinned devilishly, eyes glinting. “Loads of space for babies.”

Y/N paused. Her heart skipped, but she kept her voice steady, not letting her emotions fully spill out just yet. “Jamie…”

“Oi, I’m just sayin’,” he teased, stepping closer, his hand brushing her side. “Reckon we could have a whole little team, yeah? Tartt FC.”

Y/N smiled softly, the weight of his words settling over her like a promise. "Let’s move in first before you start planning a whole squad, alright?"

Jamie smiled back, but there was something so warm in his eyes that Y/N couldn’t help but feel everything fall into place.

“Deal.”

The first night in their new house was chaos.

Jamie had insisted on carrying Y/N over the threshold in some grand romantic gesture, but it was more of a comedy show than a scene from a fairytale. He’d almost dropped her because he misjudged the step, and they both ended up laughing, tangled up in each other in the doorway.

“Babe, you’re movin’ too much!” Jamie said, panicked, as they teetered dangerously on the edge of disaster.

“Jamie, put me down before we both die!” Y/N gasped, laughing through the ridiculousness of it all.

But eventually, they made it inside, safe and sound, only to find that the unpacking wasn’t much less chaotic. Jamie was distracted by his attempt to get the TV working, while Y/N took on the bulk of the unpacking.

“Jamie, love of my life, what are you doing there?” Y/N called over to him, already knowing the answer, but indulging him anyway.

“Setting up Sky Sports,” Jamie muttered, eyes glued to the TV. “Priorities, babe.”

Y/N couldn’t help herself. “Your priorities should be helping me unpack so we can actually sleep in a bed tonight.”

Jamie shrugged, looking at her from over his shoulder. “We could just sleep on the couch. Wouldn’t be the first time we did it on a couch.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Jamie Tartt, if you think we’re spending our first night in our new house on the couch, you’ve lost your mind.”

Jamie grinned mischievously. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea. S’not like we’d be sleeping much anyway.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was affection behind the sarcasm. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie teased, stepping toward her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close. “You love it. Babe, we gotta break in the new bed, yeah?”

Y/N sighed dramatically, but her voice was laced with nothing but affection. “Unbelievable.”

Jamie laughed softly, leaning in to kiss the top of her head, a gentle smile resting on his lips.

By the time they finally got everything done, bed built, things unpacked, it was late as hell.

They collapsed into bed—their bed, in their house—and just lay there, soaking it all in.

Jamie turned his head, watching Y/N’s beautiful face in the dim light.

"We did it, baby," he murmured.

Y/N smiled, reaching over to lace her fingers with his. "Yeah. We did."

Jamie squeezed her hand. "We’re gonna have a good life here, I promise. I love you so much."

"I love you more, honey." Y/N hummed, then turned her head. "You still thinking about your very own Tartt FC, huh?"

Jamie smirked. "'Course I am."

Y/N rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. "You really want a bunch of little Baby Tartts running around?"

Jamie smirked. "Babe, who wouldn’t want that?"

Y/N snorted. "The world isn’t ready."

Jamie laughed, tugging her down so she was flush against his chest. "Reckon we should start practicin’ then, yeah?"

Y/N laughed, swatting his arm. "Go to sleep, Jamie."

Jamie kissed the top of her head, grinning against her hair.

"Yeah, alright. But tomorrow," he murmured, "we’ll start scouting for the team."

Yes, Y/N knew exactly what he meant by that...

[bringthekaos]

Alrighty, here we go. Act III.

Mostly Jayce and Viktor centric, but with some wider thoughts as a whole thrown in. As usual, this is all my opinion, you’re free to disagree with me. Just don’t be a dick.

I am torn. I’m appreciative of the visuals and the JayVik crumbs (even though Christian Linke’s comments post-show have soured it to queerbait for me). But mostly I am disappointed. And I so badly didn’t want to be. I had such high hopes (and that’s probably my fault. I expected too much). They completely massacred Viktor’s character. There was such beautiful setup in season one of his background as a Zaunite living in Piltover. So much of his lived experience came from that—the oppression, the inequality, the xenophobia, the inaccessibility. It formed his opinions and his values, and that’s why he was so adamantly anti-weapon making. That’s why his number one goal was always to help the people in need down in Zaun. They showed us that he was a tinkerer and a builder, that he valued the ingenuity in machinery. They gave us that cute little boat from his childhood and the fucking Hexclaw.

Viktor was supposed to be a Zaunite champion. He was supposed to embrace Techmaturgy as a direct opposition to magic/Hextech. He was supposed to undergo his transformation into the Machine Herald of his own volition, with his own agency and bodily autonomy (yes I know it also stemmed from severe depression and one could argue that it messed with his decision-making, but still… he did that shit on his own). And there were so many opportunities to go this route in Arcane, and it would have worked!! If Viktor augmented his hand and his leg, but it cost Sky her life, he could realize the cost of magic, and turn to Tech. He could have been exiled back to Zaun, where he was supposed to be, and then the shitshow really could have unfolded—having one of Hextech’s creators now working for the other side.

And I know they had to change it so that he could be a bigger part of the overall narrative, as his original lore was rather disconnected. But there were much cleaner ways to go about it than disrespecting his entire character arc by turning him into a grimdark edgelord ethereal magic Jesus who no longer notices or even seems to care about the oppression and class warfare going on in his birthplace. Like. I’m sorry, him “curing” Salo? OG Viktor would have taken one look at a representative of the very oppression he stood against and blown him to kingdom come. (And yes, I also realize that he did it in Arcane because he was “under the influence” of the Hexcore, which only wanted to “infect more people.” But that’s another problem I have. This was never really made all that clear. And watching him go from “we will not be building weapons, that’s not why we invented Hextech/there is always a choice/we were meant to improve lives, not to take them” to making him turn human beings into weapons?? I don’t care that they tried to salvage his character by suggesting he wasn’t in control, it still undermines everything about him. And GOD, original League Vik had so much DEPTH. He was a hypocrite, he was still partly human and so he retained pieces/parts of all the things he preached against, which made him a wonderful contradiction. And he had a sense of humor and whimsy too! He enjoyed sweet milk, he cracked dry jokes and was sarcastic as fuck. He had a personality! And now he’s just… empty space man blinded by forced apathy.

And I think all of this is part of a larger problem—they wanted to use Arcane as a stepping stone to future shows, and as such, the class warfare and systemic oppression plot from season one was completely abandoned. They tried to solve it with “well they have to band together to face a bigger enemy.” Which in my personal opinion is a cheap cop out. There are always bigger fish, that doesn’t change the fact that Zaun has been living in Piltover’s filth with Piltover’s boot on their neck for generations. They’ve suffered injustices most of us can’t even comprehend. And then suddenly we’re supposed to believe they all band together to face this threat, stand side by side with their oppressors because Jayce made one speech about it? With no proof? And then all they get from the deal is one Zaunite seat on the council? And they’re okay with that? I never expected the show to solve systemic oppression, but I also didn’t expect them to abandon it this spectacularly.

