#13. she's falling in love with them

[puppyboy--butch]

Y'know I really really love that super long FitzSkimmons fic I wrote and posted, but it's a real shame it's only from Simmons perspective, solely because you don't get the joy of reading Fitz's internal monologue go from I should die for what I did to what happened was awful, but ultimately out of my control, and I need to start to try to forgive myself as he slowly begins to heal.

Or Daisy's, which is pretty much just I'M GOING TO HELL I'M GOING TO HELL OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO HELL.

[goldenroseeon]

Thinking about Dipper's paranoia, I think that should a Gravity Falls/Phineas and Ferb crossover exist, Dipper would actually hang out with Candace more, trying to bust the brothers (namely Phineas, who he thinks has some connection with Bill because triangle)

Mabel is moreso hanging out with the rest of the other backyard kids, and, because she is older than them, I think she plays into a "I'm so proud of my children" role whenever she hangs out with them.

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

how many times have you watched this scene or are you normal

[starfightrpilot]

i keep getting ads for telehealth medical cannabis clinics on facebook... is zucc trying to give me a sign? 🤔

[musical-chick-13]

*listening to Sex, Death, and the Infinite Void by Creeper after, essentially, a 30-hour Fatigue Coma™*

Me, deliriously: What if...this was.......a Space Marriage AU...................

[orcelito]

Listen I accepted my bisexuality and thus opened up the avenue of m/f shipping but in a queer way. Largely poly and/or bi4bi kinds of ways. But mostly m/f shipping where I actually delve into their emotions and see what really makes them tick.

It was always the shallow m/f shipping that I had a problem with. The "he's a boy and she's a girl, so of course they'd end up together" kind of thing. Given actual proper emotional development with their relationship, though...

Then Maybe.

[drewsephrry]

Love Island - Episode 13: Pick me, Choose me, Love me

pairings: rafe cameron x fem!reader

words: 4.9k

warnings: cuss words, sexual innuendos

series masterlist

The girls are gathered in the makeup room, getting ready for the recoupling. The atmosphere is thick, awkward and tense, like no one really wants to say what they’re thinking.

“So…a recoupling.” Cleo ventures, trying to break the silence. “That’s gonna be…interesting.”

No one really reacts. She clears her throat and turns to Y/N.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” She asks and Y/N offers a small, instinctive smile. 

“Honestly? I’m just excited to recouple with Rafe.” She says, a hint of giddiness slipping through. “But I do need to have a very uncomfortable conversation with Ryan first.”

“You’re going to talk to him?” Sarah asks, glancing up from her eyeshadow palette. Her eyes flick briefly to Kiara before returning to her brush. Y/N catches it and nods.

“It’s what he deserves.” Y/N says simply. “I can’t just leave things hanging like that. He needs to hear from me that I don’t see it going anywhere. Even if it’s hard. It’s not fair to let him think I might pick him when I won’t.”

The girls nod, quietly agreeing.

“You’re such a good person.” Cleo says warmly.

“I’m just trying to be honest.” Y/N replies with a shrug, meeting Kiara’s eye as she fans her eyelash glue dry.

Across the room, Abigail is rifling through her clothes in silence, round curlers perched on her head.

“Need a hand, Abi?” Y/N calls over.

Abigail turns with a soft smile and shakes her head. 

“I’m good, thanks.” She responds.

Y/N gives her a knowing nod before turning her attention back to her makeup bag, the buzz of tension still lingering beneath the surface.

Later, when the girls make their way downstairs, Y/N spots Ryan sitting on the couch with Kelce and John B. She walks over, steady but warm.

“Hey.” She says with a soft smile as she stops in front of them.

The boys greet her and she turns to Ryan. 

“Mind if I steal Ryan for a minute? I promise I’ll bring him back.” 

“Keep him.” John B teases, earning a few light laughs as Ryan stands up. He places a casual hand on Y/N’s waist as she leads him toward one of the quieter couches, away from the others.

“You look incredible tonight.” He says as they sit down.

Y/N’s cheeks flush with color as she glances at her dress.

“Thank you. You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Ryan leans back slightly, already sensing where the conversation is headed.

“I pulled you for a chat because…”

“You’re picking Rafe.” He says, cutting in gently and she freezes for a second. 

“Ryan…”

“It’s okay.” He says quickly. “I see you two together. I get it.”

“I did feel something between us. I want you to know that.” Y/N swallows, her voice quiet.

“I did too.” He says with a nod. “I really like you, Y/N. But I also know what you and Rafe have is different. I’m not here to fight for someone’s attention. I’m here to enjoy this and maybe find something real.”

Her expression softens, worry flickering in her eyes. 

“I never wanted to hurt you.” She mutters.

“You didn’t.” He reassures her, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “I had a crush, I took my shot and it didn’t work out. That’s life.”

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs again.

“Don’t be.” He smiles, sincere. “I’m glad we got to know each other. I want you to be happy. And if Rafe makes you happy, then I’m rooting for you.”

“This kind of feels like a breakup.” Y/N lets out a soft laugh. He laughs too. 

“It does. ‘I’m just focusing on my career right now.’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’” He jokes, tossing out the clichés. She laughs louder this time, before they fall into a brief, easy silence.

“I’d still like to be friends.” She says suddenly, sitting up.

“I’d really like that too.” He agrees and she opens her arms.

“Come here.”

He leans in, wrapping her in a warm hug. She breathes in the familiar scent of his and lets herself settle into the moment before pulling back with a smile.

“So…” She says, leaning back. “Thoughts on tonight’s recoupling?”

“What do you mean?” He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, have you felt a spark with anyone else? Who do you think might pick you?”

Ryan hesitates for a second, then leans in slightly like he’s sharing a secret. 

“Okay…don’t tease me or tell anyone yet, but…I think I’m getting a bit of a vibe from Abi.”

“Really?” Y/N’s eyes go wide, her smile lighting up. 

“Yeah.” He says with a grin. “She’s sweet. Funny. And I don’t know, maybe it’s because we entered the villa together, but there’s this comfort between us.”

“I can see that.” She says thoughtfully. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I want to.” He admits. “But I’m not sure where things stand between her and JJ.”

“Well.” Y/N says with a shrug. “You’ve got nothing to lose. I think you should go for it.”

“Thanks, Y/N. Really.” He nods, eyes warm. 

She smiles again, proud of the way things turned out, even if it wasn’t the easiest conversation to have.

Confessional - Ryan “I really respect her for pulling me aside and having that conversation. She didn’t just leave me hanging or make me look stupid…I mean she’s not the type to do that. She’s way too kind for that.” He says with a small sigh. “Honestly, I’m just grateful we got some closure.”

Across the villa, Kiara and Abigail are on the lounge beds, drinks in hand. The night air is warm, but the energy between them is noticeably cooler.

“Okay, so…” Abigail starts, her voice low and hesitant. “I pulled you for a chat because…shit, I’m really bad at confrontation.”

She takes a long breath before continuing.

“Last night, some people saw you and JJ going into the villa…and then coming back like twenty minutes later. And I’m not saying something definitely happened, but I guess I just wanted to ask...did…did something happen? If so, do you feel something there? Like…is there an actual connection? Or is it just friendly?” She winces. “God, I sound toxic. Just-just forget I said anything.”

She starts to rise, embarrassed, but Kiara gently reaches out and catches her hand.

“Abi, wait.”

Abigail pauses, then sinks back down beside her. Kiara exhales slowly. 

“There’s…been a vibe between JJ and me for a while. I didn’t act on it because I didn’t want to overthink it or make things messy. But last night, during the challenge… something shifted. It was this undeniable spark everyone talks about.”

She hesitates.

“Afterward, he told me to meet him upstairs. And I swear, I didn’t know what he was planning or what he was thinking.”

“So…what happened?” Abigail frowns. Kiara looks down at her drink, then back up.

“We kissed. Just once. But…it felt real. Like the first time I’ve had butterflies in this villa.”

Abigail’s face tightens. She looks away, staring into her glass. 

“You could’ve told me.” She mutters.

“I would. I swear.”

“When, Kie?” Abigail presses, her voice strained. “When you would have stood up and picked him at the recoupling?”

Kiara’s heart sinks. 

“No. I would never do that to you. Please…just trust me on this.”

“I want to. But the way you both hid this from me? I just…I didn’t expect this. Not from you.” Abigail shakes her head, eyes glassy but holding back. 

“I’m sorry, Abi. I really am.” Kiara's shoulders slump as the weight of her guilt settles in.

“I am too.” Abigail replies quietly as she stands. “I just need some space.”

Kiara nods silently, watching as Abigail walks away.

Confessional - Kiara “I would’ve told her. I should have told her.” She insists quietly.

Maddy and Sarah are in the kitchen, casually snacking and sipping on drinks, when Y/N strolls in and hops onto one of the stools.

“Hi, girlies.” She sing-songs, flashing them a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous.” Maddy beams, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “You good?”

