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yuechihua · 1 month ago

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remember me as i am.

summary: When Harumasa asks for an unexpected favor, you accept, against your better judgement. The last thing you expected was to have to pretend to be his spouse at a doctor’s appointment.

notes: 4.5k words, author's notes, fake marriage, fake dating, ambiguous relationship/feelings, fluff with some light introspective sadness

“I need you to do me a favor.”

When Asaba Harumasa whispers those words to you across your shared desks at the Section Six office, hand cupped around his mouth for emphasis, eyes glittering with mischief, you can’t help but brace yourself for whatever ensuing trouble he’s going to drag you into.

“What’s the favor?” you respond evenly. “If it’s to convince Yanagi to accept your request for time off, I’m not going to do that.”

“It’s not that!” Harumasa insists. “But it’s about something that’s important for the well-being of Section Six.”

You glance around the room; Soukaku is doodling with crayons on some confidential reports, Miyabi has left for a meeting with the rest of the section chiefs (and you can guarantee that she isn’t paying any attention), and Yanagi is steadfastly working through a towering stack of papers on her desk, so high that you can barely make out the top of her head. No one is paying attention to the two of you.

“Well, what is it then?” you say, and Harumasa casts a furtive glance at Yanagi before leaning closer to you, bracing his elbow on your desk. He’s enjoying himself a little too much, you can’t help but feel, what with how his smile curls like a satisfied cat.

“We need to meet up on our day off, preferably in the morning and somewhere near Lumina Square,” he says conspiratorially. “It’s too risky to pull off here. But it’s important, partner, so make sure you’re not late.”

“If it’s something that’s important for Section Six,” you whisper, tilting your own head closer to the shell of his ear, “Maybe it’s something that we should bring up to the others. What is it? Some illicit venture into a Hollow? Should I call Phaenton, too?”

“There’s no need for all of that,” Harumasa says hastily. “You only need to bring yourself. Maybe a disguise,” he adds, “to avoid public notice. This is a confidential mission. I’m relying on you.”

You let out a small sigh. Visions of curling up on your couch tomorrow, browsing through books with a mug of warm, sweet tea vanish in front of your eyes. “Fine. I’ll be there. But you owe me for dragging me out on our only day off.”

“I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.” Harumasa has the audacity to wink at you, like you’ve agreed to some ridiculous, under-the-table deal.

Maybe you have. It certainly feels like it when you drag yourself out of bed the next morning, donning sunglasses, a long, caramel-colored coat buttoned up to your neck, and pulling a hat low over your head to complete the look. You’re out the door and on the train to Lumina Square before ten minutes have passed.

You’re set to meet Harumasa at some nondescript corner of the square, an alley boxed in by towering buildings and mostly hidden from view. What does he have in store for you? Despite the playful attitude he had yesterday when asking you for help, there was also something serious underpinning his words, even as he tried to pass it off as a flight of fancy. Harumasa would never ask you for help unless it was something important.

You’re certain that you’ll have to wait for Harumasa to show up a few minutes late, making some slap-fash excuse. To your surprise, he’s already waiting for you. You almost can’t recognize him at first. He’s forgone his usual headband; instead, he’s wearing a hoodie, a cap, and a facemask, slouching against the wall, staring aimlessly at the sky.

“Harumasa?” you say.

At your voice, Harumasa immediately straightens, lifting himself off the wall. You can hear the smile in his voice, even if you can’t see it. “There you are!”

“You’re early,” you say. “I didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

Harumasa slings a casual arm around your shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to miss our date. But don’t let Yanagi know that I’m capable of showing up on time, okay?”

“It’s not a date,” you say, lowering your sunglasses to give him an unimpressed stare, “It’s a mission. Or so you claim.”

“It is,” he says. “Come with me. I’ll show you our place of operations.”

Harumasa still has his arm around your shoulders, but you don’t shake him off as he leads you confidently through alleys and down back roads, avoiding the bustle of crowds in the main section of the city. The breeze is cool, the sunlight warm on your face againsr the winter’s chill.

Eventually, the two of you stop in front of a hospital, a towering construction of shining metal and glass reflecting squares of blue sky. People bustle in and out of the sliding front doors, letting out gusts of sharp, chemically scented air.

Harumasa is silent as he stares up at the building, his hat shading his eyes. You can’t make out his expression, but you lean your head on his shoulder, a brief, reassuring touch.

He seems to come back to himself, then, and Harumasa’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he resumes talking in a clear, casual voice, “So, this is where our mission is taking place. Here’s the gist of it: I need you to pretend to be my spouse.”

“What?”

“Come on,” he wheedles. “I’ve been avoiding coming here for a while, but they’re not taking my excuses anymore. And they wanted me to bring a family member over to verify some things.”

“You could have just said so from the beginning,” you say. “I was beginning to think you wanted us to infiltrate somewhere.”

“If you think about it, we technically are,” Harumasa muses. “Besides, isn’t it more fun if I tell you we’re on a mission, instead of just giving everything away? Also, this is necessary to Section Six; what are they going to do without their star Executive Officer?”

The arm around your shoulder is shaking imperceptibly; sometime during his words, his grip has tightened, just slightly, as if he’s clinging to you to keep from sliding down a cliff. The unspoken truths hover in the air: that you’re the only one in Section Six who knows about his Ether Regression Aptitude Syndrome, and that he can’t ask anyone else to help him for this.

“Why your spouse, though?” you say instead. “Why not just say I’m a distant relation? You could also just not specify what our relationship is.”

“Because it’s more fun for me,” Harumasa replies. Typical.

Within the next few minutes, the two are checking in at the front desk after a brief wait, Harumasa wading through tedious paperwork and bureaucracy and health insurance forms with clipboards and pens that click more than necessary.

“Make sure to tell the doctor I’m here with my spouse,” Harumasa emphasizes, tapping the clipboard with his pen. He slides his arm around you, drawing you closer to him, and you try to resist the urge to pull away and keep your face schooled in a neutral, pleasant expression.

“All right, Mr. Asaba,” the receptionist chirps. “He’ll be out to see you in a bit!”

The waiting room is filled with rows of yellow and white plastic chairs, carpeting worn by the tread of countless anxious patients, and stacks of old magazines on tables and televisions mounted on the walls playing a cheesy blockbuster with the voices muted. A bored child plays with the hospital’s block toys on the floor, his mother talks quietly into her phone in front of him, and an elderly man flips through a magazine, his cane resting on his lap.

You and Harumasa settle into your seats, side by side. In the space between, where your hands dangle, his knuckles brush against the back of your hand before he draws your hand into his. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve somehow become his stress ball, something he needs to touch to ground himself.

“Still holding up alright?” Harumasa whispers. “You cleared the first hurdle.”

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” you whisper back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m used to it.” At times like this, you wish you could see Harumasa’s mouth, because his eyes betray nothing.

Still, when the receptionist finally calls out, “Asaba Harumasa, the doctor’s here to see you,” you don’t let go of Harumasa’s hand. The doctor is stocky and short, with tired, drooping eyes, and he frowns when he sees Harumasa.

The three of you start walking down the hall, the doctor setting a rapid pace as he lectures Harumasa. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for the past week. Do you know how hard it is to get in contact with you? Proper medical care requires consistency!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Harumasa says without sounding sorry at all, but he seems more focused on swinging your joined hands together like a child on a swing set.

In the doctor’s office, the two of you are finally separated as Harumasa perches on the examination table. You’re sitting in a guest chair lined up against the wall across from him. The doctor moves through standard physical procedures with a deft, practiced hand. Harumasa follows along easily, thoughtlessly, as if these processes are second nature: the lights shining in his eyes, the blood pressure cuff around his arm, the routine questions.

However, whenever the doctor is distracted recording results or marking down Harumasa’s answers, Harumasa will pull down his mask and make faces at you, to which you’ll respond with a roll of your eyes or your own exaggerated expressions of annoyance.

“Have you been resting well?” the doctor asks sternly, turning back around just as the two of you quickly settle into more typical expressions. “You’re not pushing yourself at work, I hope?”

“I haven’t,” Harumasa says, with wide eyes.

“Hmpth.” The doctor turns to you. “Well? Is he being truthful? As his spouse, I trust you’ll be honest for the sake of his health.” Behind the doctor’s back, Harumasa strikes you with an expression of mock disbelief, raising his eyebrows dramatically. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, but you control the tremor of your lips.

“He hasn’t been pushing himself hard at all,” you say smoothly. “If anything, I think my husband has been resting a little too well.”

“All right. And your medications, Mr. Asaba? Have you been taking them properly?”

“Right as instructed, every morning and night,” Harumasa says. “My lovely spouse would know. They’ve seen me dutifully take all of them.”

“He has,” you verify. From what you know, anyways, Harumasa never misses a dosage.

The doctor peppers Harumasa with more health-related questions and logs down all his answers. It’s over before you know it, and Harumasa leaps off the table as soon as the doctor puts away his clipboard.

“I’ve missed you, cutie,” he says, throwing his arms around you like you haven’t seen him in months, snuggling up to you as the doctor watches with a weary expression.

“The two of you get along well,” he says stoically.

“Oh, we do,” Harumasa chirps.

“Make sure to make a follow-up appointment, Mr. Asaba. Your health appears stable, and your symptoms haven’t worsened.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” you supply, shooting a quick, withering glance at Harumasa, who only gives you a pleading expression in return. “He won’t be late to the next appointment.”

“I appreciate that, Mx…?” the doctor trails off questioningly.

“Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa interjects. “That’s their name.”

“That’s right,” you say. “Thank you for your time today.”

Harumasa wraps his arm around your waist, giving the doctor a lazy wave, and then the two of you are through the door, down the hall, and out of the hospital. Once you’re a street away, Harumasa finally speaks.

“You were excellent there, Mx. Asaba,” Harumasa says.

“Of course I was. Though you don’t need to call me that.”

“Why? I think it has a nice ring to it,” he muses. “Mx. Asaba and Mr. Asaba.”

“I was serious about what I said back there, you know,” you say. “You need to make your follow-up appointment soon. And you should try to show up to it on time.”

“You’re so strict. What if I need you to come with me again to feel better?”

“Then just tell me when, and where,” you say. “If you need me there, then I’ll be there, no matter what.”

A brief flicker of surprise lights across his face, before it smooths out into his usual relaxed smile. “You’re soooo good to me, Mx. Asaba. Since you went out of your way today to help me with such a confidential mission, let me treat you to some food!”

“I suppose that’s what a good spouse should do,” you say.

Harumasa’s arm is still around your waist, but you can’t bring yourself to shake it off as he enthusiastically guides you to whatever restaurant he has in mind. His grip is casual, loose enough that you could shrug it off if you really want to. But if you do, then he’d never pull close to you like again.

Harumasa is attentive in that way. If you set a line, then he would never cross it. All his jokes feel like a casual calculation of the distance between the two of you. How far is he allowed to go? How much are you willing to put up with? What’s the boundary of your relationship?

It’s like he’s waiting for rejection, offering you the chance to push away from him in a way that would make it easier for both of you. The way he touches you is akin to possession, but from a man who’s afraid to say he deserves to call you his.

Yet, if you push a little too close, more than he’s comfortable with, then he’ll run away like a skittish cat, afraid your affection will turn to boredom or cruelty. You’ve been with him long enough to understand this. So you’ll play along with his jokes, his little white little lies and deceptions, if it’s the only way he’ll let you stay close to him.

It’s a date, or a confidential mission, or whatever excuse Harumasa wants to use. What a complicated, beloved partner you have.

“We’re here,” Harumasa says. You’re at a ramen shop, with low stalls pulled up the counter, the simmering heat and steam from the kitchen feeling like a miniature summer. Thankfully, it’s empty, but your disguises ensure that neither your nor Harumasa’s fans will bother you for pictures and autographs in either case.

“Order whatever you want,” he says, and you pick up the laminated menu, browsing through the various options. “Oh, wait. Pose for a second.”

Harumasa pulls out his phone, opening the camera, and aims it in your direction. You make a quick peace sign, menu held aloft in your other hand, and the shutter snaps. “What’s that for?”

“You looked nice,” he says. “I’ll send it to you later.”

“I didn’t realize you liked photography.”

“It’s a good way to preserve things that are fleeting, but important to you,” he says. “Moments that won’t last, people that might leave. Things like that.”

“Are you planning on divorcing me already?” you ask, propping your chin on your hand, peering at him over the top of your sunglasses.

Harumasa places a hand over his heart. “Me? Never.”

The two of you place an order for ramen, and it doesn’t take long for the noodles to arrive. It’s simple, but delicious: hearty, flavorful broth, bamboo shoots, seaweed, fish cakes, slices of charred, fatty pork, and an egg with a jammy yolk.

Neither of you talk as you sit in silence, slurping noodles and drinking spoonfuls of broth. It’s been a while since you’ve gone out for a meal like this, and even longer since you did so with someone that wasn’t some sort of business partner or official whose good graces you need to stay in.

You glance up with a mouthful of noodles to find Harumasa watching you, chopsticks in hand, a small smile on his face, as if he’s never seen anything so charming, his own ramen forgotten. Your face burns for reasons you don’t want to identify; you’re only thankful he doesn’t ask for another picture.

Harumasa lets out a sigh of appreciation when he’s done, placing his chopsticks neatly over his finished bowl. “Soukaku once cleared out almost all the noodles in this place, did you know that? I’ve been meaning to go ever since she told me.”

“Did it match your expectations?”

“I don’t normally like heavy food, but this time, I didn’t mind it,” he says. “Or maybe it’s because you looked like you enjoyed it a lot. It made me appreciate this bowl more.”

“Smooth-talker,” you say. “If you’re done, should we head back–”

“Wait, there’s somewhere else we should go,” Harumasa interrupts, holding up a hand. “We need dessert after a meal, don’t you think?”

“Really? A dessert? What are you thinking of getting?” you ask.

“There’s a popular drink shop around here. They serve milk tea in these cute little Bangboo shaped cups,” Harumasa begins. “I thought it might be fun to check it out.”

“I thought you hated sweet things,” you supply. The two of you stand, and you smooth down your coat as Harumasa adjusts his facemask. You’re ambling down the street again, but this time, you loop your arm through his, pulling him close. It’s an effortless gesture, and it’s startling how easy it is to press so close to him.

“Well, you don’t,” he returns. “And it’s a popular date spot too. Can’t I take my lovely spouse out some more?”

You bump him with your hip. There’s no need to keep up your pretense anymore. There’s no one else here to listen to your lies. Both of you know this, but you can’t bring yourself to state the obvious. If you point out the script, then the curtain will fall and the play will end, your fragile happiness disappearing as the actors take a final bow. “Sure, if you keep paying.”

The two of you end up in front of an inconspicuous milk tea shop. There’s no outdoor or indoor seating, but there is a counter and a blackboard with the menu chalked in, alongside doodles of smiling Bangboo holding milk tea on the side. A tired salesgirl stands in front, her expression at odds with her bubblegum pink uniform. There’s a few teenagers milling nearby, hands cupped around their milk tea and conversing in giggles.

Harumasa tilts his head as he looks at the menu, hanging above the two of you. “They sell iced coffee here,” he muses. “I thought this was a milk tea place.”

“They probably want to offer a variety of drinks for people who might not like milk tea,” you supply.

“What are you getting?”

“The Bangboo special milk tea,” you say immediately. “It’s their speciality, and it comes with a Bangboo shaped cup. If it’s cute, I might take it home and wash it so I can reuse it”

He eyes you with amusement as the two of you approach the counter, where Harumasa slides his card across the counter. You make a note to treat him out to dinner at some point; as much as you tease, it wouldn’t sit right with you if you didn’t return the favor. “One iced espresso and a Bangboo special milk tea for me and my spouse, please.”

“Got it.” The salesgirl doesn’t bat an eye as Harumasa leans against you, his eyes crinkling at the corners like a pleased cat.