The Noxus/Black Rose plot was clearly thrown in to set up future shows, and to show Netflix/investors/whoever that this massive financial investment has a future. And it destroyed the Piltover/Zaun story. I think this could have been a totally isolated story just about Piltover and Zaun, and been completely successful. In fact, I would have definitely watched future projects despite them not taking place in the setting of Arcane. And I’m not at all saying I don’t like Ambessa and Mel. I was very intrigued by the story of a warmonger like Ambessa facing her comeuppance, not just for her warmongering but for her affair with a damn MAGE. And her daughter trying desperately to break the mold her mother has set for her, while also struggling with who she is and these new, incredible powers she has. That shit is juicy as hell, and honestly should have been its own show. But throwing it into Arcane in season 2 with absolutely no hint of the Black Rose or its impending approach (beyond “the people who killed your brother don’t think the score is settled”) in season one, it just felt like the aforementioned cop out to get Piltover and Zaun to get along. And in doing so, they steamrolled Viktor to make him a bigger player in the narrative.

Did I like the final astral plane scene with Jayce and Viktor? God, yes. Is it one of the most beautiful confessions of love and eternal devotion I think I’ve ever fucking seen? Also yes. But it kinda feels like a bandaid on a bullet wound. I got the love I always knew remained between Jayce and Viktor, but I paid for it with Viktor’s entire character. Not to mention Christian Linke keeps pouring salt in the fucking wound, denouncing JayVik and “bromancing” them, and then also suggesting in one interview that Jayce and Viktor are actually fucking dead, and in another that Viktor will be back in future projects (with no mention of Jayce, which suggests that they’re turning him into Sky 2.0 and that he’s dead but Viktor isn’t). And that completely undermines the entire ending of season 2’s “intrinsically entwined/always you/in every universe.” And I know, I shouldn’t listen to this dude’s opinion on the matter, he’s not the only one making this thing, and honestly it was the easiest unfollow/mute of my life. But how hard is it to just shut the fuck up and let people enjoy things? To not comment one way or the other, let people think what they want, and rake in your millions in the process? Haven’t you ever heard of rainbow capitalism, my guy?

Ugh. I’m very sorry for being so negative, I didn’t want to be. I still love the show, and I’d still like to keep writing JayVik, even though it’s just been made near-impossible (I’m actually really glad that I never finished Oasis now, cuz I can go back to that and expand it well beyond what I originally planned cuz… it’s all I have left). I’m just mourning my cyborg wife, and the fact that goddamn SMEECH had what Viktor was supposed to. Hopefully the more time goes on, I can reconcile these changes and embrace them, cuz I love this fandom, I love this ship, and I don’t wanna lose it.

Anyway, I will still be sharing art and memes and posting analyses, because you can like a piece of media and still be critical of it.

[satorushousewife]

how you got a date with the most popular guy in campus! or college!au satoru gojo x reader - part 1.

warnings: none, but gojo is actually a few years older than reader (he's around 20 and reader is aroung 18, just starting college) important note: i'm in college but i'm not from usa so some things might be different from the usual college things you're used to! nothing too far tho. also, not a native english speaker, be kind please! otherwise, hope you enjoy your reading!

you knew about satoru gojo way before you met him.

actually, you got to know about him within the first few days of college. he was famous all around campus, partially because he was incredibly attractive and partially because he was rich—filthy rich, may i say—and had a reputation of paying things for people he liked. so, it was no surprise that everyone talked about him.

even though you hadn’t met him, you already knew his appearance (blue eyes, white hair, normally wearing sunglasses), his full name (satoru gojo), his age (21), the last party he attended (aiko's party, apparently it was a banger), and the latest instagram post he made (at a cafe with his most close friend—shoko). not because you looked it up—you just heard people commenting about it.

to you, he seemed like a typical frat boy. not that you cared much. it wasn’t in a bad way, you just didn’t feel the need to fawn over him like everyone else seemed to. still, you tried not to judge people before meeting them.

then you saw him once.

you recognized him instantly: tall, white hair like fresh snow, and signature sunglasses that made him stand out even more. he was chatting animatedly with a girl, her cigarette smoke curling lazily around them as she listened with a soft smile.

for a moment, you paused. he didn’t look like the frat boy you’d imagined: blonde, with blue eyes and super toned. no, he seemed... cheerful. but there wasn’t time to dwell on it—you were late for a lecture.

running late, you found one of the last seats, an empty spot with no one on either side. perfect. you weren’t the most extroverted person and preferred your space, so you were relieved as you actually did not knew many people from around here yet. settling in, you pulled a bag of gummies from your backpack and began savoring them.

minutes passed, and the room started filling up. suddenly you noticed someone sitting beside you out of the corner of your eye and let out a mental groan. without thinking, you glanced over and caught them staring—not at you, but at the candy in your hand.

it was him. the satoru gojo.

he still wore his sunglasses, but it was obvious he was ogling your gummies. you bit your lip to stifle a laugh at his lack of subtlety and decided to offer him some.

that’s when the magic happened.

he accepted immediately and launched into a dramatic monologue about his love for sweets.

“you see, i’m on this diet to gain some more muscle—and don't get me wrong when i say this, i know i'm already handsome and hot and i have fine muscles, i just want to be a little bigger, you know?—but anyway, the nutritionist said to eat less sugar, so i haven’t had any since yesterday, and i’m like, almost dying.” you chuckled at his theatrics, and he grinned, encouraged. “don’t laugh! i swear, it was a life-or-death situation. you just saved me!” “saved you from dying from a lack of sugar?” “exactly!” “well, guess now you’re in debt with me.” “oh, guess i am...” he said, making a mock thoughtful face. “would you like to have lunch with me later? it’s on me.” you stared at him for a moment. he stared back, unbothered. “we just met.” “so?” “what if i’m an evil person?” “nah, evil people don’t offer candy to strangers,” he said, popping another gummy into his mouth. he paused mid-chew. “unless...” you rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “it’s not poisoned.” “that’s what someone who poisoned their candy would say!” “ah, yes. the candy i’m also eating is totally poisoned,” you said, popping another one into your mouth for emphasis. “maybe you’re suicidal,” he shrugged, shoving the candy into his mouth anyway. you couldn’t help but laugh at his stupidity.

the conversation ended when one of your professors tapped the mic, announcing that the lecture was about to start.

contrary to your expectations,  during the lecture gojo was surprisingly well-behaved and actually paid attention. well, except for his occasional snarky remarks, which made you chuckle. he was incredibly easygoing and, despite his self-absorbed humor, a genuinely fun person to be around. within an hour, you found yourself getting comfortable and adding your own quips. he looked absolutelly delighted that you matched his energy.

so, not needing to say much, it's pretty clear you accepted the lunch offer. and that’s how you got a date with the most popular guy on campus.

end notes: guys, this is my first ever satoru fic i'm so excited mweheheh!!! there will be some angst and actually i will use this base for three possible outcomes (gojo only, satosugu x reader, tojisukugo x reader). hope you guys enjoy it 😎

♡⃕ xoxo mikki

[tastelikeglttrr]

Excuse me, um, i love you {7.1}

ian smith x influencer! reader smau

authors note: hi guys i feel really bad about the delay so i decided to throw something together. i'm stuck on school timing so i apologize if it sounds too scholarly lmaoo.

warnings: cursing, idk what u would call it but possessive ian ig

word count: 760

You hadn’t planned on running into Dominic. It just happened.