“Just had the talk with Ryan.” Y/N exhales.

“Oh, shit.” Sarah’s eyes widen. “How’d it go?”

“He was actually…really chill about it.” Y/N says. “I think he saw it coming. He wasn’t upset and we agreed to stay friends, so…it went as well as it could have.”

“Yeah, no.” Maddy shakes her head, already unimpressed. “Boys and girls can’t just be friends.”

“I hate to break it to you, Mads.” Y/N says with a smirk, “But I have to disagree.”

“Nope. Every guy I’ve ever said ‘let’s be friends’ to, whether that was exes, flings or even random guys I’ve ended up hooking up with at some point. It’s literally impossible. Unless they’re gay.”

“Honestly, I have to side with Maddy on this one.” Sarah raises her hand like she’s seconding a motion.

“Well, that’s not gonna happen with me and Ryan.” Y/N rolls her eyes.

“Whatever you say.” Maddy says, folding her arms. “But it’s impossible when there are feelings involved.”

“There are no feelings involved.” Y/N insists, shaking her head. “Not like that.”

“You like him.” Maddy replies immediately, raising a smug brow.

“I don’t like-like him.” 

“But you like him.”

“I don’t have a crush!” She argues.

“But you like him.” Maddy says again, grinning.

“I just think he’s-”

“Charming?” Maddy laughs. “Yeah, you've said it a million times, babe. You like him.”

Y/N sighs and turns her gaze to the beanbags, where Rafe is sitting, relaxed and glowing under the villa lights.

“Well…if I do like Ryan, it’s not the way I like Rafe.” Her voice softens as she watches him. “Ryan’s a great guy. He came in when I was all over the place. And he helped, you know? He pulled me out of my head when I was still dealing with the whole…cheating thing. But at the end of the day, he’s not Rafe.”

“You’re falling for Rafe.” Sarah lets out a squeal.

“D-Don’t say that.” Y/N warns, instantly flustered.

“Oh my god, did you stutter?” Maddy gasps, pointing at her. “You totally stuttered. You’re so falling for him!”

Y/N groans and hides her face in her hands as the girls burst into giggles around her.

Just then, Kiara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking softly against the wooden floor.

“Y/N?” She says, carefully.

Y/N lifts her head from her hands, eyebrows raised. 

“Kie? What’s going on?”

Kiara glances at Maddy and Sarah, who go quiet, sipping their drinks. Then she turns back to Y/N, nervous but determined.

“I...I feel like a hypocrite.” She says quietly. “Calling Rafe a liar, saying I didn’t trust him and that he’d hurt you…when I messed up too.”

Y/N’s eyes widen slightly, already sensing what’s coming.

“Kie-” “I kissed JJ.” Kiara blurts out.

The room goes still. All three girls look up at her, stunned.

“And...we didn’t tell Abigail.” She continues. “She found out. And it sucked. Seeing her face like that…seeing how hurt she was.”

Y/N immediately opens her arms and Kiara walks into her embrace. Y/N rubs her back gently as she speaks.

“I think I know how Abi feels.” She murmurs. “And honestly, the best thing you can do is give her some time. Let everything breathe a little.”

She pulls back to look Kiara in the eyes.

“Was the kiss just in the moment? Or…did it mean something?” Y/N asks.

“I wanted to kiss him. And…I think he did too. He made the first move.”

Y/N sighs, but it’s not judgmental, it's more thoughtful.

“Then yeah…I think what hurt Abigail most wasn’t just the kiss, it was the fact you kept it from her.”

“So I should just… give her space?” 

Y/N nods and Maddy and Sarah follow with quiet agreement.

“And the recoupling?” Kiara asks, almost in a whisper.

The girls exchange glances. No one jumps to answer.

“Just…go with your gut.” Y/N says gently. “If you talked to Abigail first, explained what happened and how you feel about JJ, then she probably will understand your choice. But if you’re unsure about JJ or if there’s no real feeling behind it...maybe it’s not worth the fallout.”

Kiara nods again, taking it all in. Then she leans in and hugs Y/N one more time.

“Thank you.” She murmurs.

“Anytime.” Y/N gives her a soft smile. 

Confessional - Kiara “That talk with Y/N definitely helped me make up my mind.” Kiara says, nodding. “Honestly, someone should just hand that girl a psychology degree.”

Rafe sits by the firepit with JJ and Topper, the three of them nursing their drinks.

“Rafe?” Topper says cautiously.

“Yeah?” Rafe’s jaw tightens as he glances up at him.

“I just wanna say I’m sorry for what I said the other night.” Topper starts, shifting in his seat and Rafe gives a small nod, letting him continue.

“I shouldn’t have called Y/N fake or said she was playing you. I thought I was looking out for you, but...I was out of line. I’ve had time to think it over and I see both your sides now. I just want you to be happy, man.”

Rafe exhales slowly. 

“Then don’t talk shit about her again.” He says simply. “And really, you owe her the apology, not me.”

“I figured you’d say that.” Topper nods, already expecting that. “And yeah, I will. I promise. So...we good?”

“We’re good, man.” Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle and nods.

They dab each other up and JJ leans back on the bench with a sigh, clearly growing impatient.

“Alright, can we get to the real crisis here?” JJ says.

The guys glance over at him.

“What now?” Rafe asks, lifting his glass.

“I, uh…I kissed Kiara last night. And I haven’t told Abigail.” JJ reveals.

“Shit.” Topper’s eyes widen.

“I know. It just…happened. And I don’t regret it. Kiara and I had a moment. I kinda wanna see where it goes.” 

“And Abigail?” Rafe presses.

“I like her too.” JJ admits. “I’m a mess.”

“Then be straight with her. Don’t leave her in the dark.” Rafe says, the memory of his own screw-ups flickering behind his eyes.

“She’s gonna hate me.” JJ mutters.

“She might be pissed, sure. But she deserves the truth, JJ.” Rafe looks at him, voice softer now.

“And you better do it before the recoupling.” Topper adds.

JJ stands up  like he’s ready to go and then a loud ping echoes.

“I got a text!” Sarah shouts from the kitchen. “Islanders, please gather at the firepit. #decisiontime #whowillitbe.”

JJ freezes, then drops back down onto the bench with a groan. 

“Fuck.” He mutters.

Rafe gives his back a sympathetic smack while the boys let out a collective sigh.

Confessional - JJ “I’m fucked. This whole thing is fucked.” He runs a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

The Islanders begin gathering slowly, one by one taking their seats beside their current partners. A phone chimes, slicing through the chatter.

“Boys.” Pope reads. “Please stand at the front of the firepit.”

The guys exchange a few glances before getting to their feet and making their way to the front. The girls shift in their seats, anticipation building as they prepare for the recoupling.

Maddy’s phone buzzes first. She jumps up with a grin, practically glowing.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She begins, her voice light. “Because he’s made me laugh more than anyone before. He’s sweet, he’s fun and I always feel at ease when I’m around him. So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Kelce.”

He jogs over, plants a kiss on her lips and she giggles as they sit back down together, his arm draping naturally around her shoulder.

Next up is Sarah, who stands and delivers a short but heartfelt speech. She smiles as she chooses John B and he walks over, grabbing her and kissing her. Their kiss turns intense fast, drawing whistles and laughter from the others.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough!” Someone calls and they break apart, laughing as they return to their seats.

Alyssa stands next. Her expression is a little more serious.

“I'd like to couple up with this boy, because even though things haven’t exactly been smooth between us lately.” She says. “I still believe there’s something worth holding onto.” She glances at Topper. “So I’m choosing to couple up with…Topper.”

He walks over, hugs her a little longer than expected and they sit down quietly.

Y/N stands up slowly, smoothing out her dress and letting out a small breath as all eyes fall on her.

“I wanna couple up with this boy because…” She begins, voice a little unsteady. “Even though we haven’t known each other that long...being around him just feels easy.”

She lets out a quick breath, eyes flicking toward him.

“Okay, not always easy.” She admits with a small laugh. “It’s been a bit messy, if I’m honest. But somehow, it still feels real.”

Rafe watches her, lips twitching into a subtle smile.

“We’ve had our ups and downs already. But there’s something there. And no matter how things have gone…I keep coming back to him.”

Her voice softens at the end, eyes lingering on him now.

“So yeah. The boy I wanna couple up with…is Rafe.”

He’s already on his feet before she finishes, crossing the space between them in a few steps. He wraps his arms around her waist and lifts her just slightly, kissing her without saying a word. She smiles into it, arms winding naturally around his neck like she’s done it a hundred times.

“Hey!” Sarah calls out, teasing. “You told me and John B to keep it PG!”

Everyone laughs as they finally break apart and settle on the bench together. Rafe turns to her, eyes scanning her face.

“You’re not wearing that…lip stuff tonight?” He asks, voice lower now.