It doesn’t take long for your drinks to arrive. Your milk tea is in the shape of a Bangboo’s head, and topped with a pile of jellies over delicately set tiers of differing flavors. You take a sip, and you’re flooded with a creamy, milky sweetness.

Harumasa, who hasn’t even taken a sip of his espresso yet, looks amused as he watches you. “Let me try some of yours.”

“You won’t like it,” you protest, but Harumasa is already pulling down his face mask and leaning towards you. You raise your drink to let him take a quick sip.

He licks his top lip in thoughtful contemplation. “Way too sweet.”

“I told you. Now give me some of yours,” you say. “It’s only fair.”

He obliges without protest, tilting his straw towards you. You take a quick sip, but it’s cold and bitter. You wrinkle your nose; you’re no stranger to coffee, especially when shifts run late into the night, but you still like to add creamer and sugar to take the edge off.

“Coffee is an acquired taste for true adults,” Harumasa says when he sees your expression. “Maybe I’m just a bit more mature than you.”

“Sweetness is also an acquired taste,” you quip. “It’s good to learn to enjoy the sweet things in life.”

“Maybe it is. Oh, wait. Before you finish your drink. Let’s take another picture.” Harumasa pulls out his phone again, and you don’t protest as he raises it and angles it down towards the two of you. You raise your cup, and Harumasa lopes his arm around yours, locking the two of you together.

With a few press of his thumb, he’s done, and lowers the phone for your inspection. You examine yourself the same way a stranger might; the two of you huddled up together, Harumasa’s cheeks red from the cold, your lips drawn into a smile, looking almost like the married couple you’re pretending to be.

“You look cute as usual,” Harumasa comments. “But it makes me look bad. I’ve got to stop taking pictures with you.”

“That’s not my fault,” you protest.

“Of course it isn’t. You can’t help being the cutest person in the world.”

You’re saved from thinking up a response that won’t betray your own embarrassment by the curious giggles of the teenagers across from you. They keep glancing furtively from you to Harumasa, hands cupped over their mouths. You can hear whispers of “Section Six” and “celebrities” which doesn’t bode well for your current anonymity.

Swiftly, you grab Harumasa’s hand and start pulling him away from the cafe, down the streets of Lumina Square. The winter sun has started to droop in the sky, painting the world in a vivid, melting, yolky light. Laughter drifts around you from people lost in their own worlds.

You’re not sure where you’re going, only certain on heading away from anyone who can recognize you. Harumasa follows along gamely, your willing accomplice.

You fly up a flight of stairs and you’re suddenly on the walkway above the streets, the city stretching out below you, buildings stacked like decadent cakes, people little figurines trotting carelessly by.

You’re far away from everyone else now, cocooned in your own world. Harumasa’s fingers squeezes yours playfully, and suddenly you’re aware of how his hand feels in yours, warm skin and calluses from his bow and reassuringly slender fingers wrapped around your own.

You drop his hand, finally, and take a sip of your own drink, which is sweet, so sweet, as Harumasa walks up to the railing and braces his elbow against the metal.

“You’ve been taking a lot of pictures of me today,” you say.

“I want to treasure every moment we have together,” Harumasa says, without turning. A cool breeze stirs, sending his hair fluttering, his clothes rippling.

He’s unfair when he talks like this, the tenderness in his voice making your heart ache over the inevitable future, a predetermined ending. Like he’ll slip through your fingers as easily as water at any moment.

You pull out your phone, swipe to your camera, and raise it to frame Harumasa in the center, backlit by the glow of the sun and the tart light from the windows of buildings around you.

“Look over here,” you call, and Harumasa turns. He’s beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. “Strike a pose.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one taking a picture?” he asks.

“I want to remember you,” you say. “Forever.”

Harumasa tilts his head back. “Me?”

“You’re not the only one who wants to cherish every moment we spend together.”

Harumasa slowly pulls down his face mask, and you can finally see his smile, more brilliant than the sun behind him, flooding through your nerves and filling every part of you with a warm light.

You press your phone’s camera shutter, once, twice, immortalizing Harumasa for as long as you can. You lower your phone, and join him at the railing, looking down below at the peace you’ve both fought so hard to protect.

The world is filled with such endless cruelty and stunning beauty in equal measure. And yet, it’s the only world you have. You tap your fingers against the railing, a nonsensical song.

“For your next appointment, maybe we should try a different restaurant when you’re done,” you say. “And we can walk around and take more pictures. There’s a few art installations around.”

“You sure you want to come back with me? You’ll have to pretend to be Mx. Asaba again, you know.”

“I don’t mind,” you murmur. “It has a nice ring to it.”

“If you talk like that, you’ll make me want to make it official…. Of course, I’m kidding,” he adds before the words can linger for too long.

“Have you thought about getting married?” you ask.

“I couldn’t do that to someone,” he responds lightly. “Besides, it’d be bad for PR. You know how intense our fan clubs can get.”

Of course, you understand. Marriage is an alien thought for a job where you risk your life everyday fighting against Ethereals and venturing into Hollows. You barely have enough time for yourself after long shifts and overtime and late nights, ready to be called into action at the slightest emergency. Could you bear to leave behind someone you love under the circumstances? Could they bear waiting and worrying for you? You would never be able to provide them any form of normalcy.

“Leaving someone behind like that… I don’t think I could do it. Or ask them to understand why I can’t give them an ordinary life,” you say.

“Right, right. I wouldn’t want to make my partner cry,” he says. “I knew you would get it.”

His eyes gleam, two precious pieces of gold. Of course. Neither of you are capable of an ordinary relationship. Whatever the two of you have right now, whatever form you let it take, can’t be named. Something will break if you try.

Carefully, delicately, you lean your head against his shoulder. He stiffens only momentarily before relaxing, a silent affirmation of your presence. Below, cars rush by, the misty glow of streetlights winking into life as the sky darkens.

“I’ll let you know when I have my next appointment,” he says, voice carrying like the wind.

“All right. I’ll be sure to make the time for you, Mr. Asaba.”

He laughs, a low, soft sound. “Thank you, Mx. Asaba. I knew I could rely on you.”

And it’s nice, like this. For just a while longer, you can forget anything that’s happened before, or anything that might happen in the future. Right now, it’s just you, and him, together.

#liya.writes #zenless zone zero #asaba harumasa #asaba harumasa x reader #harumasa x reader #harumasa #zenless zone zero x reader #x reader

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transformers-spike · 15 days ago

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I've been loving all the sparkling hc and such it's giving me brain rot

You're sleeping in bed until you wake up and see your creepy little cybertronian daughter with a frowny face emoticon on her face screen.

"I threw up." She has a similarly monotone as Soundwave.

Also I'm imagining the human partner lives on earth while soudwave works back on the nemesis till his shift ends.

She likes to wrap her tentacles around you for hugs.

KO with split spark sparklings

One is a little angel baby princess who hates getting dirty or scratches on her paint and would rather play indoors. Knockout had to physically carry her at times because she refuses to walk or drive on dirt.

The other is a menace to society, loves driving fast even if it means wrecking himself. Absolutely enjoys human culture and earth as a planet. Best friendsb with Breakdown's sparkling. Sweet kid but is a huge mess maker.

You try not to snort as your kids hands Knockout an entire rose bush, stem, roots, dirt and all.

"I love it" Knockout smiles through thinly veiled disgust and your sparkling beams.You end up planting it in the back garden.

Starscream's kid is 100% his pride and joy even though he tries to pretend like she's not. His sparkling would either be the most arrogant thing possible or super sweet no in-between. When she's too small to fly on her own she rides in his cockpit but as she gets bigger they fly together and he definitely shows her fancy flight maneuvers. Father-daughter dates because he wants her to have high standards.

You watch your daughter's wings droop and lower derma pout as she begs you for the toys from her favorite cartoon.

"Pleeeeeeaase, they're limited time edition."

Her puppy dog eyes might work on Starscream but not you....right, right? Stay strong soldier.

I like to imagine megs with a daughter aswell (you get a daughter and you get a daughter 🫵) while it would be karmic debt to get a kid whos really sensitive it's much funnier if the child is a gremlin.

"Your time is up Megatron."

Optimus points his blaster down at him but he catches something the corner of his optic. A sparkling jumps infront of Megatron before Optimus can shoot him.

"Using your own sparkling as a shield is low even fo-"

He's cut off as Megs daughter tranforms into a gun and shoots him.

"You were saying, Prime"

Gun alt mode is so fucking funny to me.

YESSSSSS I LOVE THE SPARKLING BRAINROT Soundwave's kid is the scariest most intelligent baby ever. Very affectionate with her mom, but also very likely to eliminate whatever she thinks is "threatening" her caretaker. Her creepy voice is perfection - makes me wonder if her dad ever speaks to her despite his vow of silence - or if he just sticks to EM field communication Lmao Knock Out's split-sparks are are his punishment for being the way he is. They each adopted some of his worst traits lmao. You'd think the twins don't get along but - no - it's even worse. One of them is great at manipulation, while the other is an adrenaline junkie who keeps crashing into his sire's pedes - together, they're unstoppable. If they unite forces with Breakdown's kid, they'll end the world together I personally loveeee the concept of Starscream starting off being like ew towards his own child before eventually bonding with her and being overwhelmed by his need to protect this part of himself. Still in denial abt it- even tho he shadows her constantly during flights and acts way nicer than he does to anyone else. Also the type of parent who refuses to think his kid has done anything wrong lol Megatron with a feral daughter is the best. I'm telling you, she's been gnawing on him since day one. Imagine she turns into something similar to G1 Galvatron's alt-mode - a turret-gun of sorts. She may not cause all that much damage, but her role model is carnage incarnate. Now watch her follow in his pede-steps

#transformers x human #transformers x reader #transformers prime #tfp megatron #tfp starscream #tfp knock out #tfp soundwave #evil polycule saga

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nameless-jamie · 12 days ago

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Hello, I love your PA series! Can I request a story where PA is on a plane with no wifi and Jamie's with the team at a party and celebrates too hard which makes him drunk call her a couple of times leaving her tons of embarrassing messages to listen to after she lands and it's all about how he misses her and how she should be here and not away from him and just being a pining mess 🤭🤭🤭 thanks 💜💜💜

Drunk Calls, Sober Thoughts

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

A/N: Ok finally the slow-burn is coming to an end! They confessed!!!!!!!!!! Let's see how it goes between them.

TW: cursing, drunk Jamie

It had been three days since their kiss.

A real kiss. Not an accident. Not some flirty moment they could brush off. Not another near miss where one of them pulled away before it could mean something. No, this was the kind of kiss that settled things. That left no more space for pretending. That confirmed what they had both known for months but had been too stubborn—or too scared—to say out loud.

And yet, they hadn’t talked about it.

Not properly, anyway.

Maybe it was because they were both still figuring out what it meant beyond the obvious. Maybe it was because neither of them wanted to ruin the unspoken magic of it by overanalyzing. Maybe it was because they were both terrified of hearing the other say something that might change everything.

And then Y/N had to leave. Not by choice.

It wasn’t dramatic—just a weekend trip. Rebecca had sent her, because the club was organizing a big preseason charity match in Italy, one of those fancy, and since Y/N was Jamie’s PA, she had to go ahead of the team to finalize travel details, hotel arrangements, media schedules, and all the other logistical nightmares that came with organizing a high-profile event. She had groaned about it, dragging her suitcase down the hallway of her apartment the night before, grumbling about hating flights with no WiFi and being too tired to socialize.

Jamie had hated it. Not that he’d said that, of course. He had just sulked as he carried her bags to the Uber and grumbled something about how “I don’t see why I couldn’t just come with ya. Ain’t like I’d be in the way.” She had laughed, rolled her eyes, and promised she’d be back in a few days.

Before she left, though he made some stupid joke about how she should “at least bring me back some of that proper Italian gelato, yeah?” to lighten the mood. But something about the way he stood there as she pulled away had lingered with her.

Like he totally hadn’t wanted her to go.

Like he had something else he wanted to say but didn’t.

She had tried not to think about that too much during the flight.

She failed.

That had been two days ago.

And Jamie Tartt?

Jamie Tartt was not okay.

He had told himself he would be. He had gone to training, gone to the gym, kept himself busy. He had filled his schedule, just like he always did when something was sitting too heavy in his chest. But then the team had a night off, and the lads decided to go out, and Jamie thought, Yeah, that’ll help.

Spoiler: It did not help.

It was the lads idea to drag him out to some fancy club in London, insisting he needed to “stop brooding like a lovesick teenager” (Isaac’s words, not his).

It was loud. The bass from the speakers made the floor vibrate, the air smelled like expensive perfume and spilled cocktails, and normally, Jamie would be in his element.

But tonight?

Tonight, he was five drinks in, slouched in the booth like a man in mourning, ignoring the girls who kept trying to make eye contact with him across the room.

Not in an obvious way.

To everyone else, Jamie Tartt looked fine. He was sitting in a booth with the team, half-listening to whatever joke Dani was telling, nodding along to Isaac’s commentary about something on his phone, watching Colin get dragged to the dance floor by some boy.

But inside?

Inside, Jamie was fucking miserable.

Because Y/N wasn’t there.

And yeah, she had been gone for less than two days, and yeah, he had spent longer stretches of time without seeing her before. But this time was different. This time, she had kissed him. This time, they weren’t just coworkers who flirted too much. This time, he knew what it felt like to have her lips on his, and now she was far away on a plane, unreachable, and he hated every fucking second of it.

Sam nudged him. “You’re being weird.”

“I ain’t being weird,” Jamie muttered, swirling the ice in his glass.

“You are,” Isaac confirmed. “You’ve had that same miserable look on your face all night.”

Jamie exhaled heavily, slumping further.

Colin raised an eyebrow. “You gonna admit you miss her, or should we just wait for you to drink another shot and start sobbing about it?”

Jamie scowled. “I ain’t sobbing.”

But even as he said it, his hand was already reaching for his phone.

“You look like a man who’s about to do something stupid,” Sam observed, watching Jamie fumble with his phone.

“Gonna call her,” Jamie announced.

“Oh, this should be good,” Dani grinned, watching him unlock it.

“She’s on a plane,” Isaac reminded him. “No WiFi.”

Jamie squinted at the screen. “It’ll still ring.”

“It won’t,” Colin said, shaking his head. “It’ll go to voicemail.”

“Good,” Jamie huffed. “I got shit to say.”

“Oh, this is gonna be so good,” Dani grinned, nudging Sam.

Jamie hit call.

The line rang once, then—predictably—went straight to voicemail. The second the beep sounded, Jamie started talking.

“Oi. Where the fuck are you? Oh. Wait. You’re on the plane. Right. Anyway—listen. I don’t like this. You being gone. I don’t like it. This club’s shit without you. Actually, no—everything is shit without you. Call me when you land.”

Isaac groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

Jamie hung up.

Then frowned.

Then dialed again.

Straight to voicemail.

“I mean, you don’t have to call me. But you should. ‘Cause, like… what if you never come back? What if you get offered a better job? What if some posh Italian twat sweeps you off your feet? What if—wait, no, you’d never leave me. Would you?”

Sam groaned. “Oh my God.”

Dani gasped dramatically. “AY DIOS MIO.”

Colin looked at Isaac. “Should we stop him?”

Isaac shrugged. “Nah, let him embarrass himself.”

Jamie ignored them and called again.

“I kissed you. Well, we kissed each other. And I dunno what we’re doin’ now, but I keep thinkin’ about it, and it’s annoying, ‘cause I can’t do anythin’ about it while you’re fuckin’ gone, and—Fuckin' hell. I think I love you.”

Isaac and Colin looked at each other.

“Oh, he’s definitely a goner.”

Y/N landed at Heathrow the next early morning, running on two hours of sleep and an overpriced airport coffee that did nothing to make her feel awake. She was exhausted, her body aching from the cramped plane seat, her mind already spinning with everything she needed to do once she got home.