You were at a coffee shop near campus, scrolling mindlessly on your phone when you heard his voice—low, amused, and all too familiar.

"Damn. Didn’t think you’d still be hanging around here."

You looked up, and there he was—Dominic Evans, your asshole ex, standing in front of you like no time had passed. He looked the same, just as effortlessly arrogant, with that permanent smirk like he knew some joke you weren’t in on.

"It’s right around the corner from campus. what are you talking about?," you said flatly, eyeing him as he slid into the seat across from you, uninvited.

"Right, right," he mused, drumming his fingers against the table. "You look good, princess."

You ignored the way the nickname made something twist in your stomach. You weren’t his anymore.

The conversation was...easy, in a way you hated. That was always the problem with Dominic. No matter how much of a really bad boyfriend he had been, talking to him never felt awkward. You fell back into old rhythms too easily—laughing at his dry humor, rolling your eyes at his cocky remarks, letting him get under your skin just enough.

At some point, he brought up the flowers.

"Did you like them?" His voice was casual, but his gaze was sharp, watching you closely.

"Don’t send me shit like that, Dom."

"Relax," he chuckled, leaning back. "Just thought you’d appreciate something familiar."

you hated Dominic for doing this, letting himself back in, pushing just enough to remind you that he could if you let him.

Later, without thinking much about it, you posted a quick Insta story—a blurry photo of your half-empty coffee cup, the caption vague but just knowing enough. Weird day lol. after posting you had texted Egypt letting her in on what just happened.

It wasn’t long before your phone buzzed.

Ian.

Ian: Did you see his bitch ass today?

You hesitated.

You: Why are you so mad?

Ian: You deadass? You know why.

You did know why. Ian had been there when you got those flowers, had read the note, had laughed it off like it didn’t matter. But now? Now it did matter. Because it was one thing to talk about Dominic in passing, to joke about him over a joint, to roll your eyes at the flowers he sent. But it was another thing entirely to sit across from him, to entertain a conversation, to let him exist in your space again—no matter how long the interaction.

You stared at Ian’s messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard. something kind of felt right about him being upset.

Ian: So you weren’t gonna tell me?

You: Tell you what?

Ian: That you were with him.

Your stomach dropped.

You: Ian, I wasn’t “with” him. I ran into him. We talked for like five minutes. That’s it.

Ian: Crazy, ‘cause I just overheard Egypt and Tucker talking about how you and Dominic were sitting together for a fat ass minute—not just some quick convo.

You shut your eyes, cursing under your breath. Egypt and Tucker weren’t messy, but if Ian had overheard them, that meant they’d been talking about it long enough for it to seem like something worth mentioning.

You: I swear, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t even plan to see him.

Ian: But you sat with him.

You: I mean, yeah, I wasn’t gonna just walk away—

Ian: Why not?

You hesitated.

Ian: He sends you flowers, follows both your main AND your spam” and you’re still giving him the time of day?

You: Ian, I told him to stop.

Ian: And yet there you were. Sitting. Talking. Probably laughing, knowing you.

You rolled your eyes, frustration bubbling under your skin.

You: You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.

Ian: Nah, you just don’t get it. You think it’s nothing, but that’s ‘cause it’s not you who looks stupid here.

That stung.

You: So now I’m making you look stupid?

Ian: If my girl is out getting flowers and sitting all hunky dory with her ex, what the fuck else am I supposed to think?

Your breath hitched. My girl.

You weren’t together—not officially, not yet. The fact that he was even this mad right now. It all meant something.

You: I didn’t think it would bother you like this.

Ian: You're actually tripping

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around your phone. this genuinely could not be happening

the phrase hunky dory makes me giggle

xoxo

korie

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Hey! Love the temptation danny story so much! Can i have a follow up request where reader has to go home for vacation due to a family reunion while danny is off somewhere for testing and she tells danny that its ok that she goes alone since he is busy but he keeps insisting that they should go together but reader has already booked a flight and the next following days while the family reunion is going on danny just arrives and everyone gets so starstruck by him and he is so possessive of her while the reunion is going on, LOVE THE FICS BTW YOU ARE AN AWESOME WRITER

The Taste of Temptation || DR3 {6}

Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, angst, smut, fluff (two part request) WC: 3.4K F1 Masterlist Story: One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven Snapshots: One || Two || Three || Four || Five

Wednesday “Honestly, it’s fine,” you reassured him for the seemingly hundredth time. 

Daniel’s suitcase was at the door beside yours except the planes you were leaving from in Nice were going in two very different directions.

“It’s not fine,” he muttered as he checked his Passport was in his back pocket before pulling you into his arms. “I was looking forward to seeing your family again. They’re going to be mine soon too.”

You smiled at the reminder and brushed your thumb over the engagement ring. “You’ll see them at Christmas.”

“Not everyone,” he pointed out. The Christmas get together was going to have both of your immediate family members, with his flying out from Australia. “I want to talk to your cousins.”

“What? Why?” You pulled back to see the mischievous look in his eyes and the smile that promised he was up to something.

“Cousins always tell the truth,” he chuckled. “And I want to know what you were really like as a kid.”

“I was a little angel.”

His hands roamed over your body to settle on your ass and he pulled you flush against him as he teased, “What happened?” 

You giggled as you rose on your tiptoes and grazed your nose along his throat before resting your lips on his jaw as you teased him right back, “I fell for a man with a wicked tongue.”

You could see the darkening in his eyes and his lips parted with a filthy suggestion on the tip of his tongue but the blaring of an alarm from his jeans drew a groan out instead. “I’m going to have blue balls for the flight now.”

“You should probably take care of that.”

“It’s a 30 minute drive to the airport, Kitten, you could take care of it along the way.”

It was a strange feeling returning to the town you had grown up in. The streets remained the same, trees lining the curb and kids playing in the front yards, but the faces were all unrecognisable. Like you, most of the people you knew had fled as soon as they finished high school, searching for something bigger than what this place could offer. 

Nearly every parking space on the street was taken by your extended family but your dad had saved one for you near the house with the recycling bin. It was a good thing too because Daniel had kind of spoiled you as he walked you to your boarding gate. He hadn’t been able to resist dragging you into the duty free shops in the terminal and now the extra baggage was missing the pair of hands that carried it for you. You had told him it was too much but he just kissed you until you forgot about arguing. It wasn’t fair, you could never win an argument when he cheated like that. 

You got the feeling everyone had been waiting for you because the moment your car door closed they all filed out of the house to come and help with your luggage.

“There’s the city-slicker, welcome home,” Vanessa greeted with a kiss on your cheek before pouting as she saw the empty front seat. “Damn, thought you were bringing the sugar daddy with you.”

“Don’t call him that, he’s not my sugar daddy,” you warned with a roll of your eyes but your cousin clearly wasn’t paying attention. “Daniel is with the Red Bull guys in Japan for some big event. He wishes he could come but they called in everyone: Scotty, Liam, Mad Mike, they all had to be there too. ”

Your dad took the suitcase from your hand and nodded understandingly. “That’s a shame, but at least my little girl has finally come home.”