“You always kiss it off anyway. Figured I’d skip the routine.” She grins. He chuckles, hand settling on her waist again as she leans into him. He presses a kiss to her temple, then turns his attention back to the firepit, still holding her. 

Abigail rises slowly.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She says. “Because he’s funny, he’s sweet and from the moment we met, he’s had this really kind and calming energy. I’ve loved getting to know him, and I’d really like to see where this could go.” She exhales. “So the boy I wanna couple up with is…Ryan.”

Ryan’s eyes widen. He turns instinctively to look at Y/N, who mirrors his expression before giving him an encouraging grin.

He walks over to Abigail, kisses her cheek and takes the seat beside her.

JJ, still standing at the front, furrows his brow in confusion. He glances at Abigail across the firepit. But she doesn’t meet his eyes.

“That was…unexpected.” Ryan whispers to Abigail.

“Not really.” She replies, calmly meeting his eyes.

Ryan relaxes a little more in his seat, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Cleo stands next and confidently chooses Pope. Their kiss is sweet and unhurried before they settle down again.

Finally, Kiara rises.

“I’d like to couple up with this boy.” She sighs. “Because he’s really handsome, really funny and somehow always has me laughing until I can’t breathe. And...there’s a spark there. Something worth exploring. So, the boy I wanna couple up with is…JJ.”

JJ walks over slowly, hugging her a little awkwardly in front of everyone before they both sit down with matching sighs.

When the recoupling wraps up, the islanders scatter. Some heading toward the fire pit, others toward the daybeds, settling in with their partners.

Ryan and Abigail walk over to one of the couches, drinks in hand, the warm night buzzing around them.

“I gotta say.” Ryan starts, settling in beside her. “I’m really glad you picked me.”

“You are?” Abigail asks, her smile soft but a little surprised.

“Yeah.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was actually telling Y/N earlier…I feel like we’ve got something. A connection, I guess. I mean…we came in together, which probably made it easier. But being around you just feels���natural. Comfortable. You’re really sweet. And stunning, obviously. And now I’m rambling.” He lets out a nervous laugh.

Abigail laughs too. 

“No, it’s okay.” She pauses, then adds more seriously, “I do feel that connection, too. But I want to be honest with you. Right before the recoupling…I found out something happened between JJ and Kiara. And I won’t lie, it did influence my choice.”

“Okay.” Ryan’s smile dims just a little, but he nods, taking it in.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m using you or that it’s not real. Because I meant what I said up there. I chose you because I see something with you.”

Ryan leans forward slightly, his expression earnest. 

“I didn’t know about the JJ and Kiara thing. I knew he wanted to talk to her, but that’s it. And honestly? I don’t think you’d ever use me like that. I see you. Or at least, I’m starting to. And yeah, maybe everything's moving fast and it’s all a bit chaotic right now, but I’m here and I want to see where this goes. Whenever you are ready.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot. It is a lot right now.” Abigail nods, her shoulders relaxing a little.

“Come here.” He opens his arms gently. She leans in and hugs him tight, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Confessional - Ryan “Yeah, I know she’s got a lot on her mind and things are messy right now…but I’m genuinely glad she chose me.” He grins. “I wanna keep getting to know her. See where this goes.”

The islanders start making their way into the villa to get ready for the night. Rafe walks through the flower-lined corridor, carrying Y/N in his arms like a bride. She giggles the whole way, her laughter echoing as they step inside and the boys, already lounging around, erupt in cheers.

“Here comes the bride!” JJ hollers, grinning as the others join in with whistles and claps.

Rafe gently sets her down at the foot of the stairs. She turns to smile at him, but before she can fully walk away, he catches her hand and pulls her back into him, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“Don’t take too long.” He murmurs. She giggles, giving him another quick peck before heading upstairs.

In the dressing room, the girls are wiping off their makeup and chatting about the day. The door swings open and Y/N walks in to a chorus of playful screams.

“There she is!” Maddy teases. “How are you feeling Mrs. Cameron?”

Y/N blushes, grinning wide. 

“Honestly? My cheeks hurt from smiling. I feel…giddy.” She replies as the girls laugh with her, the energy light and warm.

A few feet away, Kiara is taking off her earrings when Abigail approaches her quietly.

“Hey.” Abigail says.

“Hey.” Kiara glances over. 

“I just...I wanted to say sorry. If I came off mean earlier.”

“You didn’t.” Kiara assures her gently. “But you have every right to be upset. I should’ve told you. I get it.”

“I’m not mad.” Abigail shakes her head. “I was just... frustrated, I guess. But I see the way you and JJ are with each other. And I don’t want to be in the middle of that.”

Kiara steps in for a hug and Abigail wraps her arms around her without hesitation.

“I love you.” Kiara whispers. “And I’m really sorry for how it all happened.”

“Love you too.” Abigail says softly, pulling back with a small smile before going to change into her pajamas.

Confessional - Abigail “Me and JJ…it was fun while it lasted. All two days of it.” She lets out a small laugh. “But this is Love Island. I can’t be mad at him for wanting to see where things go with Kie. And I’m definitely not mad at her either. It is what it is.”

Later, as the girls trickle downstairs, Abigail makes her way over to JJ’s bed. He looks up, running a hand through his hair as she approaches.

“Hey.” He says.

She sits down where he pats beside him.

“I know about you and Kiara.” She starts, voice calm. “And I’m not mad. Or hurt. I’ve had time to think and I can see she really wants to give whatever’s between you two a shot. And I don’t want to be in the way of that.”

JJ nods, his expression sincere. 

“I should’ve pulled you aside sooner. I messed up, and I take full responsibility for that. I’m sorry, Abigail.” He apologizes and she nods, a soft smile on her lips. 

“Thank you for saying that.” 

He nods back and with a quiet understanding between them, she stands and heads to her bed, where Ryan is already lying down, looking up at her with a warm smile.

Meanwhile, Y/N steps into the bedroom, the soft swish of silk the only sound as she crosses the room in her yellow pajamas. The camisole clings delicately to her frame, lace tracing her bust and hem, matching the floral silk shorts that sit snugly on her hips. Rafe doesn’t even try to hide it as his eyes follow every step, the straw from his water bottle paused at his lips.

He shifts under the covers and lifts the duvet for her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“That color.” He mutters, voice low and a little hoarse. “Looks too damn good on you.”

She smiles, settling on her side of the bed and placing her phone and water bottle on the bedside table. But before she can fully lie down, Rafe reaches over, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. She melts into him, a quiet laugh leaving her lips as she tucks her face against his neck.

Then, a hesitant voice breaks the moment.

“Hey…Y/N?”

Topper approaches slowly. 

“Hey, Topper. You alright?”nShe sits up slightly, turning to him with a concerned smile.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He clears his throat, shifting awkwardly as he glances between her and Rafe. “I just…I wanted to apologize. For what I said the other day. Calling you fake, saying you were playing Rafe…that was outta line.”

“It’s fine, really-” Y/N shakes her head.

“No, I need to say it. I was out of line and you didn’t deserve that.” He cuts in, firm but sincere.

She exhales softly, then moves to crawl across Rafe to reach him. She opens her arms and Topper doesn’t hesitate to hug her back.

From behind her, Rafe’s eyes drop to the way her shorts ride up, his gaze darkening slightly.

“Yo, Rafe.” Topper teases as they pull apart, catching the look. “You’re drooling, man.”

Y/N giggles, looking over her shoulder to find Rafe still staring. She smacks his chest playfully.

“My eyes are up here.”

“I know.” He murmurs, eyes finally lifting to meet hers.

She turns back to Topper with a gentle smile.

“Thanks for apologizing.” She mutters and Topper nods, offering a final glance to them both before heading to his own bed.

“Good man.” Rafe calls after him.

As soon as he’s gone, Y/N moves to her side of the bed again, but Rafe isn’t having it. He pulls her back into his lap with ease, arms around her waist and she laughs as her arms drape over his shoulders.

The villa goes dark, a chorus of sleepy goodnights floating through the air.

Rafe leans in, not wasting a second, capturing Y/N’s lips with his. She kisses him back eagerly, fumbling to pull the duvet over them as if it might shield them from the intensity brewing between them.

His hands find her waist, fingers splaying and sliding down to her hips, then lower. Her body shifts, brushing against him in a way that makes him let out a low, guttural groan.

“Sorry.” She breathes out, her voice shaky as she adjusts the blanket.

“Don’t…don’t apologize.” He murmurs, eyes fluttering open in the dark. “Fuck, I-I want you.”

“Ray…” She pulls back just enough, the air between them cooling. There’s hesitation in her voice now and it makes him blink, thrown off.

“Wh-Am I moving too fast or something?” He asks, voice suddenly laced with concern.

Her hand finds the back of his neck, her fingers trailing gently through his hair, grounding him even as she hesitates.

“I…is kissing okay? Just kissing, for now?”

Relief and restraint flash across his features as he nods quickly. 