But then she turned off airplane mode.

Her phone buzzed violently in her hand, a flood of notifications appearing all at once. Emails, texts, flight alerts—normal things. And then, right at the top of the screen:

Jamie Tartt (7) [Voicemails]

Her stomach flipped.

She shouldn’t listen to them here. Should wait until she was home, somewhere private, somewhere she could think—

But her finger was already tapping the first one.

The second she heard Jamie’s voice, her chest tightened.

"Oi. Where the fuck are you? Oh. Right. You’re on the plane. Right. Anyway—listen. I don’t like this. You being gone. I don’t like it. This club’s shit without you. Actually, no—everything is shit without you. Call me when you land.”

She inhaled sharply, pressing her lips together to keep from smiling. Dumbass.

She hit play on the next one.

"I mean, you don’t have to call me. But you should. ‘Cause, like… what if you never come back?..."

A warmth spread through her, creeping up her neck, curling in her stomach.

The next message played automatically.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

A crackly, muffled sound came through the speaker—someone gasping dramatically, followed by a distant voice laughing, “Did he just say he loves her?”

Her fingers trembled as she clutched the phone tighter.

The airport disappeared around her. The voices, the announcements, the rolling suitcases—it all blurred into nothing. The only thing she could hear was Jamie, drunk and emotional, pouring his heart out in a way he never had before.

I think I love you.

Had he meant it?

He had to be drunk. He was drunk. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t real. If anything, the fact that he had said it while he was drunk—when his guard was completely down, when he wasn’t overthinking or trying to be cool—made it feel even more real.

Her heart pounded as she played the last voicemail.

"You’re gonna listen to all these in the morning and laugh at me, aren’t ya? ‘Cause you think I’m a dumbass. And I am. But I don’t care. I miss you, and I don’t wanna pretend like I don’t. I just… wish you were here. That’s all."

By the time the message ended, Y/N was already in a cab on the way to his house.

Jamie was still half-drunk when she found him, sprawled out on his bed, one foot dangling off the edge, his shirt nowhere in sight, and the blankets twisted around him like he had fought them in his sleep—and lost. His hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, his lips slightly parted as he stirred at the sound of her footsteps.

His head lolled to the side, bleary eyes blinking up at her.

“Am I dreamin’?” His voice was thick, slow, coated in sleep and leftover alcohol.

Y/N sat at the edge of the bed, resting a hand lightly on his chest. “No, Jamie.”

His brows furrowed, his eyes tracking over her face like he needed to make sure she was real.

“You’re here,” he murmured.

“I am.”

His lips curved, lazy and lopsided. “Fuckin’ hell. You’re so pretty. I forgot how pretty you are.”

Y/N huffed out a laugh. “You saw me three days ago.”

“Yeah, but three days is forever,” he whined, voice raspy and rough, like he’d been talking about her all night. Which, to be fair, he had. His fingers clumsily reached for her, tracing along the hem of her sleeve, barely touching, like he was still convincing himself she was real.

“I missed you,” he admitted, softer this time, more serious.

Her heart clenched.

“I know,” she said gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You told me. Seven times.”

Jamie blinked, trying to process her words. Then his face contorted in horror. “You—”

“I heard the voicemails.”

His groan was immediate, deep, like it physically pained him. “Oh, fuck.” He threw an arm over his face, muffling another groan into his bicep. “That’s so bad.”

Y/N pried his hand away, forcing him to look at her. His skin was warm, flushed from the alcohol, his eyes glassy and full of something unreadable.

“Jamie.”

He blinked at her, lips parting slightly.

“Did you mean it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

A flicker of clarity crossed his face. His throat bobbed, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against the sheet.

Then—so softly she almost didn’t hear it—he said, “Every word.”

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her lips.

And just like that, it was done. The waiting. The wondering. The endless push and pull.

Jamie reached for her, his touch warm and clumsy, trailing up her arm like he was trying to memorize her. “You smell nice,” he murmured, pulling her closer. “Like—like that vanilla stuff. I love it. I love you.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Jamie blinked at her, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but still so open, so full of that raw, unfiltered honesty that only seemed to slip out when he was too drunk to hold it in.

“You love me?” she whispered.

He hummed, pressing his forehead to her shoulder, nuzzling against her like a sleepy cat. “Yeah. Thought I was bein’ obvious, but you’re all stubborn and shit.” His fingers found her waist, rubbing small, lazy circles against her hip. “But I’ll say it again if you want. I love you, I love you, I love you—”

Y/N laughed softly, threading her fingers through his hair, feeling the way he melted under her touch.

She climbed into bed beside him, and he immediately pulled her into his arms, wrapping around her like he never planned on letting go. His lips brushed against her temple, his breath warm and steady.

“You’re not allowed to leave again,” he mumbled sleepily. “Not even for work. I’ll sack myself. Don’t care.”

Y/N smiled against his skin, heart impossibly full.

“Okay, Jamie.”

#jamie tartt #ted lasso #ted lasso show #jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt x y/n #afc richmond #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt imagine #roy kent #sam obisanya

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starkwlkr · 1 year ago

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celebrity skin | cillian murphy

barbenheimer series

‘Is Hollywood done with Y/n?’

‘Y/n L/n, the girl failure’

That’s what the articles published on their front page. Recently, Y/n had refused to do a big budget film for a legendary director claiming that she wanted to take a break from the world of acting. Her and Cillian were looking to buy a house in Ireland so she was busy looking at listings and calling multiple real estate agents.

The director ended up calling her a bitch over the phone. He had insulted her over and over, stating that she would regret her decision.

After a source told multiple magazines about the situation only the ‘source’ didn’t tell the full story, the media started calling her annoying, selfish, dumb blonde, and the one that stuck the most, a bitch.

Cillian was not having it. Instead of going to his audition for a new series, he stayed home with her. He didn’t want her to be alone, especially at a time where the media and ‘fans’ were turning their backs on her.

“You don’t have to stay with me.” Y/n sighed as she snuggled up to Cillian. They were currently in London since Cillian had gotten an audition for a BBC series. He called the casting director and canceled, which made Y/n mad. Why wouldn’t she be? He had talked about the audition for months and now he canceled?!

“I want to.” He replied, giving her a kiss to the side of her head. “You haven’t eaten anything. I can make you pancakes, I know how much you love breakfast for dinner.”

“I’ll eat in a bit. I think I want to take a nap.” She said.

Cillian had noticed how she’s been taking naps all week. Sometimes she wouldn’t even come out of her room and all she ate was granola bars and orange juice.

“I want you to know that I’m with you every step of the way. Those articles? They’re wrong. Fuck those articles. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I love you so much.” Cillian admitted.

Y/n could feel a tear roll down her cheek. Sometimes all she wanted to do was run away with Cillian to whatever country and live their lives in a nice house.

“You’re a jerk, you know that. . I wasn’t planning on crying today. But I love you too.” Y/n laughed as Cillian pulled her in for a kiss. “I wish we could leave this place and go to one of those cottage houses in the countryside. That’s always been a dream of mine.”

“That sounds nice. Why don’t you pack your bag and I’ll buy our tickets and we can leave tomorrow.” Cillian said.

“What?” Y/n asked confused.

“I saw you looking at this cottage the other day on your laptop. I bought it two days ago and I payed my mum to buy us some nice furniture and food so by the time we get there it’ll be okay for us to stay there for a while. So go pack and I’ll arrange our flight. You and I are leaving all this behind for the next few days. No work, no fancy dresses or premieres to attend. Just us and our new home.” He explained.

“You’re full of surprises, my love.”

TIME SKIP

OCTOBER

It had been a few months since Y/n and Cillian left their life in London and stayed in their new cottage in the countryside. She loved it there. No paparazzi or pushy fans to bother her or Cillian. It was paradise for her. Eventually the casting director for Peaky Blinders offered the role of Tommy Shelby to Cillian since last time Cillian was going to audition he had called to cancel. The casting director desperately wanted him to portray the protagonist of the new BBC series.

Y/n encouraged Cillian to take the role. She was fine with staying in their cottage after all she had made new friends with the women that lived nearby. So Cillian flew back to London to film and Y/n stayed behind. She had picked up new hobbies, fixed some stuff that needed fixing like the guest room and even started working on her garden.

Soon, Cillian had finished filming and made it back home to Y/n just in time for her birthday. Even though it was her day, Y/n insisted on making dinner herself. She decided to cook a comfort food of hers, chicken alfredo.

Cillian watched as she set a plate full of pasta and chicken in front of him then placed hers on her placemat. “I should be cooking for you.” Cillian said, grabbing his fork and beginning to eat.

“If the birthday girl wants to cook then let her.” Y/n stated then began to eat. “How was filming? I saw some pictures on twitter of you on set and I have mixed feelings about the haircut.”

“You don’t like it? Be honest. I don’t like it.” Cillian admitted.

“Well it took some time to get used to it, but I kind of like it now. I don’t know, you look hot either way.” Y/n smirked.

“Then I guess I’ll have to thank the hair department.”

Soon, both plates of food were forgotten as the two lovers made their way to their bedroom, pieces of clothing scattered around. It had been months and both Cillian and Y/n were counting down the days until they say each other again. Months without a single kiss or the feeling of skin on skin. What a way to end your birthday . . .

TAGLIST

@leclercloml @butterfly-skinnylegend @rockerchick05 @agustdpeach @celesteblack08 @probablypossesedbysatan @kittyrumbl3r @electrobutterfly @knpgituloh @butlersluvbot @captainwans @bellstwd @theekyliepage @marti-su @multifans-things @ceruleanrainblues @litterallnobody @jackierose902109 @sinarainbows @cosniffee @thatgirlthatreadswattpad

#barbenheimer series #cillian murphy series #cillian murphy one shot #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy

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julietsf1 · 17 days ago

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All is Fair in Love and Pastries - Kenan Yıldız x Reader

summary: She came to Munich for romance and got ghosted instead. Now, all she has left is a non-refundable ticket, a wounded ego, and an ongoing feud with a man who stole her last pretzel. (8k words)

content: serendipity, slight enemies-to-lovers, unexpected chemistry, teasing, fluff :)

AN: getting that real life inspo lmao I'm actually still going to Munich this weekend as my ticket is non refundable :') bet im gonna go shopping tho!! have a lovely day darlings <3

_______________________________________

I stared at my phone for the hundredth time that day, hoping—no, praying—for a notification. A single message. A carrier pigeon, even. Anything to prove that I hadn’t just imagined the last 5 months of my relationship.

Nothing.

Just the same empty screen, as quiet and indifferent as the man who swore he loved me five days ago.

I refreshed our chat anyway, like that would suddenly make a difference. Maybe my WiFi was acting up. Maybe he had texted, and the message was just... stuck in the digital abyss, waiting to be delivered.

Nope. Still nothing.

I sighed dramatically and flopped back onto my bed, holding my phone above me like it might suddenly start explaining itself.

It had been four days since my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend? Current ghost?—had last texted me. Four whole days. No explanation, no excuse, not even the cowardice of a half-assed breakup text.

Just... radio silence.

Besides the instagram stories of his friends, where he was seemingly having the time of his life clubbing and going to basketball matches.

The man who, less than a week ago, had been telling me he missed me so much, that he couldn’t wait to see me, had apparently decided I no longer existed.

Cool. Very cool.

I unlocked my phone and stared at my last message to him. A simple:

"What time are you picking me up from the airport <3"

Sent. Read. Ignored.

I clenched my jaw and rolled onto my stomach, glaring at my laptop screen where my non-refundable plane ticket sat in my email inbox. A round-trip flight from Nice to Munich, purchased in what I now recognized as the stupidest burst of romantic optimism I’d ever had.

What was I supposed to do now? Cancel? Waste the money and sit at home, marinating in my own heartbreak like some tragic rom-com protagonist?

Absolutely not.

He may have ghosted me, but I’d be damned if I let some spineless man ruin my weekend. If nothing else, I was going to Munich. I had been there quite often for him anyway; I can figure out town for myself. And if nothing else, I was going to eat overpriced pastries, wander through fancy boutiques, and romanticize the hell out of my heartbreak.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I packed my bags and boarded the plane with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to their own public execution.

…

Munich was cold, and I was hungry—a dangerous combination for my already fragile mood.

I had spent the last hour walking through Englischer Garten, trying to shake off the lingering irritation of being ghosted. Fresh air was supposed to be good for you, right? It was supposed to clear your head, restore balance, whatever.

Did it work?

Not even a little.

I even stopped by the Eisbachwelle, where wetsuit-clad lunatics flung themselves into freezing water, attempting to surf a man-made wave in the middle of the city. I lingered for a while, waiting for the sight of someone wiping out spectacularly to cheer me up. A little Schadenfreude, as the Germans call it.

But even that failed me.

A guy faceplanted so hard that his board smacked him in the ribs, and all I felt was secondhand embarrassment. Not a single drop of joy.

Which meant I had officially lost my edge.

I needed a reset. Something warm, salty, buttery, preferably in the shape of a large pretzel.

So when I spotted a small bakery stand in Marienplatz, I knew what had to be done.

There it was. The last Brezn.

Golden brown, perfectly crisp on the outside, still steaming slightly. It looked like a hug in food form. The kind of thing that could turn your entire day around, that could restore faith in humanity, that could—

A hand shot out at the same time as mine.

Before I could react, the pretzel thief had already handed over his cash, nodding a polite danke to the vendor as if he hadn't just robbed me blind in broad daylight.

I stood there, hand still hovering mid-air, fingers closing around absolutely nothing.

The guy—the criminal in question—didn’t even hesitate. He just took a bite, slow and deliberate, as if he were performing for a food commercial.

I should have just let it go. But I was cold, hungry, and, quite frankly, on the verge of snapping.

“Excuse me?” I said, my voice teetering dangerously close to customer service polite.

He finally turned toward me, mid-chew, like he hadn’t just committed culinary theft.

Up close, he was—unfortunately—pretty easy to look at. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features softened only slightly by a full head of thick, dark blonde hair. The kind of guy who looked like he belonged in an expensive ad campaign, modeling watches he probably didn't even know how to read.

His gaze flicked down at me, scanning me with the casual arrogance of a man who had never had to fight for the last anything in his life.

“Problem?”

I crossed my arms. “You just stole my Brezn.”

He glanced down at it. Then, without even a hint of remorse, ripped off another piece and tossed it into his mouth.

“Oh?” he said, chewing. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You cut the line.”

He shrugged. “I don’t wait in lines.”

I squinted at him. “Oh, wow. That must be so difficult for you.”

“It is,” he replied, entirely serious, before popping another bite into his mouth.

I stared at him. He stared back.

This was a test from the universe.

“I think I deserve it more,” he said finally, still looking alarmingly relaxed about this whole thing.

“Oh yeah?” I deadpanned. “And why’s that?”

He licked a bit of salt off his thumb—unnecessarily slowly, might I add—before replying, “I’m barely ever home. Haven’t had one of these in months.”

I exhaled sharply, glancing at the vendor like maybe—just maybe—there was another pretzel hiding in a secret stash somewhere. But no. This was it.

This stranger had not only taken the last Brezn but was now making a compelling case as to why he deserved it more.

I had two choices:

1. Accept defeat like a normal, functioning adult.

2. Die on this hill.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling particularly mature today.

“Well,” I said, shifting my weight onto one leg. “I actually had a really rough week. So if we’re doing the who deserves it more competition, I’m pretty sure I win.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking far too amused for someone who had just ruined my day. “Oh yeah? What happened?”

I opened my mouth, then hesitated.

“Let’s just say I’ve had a series of unfortunate events that have led me here, to this exact moment, where all I wanted—all I needed—was a Brezn.” I gestured toward the offending baked good, still clutched in his ridiculously nice hands. “And yet, here we are.”