Your bedroom hadn’t changed all that much since you left to go to university and you could see the pin pricks and faded lines in the wallpaper outlining where your posters used to be. 

“Ohh, this is gorgeous,” Nessa grinned as she helped herself to the garment bags, the tags still on the designer clothes Daniel had bought you. “So am I going to meet this not-your-sugar-daddy before the wedding?”

“You could come to Christmas if you want, and go ahead, try it on,” you sighed before flinching at the squeak she made before abandoning her clothes like you were still kids and stepping into the first dress. “Nice to see you haven’t outgrown stealing my clothes.”

“There’s a reason we are the same size, it's fate. Karma herself said, Nessa, you deserve to wear nice things too,” she joked as she turned around. “Do me up?”

“You are so full of shit,” you laughed as you zipped her up. “Am I going to get that back?”

“Do you have a sugar daddy?”

“No.”

“Well there's your answer.” 

Friday “Hey Kitten,” Daniel greeted with a bright smile when the video call connected. “How’s it going?”

You leaned the phone against your mirror so you could continue to apply your makeup and held up two shades of lipstick. “Just getting ready to go out with Nessa. How’s the event? I haven’t seen many pictures.”

“Left hand, and you won’t - they are keeping everything under wraps until they have finished filming. Think the Melbourne GP promo vid, but bigger…”

You opened the lipstick he chose, the one you knew he would since he always complimented the shade on you - and when it transferred to his skin too. He fell silent as he watched you lean closer into the mirror, leaving the swell of your breasts filling his screen.

“Kitten…I wish I was there,” he sighed when you pulled back and blew him a kiss to show the colour off. 

“I wish you were here too,” you admitted, taking the phone with you as you sat on the bed and hugged your pillow. “Two days down, four to go.”

“You’re still counting in days? I’m counting in hours, fuck it, minutes.” He sent you a screenshot and you saw the countdown timer on his homescreen, the hours and minutes slowly ticking away until you were reunited. “Where are you and Nessa going? Is Carter going too?”

You shook your head at the question. Vanessa’s brother was far too busy with his new girlfriend to want to go to the local bar. “He’s too cool to hang out with us at the Old Oak Inn.”

Daniel sat up a little straighter and didn’t appear too pleased at the news. “Is anyone going with you?”

“Ness.”

“You know what I mean,” he huffed, “who is going to look out for you two?”

“Everyone knows everyone here, baby, we’ll be fine.” You gave him a smile as your chest warmed with the same gooey feeling you got every time he worried about you. “I love you, my protective he-man.”

“I love you too, Kitten,” his face softened until he heard Max calling his name outside his hotel door. “Send me lots of pictures, baby, I wanna see my gorgeous girl having fun.”

Nessa burst into the room as you ended the call and ripped the pillow away from your arms. “Get up, bitch, the taxi is here.”

The bar had changed a lot since you last went, the atmosphere more akin to a club than a pub, and you narrowed your eyes at Nessa who just grinned back. “You said it was a chill night out.”

“I lied,” she said with a shrug. “We can go back if you’d rather get in a fight over monopoly?”

 You cringed at the thought so she dragged you through the busy room and straight to the bar. 

“Holy shit, we have royalty in the house,” an old school friend greeted as he tended to the bar. “Did Monaco get too busy?”

“Not quite, Mark, I’m just back for a family reunion.” He placed your old favourite drink down without having to ask and you quirked an eyebrow at it.

“I have a good memory, but it might taste better than it did in the old plastic cups we drank out of,” he laughed before pouring a bourbon for Nessa. “Milady.”

He wandered off to serve someone else and you turned to Nessa. “You and Mark?”

“A few times, you know, just a bit of fun,” she said as she winked at him when he glanced back. “Oh, head down, Andrew’s here.”

You ducked into her arms and kept your head down until she said you were safe and sighed with relief. “Jesus, everyone really does come here. Is there any other bar around?”

“If you want to catch an STD off the bar top, sure. Plus, your high school sweetheart will probably find his way to Ruby’s later anyway.”

“We dated for like four months, I wouldn’t call him my highschool sweetheart,” you scoffed. 

Nessa’s brow lifted. “Need I remind you he took your V Card? Your first always has a teeny tiny place in your heart.”

“Not mine, and Danny took my A Card so that trumps it.”

“A Card…?” she trailed off before her eyes widened in realisation. “Ew gross. Did it hurt?”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Whatever, we both know how you get after a few drinks.” She grabbed your phone and held it up as she raised her glass and you clinked them together before tipping them back. “Perfect. And done.”

You barely caught your phone as she carelessly tossed it back and you saw she hadn’t sent it to Danny but uploaded it to Instagram. “Fucksake, Nessa, you left the location on.” 

You had learned quite quickly that most of the people that followed you only used it to see updates Daniel might not have posted himself, including using the locations of your posts thinking Daniel would be with you. It had led to a few scary situations before you learned to keep your location off or at least generalised - but she had tagged the Old Oak Inn.

Taking another photo with a pout, you posted it with the caption, ‘half of my soul is half a world away, miss you danielricciardo’ and hoped it would stop some people within driving distance from making the pointless journey hoping to see Danny.

You opened the photo again and zoomed in to see Andrew in the background, his eyes clearly looking at your ass when the camera snapped.

“What made you happy all of a sudden?” Nessa asked as she returned with fresh drinks.

“Danny’s on his way,” you giggled nervously as you clutched your phone to your chest.

“I thought he couldn’t come.”

“He couldn’t, and he shouldn’t, but I don’t think there’s anyone with the balls to stop him. He can be a little stubborn sometimes.” It was a severe understatement and if he wasn’t such a good driver you were certain he would have been fired for some of the escapades he found himself in because he got a little overprotective and possessive when he was away from you. “Christian Horner offered me a job just so I could be wherever Daniel was and keep him in line, but I think it was a joke.”

“You need to accept it, joke or not, your man is whipped for you.”

You took a sip of your drink before you spilled the truth about who really did the whipping and pondered the idea you had initially laughed off. You could still work a similar role with Red Bull, so maybe it shouldn’t have been brushed off so quickly. For tonight, you would focus on having fun with Nessa and catching up with old friends.

Saturday You groaned at the dawn light that brightened the room as the curtains were ripped aside and rolled over. “Nessa, piss off.”

“Something bothering you, kitten?”

You probably looked like a zombie coming to life as you threw your blankets back and rushed up to meet Daniel as he climbed onto the bed. The old frame creaked unused to the extra weight on it but you didn’t care if it collapsed, you weren’t letting go of Daniel once he was in your arms. 

“You’re actually here,” you murmured against his lips when you finally broke apart to breathe. You had kept looking over your shoulder all night expecting him to appear but when the bar closed and he still hadn’t arrived your hope had simmered down.

His smile was blinding as he brushed your messy hair back and buried his face in your neck with a deep inhale. He was a cat high on catnip the moment his nose brushed your racing pulse and he guided you back into the sheets as he caged you beneath him. “Told you I’d see you soon.”

“My parent’s room is next door,” you whispered as his hips settled between your legs and he teased you when he rolled them against you.

“Then I suggest you find something to bite,” he chuckled, his fingers slipping into your panties and feeling how your body had instantly reacted to his touch, “because I have missed you so much. I just need to feel you around me. right now.”