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s more than okay. We don’t even have to do anything. I just wanna be with you.” He murmurs. She exhales, her shoulders relaxing. 

“It’s just…it’s our first night back together. After everything that’s happened, I don’t wanna rush anything.”

“I get it. You lead the way.” He reaches up, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear with the softest touch. 

She gives him a grateful, almost shy smile, then leans in again. Their lips meet gently at first, a slow burn, until she deepens the kiss with a quiet hunger that still makes his head spin.

Rafe’s hands slide back to her waist, gripping her just right, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t go further.

He’s content kissing her like this. Wanting more, but respecting the pace she sets.

And when she finally rests her head against his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around her, he presses a kiss to her hair.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers like a vow into the dark.

to be continued...

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[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Summary: You work as a housekeeper in a rich family's mansion and often have to deal with their spoiled daughter. One day, she asks you to pretend to be her on a blind date with a guy her dad picked out for her. Your mission is to make him not like you so he won't want to marry her. But here's the twist: will Harry end up hating you, or could he actually fall for you? That's the real question. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. authors note: I am not sure about his name. If there's any update, I will edit. English is not my native, so please be nice; this is my third fanfiction. Thank you for the reblogs, comments, and likes. Love you all!

ao3 link

Chapter 1: Blind Date

Chapter 2: Cinderella

Chapter 3: Happily Never After

Chapter 4: No More Secrets

Chapter 5: Falling Hard

Chapter 6: Truth or Dare

Chapter 7: Apologize

Chapter 8: Trick or Threat

Chapter 9: Hurt

Chapter 10: Here Without You

Chapter 11: Favorite Crime

Chapter 12: You're the Reason

Chapter 13: How Long Will I Love You (final chapter)

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[stylesispunk]

"Whatever you'd like us to be" | part 1

harry castillo (materialists) x sunshine! reader

series masterlist | next chapter

Summary: the one where you met this incredible, charming man at your best friend's wedding.

w.c: 9,3k.

warnings: age gap (reader is 29-30 and harry 47), mentions of puke, and fluff. (Not angst, shocking)

A/N: This chapter comes out two days later than intended becuase I deleted it by mistake so it's all rewritten. Okay, I wanted to put all the stuff that you can find in a rom-com and It probably came out as a little lame, cringy. It made me want to vomit. If you don't like it, move on, but if you do, please tell me what you think. Also, I may have lied a bit in the summary I shared weeks ago👀 (I rewatched 13 going 30 and I got "Crazy for you" by madonna stuck in my head).

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Self-proclaimed, a hopeless romantic. That’s how you would define your way too much overthinker heart, mind, body and soul. As a whole. Yes, still completely indulging your life from being the little girl dreaming about the handsome charming prince that would come to save you to the full growing adult, still spending her time overindulging in the rom-com fantasy.

How wouldn’t you?

You were practically living in a romantic comedy. Just… not the starring role.

All over again.

You had witnessed your all your group of friends meeting stranger and becoming each’s others world. How they stumbled into other people in that oh-so-whimsical way, fall in love, have the inevitable argument that had leave them screaming into their pillows the moment their bodies hit their bed, followed by the questions and the “yes, I do” walking into the happily ever after.

You were still waiting so patiently for the love to fall into your feet like it did back in those movies. That the right person would knock up your world in the most unexpected way, when you least expected it.

At least that is what people had told you, out of pity, out of a terribly cruel joke. And of course, you kept smiling. It was always there, in your mind. Scanning around room of possible candidates, who out of these people could be the love of your life?

In movies, love had always found a way to look like the key needed to fix everybody’s problems. The mere touch of another’s hands, or having an eye to catch across a crowded room would be enough to make turmoil’s ease, to make your heart burst and make your cheeks hurt from all the smiling.

Which made you cliché. Hopelessly, irrevocably cliché.

Because now, here you were.

At your best friend’s wedding.

She looked unfairly beautiful, practically glowing in a white-laced dress that her now-husband had insisted on paying for. You’d been there for all of it — the dress shopping, the cake tastings, the flower debates that nearly ended friendships. You’d held her hair back when she drank too much at the bachelorette party and sobbed about how she didn’t feel like herself anymore.

And you were genuinely, truly happy for her.

But as you sat alone at the table, watching her sway under the fairy lights with her new husband, something tight settled in your chest. A quiet, persistent ache.

Because now you were the last one.

Your little circle of childhood friends, the five of you who used to swear you’d grow old together, drinking cheap wine on Friday nights and complaining about your disastrous dating lives — one by one, they’d all paired off. Two of them pregnant, one already discussing baby names and nursery colors like it was the most natural thing in the world. Another one had just bought a house with her boyfriend, some fixer-upper they were documenting on Instagram like it was a home renovation series on a streaming platform.

And you?

You were still the one ordering takeout for one. The one picking movies no one else wanted to see. The one looking for a sign, a spark, a stranger’s glance across a crowded room.

Claire looked heartbreakingly beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made your chest ache in that sharp, bittersweet way. The lights from the chandelier above cast a warm glow over her, catching in the delicate beading of her dress as she swayed with Chris, her new husband, to some old love song you didn’t quite catch the name of.

They were laughing — that soft, private kind of laugh shared between two people in a world of their own — and you felt your throat tighten.

God, you were such a sap.

You hadn’t even noticed the tears gathering in your eyes until you blinked, and one threatened to slip free. You caught it with the pad of your finger before it could ruin your mascara. It wasn’t jealousy, not really. It wasn’t even loneliness. It was… longing. A longing for a moment like that. To be someone’s person. To have your own first dance, your own secret laughs beneath fairy lights straight out a movie.

And then, as if she could feel it, Claire’s gaze lifted, cutting across the room, and landed on you.

Her eyes softened, the kind of look that made you feel sixteen again, sneaking out of her bedroom window in the middle of the night, promising you’d never let some boy come between the both of you. She gave you a wink, wide and mischievous and so her, and then that wide, brilliant smile bloomed across her face.

You smiled back, the tears spilling over now, though you doubted anyone could tell in the dim light. In that moment, you were so damn happy for her you thought your heart might burst.

But as the song slowed, and the couples began to fill the floor around them, you felt that ache settle deep in your ribs. That quiet reminder.

You were the one still waiting.

The clinking of glass against silverware broke through the hum of the ongoing conversations, and a chorus of “Speech! Speech!” rose from the tables. Claire shot you a look, that go on, it’s your turn look, and your stomach immediately flipped.

Right. Your maid of honor duties.

You took a steadying breath, grabbing your champagne glass and rising to your feet, the sudden attention of the room making your skin prickle. Claire was watching you, eyes gleaming, her hand curled tight around Chris’s. God, she looked so happy.

You cleared your throat and gave a small, sheepish smile.

“Well,” you started, your voice a little shaky at first but finding its footing, “I was told to keep this short… but then Claire also told me to pick a dress I’d feel ‘comfortable’ in and look at me now.”

The room chuckled, and you felt yourself relax a little.

“I’ve known Claire since we were around eight years old. She was the new kid next to my house in my neighborhood, and I was the bossy little girl who made her promise that she liked dogs and Titanic, or else we couldn’t be friends.”

Another soft ripple of laughter.

“And you know what? She did. And from that day on, we became thick as thieves, inseparables. She’s been my person ever since. My partner in crime. The voice of reason when I’m about to make a terrible decision or at least, the one holding my hair back while I make it anyway. The one who had always had my back, the one who had watched me shine and I’ve been watching her shine too. Just as this very same moment, where she is lighting up this room entirely by herself.”

Claire laughed a little into her glass, tears shining in her eyes.

You glanced down at your notes, but they suddenly felt useless. All these words were coming straight out from your heart anyway.

“I’ve watched this woman survive terrible boyfriends, bad haircuts, quarter-life crises, and Sunday hangovers. I’ve seen her fall down and get back up more times than I can count. And then, one day, this guy” you gestured toward Chris, who grinned like an idiot, “walked in and… he just stole her from me because he stole her so beautiful heart. He made her laugh in a way I hadn’t seen in a long time.”

Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it.

“I think we spend a lot of our lives searching for someone who feels like home, that feels like you are stepping right into the daylight in a cold winter day, and watching you two, it’s pretty clear you’ve found yours.”

Claire was fully crying now, mascara be damned, and it made your own tears sting again.

“I love you both, so much. And I know there’s no one else I’d rather see steal her from our Friday wine nights and chick flick marathons.”

You raised your glass, your voice soft.

“To Claire and Chris. May your life be filled with belly laughs, and that kind of love that feels like being sunbathed in winter.”

The room lifted their glasses in a chorus of agreement.

You caught Claire’s glassy-eyed smile one more time before you sat down, heart pounding against your ribs. A warm buzz of applause followed you, and you felt yourself flush under the attention, but it faded as the music picked back up, and people returned to their conversations, laughter filling the room.