He considered that for a moment, like he was actually entertaining the idea of handing it over.

Then, after a beat, he simply swallowed, dusted the salt from his fingers, and said, “Still not giving it to you.”

I blinked. “You’re actually the worst.”

“Probably,” he agreed, unbothered.

And then—because apparently, this interaction wasn’t infuriating enough—he shot me a quick smirk, turned on his heel, and walked away.

With my pretzel.

I watched his retreating figure, the back of his stupidly nice jacket, the annoyingly confident way he walked, and considered my life choices.

Maybe I should have just tripped him.

…

By the time I reached Jamal’s apartment, I had mostly let go of the pretzel theft.

Mostly.

Fine, not at all, but I was telling myself that because I refused to let some random bread bandit ruin my entire weekend.

I rang the doorbell, and within seconds, the door swung open to reveal Jamal Musiala—failed Raya date turned best mate.

We had met on the app ages ago, but within the first five minutes of real-life conversation, it was abundantly clear that we were better off as friends. No awkward tension, no will-they-won’t-they—just immediate sibling energy.

And when he heard about my spectacular disaster, he didn’t even hesitate.

"Cancel the hotel. My guest room is free. You’re staying with me."

Which was how I ended up here, standing in his doorway while he pulled me into a quick hug.

"Yo! Finally made it," he said, immediately pulling me into a hug.

"Survived another international flight," I sighed, stepping inside and already feeling the tension in my shoulders ease.

He grabbed my bag, tossing it near the door like it was his personal mission to make sure I did absolutely nothing for myself this weekend. "Long day?"

"You have no idea," I muttered, collapsing onto the couch. "Between the baby on the flight and some guy testing my patience on the streets of Munich, I was one bad moment away from throwing hands."

Jamal raised an eyebrow, already amused. "Define ‘testing your patience.’"

I waved a hand. "Eh, some random dickhead cut in front of me at a bakery. Took the last Brezn. Very tragic. Anyway, I’m over it now."

Jamal snorted. "You don’t sound over it."

"I’ve grown as a person," I said solemnly, grabbing the tea he handed me. "Anyway, enough about me. What’s new? Got any hot gossip?"

"Nothing as dramatic as your bread wars," he teased, settling into the chair across from me. "But I’m still reeling over the fact that you thought long-distance dating was a good idea."

I sighed, taking a long sip of my tea. "Alright, go on. Get it out of your system."

He smirked. "No, no, I just think it’s inspiring. You—who has approximately zero patience for time-wasters—thought dating someone five countries away was a solid plan."

I gave him a look. "It made sense at the time!"

Jamal raised an eyebrow. "Did it?"

I groaned. "Yes! In theory, long-distance means built-in space. No pressure to see each other all the time, no risk of losing yourself in the relationship. You still get your own life. It’s all very mature, very evolved."

"Ah yes," he nodded seriously, "a relationship with absolutely no quality time. Revolutionary."

I ignored him. "It worked perfectly for me."

Jamal leaned forward, grinning. "I think you’re saying he just didn’t make you fall head over heels properly."

"I’m saying it was a noble experiment that failed," I corrected.

"You rationalize love like it’s a business deal," he said, shaking his head. "I bet you made a whole pros and cons list before agreeing to this relationship."

I pursed my lips.

Jamal’s eyes widened. "Oh my God. You did."

"It was a very casual list," I mumbled into my mug.

He threw his head back, cackling. "You’re mental."

I scowled. "Some of us like to make informed decisions, Jamal."

"And some of us," he grinned, "realize that love isn’t an investment portfolio. It just happens."

I squinted at him. "That sounds like something people say when they want me to shut up."

"That too," he admitted, still smirking. "Anyway, I invited a friend over for FIFA later—hope you don’t mind."

I waved a hand lazily. "No problem. I’m gonna take a long shower first anyway."

…

The shower did its job. By the time I stepped out, warm and wrapped in one of Jamal’s oversized hoodies, I felt lighter. Like maybe this weekend wasn’t a complete disaster. Maybe I could just enjoy being in Munich, enjoy my friend’s company, and ignore the nagging feeling that I had flown here for absolutely no reason.

Then I stepped into the living room.

And froze.

Because sitting on Jamal’s couch, controller in hand, was none other than the Brezn thief himself.

I stopped so abruptly I nearly slid on the hardwood floor.

He looked up at me mid-game, one hand casually flicking the joystick, the other resting against the back of the couch like he had all the time in the world. His dark blond waves were slightly damp, like he’d just showered too, and he was wearing a black long-sleeve shirt that looked unfairly good on him.

For a split second, I thought maybe the universe was punishing me. That this was some kind of elaborate karmic joke.

Then he grinned, slow and lazy.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually for my liking. “It’s you again.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you following me?”

Jamal—completely oblivious to the mounting tension in the room—paused the game and looked between us. “Wait. You two already know each other?”

The man—who I now knew was not just some random bakery menace but an actual acquaintance of Jamal’s—stretched his arms out in front of him like he was completely at ease, shooting me a look that was somewhere between amused and smug.

“We met earlier,” he said, still grinning like he found this whole thing hilarious. “Had a little disagreement over a pretzel.”

I crossed my arms. “I wouldn’t call it a disagreement. More like an act of blatant food theft.”

Jamal let out a loud laugh. “Oh my God. You’re the Brezn guy?”

I turned to him, betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“Oh, I’m on no one’s side,” Jamal said, still grinning. “I just can’t believe you’ve been ranting about this all evening, and it turns out it was Kenan.”

Kenan.

I turned back to him, my brain finally catching up. Kenan Yıldız. The name suddenly clicked into place. Juventus player. Young star. He had been on all the football news headlines lately, yet I hadn’t recognized him when we’d been too busy arguing over baked goods.

Kenan leaned back against the couch, clearly enjoying every second of this.

“If it helps,” he said, “I did think about giving it to you.”

I scoffed. “Wow. So generous.”

“Didn’t, though,” he added, eyes gleaming.

I inhaled sharply, mentally weighing the pros and cons of throwing a pillow at his head.

Jamal, meanwhile, was still thoroughly entertained. “Alright, alright. Before you two start a war in my living room, sit down. We’re playing FIFA.”

I dropped onto the couch, watching as he passed a controller to Kenan. “Oh, fantastic. I get to witness high-quality gameplay firsthand.”

Kenan barely glanced at me as he selected his team. “That sounded sarcastic.”

I took a sip of my drink. “That’s because it was.”

Jamal grinned. “You talk like you’ve seen him play before.”

I gestured toward the screen. "The evidence is right there. You haven’t even started playing, and I can already see the classic overconfidence."

Jamal burst out laughing. “Oh, this is great. I love this."

Kenan tilted his head slightly. “You think I’m bad at FIFA?”

I leaned back, stretching my legs out. “I think you think you’re good, which is way worse.”

Jamal wheezed. “Mate, she’s calling you a fraud.”

Kenan finally smirked, something sharper in his expression now. “Alright then. Play me.”

I scoffed. “Why would I waste my time proving something I already know?”

Kenan handed me a controller. “Because I think you’re all talk.”

Jamal let out a low whistle. “Damn. You gonna let him say that?”

I squinted at Kenan, assessing. He looked too confident, too pleased with himself, like he had already decided I was going to lose.

Big mistake.

I stretched my arms, feigning boredom. "Fine. But when I win, you’re buying me a Brezn."

His grin widened. “Deal.”

Jamal leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, this is officially the most invested I’ve ever been in FIFA.”

The match started, and I quickly realized three things:

1. Kenan was as smug as humanly possible.

2. I was not as bad as he expected.

3. I was still losing.

“You sure you’ve played this before?” he teased, passing circles around my defense.

I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Shut up.”

And then—he scored.

Jamal burst out laughing as I dramatically collapsed against the couch. “I’m going to throw this controller at your head.”

Kenan grinned. “You’re just mad because you’re losing.”

I exhaled, resetting. “Alright. I’m locked in now.”

Kenan smirked. “Oh? You weren’t trying before?”

“I was warming up.”

And then—I started to figure him out.

Kenan was good, but he was also comfortable. He played like someone who expected to win—which meant he wasn’t ready for surprises.

So I gave him one.

Instead of playing safe, I started forcing mistakes. Instead of predictable attacks, I threw reckless passes forward, sprinting onto them with zero hesitation.

And then—somehow, some way—I scored.

The room went silent.

Jamal’s eyes widened. “NO WAY.”

I shot up from the couch, genuinely thrilled, throwing my arms in the air like I had just won the World Cup. “LET’S GO!”

Kenan blinked at the screen, processing. “...Alright. That was decent.”

“DECENT?” I laughed. “That was incredible. That was a masterpiece. Someone call FIFA, that was the best goal of the year.”

Jamal was dying, doubled over in laughter. “She’s actually celebrating like she won the league.”

Kenan shook his head, but he didn’t say anything.

Jamal leaned toward him. “You good, man? I think she actually rattled you.”

Kenan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “One goal means nothing.”

I grinned. “You sound stressed.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

“You look stressed.”

Kenan didn’t even respond. He just restarted the match, jaw set, eyes focused.

And that’s when I realized—he actually cared.

I had gotten to him.

And that fact alone made my entire weekend.

The rest of the game was pure chaos. I spent the entire match talking, commentating my every move like I was a sports announcer, making Jamal cry with laughter while Kenan did his best to block me out.

And then—somehow, against all odds—I scored again.

Jamal fell to the floor. “SHE DID IT AGAIN.”

I jumped up, clapping my hands together, absolutely beaming. “Someone get the cameras! Someone call ESPN!”

Kenan exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

Jamal cackled. “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”

Kenan looked at me then, properly looked, and for a split second, there was something undeniably fond in his gaze.

He didn’t say anything, just shook his head with a tiny, reluctant smile.

I flopped back down, grinning wildly. “Kenan, should I go pro?”

“You should retire while you’re ahead,” he muttered.

I smirked. “So you admit I’m ahead.”

Kenan sighed, picking up his drink. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Jamal wheezed. “Nah, man, you lost. Accept it.”

I stood up, stretching lazily. “I believe you owe me a Brezn, Yıldız.”

With a giggle, I wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a coke from the fridge, still riding the high of my victory.

Behind me, I heard Jamal got up, grabbing his phone. “Food’s almost here—I’ll go down and get it.”

The appartment was quiet now besides the sound of a controller being set down. A pause.

Then, Kenan’s voice, low and even.

“She’s unbearable.”

I grabbed a coke and turned around, only to find him already walking into the kitchen.

He moved with the kind of easy confidence that was impossible to ignore, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt slightly, like he had all the time in the world. I expected him to go for a drink himself, but he just leaned against the counter, watching me.

I raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. “Let me guess. You came in here to process your humiliating loss in private?”

His lips twitched. “I came in here to see if you’d finally crack and admit you got lucky.”

I scoffed, setting my drink down with dramatic emphasis. “Lucky? Oh, that’s cute. You think this was luck.”

Kenan tilted his head slightly, like he was really considering it. “Mmm. Either that, or you tricked me into underestimating you.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you suggesting I played mind games with you?”

His eyes glinted with something just shy of admiration. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

I smirked. “You’re right. I totally did. And I’d do it again.”

Kenan’s lips curled at the edges, like he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of admitting anything. But his gaze flickered—just for a second—down to my mouth before locking back onto my eyes.

There was a beat of silence, not awkward but charged.

His voice was lower when he spoke again. “I’ll get you back for that.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Sure you will.”

Before he could respond, Jamal’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Food’s here!”

Kenan stepped back, running a hand through his hair before nodding toward the door. “Come on, winner. Let’s eat.”

I followed, my smirk still lingering.

For the first time all weekend, I felt genuinely good.

…

It had gotten late the night before. Later than expected.

Jamal had ordered food, we’d all ended up sitting around, eating, talking, and somehow, between full stomachs and heavy eyelids, Kenan had ended up crashing on the couch. It wasn’t planned—just one of those things that happened when the night stretched longer than you thought it would.

I had barely registered it at the time, already halfway asleep in Jamal’s guest room, but when I woke up the next morning and wandered into the living room, there he was.

Kenan Yıldız. In all his six-foot-something, professional athlete, half-asleep glory.

Sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, hair a mess of lazy curls, mouth slightly parted like he hadn’t fully re-entered consciousness yet.

I stared for a second too long, mostly because I wasn’t used to seeing him like this—soft around the edges, not smirking or arguing with me—before clearing my throat.

“You know, Jamal does have an actual guest room.”

Kenan didn’t move, just let out a low, sleep-roughened grumble that was probably a sentence in some language I didn’t speak.

I rolled my eyes, walking into the kitchen. “I’m going to get breakfast. If you’re alive in the next five minutes, feel free to come along.”

He was already pushing himself up onto his elbows, blinking like he wasn’t fully convinced the day had started yet. “Where’s Jamal?”

I grabbed my coat. “Still dead to the world.”

Kenan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “Smart man.”

…

The café was small, tucked away from the main streets, the kind of place that felt warm the second you walked in. The smell of fresh bread and espresso filled the air, and despite the morning chill outside, it was cozy, inviting, the kind of place people actually took their time in.

I relaxed a little the second I stepped inside.

Kenan scanned the space, hands in his pockets, taking it in like he was mentally scoring it. “Not bad.”

I scoffed. “Not bad? This is an elite breakfast spot.”

He smirked. “I’ll decide once I taste the food.”

I rolled my eyes but before I could continue defending my flawless café selection, I noticed a small interaction at the counter.

A barista—young, probably new—was clearly overwhelmed, trying to juggle too many things at once. She fumbled slightly with the coffee machine, hands moving fast, eyes flicking to the growing line like it was personally taunting her.

The businessman at the front, impatient and already checking his watch, let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Jesus, is it always this slow?”

I didn’t mean to intervene.

It just kind of… happened.

I leaned slightly against the counter, offering a calm, easy smile.

“Take your time. It’s way too early for people to be this impatient.”

The words weren’t pointed, not really, but they carried just enough weight to cut through the tension.

The barista glanced at me, a flicker of relief in her expression before she nodded quickly and refocused on the drink in front of her.

The businessman, unimpressed, muttered something under his breath but dropped it, grabbing his coffee and stalking off.

Kenan, silent up until now, turned his head slightly toward me, like he was seeing me differently for the first time.

I ignored it, focusing back on the menu.

When we finally stepped up to order, the barista, still looking a little frazzled but better, managed a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks,” she murmured, adjusting her apron. “Some people are just…” She trailed off, rolling her eyes slightly, as if she couldn’t quite find the right word.

“The worst?” I offered.

She laughed. “Yeah. That.”

Kenan was still watching me, but now there was something else behind it.

Something almost amused.

“So you do have the capacity to be nice,” he mused, smirking as we stepped aside to wait for our drinks. “Interesting.”

I scoffed, stirring a sugar packet between my fingers. “I am perfectly capable of being nice.”

Kenan raised a brow, feigning deep contemplation. “Mmm. Just not to me?”

“The barista never stole my pretzel.”

He let out a low, lazy laugh, shaking his head as if he almost respected the answer. “Fair point.”

I took a sip of my coffee, pleased with myself, but before I could gloat, the barista returned, sliding an extra croissant onto our tray.

“On the house,” she said with a grin. “For being nice.”

I shot her a bright smile, but that smile slightly fell when I turned back to Kenan, I caught him watching me.

Not smirking. Not teasing.

Just looking.

It wasn’t obvious, nothing overt or lingering enough to call attention to itself. But there was something there—something unreadable, like a thought passing through his mind before he could decide what to do with it.

I frowned. “What?”

Kenan blinked, shaking his head slightly like he was resetting his expression. “Nothing.”

I squinted at him. “You’re weird.”

He smirked. “And yet, you invited me to breakfast.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because I was feeling charitable.”

Kenan took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still flickering with something I couldn’t quite name.

“Lucky me.”