His lips parted and he sighed at the pretty sight as he dragged your panties down your legs. “There’s my pretty kitty,” he mused as he shuffled down the bed so he could settle between your legs, kissing your thighs softly as he reacquainted himself after three days apart. “Have you missed me?”

“Like crazy.”

“She thinks I’m talking to her,” he whispered and you felt the warmth of his breath on the sensitive spot he was confessing to. You giggled at the silly man and squirmed with the silent plea for him to stop talking and do more, the bed creaking with the movement. Daniel grabbed your hips and held them still so the bed fell silent before shaking his head with an amused smirk. “Impatient little minx.”

Rather than take the taste you knew he wanted, he flipped you onto your knees and pushed your head into the pillow to silence the sounds that spilled forth as he curled two fingers into your cunt. A few flicks of his wrist were the only preparation he gave your body before his shorts were halfway down his thighs and he replaced his fingers with his cock. 

Your pillow heated with the heavy moan that filled it and it grew damp as your teeth clamped down on the satin slip. It had only been three days but the burn of the stretch danced the fine line between pleasure and pain until he reached around your hip and found your clit. 

“Fuck you’re tight, kitten,” Daniel grunted, his lip almost bleeding as he bit it to keep quiet and pulled back a little so you could acclimate to his size again. “You okay, baby?”

You answered by pushing yourself back, needing him as much as he needed you, and you relished in the full feeling when your ass met his body. His heavy breathing broke the quiet morning and he covered your back, pressing his lips to your spine and following the line to your neck. 

“Lay down for me.”

Unwilling to part with you for a moment, he helped you onto your stomach and carefully shifted until his legs were outside of yours and your thighs pressed together. The pillow muffled your moans as the position increased the feeling of fullness and he rode you with long smooth strokes, keeping the bed from creaking.

“Three days was too much, kitten,” he confessed quietly as he kissed your shoulder. “I can’t go a day without you. Want you with me, always.”

Despite the exhaustion of the late night and early wake up, you weren’t able to get back to sleep, even with Daniel there to spoon you. A knock at your door had put an end to that plan and you were reminded that everyone was getting ready to go to the lake for a day out on the water.

Everyone except Vanessa were surprised to see Daniel joining you for breakfast and you got the best pick of the cooked meal while they all fawned over the celebrity.

“Alright, alright, leave him be,” you said as you moved them along and handed him a plate you had filled before sitting on his lap. Seats were in short supply with so many people coming and going that you were happy to share one. “I know he’s a bit weird but try to treat him normally.”

“Morning, Sugar,” Nessa teased quietly as she took the seat beside him.

“Ness…meet Daniel, officially,” you said, since she had seen him on a video call.

“We met this morning, didn’t we, Sugar? Who do you think let him in? We had a great chat about you.”

She was finding it too amusing and Daniel’s shoulder bounced with a laugh as he stuffed bacon into his mouth to avoid commenting. “I thought you were joking.”

“I told you, cousins always tell the truth,” he chuckled before kissing your cheek. “She didn’t tell me anything new though; I already knew you were smart and beautiful.”

“She was just saying that so she could keep the Givenchy dress she stole.”

“Pfft, not true, but I can totally play it up if you want to part with the Jimmy Choos too.” She turned her attention to Daniel who had been thoroughly enjoying the interaction while idly massaging your hip. “Did she tell you that she climbed up a tree to save a cat? The fire department gave her a medal for it. Or this one time she single-handedly stopped a bank robbery.”

“Oh my god,” you snorted at the absurdity.

“Don’t get me started on how she took down an international crime syndicate with a muscle car.”

“Who am I? Vin Diesel? Just shut up.”

“No, no, give me more,” Daniel encouraged. “I thought Lando was imaginative but this is next level.”

You could see the moment her train of thought was lost and a sly smile grew. “Think you could introduce me?”

“To Lando? No way, you would eat him alive.”

“Come on, I introduced you to Drew so you owe me.” You felt Danny’s hand stop the calming circles and wished she had kept her mouth shut as he asked who Drew was. “Andrew, her first boyfriend, well only boyfriend before you, I thought you would have known, my bad.”

Breakfast was fairly quiet after that and you knew Daniel had questions he was just waiting to ask when he got you alone. Fortunately, you could put them off for a few hours as you all set off to the lake, the distraction of you in a bikini enough to placate him in the meantime.

“So this Andrew…” he stated as he pulled you into his arms and waded out deeper into the warm water. “Why haven’t I heard about him?”

“Because it was years ago?”

“Did you love him?”

“I was 17, I didn’t know what love was,” you laughed as you combed your fingers through his hair. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” he scoffed, but it was clearly a lie.

“Baby, you’re the only man I have ever loved, and the only one I will ever love - with one exception.” His eyes narrowed and you giggled as you kissed his cheek. “If we have a kid someday and it’s a boy, then I would love him too.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkled with the smile that split his face. “I suppose I could live with that.”

“Good, so forget about Andrew. You are everything I want and need.”

“So long as I don’t have to cross paths with the bastard that took your innocence.”

There were only two days left before you flew back to Monaco, what were the chances?

Click here for part seven.

Taglist {1}: @moonvr @copper-boom @yunnie-f1 @ophcelia @lightsoutletsgo @alwaysclassyeagle @neiich @omgsuperstarg @starwarssavy23 @fdl305 @faeb1tch42069 @sweetestrose569 @pleasantducktimetravel @dr3lover @writerscurse @christianpulisic10 @alexisquinnlee-bc @purplephantomwolf @belennasif @ryiamarie @mickslover @tyna-19 @destourtereaux @sunf1ower16 @octaviareina @laneyspaulding19 @booknerd2004-blog @mimimarvelingmarvel @chonkybonky @jpg3 @bangtanxberm @ohthemisssery @eviethetheatrefreak @kimi240302 @andydrysdalerogers @formula1mount @storyteller-le @dakotali @daddyslittlevillain @elijahslover

[peachessndreamss]

Private Bennett's Lover - Part 1

Summery : When Tom sneaks into a party he's not been invited too he meets the wife of the Vice Admiral of the Fleet and starts on a path that can only end in heartbreak.

Characters : Tom Bennett x Married!Female OC Mrs Randall

Warnings : Canon typical language

Word count : 5K

A/N : I cannot tell you how long I've been working on this and how unfinished it still is. But I wanted to share at least some of it, ideally this will be a three part series so watch this space! Much Love to @a-fall-of-stars who knew this story when all I had was an idea and a screenshot of a gif set

Series Masterlist l peachessndreamss Masterlist

Through the tiny crack in the barely open office door it couldn’t have been more obvious that Tom Bennett was completely and utterly out of his comfort zone, and Tom was the sort of person who prided himself on being able to be comfortable just about anywhere. But the view this evening had sweat gathering at his hairline and under his collar and had created an uncomfortable burning sensation in his throat, but he didn’t dare try to clear it for fear of being caught. 

When Private Bennett had seen the line of large and shiny cars rolling past the barracks towards The Big House his interest had been piqued and when a fellow private explained the Vice Admiral enjoyed throwing lavish parties in the house, despite there being a war on, Tom felt his feet itching and his mind ticking and before he knew it he was crossing the dark expanse of the lawns toward The Big House and slipping inside through a window with a broken lock. 