And that’s when you felt the gaze of someone over you. Leaning against the bar.

One of Chris’s groomsmen. You’d seen him earlier, lingering at the edge of the group photos, dodging the eager wedding planner who kept trying to wrangle everyone into neat lines. He wasn’t like Chris’s other friends, younger, loud, glued to their phones and betting on who’d get lucky tonight.

He was older than the rest of Chris’s friends. You guessed mid-forties, maybe a little more. Salt-and-pepper hair, streaked silver at the temples in a way that made your so ever hopeless romantic brain short-circuit a little. His suit jacket fitting the right place, and his tie loose around his neck. He nursed a glass of something dark in his hand, he was smiling widely, and there was something about the way his mouth curved at the corner that made your stomach do a quiet little somersault.

Because he was still looking at you.

Not staring. Not the sleazy, lingering kind of look you were far too used to dodging at weddings.

Like he had seen something.

Like maybe you weren’t as invisible as you’d felt your whole life.

You quickly looked away, heat blooming up your neck.

God, you felt ridiculous.

You grabbed your phone from the table, pretending to check a message you knew wasn’t there. Your fingers hovered over the screen before you started typing something into your note’s app, a silly habit of yours when emotions threatened to spill over.

“Is it pathetic to hope for a meet-cute at someone else’s wedding? Asking for a friend.”

You dropped the phone face down on the table, the soft hum of conversation blending with the strains of an old love song floating from the speakers. Some of the guests were coupling off on the dance floor again, swaying under the canopy of string lights, the whole room glowing in that amber, too-perfect, makes-your-heart-ache kind of way.

Your gaze wandered and landed on your parents, just a little way from Claire and Chris. Your mom's head resting against your dad's shoulder as they moved together, slowly, like the whole world outside this song didn’t exist. Your dad leaned in, murmured something, and your mom let out that small, breathy laugh you knew by heart, the one that meant she was still hopelessly in love with him after all these years.

It made your chest tighten in a way that was both painful and sweet. You rested your chin on your arm, propped up on the table, a smile tugging at your lips as you watched them.

And then, a tap on your bare shoulder.

You startled a little, blinking as you turned, and there he was.

The groomsman.

Up close, the salt-and-pepper was even better, the kind of hairstyle you only thought existed in movies. He had fine lines around his eyes, the kind people got from all the laughing, and a half-crooked, easy smile that did something absolutely unforgivable to your stomach.

“Hey,” he said, voice warm, a little rough at the edges. “Mind if I sit?”

You blinked, caught off guard by how direct it was, and gave a little laugh before gesturing to the chair beside you. “Not at all. Unless you’re looking for a table with a better company, in which case… terrible choice.”

He chuckled, setting his drink down and sliding into the chair, leaning back with that unbothered confidence of someone perfectly at ease in their own skin.

“I would really like to have your company,” he said, tipping his head toward the dance floor. “Figured it was time to come here and talk.”

The air between you crackled, just a little, in a way that made you hyper-aware of how close he was now. How the room seemed to blur at the edges.

“I’m Harry, by the way,” he offered, holding out a hand.

You took it. Warm, calloused, and it lingered just a second longer than strictly necessary.

You gave him your name, and he repeated it back in a way that made it sound better than you’d ever heard it before.

You bit your lip, fighting a grin. “You’re one of Chris’s friends, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. From work

There was a beat of quiet, not awkward, at all, but that kind of silence that could lead to new things, like a thread tugging between you both.

Then Harry tipped his head toward the dance floor, smirking. “So… are you one of those ‘leave before dessert’ types, or would you like to dance with me?”

You blinked, caught off guard.

And then you smiled. A real one. Maybe, just maybe, the hopeless romantic in you had been waiting for this moment all along.

“I guess that depends,” you teased, setting your glass down and standing, “do you lead or follow?”

Harry chuckled, rising to his feet. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

And as his hand slid into yours again, leading you toward the floor beneath the warm glow of fairy lights, you felt that old ache loosen its grip.

The opening notes of “Crazy for you” by Madonna starting drifting through the speakers

Swaying room as the music starts

Strangers making the most of the dark

Two by two, their bodies become one

It was already making memories out of moments you didn’t know you were making.

I see you through the smokey air

Can't you feel the weight of my stare?

You're so close but still a world away

The air shifted.

Not dramatically, not with some cinematography hush, but enough that your chest tightened and your eyes stung in that way they did when something beautiful caught you off guard. You weren’t expecting that song, weren’t expecting this, any of it.

Harry’s hand in yours tightened and he smiled when he caught the look on your face, those amber-flecked eyes crinkling at his, a small, knowing thing.

“You look quite adorable now, you know?” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft thrum of the music and the buzz of other voices.

You felt yourself blush, your stomach flipping like you were sixteen again and someone had just scribbled do you like me? yes or no on a napkin.

“I do not,” you laughed under your breath, trying to play it cool, though your face was already giving you away.

Harry only grinned wider, tugging you a little closer as you reached the edge of the dance floor. “Yeah, you do,” he said softly. “But it makes you look even more beautiful.”

I'm crazy for you

Touch me once and you'll know it's true

I never wanted anyone like this

It's all brand new

You'll feel it in my kiss

I'm crazy for you

Crazy for you

The song wrapped around you both as he rested a careful hand at your waist, your other hand finding his shoulder. It wasn’t a crowded floor anymore, the couples left were mostly the older ones, swaying to memories of their own.

And there you were.

Slowly, you began to move.

Trying hard to control my heart

I walk over to where you are

Eye to eye, we need no words at all

The world shrank to the sound of the song, the warmth of his hand, and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing worth noticing in the room.

“I love this song,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above the music.

Harry smirked, leaning in a little. “Of course, you do.”

You arched a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughed, low and genuine. “It means you have good taste. And maybe… you’re a bit of the romantic type.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “Maybe.”

The moment lingered, that good kind of quiet stretching between you.

Then, softer, almost shy, which you didn’t expect from him, Harry asked, “So… what took you so long to come say hi?”

You bit your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Touché.”

And then you were both grinning again, like two people who’d known each other for more than just the length of a wedding reception.

I'm crazy for you

Touch me once and you'll know it's true

I never wanted anyone like this

It's all brand new

You'll feel it in my kiss

You let yourself lean into it, into him, into the warmth of the room and the simple sweetness of being wanted. No rush, no pressure. Just the music, his hand on your back, the soft shuffle of your feet in time.

Harry's thumb traced a lazy circle against your waist. He smelled like warm spice and something clean, and his hair fell into his eyes when he dipped his head to look at you.

“I was hoping you’d say yes,” he murmured, like it was some kind of secrecy.

You tilted your head. “To dancing?”

“To this,” he gestured vaguely between you both, lips quirking up. “I don’t usually… I mean, I’m not good at this kind of thing. Not since…”

His words trailed off, but you understood. You weren’t exactly a champion at it either. All the near-misses and unspoken things you’d tucked away over the years, waiting for a night like this, a person who, perhaps looked like the one.

“I’m glad you did,” you said, meaning it more than you expected.

He smiled again, that softer one, the one that made his eyes crinkle and your stomach flip.

“I’m crazy for you…” Madonna crooned, and you both chuckled at the timing.

“Bit on the nose, huh?” you teased.

Harry leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m a bit of a romantic too.”

That earned a grin from you. And without really thinking about it, you rested your head lightly against his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. In fact, his hand tightened at your back, and he let out a breath, like maybe he’d been waiting for this too.

The song carried on, wrapping you both in a haze of something golden and bittersweet. The room around you blurred. You didn’t notice the servers’ clearing glasses, the other couples slowly shuffling off the floor. It was just you and him and the words of a song older than both of you.

When the last few notes played out, neither of you moved right away.

You stayed there, his chin resting lightly against your temple, your hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt.

And then, quietly

“Can I see you after this?” he asked, his voice low and unsure in a way that made your heart ache a little.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were warm and a little nervous and completely open.

“I’d like that,” you whispered.

Harry smiled, and it was that same grin from earlier, the one you realized you’d already grown stupidly fond of.

“I should—” His words faltered, his gaze shifting over your shoulder, his expression flickering. Something tightened in his jaw. You followed his line of sight before you could stop yourself.

A woman stood a few feet away, near the bar, a vision in a deep blue dress that shimmered under the glow of the lights. She was stunning, the kind of woman who didn’t just enter a room, she owned it. Waves of dark hair, a tilt of her head like she knew exactly how she looked and how it made people feel. And you knew her. Not well, but enough.

Lucy.

She was the one who’d introduced Claire and Chris. A friend of a friend, always on the fringe of your social circles, always a little too cool, a little too knowing.

The ache in your stomach came so fast it almost made you dizzy.

You didn’t ask Harry anything. Didn’t need to. The way his posture changed, the way something soft in his face shuttered when he looked at her, you already knew.