And for some reason, that sentence stayed with me longer than it should have.

…

The rest of the day, after dropping Jamal’s breakfast and Kenan went home, I was on a mission.

Enough sulking. Enough rehashing why I was even here. If I was going to spend a weekend away, I was going to make something of it—starting with the one thing that had never failed to lift my spirits.

Retail therapy.

Now, let’s be clear—I wasn’t the kind of person who regularly indulged in luxury shopping sprees. I was a firm believer in financial responsibility and splurging on sales.

But sometimes—just sometimes—a girl needed to treat herself.

I had no intention of actually buying anything.

But the moment I stepped inside Saint Laurent, something in me shifted.

Maybe it was the soft golden lighting, making everything look like it belonged in a dream. Maybe it was the quiet elegance of it all, the way the sales associates moved like they had all the secrets to life itself.

Or maybe, for the first time all week, I felt like I deserved something just for me.

I started with the handbags, lightly running my fingers over smooth leather and delicate gold clasps, trying to soak up the feeling of being in a place that felt so effortlessly put-together.

And then—I saw it.

It wasn’t a bag.

It was a dress.

Simple, timeless, and undeniably perfect.

I hesitated for a second, fingers hovering over the fabric, wondering if I was allowed to try something this nice on.

Then a sales associate appeared, smiling warmly. “Would you like to see how it fits?”

I bit my lip, a little shy. “Oh, I was just—”

But then, in a rare moment of self-indulgence, I nodded. “Actually… yeah. Why not?”

And that was how it started.

Five minutes later, I was standing in front of a mirror, staring at a version of myself I hadn’t seen in a while.

The dress fit like it was made for me.

It hugged just right, elegant but effortless, like I’d just thrown it on and magically looked stunning. The kind of dress that didn’t need accessories or complicated styling. It just… worked.

I smoothed my hands over the fabric, twirling just slightly, inspecting every angle.

And for the first time all weekend, I actually smiled at my reflection.

The saleswoman clasped her hands together. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

I exhaled, still staring at myself. “You’re very good at your job.”

She laughed. "You look stunning, dear."

I let out a small, giddy giggle, the kind I hadn’t heard from myself in a while. It felt nice, to like how I looked—to do something that was just for me, without a single ounce of guilt attached.

For once, I wasn’t overthinking it.

I wasn’t analyzing whether I should or shouldn’t.

I was just happy.

So before I could talk myself out of it, I lifted my chin and said, “I’ll take it.”

As I handed over my card, I thought about where I’d wear it.

Jamal’s match tonight. The VIP box.

And then, out of nowhere, another thought crept in—one I definitely didn’t mean to have.

What if Kenan sees me in this? Surely he would be there too.

The moment the thought fully registered, warmth crept up my neck and into my cheeks.

I nearly choked on my own internal monologue.

I shook my head quickly, forcing down the blush before the saleswoman could notice.

I wasn’t buying this for him. Obviously. No. This was just for me.

…But if Kenan happened to see me in it, well.

That wasn’t my fault.

….

By the time I arrived at Allianz Arena, I felt genuinely lighter.

Maybe it was the crisp night air, the buzz of excitement in the crowd, or the fact that I was actually looking forward to something for the first time in days.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that I felt good in my new dress.

The stadium lights shone down as I made my way to the VIP section, clutching my pass. The energy inside was electric, fans already singing, the deep thrum of anticipation settling over the stands.

I stepped inside the box, scanning the seats for Jamal, when a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

I turned, already knowing who it was before I even saw him.

Kenan stood next to me, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his usual smirk firmly in place. The stadium lights did unfair things to his features, casting a warm glow over his already obnoxiously handsome face, and for a split second, I hated that he had the nerve to look like that in any setting.

His gaze flicked down ever so slightly, scanning my dress before he met my eyes again.

“You look good.”

I blinked, caught slightly off guard by the lack of sarcasm in his voice.

Then, as if he could sense me registering the compliment too much, he added, “Unexpected, really.”

There it was.

I let out a scoff, placing a hand on my chest. “Oh my God, Kenan. That was almost a normal, genuine compliment. You must be exhausted.”

He hummed, nodding. “Yeah, I don’t know what came over me. Won’t happen again.”

“Shame,” I teased. “I was really enjoying the moment.”

He shook his head, biting back a smile. “So, what brings you here? Finally expanding your horizons past FIFA?”

I crossed my arms. “Actually, I’m here for Jamal. Some of us support our friends.”

Kenan nodded slowly. “Mmm. And yet… you’re standing here, talking to me instead.”

I opened my mouth to fire back, but before I could, the stadium erupted in cheers, the players stepping onto the field.

I turned my attention to the match, trying to pretend I wasn’t slightly flustered.

Kenan, however, didn’t seem as interested in the game as he was in continuing his favorite pastime: annoying me for fun.

“So, be honest,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. “You understand the rules of football, right?”

I gave him a dry look. “Wow. Incredible assumption. You see a woman at a match and immediately assume she doesn’t get it?”

Kenan grinned, unbothered. “No, I just see you at a match and assume you’re mostly here for the snacks.”

I gasped. “Excuse me, I am deeply invested in Jamal’s career.”

Kenan hummed, clearly not convinced. “Okay. What position does he play?”

I stared at him. “...Defense?”

Kenan smirked. “He’s a midfielder.”

I groaned, throwing my hands up. “Alright, whatever, I’m here for vibes and friendship. Sue me.”

Kenan chuckled, his eyes twinkling with pure amusement.

For once, I didn’t feel annoyed by it.

I turned back to the field, taking in the sheer energy of the stadium, the rush of excitement that rippled through the crowd.

And out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kenan watching me.

I glanced at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the match?”

His smirk didn’t waver. “I am.”

Something warm and fluttery settled in my stomach before I could stop it.

…

By the time the match ended, I was happily full of stadium energy but tragically underfed.

The VIP box had food, sure, but it was the kind of small, fancy bites that looked better than they tasted. You know, the kind that was supposed to be "elevated dining" but just made you angry and hungrier.

I popped another tiny canapé into my mouth and sighed dramatically.

Kenan, who had been watching me struggle with barely concealed amusement, finally smirked. “You’re starving.”

I turned to him, offended. “I am not starving.”

Kenan gestured lazily to the criminally small appetizer on my plate. “You just inhaled that in one bite.”

I crossed my arms. “Maybe I have a very refined palate.”

He snorted. “Right. That’s why you look physically betrayed after every bite.”

I sighed, defeated. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a little hungry.”

Kenan hummed like he was deep in thought, then glanced at his watch.

“Come on.”

I frowned. “What?”

He was already heading toward the exit, looking over his shoulder like it was obvious. “We’re getting food.”

I blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Kenan chuckled, his expression full of mischief. “Trust me, anything outside is an upgrade from whatever that was.”

I tilted my head. “And what if this is an elaborate scheme to lure me into a suspiciously empty street?”

His smirk deepened. “I’d like to think if I wanted you gone, I’d be more creative than that.”

I considered it. “That’s… unsettlingly fair.”

…

Kenan’s car smelled unfairly nice—not in an overwhelming, aggressively expensive way, but in that effortless ‘I have my life together’ way. It was all clean leather, faint cologne, and something subtly fresh, like pine or citrus, the kind of scent that made you want to breathe a little deeper just to keep it around a second longer.

I did not breathe deeper.

Instead, I focused on the city outside, on the soft blur of streetlights streaking across the window as we drove through a quieter part of Munich. The streets were mostly empty, the chaos of match day behind us, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I wasn’t feeling weighed down by my own thoughts.

I was full, I was warm, and for once, I wasn’t thinking about him.

And then, Kenan spoke.

“So.” His voice was casual, almost offhanded, like he wasn’t about to upend my peace. “You never actually said why you were in Munich.”

I blinked, looking away from the window. “What?”

He glanced at me briefly, his fingers drumming idly against the steering wheel before he turned back to the road. “You don’t seem like the type to just book a random flight for fun.”

I scoffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I am very spontaneous.”

Kenan hummed like he didn’t believe me. “Right. And how many of these ‘totally random’ solo trips have you taken before?”

I opened my mouth. Paused. Frowned.

“…That’s not important.”

Kenan chuckled, shaking his head. “So, you’re telling me you woke up one day and thought, Munich sounds nice?”

I huffed dramatically, crossing my arms. “Maybe I did.”

Kenan shot me a pointed look that said ‘I know you’re full of shit.’

I exhaled, shifting in my seat. “Fine. I was supposed to see someone.”

He didn’t react—just kept driving, waiting.

It was almost worse than if he had immediately jumped in with a question.

I sighed, resting my head against the window. “But, uh… turns out he didn’t feel like seeing me back. And I had the ticket booked already.”

The words felt… lighter now, like they didn’t hold the same weight as they did a few days ago. Maybe because I’d said them out loud before. Maybe because I wasn’t alone with them anymore.

Kenan’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel, his jaw tightening for half a second before he spoke.

“Idiot.”

I blinked, turning toward him. “What?”

His voice was even, casual, but the way he said it was too sure, too final. “The guy. He’s an idiot.”

I let out a small, surprised laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t even know him.”

Kenan didn’t hesitate. “Don’t have to.”

Something about his certainty made my stomach twist.

I licked my lips, choosing to ignore the warm feeling creeping into my chest. “You’re very confident in that assessment.”

Kenan finally glanced at me, just for a moment, then looked back at the road. “Yeah. I am.”

The air in the car felt different all of a sudden, not uncomfortable, but charged.

I opened my mouth, about to say something to break whatever this was, when—

Kenan reached into the backseat, grabbing something, and tossed a small paper bag into my lap.

I frowned down at it. “What’s this?”

Kenan kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the gear shift. “Something I saw.”

I gave him a suspicious look before reaching inside.

The first thing I felt was something soft.

And when I pulled it out, I actually gasped.

It was a Jellycat plush.

But not just any Jellycat plush.

A pretzel-shaped one.

Ridiculously soft, golden brown with tiny embroidered salt flecks, its round body twisted into a perfect loop, like an adorable, carb-shaped hug.

I stared at it, completely thrown.

My brain short-circuited.

I turned to Kenan, wide-eyed. “You—” I stopped, shaking my head, too stunned to be normal about this. “You got me a Jellycat pretzel?”

Kenan shrugged, like this was completely normal behavior. “Figured you’d appreciate it.”

I blinked down at my lap, still gripping the plush like it might disappear if I let go. “I—this is—I don’t even know what to say.”

Kenan smirked. “Wow. A rare moment.”

I ignored him, still reeling. “Wait. How did you—” My eyes narrowed as the realization hit. “Jamal.”

Kenan huffed a small laugh. “Jamal.”

I groaned, slumping back against my seat, embarrassed beyond belief. “I swear, he’s worse than an actual gossip column.”

“He told me the full pretzel tragedy while you were shopping this morning.” Kenan’s lips twitched. “Said you looked genuinely devastated when I took the last one.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. “I was devastated.”

Kenan let out a real laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I got that impression. Little drama queen.”

I glanced back down at the plush, running my fingers over its ridiculously soft surface, warmth blooming in my chest for an entirely different reason now.

I swallowed. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, you know?”

Kenan exhaled through his nose, his smirk fading slightly. “I know.”

There was a small pause, then—

“I wanted to. I like to see you smile”

I froze.

Just for a second.

It wasn’t even what he said.

It was how he said it. Like it was simple. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was a big deal.

I looked down at the Jellycat pretzel, tracing my thumb over one of the little embroidered salt flecks.

Kenan cleared his throat, like he wanted to move the conversation along before I got weird about it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed his jaw, focusing back on the road. “I couldn’t exactly smuggle a fresh one into the match, so I figured this would keep you warm in a different way.”

I swallowed, my grip tightening on the plush.

Somehow, slowly over the last few days, my heart stopped feeling so heavy.

I glanced at Kenan, and for once, he wasn’t watching me with his usual smirk or teasing expression.

He was just watching.

Like he was still trying to figure out why I looked so surprised.

Like he didn’t realize he had just completely disarmed me.

I turned back to the window, hiding my smile.

Kenan shifted in his seat, adjusting the air conditioning like he suddenly needed something to do with his hands.

He still hadn’t started the drive back to Jamal’s.

Good. I wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.

…

I woke up earlier than expected, the kind of early where the world still felt half-asleep, where the streets outside hummed quietly with the first stirrings of the city.

The apartment was still, save for the occasional distant sound—pipes groaning as someone used the shower, the soft buzz of an electric toothbrush in another room.

And then—

A loud "OH, COME ON!" followed by rapid button-mashing and what I could only assume was a FIFA-related disaster.

I groaned, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to will myself back to sleep.

It didn’t work.

Instead, my hand reached instinctively for something beside me, fingers brushing against—

Oh.

I cracked one eye open.

There, sitting right beside my pillow, was the Jellycat pretzel plush.

Warmth bloomed immediately in my chest, completely uninvited.

It had been exactly where I left it, tucked neatly beside me like some ridiculous comfort object. I had slept next to it. Like some sentimental idiot.

I exhaled sharply, flopping onto my back and covering my face with my hands. “I’m losing it.”

Jamal’s distant FIFA agony continued in the other room.

I peeked at the plush again, this time reaching over to pick it up, squeezing it absently in my hands.

It was too soft. Too huggable. Too… thoughtful.

Kenan had really gone out of his way to find something like this. He had listened to Jamal’s retelling of my pretzel tragedy and then acted on it.

That thought alone did something weird to my stomach.

I needed to leave before I started reading into things.

After a long, slightly too-hot shower and a reluctant change into travel clothes, I zipped up my suitcase and walked into the living room, where Jamal was still intensely focused on FIFA.

“Morning,” I greeted, adjusting my bag strap.

Jamal barely looked up. “Yo. Ready for your flight?”

I nodded, shifting my weight. “Yeah, time to go back home. Thanks for letting me crash.”

He finally paused his game, stretching lazily. “No problem. You’re welcome to crash here whenever your love life implodes.”

I gasped, fake offended. “Excuse me, that was one time.”

Jamal smirked. “That was this time.”

I glared at him. “You’re very lucky I don’t have time to fight you about this.”

Jamal grinned, unpausing his game. “Safe flight, man. Oh—Kenan’s out front, by the way.”

I froze mid-step, my brain short-circuiting. “What?”

Jamal tilted his head toward the window. “I think he’s waiting for you.”

I blinked rapidly, my stomach flipping for reasons I refused to acknowledge.

Kenan was… waiting for me?

I didn’t even have time to process what that meant before my feet were already moving, slipping on my coat and heading for the door.

And sure enough—

When I stepped outside, there he was.

Leaning against his car, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture completely at ease, like he had been there for a while and had all the time in the world.

The moment he saw me, his lips curved into a smirk, like he had been expecting me to be surprised.

“You’re awake,” he said, as if he had any reason to assume I wouldn’t be.

I scoffed, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

Kenan shrugged. “Driving you to the airport.”

I blinked. “I—what?”

He tilted his head slightly, amused by my confusion. “What, you thought I’d let you navigate Munich public transport with a suitcase?”

I narrowed my eyes. “I was literally just going to call an Uber.”

Kenan rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “That’s boring.”

I stared at him, the weight of this entire situation settling into my brain.

Kenan—who had no reason to be here—had woken up, driven across the city, and was now waiting for me outside, completely unbothered, like this was just something he did.

I adjusted my coat, voice quieter. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

Kenan looked at me like I had just said something profoundly stupid. “Yeah. I know.”

I didn’t know what to do with that.

So instead of overanalyzing it to death, I just sighed, adjusting my bag.

“Fine. Let’s go.

…

When we finally pulled up to the departures area, Kenan shifted into park, tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

I unbuckled my seatbelt slowly, suddenly feeling like this was weirdly… final.

Like leaving now meant returning to normal.

And for some reason, I wasn’t ready for that.