Once inside he’d crept through the darkened passages toward the sounds of music, clinking glasses and the rumble of polite conversation. The house was, by a mile, the grandest home Tom had ever been in. The carpet on the floor was so thick he’d felt his shoes sink into it as he walked, every wall was hung with paintings, endless landscapes and portraits watched Tom as he moved between the shadows, being drawn toward the party that was taking place in the ballroom. 

Tom found an open door along a quiet corridor that led into the Vice Admiral’s study, the room was richly furnished, the walls covered with bookshelves and the space dominated by a desk Tom was fairly certain was bigger than his childhood bedroom. 

Tom cracked the second door to the study which opened to the house's main hallway and gave him a view of the party while remaining unnoticed by anyone else. He watched for more than half an hour as the party carried on, the champagne was flowing freely as the guests talked in small groups or dipped in and out of the ballroom. Tom could only see a small portion of the ballroom but was able to catch sight of couples dancing to the music of a quartet. 

Tom had been to a fair number of parties and dances in his life but this was something else, like something from another world or a bygone era. In the village, only a mile away, he knew people would be going to bed hungry and in the barracks just over the crest of the hill, young men were waiting for orders that might end their lives but in The Big House none of that was real and the only thing that mattered was a full glass of champagne. 

Tom could feel his skin starting to prickle with anger when the door behind him creaked open and the room was briefly filled with light. He whipped around, his eyes wide and his mouth dry, his heart thundering as he stared like a cornered animal, finding himself no longer alone. 

Mrs Randall had expected to find her husband's, the Vice Admiral of the Fleet’s, office empty. In truth, she was hoping to find it empty, she wanted to find a quiet and dark space in which to gather herself and take a much needed rest from the party taking place in her home. 

However the study wasn’t empty and an icy chill ran down her spine as her eyes met those of the stranger’s. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice a horse whisper. 

She stared at the man, too frightened to take her eyes away from his face. If she screamed she knew she’d have help before the stranger would have a chance to cross the room to do her any harm but the thought of screaming was far from her mind as she saw her own fear reflected on his face. 

When he didn’t reply she straightened her back a little and spoke in the voice she’d been trained to use on badly behaved staff members.  

“Why are you in my study?” she demanded. 

Tom couldn’t help his face breaking into a grin when he’d seen the woman stand up a little straighter and use a harsher voice on him. He realised he wasn’t in immediate danger of being discovered by anyone that scared him so he decided to fall back on his charm to ensure he got out of the house with minimal trouble. 

“Jus’ wanted to see ‘ow the other ‘alf live,” he replied with a shrug, playing up his northern accent which was in complete contrast to her own voice. 

She scoffed quietly before she moved further into the room and flicked on a small desk lamp. 

“Have you come from the barracks?” she asked. 

The electric light was dim but golden and the room suddenly glowed, the light bouncing off the brass fixtures and the highly polished dark wood furniture. The man stood on the edge of the pool of light but it still caught his features, revealing a sharp chin and soft lips. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief and his golden hair glinted in the light. 

“How did you get in here?” she asked when he remained silent. 

He shrugged again and moved his head from side to side, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the woman. 

“Broken lock,” he admitted before pausing briefly, “window on the east side, three from the kitchen door,”. 

She nodded, the two of them still not taking their eyes from each other. They were like two nervous animals, not willing to look away out of fear and out of interest. Tom let his eyes flick up and down her body.  

The long gown she’d worn was nothing like he'd ever seen before. He'd seen his fair share of girls in and out of their best frocks at the dances he used to attend back home but she was something else. He might have mistaken her for royalty, there was a small jewelled tiara on her head after all. Other jewels sparkled at her neck and wrists and the fabric of her dress caught and reflected the light right back at him. 

“Well, thank you for letting me know,” she replied softly, “But perhaps it's best you go back now."

Tom's eyebrow quirked upwards, surprised by her quickly she'd gotten control of herself and retained a cool head and calm demeanour. 

Tom would have guessed that before she’d been married she’d never been alone with a man, and could probably count on one hand the amount of times since, if she were scared you gave no outward indication. 

“Or I could stay a while, we could ‘ave a chat?” He offered with an upward quirk of his lips. 

She gave a quiet laugh and a small shake of her head before stepping further into the room, closer to where Tom was standing by the main study doors. She could hear the music from the ballroom and the soft, lilting laughter of feminine voices. 

"And what would we talk about?” she asked. 

He shrugged again. 

“Perhaps we should start with introductions? Name and that?” 

She smiled and gave him her first name before adding “Mrs Randall, the Vice Admiral's wife,”  she stepped forward offering her hand out to him to shake. 

Tom nodded and took the proffered hand, instead of shaking it he brought it up to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to it. 

“Private Tom Bennett,” he said, “Pleasure to meet you,” his lips still almost brushing the soft, warm back of her hand. 

“Pleasure to meet you Private Bennett,” she replied, pulling her hand out of his grip. The place his lips had touched her skin felt burnt, like if she looked at it, she’d still see the shape of his kiss marking the skin. 

“Please Mrs Randall, call me Tom,” he smirked, “All my friends do."

“Then please, let us both use our first names, like friends,” she replied.

“Not “my lady” or anything like that?” He teased with a smile. 

“Certainly not, I'm not a Lady." She said with a firm shake of her head. The movement caused the diamonds sitting in her hair to flash and sparkle as they caught the soft light. 

Tom ran his tongue over his bottom lip and he took in her appearance again. At a glance she would have easily been mistaken for royalty and wouldn't have looked out of place in Buckingham Palace. 

“So, how come you're hiding in the study rather than out there?” He asked. 

“I needed a moment alone,” she replied, touching her cool hand to her flushed cheeks and forehead, “There’s only some much champagne and small talk I can take." 

“Well please accept my apologies. For both disturbing your peace and for the hard times you find yourself suffering through,” he replied dryly with a roll of his eyes, watching as her whole body stiffened and her eyes narrowed on him. 

“Apology noted,” her voice was icy. 

Tom chuckled and shook his head, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and a lighter. 

“May I?” He asked. 

“Only if you share,” she replied, the ice appearing to have melted from her tone, she stepped closer again to take a cigarette from the packet he held out. 

She placed the unlit cigarette into her mouth and Tom flicked the lighter on, touching the flame to the tip of the cigarette while she breathed in. Her husband considered women smoking to be offensive and unbecoming, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

She took a drag as Tom lit his own cigarette. Her husband smoked cigars in his study so the smell would go unnoticed and there was an ashtray at hand.

“I've seen you, you know,” she said, flicking ash in the general direction of the ashtray, “The assault course you boys run, it runs along the garden wall and from my dressing room I can see everything." 

Tom opened his mouth to speak but she continued, looking between the burning tip of the cigarette and the man in front of her. 

“You know some Privates bring girls for the village round there? There's a little shady spot just a few meters back from the path I've seen them disappearing into,” her eyes fixed on him, “I wonder what they get up to back there?” 

Tom swallowed and flicked the ash off the end of his own cigarette. 