And then, as if sensing the shift in you too, his eyes found yours again.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, voice rough. “She’s… well, she’s my ex.”

There it was. Like a thread snapping. The warm, golden haze of the moment instantly clouded over.

You tried to keep your face even, but you knew, and your disappointment showed it. Because suddenly, every word he’d said, every touch, every smile felt suspect. A well-placed scene meant for someone else to see.

You swallowed hard and forced a small smile, stepping back.

“I should… I’m gonna go check on Claire,” you said, voice breezy, pretending like your stomach hadn’t just dropped.

Harry opened his mouth, maybe to stop you, maybe to explain, but you were already turning, weaving through the bodies on the dance floor.

The fairy lights didn’t feel so warm anymore. The music blurred, background noise to the rush of your pulse in your ears.

You didn’t look back at him.

Instead, you made your way toward the patio doors, needing air, or space, or just distance from the way your chest felt too tight. Leaning against the cool railing outside, you focused on the string lights overhead and the muffled bass of songs still playing inside, the last notes lingering like a memory you’d already lost.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice teased behind you.

You turned to find Claire grinning, two glasses of champagne in her hands. She passed you one before settling beside you, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What was that all about with Harry?” she asked, nudging your arm. “Are you two lovers or something now?”

You snorted, the sound a little rougher than you meant it to be, taking a sip of the champagne to buy yourself a second.

“God, Claire,” you said, trying for lightness. “No. We’re not… it’s not like that.”

She raised a brow. “Could’ve fooled me. The way he was looking at you? And you were looking back? Come on, if that wasn’t ‘we’re about to kiss and possibly leave this party together’ energy, I don’t know what is.”

You sighed, your shoulders slumping a little as you stared down at the bubbles in your glass.

“It… it felt nice,” you admitted. “But then…”

Claire’s teasing expression faded into something softer.

“Then what?”

You hesitated. It sounded petty, it sounded stupid when said out loud, but you needed to get it out.

“His ex is here,” you said quietly. “Lucy.”

Claire’s brows shot up. “Lucy Lucy? As in my matchmaker Lucy who introduced me to Chris?”

You managed a small, sad smile. “Yeah. That Lucy.”

Claire let out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t know they dated.”

“Neither did I. And when he saw her… it just… I don’t know, Claire. It felt like maybe everything tonight was for show. For her.”

You hated how small your voice sounded at the end.

Claire set her glass down on the railing and turned to face you fully, her face fierce now in the way only best friends get when someone’s hurt you.

“Okay, first of all, Harry is not like the type to do that. And second, even if it started like that, it sure as hell wasn’t about her by the time, he was holding your hand on that dance floor.”

You gave her a look, but she only crossed her arms.

“Look, you don’t have to believe me,” Claire said, “but I know what I saw. And what I saw was a man completely blindsided by you.”

Your stomach fluttered at her words, hope and ache and wariness all tangled up.

“Maybe,” you murmured. “But I don’t know if I have it in me to be someone’s revenge plot, Claire.”

Claire softened, looping her arm through yours.

“You’re nobody’s second choice, okay? If he wants a chance, he better prove it.”

You leaned your head against her shoulder.

“Always. Now, do we stay out here and talk shit, or do we finish our champagne and crash the open bar?”

You laughed, for real this time.

“Option two, obviously.”

And that was how the night blurred in that perfect, tipsy way weddings sometimes do, a little hazy around the edges but warm in the middle. You and Claire did crash the open bar, and somewhere between your third stolen cocktail and a disastrous attempt at the Cha Cha Slide, you laughed so hard you thought you might actually pull a muscle.

Claire kept up a steady stream of hilarious commentary about guests’ outfits, especially the guy who looked like a knock-off James Bond and the woman whose hat could double as satellite reception. Chris eventually joined you both, rolling his eyes but grinning like a man who knew better than to interfere with you two in full chaotic mode.

By the time the fairy lights were dimming and the last slow song played, you were clinging to both Claire and Chris, arms looped around their shoulders as the three of you swayed slightly in your own little goodbye moment.

“You two are disgustingly adorable,” you slurred with a grin, poking Chris in the chest. “Like… offensively so. Ugh.”

Chris chuckled. “And you, my dear, are going to feel this in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you declared dramatically, tightening your hold on Claire. “Best wedding date ever.”

Claire snorted. “You didn’t even come with a date.”

“Exactly.” You winked. “No one to babysit me. Freedom.”

She grinned, pulling you in for a tight hug.

“I love you, you idiot.”

“Love you more, bridezilla.”

You hugged Chris too, and as you finally stepped back, Claire grabbed your hand.

“Text me when you get home, okay?”

“You’re both are going to be busy on your wedding night to worry about me, I’ll handle it.”

but she just raised a knowing brow.

“Okay, I Promise I’ll text you.”

You blow a kiss to her, stepping out into the night, the cool air brushing against your flushed skin, making you shiver just a little. The sounds of the wedding faded behind you, muffled laughter, a distant swell of music. and you pulled out your phone, squinting at the screen as you opened your ride app.

God, your head was fuzzy. The good kind. The kind where everything felt slightly tilted but softer somehow.

You were fumbling with your screen brightness when the sound of a car window rolling down made you glance up. A sleek, black car had pulled up by the curb. Not the kind you called on an app, this was the kind of car with tinted windows, polished within an inch of its life, and a driver in a suit behind the wheel. And sitting in the backseat, one elbow resting casually on the window frame, was Harry.

His tie was nowhere to see now, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and his hair a little messier than earlier. His expression was… unreadable. Cautious, maybe. Hopeful. A little drunk himself.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, like the night wasn’t quite done with you both.

You blinked at him, caught off guard again, and your heart did that stupid thing, skipping when it shouldn’t.

“Hey,” you echoed, half a smirk on your lips despite yourself. “Fancy car.”

He shrugged, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth, his gaze flicked over you, softer now, “I wanted to ask if maybe you wanted a ride.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, shaking your head with a small, wry laugh. “Harry…”

“I swear it’s not what you think,” he cut in quickly, leaning out a little. “About her. About all of it. I saw her and yeah, it threw me. But tonight… you? That wasn’t about her. It wasn’t planned. I didn’t even know she’d be here.”

You stared at him, your mind a mess of champagne bubbles and the ache of old disappointments, but also that tiny, traitorous spark of wanting to believe him.

“I’m not great at this,” Harry added, softer now, the grin dropping.

And there it was.

That vulnerable, bare thing hanging between you both.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” he went on. “I just… didn’t wanna leave it like that.”

You let out a long breath, looking up at the sky for a beat, then back at him.

“Where’s this thing headed?” you asked, jerking your chin toward the car.

Harry’s grin came back, slow and hopeful. “Anywhere you want.”

Without another word, you walked around the car and slipped into the seat beside him. The interior smelled like leather and expensive cologne, and it was too warm in that way that made you a little sleepier, a little braver.

The driver glanced at you through the rearview mirror.

“What’s your address, miss?”

You turned to Harry, a teasing smirk curling on your lips.

“I want French fries,” you declared, pouting a little, like it was the most reasonable answer in the world.

Harry blinked — then laughed. A real, rough-edged laugh that made something stupid and soft twist in your chest.

The driver looked between the two of you, a little uncertain.

“Mine,” Harry told him, voice easy but eyes on you, like he was making sure you were okay with it.

Harry huffed a laugh, leaning his head back against the seat for a second before turning toward you, one brow raised.

“Your house is made of fries?”

“I mean… no,” he grinned, “but now I’m wishing it was. Missed opportunity.”

You shrugged, leaning a little closer, tipsy boldness settling in your bones.

“Bit misleading, don’t you think? You promise me fries, take me to your place, and what? No fries? That’s emotional manipulation, Harry.”

He grinned wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made your stomach flip, and he squeezed your hand where it still rested between you both.

“Alright, alright. Fries first. House later,” he promised, turning to the driver.

“Can you swing by that 24-hour diner close to mine?”

The driver nodded without missing a beat “Sure, sir.”

You beamed, victorious.

Harry looked at you like you hung the damn stars in the sky.

“Anything else, your highness? Milkshake? Nuggets? Entire dessert menu?”

You smirked, pretending to think it over.

“Surprise me.”

You didn’t even remember closing your eyes. One second you were leaning your head back against the seat, listening to Harry’s voice teasing the drive about you, and the next thing you knew, you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice was soft, rough with amusement. “Sleeping Beauty. We’re here.”

You blinked your eyes open, disoriented by warmth and the quiet hum of the city outside. Harry’s face was close, and for a second you just stared at him, tousled hair, soft grin, eyes like the warmest kind of trouble.

Before your brain could catch up to your mouth, you blurted, “You’re really handsome, Harry Styles.”

Harry blinked, then let out a surprised, breathy laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“My last name is Castillo.” He grinned, raising a brow at you.

You let out a sleepy, tipsy giggle, leaning your head against the seat again.