I turned to him, opening my mouth to say… something.

But before I could, Kenan reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

A tiny bag of pretzels.

I blinked, thrown completely off guard. “You—”

Kenan smirked, holding it out toward me. “Figured you might need some snacks for the flight.”

I stared at him, something warm creeping into my chest before I could stop it.

I took the bag, shaking my head. “You’re trying to buy my goodwill?”

He leaned back against the seat. “You love it.”

I scoffed, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Debatable.”

Kenan’s gaze flicked to my carry-on, and before I could register what he was about to say, his smirk deepened slightly.

“Did you pack the Jellycat?”

My face immediately heated up.

I opened my mouth—to lie, obviously—but Kenan just let out a laugh, shaking his head. “You did.”

I huffed. “No comment.”

Kenan’s lips twitched. “Good. It means my plan worked.”

I frowned. “Plan?”

He nodded toward the plush peeking slightly from the top of my bag. “Now you have to think about me every time you see it.”

My brain short-circuited.

I had no response to that.

I huffed, adjusting my bag. “Okay, well. Thanks for the ride, I guess.”

Kenan nodded once, casual as ever. “See you around.”

I hesitated for half a second.

Then, before I could stop myself—

I turned back to him one last time.

And said, without thinking:

“Don’t miss me too much.”

Kenan’s smirk was slow, lazy, and way too confident.

“No promises.”

I stared at him, my brain doing at least fifteen flips, before turning on my heel and walking inside before I could make this worse for myself.

I had no idea what had just happened.

All I knew was that my face was burning, and I was smiling like an idiot.

…

Back home, everything was exactly as I had left it.

The same apartment, the same slightly-too-loud coffee machine sputtering in protest before coming to life, the same half-empty fridge reminding me that I should really start grocery shopping like an adult.

Everything had resumed as normal.

And yet—

I found myself standing in my bedroom, suitcase still half-unpacked, as if some part of me refused to fully settle back into my routine. My fingers ran absentmindedly over the plush pretzel sitting on my bed, its soft, squishy loops an absurd but strangely comforting reminder of the past weekend.

I wasn’t supposed to still be thinking about him.

I wasn’t supposed to be replaying conversations in my head, breaking apart the way he had looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, the small shifts in his expression, the casual, almost careless way he had handed me that bag with the Jellycat and the pretzel, as if it hadn’t meant anything at all.

I let out a frustrated sigh, squeezing the plush against my chest like it was somehow responsible for all of this.

“You’re not helping,” I muttered at it.

Unsurprisingly, the Jellycat did not have a response.

I groaned, flopping onto my bed and burying my face into my pillow, as if that would somehow smother my thoughts into submission.

This was ridiculous.

I was being ridiculous.

I had gone to Munich with a very specific reason—to see someone who had ultimately proved to be unworthy of my time. But somehow, I had left with something else entirely.

A new inside joke. A new routine. A new, completely inconvenient way my stomach flipped whenever I got a text notification.

Which was precisely why I should not have reached for my phone just now.

But I did.

And when I turned it over—

There it was.

A new message.

From Kenan.

I hesitated for a beat, my thumb hovering over the screen, already knowing that whatever it said would only make things worse for me.

Then, finally, I clicked it open.

Kenan: Buy a nice winter coat.

I frowned, sitting up slightly as I typed back.

Me: Why?

The reply came almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for me to answer.

Kenan: I’m playing in the Netherlands next Wednesday.

Another message followed before I even had time to process the first.

Kenan: I need you to see how much better I am than Jamal, obviously.

I stared at my screen, my heart doing a very, very inconvenient thing, something warm and fluttery and deeply annoying settling into my chest.

I didn’t respond right away.

Because I already knew what I was going to do.

I was going.

#kenan yıldız fanfic #kenan yildiz oneshot #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yıldız #kenan yildiz x you #kenan yildiz fanfic #football oneshot

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asnowdriftsomewhere · 9 months ago

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Daylight

Part 1 Cassian x f!reader

AN: Cassian has been on my mind a lot lately, so here is part 1 of a series of short stories about him being him ❤️

Summary: You are Helion's best courtier and researcher, but you have been... off lately. He hopes sending you to the Night Court will help you get back to your usual sunny self.

Warnings: depression, perfectionism, underlying unresolved issues

Word count: 1405

To be a member of Helion's Court was to exude excellence in every way. Perfection was the standard by which every member was held and the bar with which you measured yourself against your rivals. There were no mistakes, no second chances. If you could not stand in the light of Day gloriously unmarred and unbroken, then you had no place with his halls.

However, it wasn't Helion who held his people to such a standard but, rather, the drive of competition that you instilled in each other. The Court of Day had always been composed of fiercely ambitious individuals. He grew up marveling at the impressive work his fathers advisors had done when driven to prove themselves better than their colleagues. The previous High Lord fostered the cutthroat environment. He knew just the right thing to say to stoke the fires among his people and ensure that perfection was always achieved. Always in the spirit of healthy competition, of course. He didn't allow for things to devolve into petty squabbles or grudges that would only distract from the work. You never hated your companions. Were never frustrated by their achievements and successes. Only disappointed in your own abilities.

Perhaps that was why Helion sent you to work in the Night Court, in Rhysand’s library, under the house of wind. He saw how every accomplishment and accolade given to the other of the Court left you feeling hollow and despondent. You were his best researcher, his most knowledgeable Courtier, and yet he saw that light in you fading. Dulling to a mere ember when you once burned like the sun. He hoped that some time away from the high-pressure environment of his Court would reconstitute your usually sunny disposition and lift your spirits.

At first, it had the opposite effect. You never felt lower than when you walked the lowest levels of the library, tears falling quietly down your cheeks as you wandered through the stacks. He sent you away. He made you leave his court - leave the Grand Library - your home, and come here. Where you were left in suffocating silence as the Priestesses went about their own business. Researching whatever flight of fancy captured their attention in the moment and having no real structure about it that you could discern.

Not that you had the capacity to notice much of anything those first few days. You were a shell of a person, mindlessly snaking your way through the shelves as you idly assessed the collection of tombs you were to spend the next six months of your existence working with. It was perhaps one of the reasons you did not notice the dark wings and Illyrian presence following you into the shadows.

It wasn't even that Cassian was trying to hide that he was there. You simply did not pay attention enough to see him as he approached the sitting area at which you had gathered your materials. He didn't even know why he was there, really. Clotho had called him down to check on you after one of the Priestesses had informed her that you had not left the lowest levels in more than a fortnight. But why she didn't just wait for one of the others to get back from their trips baffled him. Mor and Az were on the continent doing what they did best. While Feyre and Rhys were currently on a tour through Prythian to strengthen ties with the other Courts. Even Amren was unavailable since Varian had come into town unexpectedly to see the tiny ancient one.

So here he was feeling five kinds of wrong as he approached you, a clearly unaware female alone in the dark. Though, as he made his way through the stacks to where you were reading, he supposed you weren't exactly sulking in the shadows as he half expected you to be when he had been summoned. Instead, as he descended into the lowest level he knew most avoided, he saw a light glowing dully through the rows of books. Something in his gut tugged him along, pulled him forward as if the mother herself were guiding him to the little sitting area and the female waiting there.

When he finally turned the corner, and there was nothing more hiding you from view, he felt his breath catch in his throat. You were simply beautiful, the most beautiful female he’d ever laid eyes on, and that wasn't even taking into account how your skin glowed like the sun itself prowled within your veins. An earth bound star, trapped in the dark.

You paid him no mind. If you were even aware of his presence, he didn't know. To focused on the tome before you to notice the male now gawking at you from the stacks. He shifted his weight, unsure of what to do as you continued ignoring him and the minutes dragged on. Finally, he cleared his throat, and you jumped back from the table. Your wooden chair chattering to the ground as you put distance between yourself and the Illyrian who seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Hey, don't freak out,” he held up his hands. Showing you his empty palms as he gave you an awkward smile. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

“And yet your very presence does just that,” you sneered, your heart beating fast in your chest and your eyes darting to the darkened shelves that surrounded you. Too many places - there were too many places for others to hide-

“I'm just here to check on you,” he spoke evenly, his voice softer than any male you'd ever heard before. It made you still, “Clotho was concerned that you hadn't yet left the library.”

Your eyes narrowed on him, “And she couldn't be bothered to look for herself?”

He gave a half shrug, the movement slow and deliberate. You saw every muscle move. “She tried, and so did the other Priestesses. You didn't acknowledge them, and they don't like to be this deep for that long.”

You blinked once, your body shifting out of the half crouched stance you'd been in. “...They did?”

Cassian let out a soft breath, “Yes.”

“Oh,” a frown, more thoughtful than angry, pulled at your lips. “But why send you?”

He shrugged again, the movement more relaxed and natural though still slow. “I've been asking myself that question the whole way down.”

You didn't laugh, “Well, you can report to Clotho that I am just fine and in no need of coddling.”

He frowned at that, “Do you know how long it's been?”

You waved an idle hand, “A few days is nothing. Back home, I sometimes spent a week or more in the library. So they need not wo-”

“Seventeen days,” he cut you off, and you went still again. “Seventeen days without fresh air or sunlight-” you raised an eyebrow at him, a hand gesturing down to your glowing skin, and he relented, “You know what I mean.”

A heavy sigh came out of you, “I do. I hadn't… realized…” your voice trailed off as you dragged a hand down the text on the table in front of you.

He strained his neck forward, attempting to peer at the scrawled script without risking a step closer, “What are you researching anyway? Rhys didn't say. Just that you were coming for a few months and to clean out a spare room for you up at the house. One that you haven't deigned to use yet, by the way. Azriel has been absolutely devastated to know his hard work was for nothing.”

You slammed the book closed, “It's nothing. Don't worry about it.” The glare you threw his way was enough to deter any curiosity he'd been slowly building, and he held his hand up in surrender once again. “Tell Clotho not to worry. I'll manage my time better going forward. You can leave.” It was a dismissal, but he felt the truth in your words and turned around to return back to the High Priestess far above you. As he did, a flash caught his eye, and he stilled just inside the stacks. There, snaking through the books in a way he often saw Azriel's shadows do was a glowing fragment of sunshine. He watched it slide across the floor and circle your ankle before blending seamlessly into the light you emitted naturally.

A piece of daylight, returning to the sun.

Part 2

#cassian x reader #acotar #acotar fanfiction #cassian #fanfiction

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kxizoku-ou · 11 months ago

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CP9 Cat Headcanons

This is... a very silly post. XD After seeing a similar concept on Pixiv (images 10–12 in this log) and critiquing the breed choices it used, I wound up writing my own take on it.

These are written with actual cats in mind (not my usual Hybrid Au), and the breed choices are just for fun— as in, largely chosen based on looks/vibes, not anything too serious. I was definitely channeling that early 2000s "characters are cats for some reason now" mini-genre, so these are pure fluff/comedy, for once... >3>

. . .

Lucci

(Bengal)

Serial toy murderer. Violently destroys any and every toy you give him within a matter of hours, days at MOST.

Some of the things he’s done to his toys probably qualify as war crimes tbh. Likes to drown the catnip mice in his water dish. Also enjoys tearing things into ragged chunks/”gutting” the stuffing.

Sometimes you wake up to him on your chest with a present.

(A chunk of mutilated cat toy. He drops it onto your face.)

The most athletic cat you’ll ever know. There is no surface in your house he can’t reach SOMEHOW. Also can and will learn how to open doors, drawers, etc, and will use this unfortunate skill to get into everything if he’s bored.

Affectionate, but only on his terms. You don’t decide when you’re allowed to pet him; when the mood strikes, he’ll interrupt whatever you’re doing and forcefully put his body in your lap.

You’re not allowed to move until he decides you’re done. :)

Has a surprisingly cute kneading habit. He’ll go Baby Mode and make biscuits for hours. Sucks on certain blankets too.

Kaku

(Devon Rex)

ZOOMIES TO THE MAX.

Seemingly never sits still. Will run from one end of your house to the other at all hours of the day. At night, you’re regularly woken up by the distinct rapid thumping of galloping kitty paws.

Likes high places and unexpected perching spots. This includes your shoulder— and he can make the jump on his own!

Playful, but not prone to destroying his toys. Prefers batting hard objects down a flight of stairs to tearing the plush ones open.

Too brave (and curious) for his own good. Lacks any sense of danger when it comes to investigating something that’s caught his interest.

This includes slipping through the front door.

Not super cuddly, but likes being near you/keeping an eye on what you’re doing.

Has a squeaky “old man” meow. WEH!

Jabra

(Egyptian Mau)

Wild, playful, curious, and so very destructive. If he’s not kept entertained, your property will suffer for it.

Requires FREQUENT play and attention, but fortunately, he’s not too hard to please. Throwing a squishy ball for “fetch” can keep him occupied for hours.

The asshole cat who will make direct eye contact with you before (very deliberately) knocking something off a shelf, then sit there smugly while you try to scold him.

Very talkative! When he wants your attention, he YELLS, and seeing wildlife outside always brings out that excited, bloodthirsty chitter.

Taking him to the vet is an ordeal, for everyone involved...

Doesn’t mind being pet and handled. Pesters you for affection regularly, but gets bitey when he’s had enough. :/

Highly territorial. Will not tolerate other cats/animals near him.

Kalifa

(Turkish Angora)

Truly the embodiment of the “disdainful gorgeous fancy cat” trope.

Her fur is incredible, due largely in part to near-constant grooming. Do NOT interrupt her washing.

She’ll wash your fingers too if she’s feeling affectionate. Mlem mlem mlemmmm...

Likes to be involved in what you’re doing. The kind of cat to walk across your keyboard or loaf-sit on top of stray paperwork, seemingly oblivious to how badly she’s getting in the way.

At least your “adorable secretary” makes for good moral support!

Not overly playful, but she can be a DEADLY hunter when the mood strikes— fast, agile, and with amazing reflexes no matter what kind of toy you put in front of her.

Weirdly fickle about when you’re allowed to touch her. Will glare, hiss, and swat at fingers if you test those boundaries.

Blueno

(Norwegian Forest Cat)

The most quiet, low-maintenance, independent cat imaginable. You nearly forget he exists, sometimes.

Not much of a meower, but has a deep, calming, rumbly purr.

Content to curl up on a chair or in a corner and let you go about your day! He’ll alternate between napping and silently staring in your general direction; the eye contact is a sign of affection. <3

Won’t seek out attention on his own, but also won’t fight it if you pick him up and carry him around like a plushie.

...he stays limp and docile no matter what you do to him, actually.

Needs regular brushing, or his fur starts to matt. It’s pretty much the only “extra attention” he’ll require, though, and he’s (fortunately) cooperative about it.

Learned how to open doors at some point. You don’t know how he managed that.

Fukurou

(Persian)

R O U N D (and it’s not just fluff)

Despite being shaped like a furry bowling ball, he’s quite playful, and way more agile/fast-moving than you’d expect.

...that energy is much less cute when his full weight lands on your abdomen in the middle of the night, however.

VERY affectionate. Will take any opportunity to lay his chin on your palm, headbutt your shoulder/wrists, put his paws on your chest so he can try to lovingly lick your face, etc— purring all the while!

Chatty cat!! Chirps and squeaks at you non-stop; if you “respond” to him, it turns into a back-and-forth conversation with his mrrep-ing.

Fond of high places, like bookshelves and tall dressers.

It’s unclear how such a heavy cat manages to get up onto them, but he usually ends up yowling for help when he can’t get back down.

Kumadori

(British Longhair)

A huge, massively fluffy mini-lion of a cat, with that “polite little gentleman” face common in his breed.

Sheds. Sheds SO MUCH. All of your clothes are covered in his fur, no matter how hard you try to keep him thoroughly brushed.

You cannot escape the fluff.

YOWLS. The loudest, most determined drama queen when he wants something. Acts like he’s dying if his food bowl is empty for more than half an hour, non-stop howling included.