“Wouldn't know,” he said with a shrug, “But I heard there's a lot of poison ivy in the bushes, next time I see someone scratching, I'll ask." 

“And ‘ow are you so certain you've seen me out there?” He asked after a beat of silence, “Surely us lot all look the same to you?” 

She shrugged and took a drag, smoke curling out of her mouth and disappearing into the air above the two of them. “Some of you are more memorable than others.” 

Tom grinned before crushing his finished cigarette in the ashtray. He lifted the heavy piece of glass and offered it to her. She crushed her own cigarette beside his. From outside the study the sound of her name being called reached her ears. 

She recognised her husband's voice and felt her heart rate increase. She took hold of Tom by the sleeve of his jacket and dragged him deeper into the room, flicking off the desk lamp and plunging the room into darkness again. Her husband's voice grew louder as he moved nearer the door, he seemed to stop right outside to speak to someone before moving off again and in the direction of the kitchens. Of course that was where he thought he'd find his wife, it's certainly where he believed her and the rest of her sex belonged. 

She suddenly became aware of how close she and Tom were, how his breath was ghosting past the shell of her ear as the two of them stood silent and still in the darkness. 

“I take it he wasn’t your choice of, um, dancing partner?” Tom whispered. 

She looked into his piercing blue eyes, it could have been a perfectly innocent question, if it weren’t for the crushing weight of the true answer. She felt her body chill and a familiar mask of cold indifference fell over her features. She straightened up again, pulling her body away from his. 

So little of her life had been of her choosing. As a child her father had ruled her life with an iron fist, and like iron he had never once bent or broken once his mind was set on something. From her schooling, her summers and her friends, her father had controlled every single day of her life until he'd handed her over to a husband of his choosing at the altar. 

A man 25 years her senior who had effortlessly replaced her father as the single most influential person in her life. From the wine they drank with dinner, to her allowance for clothing to how often she could drive the car, every choice was made for her by the Vice Admiral, as if she were simply a sailor in his navy.  

“Not always,” she replied, her voice haughty than it had been before, “but I make do,”. 

Tom quirked an eyebrow toward his hair line before stepping back with a grin and sitting himself on the edge of the large mahogany desk, the old wood didn’t bend or groan under his weight like the cheap furniture in the barracks. A thought flickered across his mind that his desk probably cost more than his family home. 

“How long have you been married?” he asked, leaning back on his hands and stretching his legs out in front of himself and crossing them at his ankles. 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she replied coldly, before crossing her arms over her chest and hugging her crossed limbs against her body. 

“Come on now, I thought we were friends? We’re on a first name basis after all.". 

She narrowed her eyes at him, she was usually an exceptionally private person, after having grown up with very few friends she’d never learned to gossip or grown accustomed to sharing her thoughts and feelings with a close knit group and as an only child she hadn’t even had a sibling to confide in. But tonight, as if gripped by madness she found herself answering, her usual withdrawn nature opened up by this handsome stranger. 

“18 months,” she told him. 

“Not quite the fairy tale you were expecting?” He asked. 

“I never expected a fairy tale,” she snapped, drawing her arms even tighter to her body, her hands gripping the opposite elbow. 

“You’re dressed like one,” Tom said, letting his eyes travel up and down her body. 

She scoffed, feeling her skin prickle under his brazen gaze, she knew she was attractive enough and with the right outfit and a touch of rouge she was pretty but 18 months in a loveless marriage had shown her nothing of desire or need but she felt sure there was something of those foreign, base instincts in his blue eyes. Desperately needing something, anything to do with her body she leaned past him to pick up the packet of cigarettes he'd placed beside him on the desk. She took another one and lit it. 

“You'd find me quite dowdy if you went out there and saw some of the other wives,” she took a long drag on the cigarette, falling back on the self deprication she’d learned pleased her father and husband, “out there you'd never know there was a war on,”. 

“I was thinking the same about in here,” he said, glancing at the opulent surroundings. 

“Well, it’s you who wanted to see how the other half lived after all,” she replied, the corners of her mouth peeking up as she fought to keep her icy demeanour. 

“And I think I might have seen enough,” Tom said with a smirk as he stood, gathering his cigarette packet and giving it a small shake, the cigarettes inside bumped onto the side of the packet and each other, “and you're about to finish me fags,”. 

“You'll forgive me, I'm sure." she replied, letting her arms fall down to her sides again. 

“I'm sure,” Tom agreed as he stood, taking a small step to stand in front of her. 

He reached down, taking her hand in his and bringing it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the back of her hand in a soft caress. 

“Til the next time,” he said, his voice soft and low, “My lady,” he added with a wink before slipping past her and out the door she'd entered in. 

The scent of her lingered like a fog around Tom as he slipped, unseen through the corridors and passages back to the broken window and out in the cold night air. From either side no one would ever know the window was broken and he found himself hoping Mrs Randall wouldn’t be rushing to get it fixed. 

He made his way back across the lawns toward his barracks. Tom had been stationed at this stone frigate for 3 months and each and every day he had hoped to get orders from the Vice Admiral they would be going out to sea, to one of the great grey warships he could see from the back of the barracks, sitting in the harbour mouth. 

There was no moon in the sky that night and Tom had to make his way back to his quarters by starlight, he hoped the extra darkness would mean less of a chance to be caught out of bed quite so late. 

Luck was not on Tom’s side that night and the moment his foot crossed the threshold of his quarters a bright beam of light shone directly into his face, Tom squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his forearm up to shield his eyes from the burning beam. 

“Well, well, well Private Bennett,” a cold voice spoke from the darkness, “now, where might you have been?” 

Tom lied of course, claiming he’d been in the village having a drink in the local pub, while his Lieutenant Commander didn’t believe him for a moment and he couldn't prove Tom was lying or offer another more plausible explanation for the private being out of bed so late.

Tom’s punishment was being confined to the stone frigate for the next month, he would not be allowed to enjoy any shore leave, which meant no trips to the local village and no chance to chat to the local girls. He would instead be given menial tasks to complete, usually something pointless that no one else wanted to do. 

The first weekend of his punishment he was called to the Lieutenant Commander’s office. Tom held a deep dislike for the pinched faced, grey coloured man sitting behind the desk

“They need some help up at The Big House,” the  Lieutenant Commander started without preamble, “I seem to recall you being fairly useful with your hands, so I thought you could go up there and, well make yourself useful,” his clipped accent made the hair on the back of Tom’s neck stand up. 

Tom nodded in acknowledgement and opened his mouth to speak but the Lieutenant Commander continued as if Tom wasn’t even in the room. 

“Report up at The Big House today and tomorrow for your tasks. Ask for Bill,”

“Yes, Sir,” Tom said before saluting and leaving the room. 

He took his time making his way up to The Big House, stopping by his bunk first to collect a fresh pack of cigarettes before making his way slowly toward the house. The day was bright and Tom was enjoying the sun on his face as he walked over the immaculately kept lawn. He wondered as he walked if he'd be fixing the very window lock he’d used to break in a few days before, thinking of the window led him to thinking about the lady of the house and he hoped he might run into her again. 