“Whatever,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded, “you’re even more handsome now.”

He smiled at that, not a cocky smirk, but a soft, heart-twisting curve of his lips. The kind of smile someone saves for moments that matter.

“Come on, trouble,” he murmured, holding out a paper bag. “Got your fries.”

There was something so endearing about you, something he hadn’t quite expected. You didn’t posture, didn’t play at being hard to get or effortlessly untouchable like so many others in his world. There was a simplicity to you, not plain, not ordinary, but honest. Soft edges and sharp wit. A way you laughed with your whole face and said exactly what you meant, even if it came out half-asleep in the back of a car.

To his eyes, you were sunlight at golden hour. The hum of an old record player on a quiet Sunday. The warmth of fries after midnight. The kind of beautiful that didn’t ask to be noticed, and because of that, somehow, you were impossible to look away from.

And as you took the bag from his hand and peeked inside like it was a treasure chest, your sleepy grin making his heart trip over itself.

The elevator ride up to his apartment was quiet, save for the crinkle of the paper bag in your hands and your content little hums with every fry you pulled out. Harry kept sneaking glances at you, waiting, maybe even bracing, for the inevitable reaction.

People always reacted.

The first time Lucy had stepped inside, she’d gasped, breathy Oh my god, Harry, her eyes darting to the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city like it was some priceless painting, her hands trailing along the marble countertop like she could feel the weight of his bank account through it.

But you, you didn’t even look up.

You walked right past the windows, past the absurdly expensive furniture he didn’t even like, straight to the couch, kicking your shoes off and curling up with the fries like it was your own place.

Harry watched you for a second, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“You’re not even gonna pretend to be impressed?” he teased, leaning a shoulder against the wall.

You popped a fry into your mouth, eyes half-lidded from sleep and salt and whatever warmth was left between you both.

“I mean,” you shrugged lazily, “it’s nice. But these fries are stealing the show right now.”

Harry’s grin softened as he stepped closer, his eyes locking onto yours with something deeper now, something unspoken but electric.

Without warning, his hand reached up, fingers curling gently around your cheek, pulling you closer.

The paper bag slipped from your fingers, fries spilling softly onto the floor.

And then his lips were on yours, soft at first, like a question, then pressing harder, more urgent.

Perhaps both of you were a bit typsy but your heads were totally clear.

You gasped for air, caught off guard, but kissed him back, your hands finding his shoulders, your heart racing like it might burst out of your chest.

His other hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you against the wall with a warm strength that sent shivers down your spine.

It felt good, better than good, like something you’d been waiting for without knowing it.

But just then, a sudden wave of nausea rolled through you, sharp and unwelcome, pulling you out of the moment.

You broke the kiss, blinking, trying to steady yourself.

Your hand flew up to your mouth, but it was too late. A sudden, harsh wave hit, and before you could stop it, you were retching over Harry’s shoes.

He froze for a moment, eyes wide in surprise, then quickly crouched down to steady you, his voice calm “Shit — hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over your back.

“Oh my god… I need the bathroom,” you managed to choke out, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Harry didn’t even flinch. “Down the hall, second door on the left,” he told you quickly, already helping you to your feet.

You bolted, following his directions, and sank to your knees beside the toilet just in time for another wave to hit.

A few minutes later, after cleaning up the mess in the living room and tossing his ruined shoes in the trash, Harry padded down the hall. He found you sitting on the cool bathroom floor, your back against the wall, looking pale and a little miserable.

He knelt down beside you, a bottle of water in one hand and a clean towel in the other.

“Hey,” he said gently, a crooked little grin on his face. “Thought I’d better come check you didn’t pass out on my bathroom floor. Bad for your reputation.”

You groaned softly, leaning your cheek against the cold porcelain of the toilet, eyes half-lidded as you looked over at him.

“I really need more French fries,” you mumbled, your voice raspy but stubborn.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he sat beside you, one knee bent up.

“No, you need to sleep,” he said, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face. “Fries tomorrow. Sleep now.”

You made a small noise of protest, closing your eyes. “But I’m gonna die without them.”

He grinned, his hand still resting lightly against your temple. “If you die, I’ll be arrested. Can’t risk it. So — bed.”

You cracked a sleepy, tipsy smile. “You’re bossy, Harry Castillo.”

He snorted a soft laugh. “Yeah, well… someone’s gotta keep you alive tonight.”

Then, gently, he helped you up to your feet. “Come on, let’s get you to bed before you pass out on my bathroom’s floor.”

Harry kept an arm around you as he guided you out of the bathroom, your steps slow and a little unsteady. You clung to his wrist like a sleepy child, head drooping against his shoulder while he half-laughed, half-worried you might collapse again.

He pushed open the door to one of his rooms, though it was obvious no one had ever really stayed in it before. Soft, clean sheets. Dim, cozy lighting. Not as sleek as the rest of the apartment.

“Alright, c’mon, trouble,” he murmured as he helped you sit on the edge of the bed.

You tried to peel off your dress but only managed to tangle an arm halfway through the strap before sighing dramatically. “This thing’s trying to kill me.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Okay, okay. I got you. Arms up.”

He helped you ease out of the dress, careful, eyes pointedly keeping to your face like an absolute gentleman. He reached for a t-shirt, one of his, soft and faded with the passage of time, the kind of thing people would fight over in a breakup, and slipped it over your head. It hung to your mid-thigh like a dress.

“Perfect,” he said with a small smile, pulling the covers back.

You were already half-asleep again when he turned toward your purse sitting on the side table. He dug through it, phone, lip gloss, keys, a crumpled receipt, until he found a small pack of makeup remover wipes.

“Bingo.”

He crouched beside the bed, gently tilting your chin. “Hey, sleeping beauty. Let’s get this off so you don’t wake up with mascara all over the place.”

You made a sleepy, agreeable noise as he carefully wiped the makeup from your face, his touch tender, his thumb brushing your cheek more than once.

When he finished, he tossed the wipe and ran his hand over your hair. “There. Not bad.”

Your eyes fluttered open, gaze finding his, a tiny, crooked smile on your lips. “I like you, Harry.”

Harry grinned, heart stupidly clenching. “Yeah, well… I kinda like you too, French fry girl.”

And he pulled the blanket up over you, brushing one last stray hair from your forehead before clicking the light off.

The morning light slanted through the tall windows, soft and too bright for the pounding in your head. You groaned, bringing a hand to your temple as you cracked an eye open, and immediately froze.

This wasn’t your bed. This wasn’t your ceiling. And that smell definitely wasn’t your candle from Bath & Body Works.

You sat up slowly, blinking around at the unfamiliar room, trying to piece together the hazy, champagne-fogged puzzle in your head.

Harry.

The wedding.

Your stomach flipped for a whole other reason this time as you swung your legs off the bed and stood, wobbling slightly as you padded barefoot toward the door.

You stepped into the hallway, the muted sound of city traffic far below, the faint scent of coffee in the air. A few steps more and you rounded a corner, stopping when your eyes landed on him.

Harry was sitting at the table by the window, sunlight catching in the messy curl of his hair, a mug in one hand, phone in the other. He looked unfairly good for a man who had dealt with a drunk you.

The second he saw you, his face lit up. That same easy, crooked smile that had gotten you into this mess in the first place.

“Morning, trouble,” he grinned, setting his phone down. “How’s the head?”

You winced, pressing your fingers to your temple. “It’s… existing.”

He chuckled, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Come sit. I made coffee. And I’ve got water and Tylenol with your name on it.”

You blinked at him, still a little dazed. “Wait… did we have sex?”

Harry’s grin faded instantly, his expression softening into something careful, not offended, not smug, just… sincere.

He shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “We didn’t.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And before you could spiral into embarrassment, he kept going.

“I would never,” he added, eyes steady on yours, voice low and firm. “Not like that. Not with you. You were tipsy, half-asleep, and throwing fries at me in my kitchen.” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth again. “I got you into a t-shirt, wiped off your makeup, and put you to bed. That’s it.”

Your chest warmed, a knot somewhere in your stomach loosening a little at his words, at the way he said them. Not defensive, not self-righteous. Just honest.

You gave him a small, sheepish smile. “Okay. Good. I—“

“You threw up on my shoes though” He interrupted, hiding a smile.

“Oh my god!” You said, taking your hands to cover your face, “I can pay you back.”

Harry laughed, a real, full-bodied one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Oh, absolutely not,” he grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Those shoes deserved it. Honestly, they were ugly as hell.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, groaning. “I’m mortified. I am so sorry. I’ll pay you or — or buy you new ones. Whatever you want.”

He shook his head, waving a hand like it was nothing. “They were Gucci,” he confirmed, grinning at the way your eyes widened like saucers.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dropping your head to the table dramatically. “I’m a monster.”

He reached over and nudged your arm gently. “Relax, it’s fine. Honestly, I hated those shoes. It was a mercy kill.”