Extremely cuddly; wants as much attention from you as you’ll give, and will flop his entire body into your lap to get it.

Fond of jingly toys! The louder and more annoying the bell, the better.

If you ever have to give him medicine (be it a pill or liquid), he’s utterly betrayed. Gives you the huge, sad, miserable scared-kitty eyes for the rest of the evening, and won’t let you touch him.

(He’s over it by morning, and back to purring in your arms. Baby.)

Spandam

(Siamese)

The ugliest purebred imaginable, and his personality isn’t better. <3

Health issues. Skin/coat problems, numerous food sensitivities, arthritis, frequent UTIs, and a crooked tail from a past injury.

King of separation anxiety. If he can’t find you, he’s HOWLING, then finding a corner to cower in until his protector is back.

Truly the embodiment of the phrase “scardey cat”. Terrified of everything from the vacuum to rustling plastic bags. Huddles under the couch, trembling pathetically, after every little scare.

...it is kind of cute when he runs to you to “save” him, however.

This clumsy dumbass WILL get himself hurt (in incredibly stupid ways) if you don’t keep an eye on him. Utterly oblivious to real danger.

His distressed yowling is awful, and the attention-demanding yells aren’t much better. The classic So So Whiney Baby Siamese!

NEEDS to be the only cat in the household— he’s violently territorial, but guaranteed to end up the other cat’s punching bag once he’s pissed them off enough.

#One Piece #CP9 #CP0 #Lucci #Rob Lucci #Kaku #Jabra #Kalifa #Blueno #Fukurou #Kumadori #Spandam #Headcanon #Reader

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genrockstar · 6 months ago

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Cold Fronts & Warm Hearts | 2

summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin never expected to find himself captivated by anyone, much less the daughter of the legendary Admiral Tom "Iceman" Kazansky. But when an unexpected encounter with her challenges everything he thought he knew about love and loyalty, Hangman finds himself in a situation more complex than any dogfight.

warnings: none

pairing: jake seresin x oc

authors note: just imagine rooster and jake are actually besties...

@djs8891

The next morning, Jake "Hangman" Seresin stood on the tarmac, squinting against the bright San Diego sun. The roar of jet engines and the organized chaos of the naval base surrounded him, but his mind was still on last night. Kate Kazansky had walked into his life like a storm, unsettling the calm, collected persona he had so carefully cultivated. He was used to challenges in the sky, but this—whatever was happening between them—was something different altogether.

"Seresin, you coming?" Rooster called, motioning toward the jets lined up for the day's exercises.

Jake nodded, pulling himself back to the present. "Yeah, just thinking about my next win," he shot back with a grin, masking any sign of distraction.

As they prepped for the day's flight drills, Jake found himself scanning the crowd, searching for any sign of Kate. It was foolish, he knew. This wasn't some romantic getaway—it was the Navy, and she had her own career, her own responsibilities. But even as he strapped into the cockpit of his F/A-18, her words from the night before echoed in his head.

You hide behind that cocky grin of yours because it's easier than letting people in.

He keyed the comms as his jet roared to life. "All right, boys and girls, let's get this show on the road."

Up in the air, the familiar rush of adrenaline and the pull of gravity pushed every other thought out of his head. Here, in the sky, was where he was in control. Here, he didn’t have to worry about emotions or vulnerabilities. Up here, it was all about instinct, skill, and focus.

But even with his usual sharp focus, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Kate had gotten under his skin in a way no one else ever had.

Later that afternoon, Jake was heading toward the officer’s locker room when he caught sight of Kate walking out of the command center. She was dressed in crisp Navy fatigues, her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and even though she wasn’t in flight gear, she exuded the same confidence that had intrigued him the night before.

Their eyes met, and for a split second, Jake considered turning away—walking the other direction and keeping things simple. But simplicity had never been his style.

“Kate,” he called, jogging over to her. “Fancy seeing you here.”

She smiled, but there was a touch of amusement in her eyes. “I work here, Jake. It’s not that surprising.”

He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. Still, didn’t expect to see you outside the officer’s club so soon.”

Kate crossed her arms, her expression playful. “Why? Afraid of a rematch?”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Rematch? I wasn’t aware we had a competition going.”

She took a step closer, her voice dropping just a little. “Everything’s a competition with you, isn’t it?”

The challenge in her voice sparked something in Jake. He wasn’t sure if she was talking about last night’s conversation or something deeper, but either way, he was ready to play along.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But you should know, I don’t lose.”

Kate’s eyes gleamed, and she gave a small laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

Before he could respond, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her expression shifting slightly as she read the message.

“I’ve got to go,” she said, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “Duty calls.”

“Right,” Jake nodded, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. “Catch you later?”

Kate gave him a smile that was as much of a promise as it was a challenge. “You know where to find me.”

As she walked away, Jake stood there for a moment, watching her go. He wasn’t used to being the one left hanging, but something about Kate Kazansky kept pulling him back. She was more than just Iceman’s daughter—she was his equal in every sense, and that terrified him as much as it excited him.

That evening, Jake found himself back at the officer’s club, nursing a beer and replaying his last conversation with Kate in his head. Rooster and Phoenix were nearby, laughing about something from the day’s drills, but Jake’s mind was elsewhere.

“Hey, man,” Rooster said, sliding into the seat next to him. “You good? You’ve been off your game today.”

Jake shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

Rooster raised an eyebrow. “Thinking? That doesn’t sound like you. Usually, you’re all action, no reflection.”

“Yeah, well,” Jake said, swirling the beer in his glass, “things change.”

Rooster’s expression softened, and he leaned back in his chair. “This about that woman you were talking to last night?”

Jake shot him a look. “You spying on me, Bradshaw?”

Rooster grinned, holding up his hands. “Relax, man. Just noticed you looked... invested, which is weird for you.”

Jake sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She’s... different. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Different how?” Phoenix chimed in, having overheard the conversation.

“She doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. Not even mine,” Jake said, almost to himself. “And she’s Iceman’s daughter, so... yeah.”

Rooster let out a low whistle. “Kazansky’s kid? Man, you don’t mess with that.”

Jake looked down at his drink, conflicted. He knew getting involved with Kate was dangerous—not just for his career, but for the walls he had built around himself. She was someone who could challenge him, push him in ways no one else had.

But walking away wasn’t an option anymore.

Before he could think too much about it, his phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Kate: Meet me at the docks tonight. Midnight.

Jake’s pulse quickened, the thrill of the unknown sparking through him. He finished his beer, stood up, and grabbed his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Rooster asked, eyeing him curiously.

Jake smirked, the old swagger creeping back. “I’ve got a midnight rendezvous.”

The docks were quiet, save for the gentle lapping of water against the boats. Jake spotted Kate standing at the end of one pier, her figure silhouetted against the moonlit sky. She looked calm, but there was an intensity in the way she stood, waiting for him.

He approached, the sound of his boots echoing on the wooden planks. “What’s this about?”

Kate turned, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. “I needed to get away from all the expectations. The uniforms, the protocol. Everything.”

Jake stopped a few feet away, studying her. “So, you call me?”

She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m... special because of who my father is.”

Jake crossed his arms, leaning against a post. “You’re not just Iceman’s daughter, Kate. I think you know that.”

Kate’s gaze met his, and for a moment, the tension between them hung heavy in the air. “Maybe that’s what I needed to hear.”

Jake took a step closer, his voice low. “So what now?”

Kate’s eyes flickered with something unspoken. “Now we figure out if we’re both willing to break the rules.”

Jake’s breath hitched. He was no stranger to risks, but this? This was something different. Something far more dangerous.

But as he looked into her eyes, he realized he wasn’t about to back down.

Not now. Not ever.

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x oc #top gun maverick #top gun 1986 #hangman x reader #hangman x oc

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blueberrypancakesworld · 1 year ago

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My heart...don't cry I'm here - Saltburn 2023

Michael Gavey x fem!reader

warning : hurt/comfort, angst, implied non-con kissing(from Oliver), jealousy, kissing/cuddling, mentions of blood

Summary : A winter ball or a party is an invitation with consequences and love that blossoms. Michael and his sweetheart were together, everything was perfect until one thing changed and love had to be defended.

Info : So again something for Saltburn and our sweet Michael a little thought/more complex. Have fun reading ;)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything had been perfect since she had been at university, her grades were good and she had made friends. It was the perfect environment in 2006 with the others.

And it was only going to get better since she showed up in his math class, the extra afternoon class with him for the students who wanted to review the subject.

Maybe it was because it was just the two of them in the afternoon class, maybe it was because Michael was the "teacher" for the time, or maybe it was because she started bringing him a crunchy bar every time. Whatever it was, it brought the two of them together.

Maybe it was his smile that appeared every time she got another task right which was so full of joy for her that she couldn't help but smile herself. His joy and devotion to the subject and to her was clear.

That it was bound to happen at some point that when she suddenly dropped a pen and they both bent down for it, it seemed like a scene from a bad romance novel. ,,Please, I insist," he said and his lips curled into that cute smile again, which almost seemed to make him excited.

He adjusted his glasses again and put the pen back in her hand, she greeted him with a ,,Thank you Michael... tell me, I'm very grateful for all this, would you mind coming for a cup of tea with me?" she dared to ask, already preparing to be laughed at by him, that his flight of fancy had caused him to drop her.

Instead, she was almost blown away when he practically ripped her arm out and shook her hand, smiling broadly at her.

,,Oh yes, I'd love to, my dear!" he had told her and this was the first date they had had in a small cafe near the university for tea and a few cupcakes but she had quickly realized that Michael preferred his Crunchy Bars to any other sweet things.

When he dug into the chocolate and drank the tea she smiled at him and she could always see his slight nervousness. He had changed a little, he was no longer as stern and serious as he was when he was studying.

She had often seen him in the library looking at the books and exercise books so intently. Always with a thoughtful look on his face. But now he was as cute as an excited golden retriever.

But it didn't bother anyone, it was even kind of cute when he told the cashier that he had miscalculated. How he insisted that they recalculate that his bill was correct and the machine was wrong.

Michael shouted out the answer and only calmed down when she put her hand on his and gave him an understanding look. ,,Excuse my... my boyfriend, please do the math again?" she asked, not seeing the look of confusion and then complete love behind his glasses.

She hadn't dismissed him, she hadn't laughed at him or shamed him, she had called him her boyfriend. They were a couple.

They were really together. They had been together for a few months, almost a year, and yet their love for each other had never changed, on the contrary, it had only grown stronger.

It was perfect until she found the little note under her notebook, she had met Michael in the library and they had studied together and she still seemed to feel the kiss on the back of his hand when he greeted her.

,,Romance, my dear romantic, is the best thing I can give you every day," he always said before he kissed her enruet gently and always with a little hint of nervousness. He hid his eyes, pushed up his glasses and disappeared, waving.

She looked after him for a moment before disappearing into the library shelves, not paying attention to her notebook, and only when she came back did she see the little note.

Dearest Blood, I would like you to show up at my party for the Winter Ball. With best regards O she left the handwritten message and looked around to see if she could find the person who had left it there. But no?

No one seemed to fit the bill, although she could knowingly assign the O as the sender. Oliver Quick. The mutual friend of the two of them, or the cheat if Michael was concerned.

Oliver and he used to be friends, but since the brown-haired man had been hanging out with the rich guys from Saltburn and such, neither of them recognized him anymore.

Giving the note her attention for a moment, she sat back down to study and decided to tell Michael in the afternoon when they met again, not knowing that two eyes were already watching her.

That his lips curled into a smile and the plan of plans went according to plan. After a while, she disappeared from the library and found her darling in the cafeteria, his plate full of food and almost always the same.

,,Michael, look what I've found from your... friend," she said as she came to him with her tray, also full of food, and sat down at her seat, handing him the paper.

She saw how at first he seemed a little unknowing and then he seemed to remember the deceiver who had once been his friend. Looking at the paper he let her know they knew Oliver had changed but now?

Was it a good idea to go to the party? ,,A party...my darling, only if you feel like it, of course I would accompany you, it would certainly...certainly be interesting to see how he has been," Michael said and handed her the note after reading it again.

She looked at the paper, she didn't know the word "blood" from Oliver, she never thought he would become like this. One of the rich ones.

But was it true and didn't everyone deserve a second chance? That's what they both thought when they turned up at the Winter Ball, or rather the big boozy party, and they were rather overdressed.

Michael had chosen his suit and the white rose on his breast pocket, she had picked it out, fluffed it through his hair and given him a motivating kiss.

In return, he had laced up her dress and showered her with compliments before the two of them had walked through the large double doors just a few minutes later and found themselves at the "Winter Ball".

She heard the horrified sound of Michael looking at the party with an uncertain look that resembled her own. She wondered how the hell so many people could fit in here - it shouldn't be possible, should it?

Everyone was close together, bumping into their neighbors. ,,Shall we go?" she asked, looking at Michael, who adjusted his glasses and looked at her, even though he seemed to want to leave, he shook his head.

,,Shall I get us some drinks and you Oliver?" he asked and looked at her, reaching for her hand to show her that it could be different, that he was looking for his friend and she was looking for the drinks. But when her gaze turned to the bar or whatever else was there, she almost felt dizzy.

Crowds upon crowds of people had taken over the area around it and finding her way back in there would be suicide. ,, Sure we can do that," she said hastily and gave him a grateful look before they parted and Michael set off to make his way through the dancing drug addicts and his favorite through the crowds on the way to Oliver.

After having to dodge several drinks, drugs and dancing people and a leap backwards to avoid being hit by a keg of beer, she was about to give up the search when she saw a brown mop of hair disappear into one of the many rooms. A room she had never seen before.

There were many brown-haired people here, but when she saw the brief smile on the lips of the stranger, there seemed to be no doubt. It was a knowing smile, an amused smile, a hungry smile. The smile of someone who knew exactly what was going on around him.

Following the stranger into the room and opening the door, it suddenly seemed quieter, as if the walls had been built in such a way as to keep the lowly folk at bay. ,,Oliver Quick?" she asked, annoyed that her voice sounded so uncertain even though she had no reason to be.

She knew him, she thought, and yet it also seemed to be due to the room that she felt like she was being swallowed up.

Her voice didn't have the confidence she wanted and she felt her heart beat faster as the man turned around. ,,My blood, you really came, I thought you and the nerd had gone off," he sneered and she could just see his eyes roaming over her body.

He had tried to hide his attraction for her back then, but she had already seen that he was always too tempted to hug her as his hands wandered over her body.

Until she got together with Michael and Oliver left for Saltburn. ,,No we didn't Oliver, we're here to see how you're doing," she replied, glancing over her shoulder, knowing the door was within reach.

But the wolf in front of her was watching her and seemed to want to wrap his jaws around her at any moment. He smiled, winked at her and came towards her, step by step he seemed to enjoy seeing her like this more and more.

,,Looking around then, dear? You were worried how flattering," he whispered and continued to walk towards her, his hand reaching for hers and she felt him kiss the back of her hand, not sure if she should pull away. It was disgusting only Michael ever kissed her like that.

He wasn't Michael he wasn't the romantic he was a creep. ,,Let go of me, we're done here!" she screamed, wanting to tear her arm free and run for the door, out of the room, away from him, away from everything, and yet the wolf seemed faster.

Grasping her wrist, he healed her in place and the grin of his fangs frightened her even more and she wanted to scream. She could already feel herself gathering air, she would scream for her friend until she fell silent.

Something almost medicinal tasted, medicinal, bitter. Alcohol. The alcohol and drug-filled kiss of Oliver on her lips that robbed her of any scream.

She felt his hands running over her body, reaching for everything he could get, wanting more and more. It was disgusting the pressure on her arms, legs and back as he tried to loosen the bow.

Before suddenly all her senses exploded fear and panic flooded through her and she tore him away from her. She ran out and saw the grin behind her as he licked his lips as if he wanted more of this forbidden treasure.