He wanted to know what she looked like when she wasn’t wearing jewels and silks. He wanted to see if he could make her laugh, he wanted to know if she made a habit of sharing cigarettes with strangers or hiding from her husband.

At the back door of the house Tom asked a kitchen girl where he might find Bill and was directed to one of the low outbuildings that made up a small courtyard at the back of the house. Bill was a grizzled old man with a voice like tires crunching over gravel and one hand missing. 

Bill wasted no time in telling Tom he’d lost the hand during the Great War and how the navy had taken care of him since, not that Tom had asked. 

Tom was quickly put to work in a large, empty room on the west side of the house. The room’s ceiling was at least 12 feet high and had floor to ceiling windows that gave a sweeping view of the green valley and glittering open sea beyond. On the water, small boats dashed back and forth across the mouth of the harbour and large grey warships sat further out to sea. Beyond the warship the sea and sky merged into one at the horizon. 

After enjoying the view for a moment Tom set to the list of tasks he’d been given, the work was mindless and menial, oiling locks, cleaning and buffing brass work and a few minor repairs. 

Tom was winding the grandfather clock at the far end of the room when the double doors at the other end opened, the doors moved almost silently on the hinges he’d oiled but the sudden movement made him look up and he couldn’t stop his face breaking into a grin when he saw who stood between the now open doors. 

“We must stop meeting like this." 

He watched with rye amusement as Mrs Randall fought the smile that played on the corners of her lips. 

“Shall I bother asking you why you’re in my ballroom?” she asked, “Or how you got in here?” 

“’m being punished,” Tom replied with a shrug as he closed the door on the grandfather clock that was now ticking merrily, “And I used the back door. You can ask your handy man if you want.”

“And what are you being punished for?”

“Caught out of bed after ligh’s out,”

She laughed quietly, the old floorboards creaking under her feet as she made her way further into the room, letting her feet carry her towards one of the large windows. As she gazed through the glass Tom allowed himself a moment to look at her. The dress she wore today was far more practical and ordinary but the dark green colour suited her, she wore shoes with small heels that tapped on the floor as she walked and no diamonds to be seen. 

“I hope you feel it was worth it,” she replied, stopping at the window that gave the most central view of the valley below. She crossed her arms over her chest, curling her palms over the opposite elbow, Tom recognised the gesture from the previous night they’d met. 

“I’ve had worse evenings.” Tom replied with a shrug and grin. 

“I should apologise,” she started, turning toward Tom, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, “I spoke out of turn the other night and I don’t want you to think I’m… ungrateful for the position I find myself in." 

He shrugged before taking a tentative step toward her, not wanting to scare her into bolting from the room. There was something intoxicating to Tom about being alone with his woman, she should have been as unattainable to him as the moon was but she was right here, in the same room as him, barely 6 feet away. 

“We don’t 'ave to like the hand we’re dealt,” Tom said, the softness in his voice surprising even him, “but you can make it up to me with an invite to your next party,” he added with a grin and a wink. 

Tom was thrilled when she gave a small chuckle, the sound making the hair on Tom’s forearms prickle and stand to attention. She dropped her arms away from her middle, looking a little more relaxed than she had the moment before. 

“Somehow I think my insisting you receive an invitation to the Admirals next do might raise more than a few questions and cause even more trouble,” she replied. 

Oh, what’s life without a little bit of trouble?” Tom teased stepping closer again. 

“I take it you’re no stranger to trouble then Tom?”. 

“No, I’m just a bloody nuisance,” he grinned. 

Mrs Randall chuckled again, her eyes moving slowly and shyly over Tom’s face, taking in his features in the bright light of day. In the dark of the study he’d been handsome but in the sunlight filled ballroom he was beautiful, the type of face that Michaelangelo would have immortalised in marble. 

“I can believe that,”

Tom leaned casually against a small section of wall that separated two of the windows, the wallpaper was a creamy colour with swirling patterns picked out in pastel shades of gold. He half expected her to reprimand him for leaning his dirty shoulder on her wall but she didn’t comment, just kept her eyes on him. 

“What does the lady of the ‘ouse do at the weekend then?” he asked. 

“I’m balancing the books today,” she replied, “it’s dull work and I’m dreadful at it,”. 

“What no garden party to attend? No invite to Buckin’am Palace?” he teased. 

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, her lips turned up into a smile that made her eyes sparkle. 

“Just me and the accounts today, Buckingham Palace is next weekend,” she replied with a teasing lilt in her voice. 

“‘S’pect those books might be better company than that lot at Buckin’am Palace anyway,”. 

“They certainly talk less, but they still manage to give me a headache either way,”. 

From behind them the grandfather clock Tom had service chimed 4pm, reminding the pair of them of the world outside the peaceful room they found themselves in. 

“I must be going,” Mrs Randle said reluctantly, “It’s been a pleasure to see you again Tom,”. 

“Pleasures all mine,” he replied with a wink and was thrilled to see her cheeks staining bright red as she turned toward the still open double doors of the ballroom. 

He stared after her for a few seconds once she disappeared from his view and he felt a familiar tingling of anticipation. When it came to women he enjoyed the chase almost as much as he enjoyed his prize at the end but there was something different about this and about her and while Tom had no idea what that might be it excited him all the same. He found it very difficult to return to the list of tasks he still had to complete but forced himself to continue, if for no other reason than to ensure he’d get to return next week. 

After excusing herself, Mrs Randle headed to the privacy of her study to continue her mind numbing task of ensuring the household ledgers balanced. The windows of her study offered a panoramic view of the west lawns and the gently sloping valley beyond. In the distance she could see the small houses of the village, smoke curled out of the chimneys and she could just make out a few sailors making their way back to barracks after their Saturday trip to the pub. 

After an hour or so of looking over the accounts the numbers in the books seemed to start to wriggle about on the page and no matter how carefully she totted up the totals she couldn’t make the books balance. After rubbing out another incorrect total she finally admitted defeat and slammed the heavy, leather bound book closed and stood up.

She’d already decided to ask the housekeeper to go over the accounts and didn’t see any point in torturing herself with the fruitless task any longer. She knew it would be alright as long as the books were balanced by the end of the month when the Vice Admiral got his hands on them. 

She took hold of the book and headed toward the staff quarters; there was a concealed door in the library that took her down a short flight of steps and along a cool, dark corridor to the housekeeper's office. 

The sound of excited young voices could be heard from the staff dining room and she slowed to listen to the conversation. There was a pang of jealousy and longing as the voices of two of the young housemaids chattered and giggled behind the door. 

“Did y’see him? He was up in the ballroom?” one voice rushed. 

“He’s got the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen,” another voice continued with the longing sigh. 

“I saw him wink at Mrs Randall! Twice! Can you believe the cheek of him?!” the first voice said incredulously. 

“I hope he comes back, I heard Bill saying he wasn’t allowed off the frigate for 3 weeks,” the second voice said in the same dreamy tone. 

There was another round of giggling before she stepped away from the door and carried on toward the housekeepers office. Mrs Randall had no problem believing Tom Bennett would be exceptionally successful with the female members of staff, he’s already proved himself to be fairly successful with herself after all. 

She knocked briskly on the housekeeper's door, the large book still clutched to her chest with her other arm and her mind full of Tom Bennett.