She no longer saw anything but fear as she hurried through the crowd, not paying attention to the people, and only cried out again, which was drowned out by the music when she felt hands on her shoulders.

,,Darling!" she heard the nickname and feared it was Oliver who had opened up to her and wanted to pull her back into the room and take her into the dark.

She was afraid of what would happen. ,,Honey, it's Michael! What's going on? What happened?" he asked, his hands on her cheeks trying to calm her down, seeing the fear screaming in her eyes.

Her eyes full of fear looked at him and slowly she began to understand that it wasn't Oliver, that it wasn't the one who had kissed her who wanted more of her. ,,Mi-Michael...I-I want to leave now!" she screamed at him and saw that he was looking over her, searching for something to explain what had happened.

But by then he had already grabbed her by the hand and taken her out of the building, walked her to the car and put her inside.

The cool night enveloped her, but the heat seemed slow to overcome her. ,,What happened?" he asked, his voice calm yet demanding, she didn't have to look to know that he was pulling himself together, that his hands were shaking, that his body was tense and that he would give anything to help her.

,,Oli-Oliver he...kissed me...I flew I had to get away," she stammered, still afraid of what might have happened if she hadn't escaped.

Instead, she felt a comforting warmth other than the heat of the party Oliver gently placed his hand on hers and gave her a soft sympathetic expression before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a Crunchy bar.

His kiss was as gentle and careful as Oliver could ever be and he said, ,,Wait here please I'll be back in a few minutes everything will be fine darling". It was almost absurd how gentle he could be in this situation and she gave him as grateful a look as she could.

Before he left, he pulled out a handkerchief, skillfully wiped away the tears and gave her one last gentle kiss on the head.

It was so different from Oliver when Michael disappeared into the dark back to the party while she was back in the car looking at the bar in her hand. But this time the beating of her heart was different, it wasn't full of fear, it was full of love.

Even then, when he returned a few minutes later, she was startled to see the blood on his white shirt, the splinter in his glasses and the blood on his fingers. He wanted to start the car without saying a word but hadn't sorted himself out.

This time she put her hand on his, put her head on his shoulder and said a simple, ,,Thank you Michael, I love you" as he gave her another kiss.

She knew the blood smelled of Oliver he knew Michael had hit him but she didn't care she had him with her. His kisses covered Oliver's and with each kiss she slowly forgot what had happened.

There was only her and Michael had only ever given it and would only ever give it.

~~~~~~~~~

@ateliefloresdaprimavera , @valeskafics , @ria-coolgirl , @wigglywoos59 , @sapphirespiders , @su-per-fi-cial-if-rep-us

#saltburn #saltburn 2023 #ewan mitchell #michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #saltburn movie

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tellmeallaboutit · 5 months ago

Text

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 15, In Which You Dance Twist With Mr. Goat (Pulp Fiction Style)

AO3

TAGS: self-harm, sharp objects, glass, politics

There was a time, not so long ago, when you were terrified of flying.

The mere thought of that huge metal thing plummeting from the sky for no apparent reason (well, the human factor. It's always the human factor), a minute of sheer terror, descent, and then boom.

No survivors.

No bodies ever recovered.

You used to fear situations that so brazenly took control away from you.

Well, you were wrong; there was something strangely comforting about letting go; about snuggling up in the plush comfort of an oversized leather seat, scrolling through messages on your phone to the roar of the twin engines.

Raphael's hand was always on your knee, his tail wrapped tightly around your ankle, as if you could escape him on the private jet - or off it. A black diamond ring on your finger sparkled in the sunlight filtering through the oval windows.

Across from you sat Camilla, while Jens occupied the far corner seat. Yurgir was conspicuously absent; you didn't pry into his reasons, just assumed his size exceeded the weight limit of any aircraft.

A headline in the Daily Mirror caught your eye: "Who is Anya Berger? What do we know about the mysterious girl who won the heart of a billionaire in ten days?"

What do they know, you wondered and clicked.

"Walk me through the panels again," Raul asked. "And the key people to talk to."

"Morning is boring," Korilla replied. "Mental health crisis, supply chain disruptions, sustainability regulations. You start in the afternoon, sir: your first is the AI discussions with the UN Secretary General's Special Envoy for Technology."

"I won't say a word about this soulless drivel," Raphael said, skimming through the agenda.

Camilla choked on her coffee while Jens flinched at her sudden movement, his hand swiftly resting on the gun now.

"Mr D'Avergni, Avernus' portfolio is 15% invested in AI technologies," she said as soon as she collected herself. "What do you mean 'soulless nonsense'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said. I will not say a word about these abominable technologies. I have been made privy to information that they are cannibalising art and I will not stand for it".

"Where did you hear this nonsense?" whispered Camilla. "Tumblr? Anya? Is that your doing?"

"I'm totally against AI," you interjected, without looking up from your phone, engrossed in the news article about your grunge heroin chic and manic-girl attitude.

They recommended black nail polish, drawing dark circles under your eyes and perfecting the look of total derangement to repeat your success. There were also some advanced blowjob techniques at the bottom of the article.

"What is this panel 'Securing an Insecure World'?" asked Raphael. "I quite fancy the name."

"Sir, it has nothing to do with you. This is the macroeconomic panel on the dying middle class, youth problems, inequality, blah blah blah. Fear-mongering."

"Fear-mongering?" said Raphael. "I seem to have found my stage."

Camilla closed her eyes and put on her best smile. The flight attendant glided by in her pressed uniform and replaced your coffee; you were momentarily struck by the amount of cleavage she was showing as your eyes glanced upwards.

To see very familiar eyes and a smile. Haarlep put a finger to her lips and gave you a little wink. You smiled back.

"Sir," Camilla said gently. "It doesn't work that way. You can't just speak whenever and about whatever you want in a global forum. It's all scripted, all pre-written."

"Astute observation," said Raphael. "Scripted conversations, scripted problems, scripted solutions, no room for improvisation. Davosneeds a breath of fresh air. Of honesty. Of a genuine hope for change".

Camilla said, "Of course, sir," and forced a smile.

Back to the article: did they really get your ex-boyfriend to give an interview about you? Did he have anything good to say, that bastard who regularly forgot to flush the toilet?

Yes, he had plenty to say, mostly about you being not right in the head. You put him on your hit list and stroked Raphael's tail, which in turn stroked your ankle. They even got your mum on the phone, who thankfully had nothing much to say except that you were a good Catholic girl.

You saw some frantic movement out of the corner of your eye.

Camilla was waving you over to the plane's galley. You tried to get up, but were stopped by a tail wrapped around your ankle like a boa constrictor. "May I go to the toilet?" you asked, and Raphael uncoiled his tail, three times, with a slight reproach in his eyes. Jens did his best to keep a straight face, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Camilla pulled you deeper into the galley. She smelled of fresh coffee and burnout.

"Anya, listen, I am very sorry that it has to come to this, but just between us girls..." she said, her fingers fidgeting with her diamond necklace. "Did Raul remember to take his medication today? I don't like his mood”. She shifted on her feet. "God, I miss the days when you could smoke in these things”.

"I'm not his doctor," you shrugged.

"Well, maybe it would be worth reminding him," Camilla drawled. "I'd rather not see viral videos of him committing political suicide in Davos. And I'm sure you'd agree."

You weren't so sure.

"I'm not going to poke the devil, and I suggest you don't either," you said, leaning against the galley counter.

Camilla sighed and gave you a very sympathetic smile.

"Anya, may I give you some friendly advice? Raul may seem like a half-god to you, but I've seen him curled up in a ball sobbing about how Daddy never loved him when he was high as a kite on coke. He's... as human as the rest of us. For better and worse”.

Just then, the plane shook violently, sending you both clutching the walls for support. The pilot quickly apologized over the intercom.

"Don't patronise me, Korilla," you said. "Do you think I'm just some pathetic, love-struck girl Raul likes to abuse?"

Camilla paused for a moment before suppressing a grin. "I'm going to invoke my right against self-incrimination. So tell me, my dear: who are you really?"

"Much more than meets the eye." You straightened up, standing slightly taller than her (which was not difficult). "I'm the one who gave him all this power in the first place."

"Wow," Kamilla snorted out in surprise. "Wow. Okay. Cool. Never mind."

"You need proof?" you said quietly.

"Not really," she said.

"I wish you would get down on your knees and kiss my hand."

"What?" Kamilla burst out laughing. "Maybe you should share your medicine with Raul. Ask Dr Bambauer for a family discount. He will be at Davos, by the way, speaking on the mental health crisis".

"I wish for you to kiss my hand," you insisted. "Come on, do it, I have a point to prove."

You really need to learn how to calibrate these things. This one worked, though; she complied, sinking to her knees before you, a wild look in her eyes. Then she planted a surprisingly gentle kiss on your palm, leaving a crimson mark.

"What the hell?" she whispered as she looked up at you. Raphael was engrossed in his paperwork, oblivious to the scene, so was Jens.

"See, Korilla," you started again after letting the moment hang awkwardly in the air for longer than necessary, "don't worry about Raphael talking nonsense. You'd be surprised how many people eat it up."

"Who the fuck is Raphael?"

"Your new boss," you said. "Well, old boss actually. Ahh... you won't really notice much of a difference; I hardly do myself sometimes," you lowered your voice to a minimum. "But don't tell them that, they'll get angry. You can get up now, this is getting a bit weird."

She tried to say something, her lips barely moving. You think it was 'how'. She was asking ‘how’.

"You see," you said. "The devil thinks I am very, very special”.

Having said that, you came back to your seat. Raphael's tail immediately darted to your ankle and wrapped around it. You leaned back in your chair and watched Haarlep flirting with the pilot out of the corner of your eye.

It would be really stupid to crash because Haarlep wanted to have a quickie in the cockpit. The plane began its descent to Samedan St Moritz airport. The rugged Swiss Alps came into view out the window, snow-capped peaks glistening in the afternoon sun.

***

When you book a presidential suite you no longer have to check in, you can just walk straight past the reception. The hotel was a mountain resort so exclusive that the website was just an artistic photo with no way to reserve a room.

Raphael was eerily calm as he watched the staff unpack your belongings. His calm demeanour lasted until some poor sap nearly wrinkled his suit while trying to hang it in the en-suite cloakroom. A deafening growl sent the trembling fellow scuttling from the room.

The rest were given very generous tips.

Soon after, you found Raphael rehearsing his speech in a mirror, repeating the same phrases three times in a row, "when youth was told their souls were worthless, easily replicated by machines". Each time he spoke, there was a subtle change in tone, as if he was trying to capture some emotion - you were not quite sure what he was getting at - was he trying to imitate genuine concern?

If so, he could work on his delivery.

He gave it another shot, the tension in his back muscles evident through his shirt.

"Excellent choice of attire, gattina," he gave you a look you approached. "Might I suggest an improvement? Not these trousers. The black pencil skirt with the white vertical stripes, the Saint Laurent one from the spring collection."

"It looks absurd on me," you looked away. "I don't have the body for it."

"You have the body for anything," he said. "Don't debate me on this. Slip into the skirt, return here and see how right I am”.

That damned skirt was a nightmare: so constricting that any wrong move felt like a tear waiting to happen; clearly designed by someone who either had never laid eyes on an actual woman or harbored a deep-seated resentment towards anyone the wrong size and proportion, which would be everyone.

Yet somehow, you managed to wriggle yourself into it and made your way back to him.

"Now that's what I want to see," Raul smiled. "A beautiful woman and all mine."

"It's two sizes smaller than what I wear".

"Come closer, you silly creature, and grasp how breathtaking you are."

He tugged you towards the full-length mirror and swept your hair to one side so that you could take in your entire reflection.

Only it wasn’t yours.

When you played Sims and tweaked the controls to create the ideal you, you ended up with someone like this. Every trait similar to what you had, only better. A lot better. Smoother skin, better hair, smaller waist, perkier tits.

"They will see you through my eyes," Raphael said as his hands slid under your blouse and cupped your breasts. "These mortals will seethe with jealousy, envying me for having you and you for having me."

The woman in the mirror looked like someone Raphael would choose to be his consort. The skirt looked perfect, as it was tailor made just for you.

"That’s not me," you said, mesmerized by the eerie reflection.

"Nonsense. You didn't know who you truly were until you met me," he whispered in your ear. "If it's not you I'm putting my arms around, why would you feel them?"

You felt his palms squeeze your breasts and roll your nipples between his fingers. His lips brush your neck. His growing bulge against your backside.

"Now would you be so kind?.." he asked.

You could swear the woman in the mirror was bending over before you did, eagerly offering herself, sliding her panties down to her knees and placing her palms on either side of the mirror for leverage. His hands kneaded your buttocks, spreading you apart as his erection pressed against your entrance.

Foreplay wasn't on his agenda, you realized with a shiver. True enough, he penetrated you with a single thrust. First sharp pain, then the very familiar pleasure, liquid and pitch black and all-consuming.

"Look," he said. "Look at yourself. Look at me. Marvel at what you see."

The woman in the mirror moaned in response, pleasure etched on her face as the devil behind her ravaged. Her features twisted and blurred in ever-changing motion, skin wobbling like waves of water; she was shifting between all the women you ever dreamed of being - one moment Tav, then Christine, then Sarah Williams.

"It's not real," you moaned.

His eyes remained fixed on the mirror the whole time he fucked you. You arched backwards into him, grinding against him with each thrust, skin slapping against skin.

"There is no reality," he whispered back. "Other than what you see in that mirror”.

His thrusts came harder now, jolting you against the cold glass. The woman in the mirror seemed to have gone insane from how well she was being fucked, her face twisted in a barely human grimace of bliss.

"Climax," he commanded with a snap of his fingers.

You saw the woman in the mirror go limp in his arms, a look of absent bliss on her face, and then remember that the woman was you. A jagged sound ripped from you. Your body responded to the command like a dog thrown a biscuit; your cunt tightened around his cock once.

Twice.

The woman in the mirror morphed again; now it’s someone you’d seen a thousand times, the weird pale girl nobody ever gave a second look.

You.

Thrice.

The mirror you were propped against shattered - spectacularly so, its razor-sharp fragments raining down like confetti.

"Hang on," you managed to gurgle out in sheer terror as you tumbled, losing your balance. "Raphael, hold on..."

He didn't. Instead, he let gravity take over and you fell face-first into the broken mirror below, his weight following right after. Your scream of pleasure morphed into a wail of agony as countless tiny shards opened up on your skin; mutilating, cutting, obliterating.

oh god it hurts

Raphael groaned as he drove you deeper and deeper into the jagged fragments, your writhing and screaming doing nothing to deter him. The shards under your skin thrust in and out with each thrust, piercing right through you, through your face.

oh god it hurts; pulsated the single thought. The pain was nothing like you had felt before; it was the clearest sensation your clouded mind had ever processed.

A growing pool of blood spread like spilled wine on the white marble tiles beneath you. You closed your eyes tightly, but that didn't make the blood disappear. You blinked them open again... then closed them...

Blood was still there. Raphael thrust once, so hard there wasn’t a single shard left that didn’t hurt you.

Twice.

Three times, and he came inside you, spitting curses in Italian between ragged breaths.

The pain suddenly vanished as if snapped away by his fingers; but its ghostly memory kept your tears flowing.

"I swear to God, kitten" Raul murmured as he rolled off you, "the way you're screaming would make anyone think I'm murdering you."

You opened your eyes and stared at the perfectly white tiles.

No blood.

No shards. No cuts. No pain.

Nothing. You looked up in the mirror: the Gorgeous Version of You looked back. You looked down on yourself.

Exactly how you always wanted to be.

You laughed in blissful abandon. Then, you rolled onto your back, catching sight of Raul's gobsmacked expression which made you laugh even harder.

read the rest on ao3

#knock knock #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3

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