You lifted your head, giving him a hopeful look. “Okay, but… to ease my guilt. Coffee. On the house. From my coffee shop. For a year. It’s the least I can do.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, pretending to consider it. “A year, huh? Unlimited?”

“Unlimited,” you confirmed, hand over your heart.

His grin turned smug. “So, do you own a coffee shop?”

“Yes.” You replied.

“Yes,” you replied, sitting up a little straighter, a flicker of pride sneaking through the mortification. “It’s called Willow & Coffee. — down on 10th.”

Harry’s brows shot up, a surprised grin pulling at his mouth. “Wait—” he pointed at you, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “You own that place?”

You blinked, confused but curious. “Yeah… why?”

“Are you kidding?” he shook his head, leaning back in his chair, grinning like this was the best plot twist he’d heard all week. “I always send my assistant there. Every morning. Best coffee in the entire New York, hands down. I didn’t even know the owner was… you.”

You laughed, both flattered and a little flustered. “Well, guess you’ve been funding my rent without even knowing it.”

He smirked. “And here I thought I was just overpaying for caffeine addiction. Turns out, it was fate.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing the Tylenol he’d set out for you. “Fate and Gucci-vomit.”

You popped the Tylenol into your mouth, chasing it with a sip of water, then your eyes drifted down to the plate of breakfast he’d made — fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and toast with a little dish of jam on the side.

Your stomach, now steady enough to form coherent requests, let out a soft, very real growl.

Harry caught the sound and grinned. “Eat,” he said, nudging the plate toward you. “Figured you might need something great this morning.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. “God, yes,” you murmured, grabbing a fork and digging in. The eggs were perfect, soft, buttery, with just the right amount of salt. You groaned around a mouthful. “Okay, you cook too? Is there anything you don’t do?”

Harry chuckled, sipping his coffee. “Plenty. I’m shit at assembling furniture. And parallel parking. But breakfast? I’ve got that handled.”

You grinned around another bite of bacon. “This is incredible. I should puke on your shoes more often.”

He laughed again, head tipping back, a warm sound that filled the kitchen. “Noted. But let’s make it a special occasion thing, yeah?”

You smirked, reaching for a slice of toast. “Deal.”

You finished the last of your toast, licking a smudge of jam from your thumb as you leaned back in your chair, feeling marginally more human. Harry was watching you over the rim of his coffee mug, that same soft grin on his face.

“So,” he said casually, setting his cup down, “are you gonna give me your number, or do I have to track you down at your coffee shop like some hopeless caffeine addict?”

You snorted, pulling your phone from where it was sitting on the table. “Pretty bold of you to assume I’d want to see you again after the great puke disaster of last night.”

“Oh, please,” he smirked, sliding his phone across the table to you, “I haven’t laughed that hard in months. You’re a keeper.”

You bit your lip, fighting a grin as you typed your number into his phone and handed it back. “There. Now you can make use of your free membership.”

He glanced at the screen, saving your contact with a small, satisfied smile. “Perfect.”

A little while later, you stood up, reluctantly peeling yourself away from the warmth of his apartment and his stupidly good breakfast. You padded back to the bedroom where your things were and quickly pulled yourself together, your head still a little fuzzy but far better than earlier.

When you came back out, Harry was leaning against the doorframe, watching you with that same infuriatingly good-natured smile.

You stepped up to him, feeling bold in the way only a hangover and a good breakfast could make you, and pressed a light, lingering kiss to his cheek. His skin was warm, and you could feel the faint scratch of stubble beneath your lips.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” you murmured, pulling back to meet his eyes.

He smiled, a little softer this time. “Anytime, trouble.”

Once you stepped out of his apartment, the air hit your face, clearing the last haze of sleep and champagne from your head. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see Claire’s name lighting up the screen.

Are you alright? You didn’t text me last night!

You smiled softly, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you replied:

Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for checking in. Talk soon, enjoy the start of your married life.

Pocketing your phone, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself

Three days passed, and you hadn’t heard a word from Harry since you left his apartment. The silence gnawed at you more than you expected — a quiet, unsettling kind of disappointment that crept in slowly.

Why had you even thought he’d be different?

You tried to shove the thought aside, burying yourself in work instead. The hum of the coffee machines, the chatter of customers, and the smell of fresh espresso helped distract you, kept your mind busy.

Just as you were about to lose yourself in some inventory paperwork, one of your employees approached, holding out a small envelope.

“Boss? There’s something for you here.”

You slowly opened the envelope, expecting a note or maybe a card — but instead, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you barely had time to register the scene before your eyes locked onto a giant bouquet of roses, nearly as tall as you were.

And then you realized, those roses had legs.

Behind the massive, fragrant explosion of red petals, Harry was standing there, grinning like he’d just pulled off the best surprise ever.

You stood frozen, stunned, your heart skipping a beat.

“I wanted to grab my free coffee and see the boss of this place,” he said with a wink, “people say she’s really pretty.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

“Well, you got the right place,” you replied, shaking your head in amused disbelief.

The whole office watched, a mix of surprise and delight lighting up their faces as Harry stood there, roses in hand, like something out of a movie.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. “Alright, Mr. Castillo, let’s get you that coffee.”

Harry stepped closer, still holding the bouquet like a proud knight with his shield. He glanced around at the curious faces in the office, then back at you with that playful glint in his eyes.

“So,” he said, voice low and a little hopeful, “how about you make me company while I grab that coffee? I don’t do well with crowds.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Are you asking me to take care of you, Harry Castillo?”

He shrugged with a charming grin.

The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, and you found yourself smiling more than you expected.

“Alright,” you said, “but only if you promise to keep those roses away from the coffee counter.”

He laughed, stepping beside you as you both headed toward the café.

“Deal.”

You led him toward the little counter tucked near the back of your coffee shop, the scent of roasted beans and warm pastries wrapping around you both like a soft blanket. The employees tried their best to look busy, but you caught a few of them sneaking glances, one of the baristas nudging another with a grin.

Harry leaned against the counter, setting the ridiculous bouquet down carefully beside him.

“So… what’s the house special?” he asked, eyes on you like you were the only thing worth noticing in the room.

You smirked, grabbing a cup and jotting down his name on the side with a little heart.

“Depends,” you teased. “Are you looking to be impressed?”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

“I don’t care. As long as you’re drinking one too.”

You shook your head, amused despite yourself, and started making the drinks, your fingers moving on autopilot while your heart tried to pretend it wasn’t skipping like a damn drumline.

When you handed him the cup, he didn’t take it right away, his hand brushed yours, lingering just a second too long.

After you took a set-in front of him, you notice him fidgeting with his fingers.

“Is there something wrong, Harry?”

 He lifted his gaze to meet yours. “Okay, well. There is something I need to ask, well said. It's kind of embarrassing. But I need to ask you something.”

You arched a brow, curiosity tugging at your lips as you leaned in a little, elbows on the table.

“Okay…” you teased lightly. “Now you have to ask. Can’t leave me hanging like that.”

Harry let out a nervous little huff of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Harry shifted in his seat, his usual confidence flickering for a second, and god, it made your stomach flip. You weren't used to seeing him like this.

He cleared his throat, lifted his gaze to meet yours again, and gave a crooked, sheepish little grin.

“Okay, so… this is gonna sound insane, and probably is, but I kinda need a favor. A big one.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “You’re really milking that whole free coffee deal, huh?”

He chuckled, then rubbed the back of his neck again. “Yeah, well… see, there’s this event thing, like, family thing… and I may or may not have told them I was seeing someone. Which was stupid. I know, I know,” he added quickly when your eyebrows shot up. “It’s just, they won’t stop setting me up with these awful dates, and I panicked. So now… I need someone to, uh, pretend to be my girlfriend. For a little while.”

Your lips parted, surprised. You blinked at him.

“Pretend?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast. “Just for a bit. A couple dinners, maybe an event or two. Nothing crazy. Just enough to convince my mum and Nan to get off my back for a while.”

You stared at him for a second longer, and then, against your better judgment, a slow smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth. “You really dug yourself into a hole, huh?”

“Deep,” he admitted, grinning now too. “And you… well, you’re the only person I trust not to sell me out mid-dinner.”

What Harry didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, was that this wasn’t just about his family. Not really.

Sure, his mum and Nan were relentless, and sure, the dates they lined up for him were a special kind of torture. But if he was being honest with himself, something he wasn’t great at. This whole idea had started when his ex-had shown up at his sister’s engagement party last month, hanging off the arm of some the guy she had left him for. And Harry had felt something sharp twist in his chest, something ugly he didn’t want to name.

He’d told himself it didn’t matter. He’d moved on. Or at least, he’d been trying to.

Then you came crashing, quite literally, into his night at the wedding of one of his closest friends, and throwing up on his Gucci shoes like it was some kind of cosmic joke. And instead of being annoyed, he’d laughed. Genuinely laughed. And when he’d tucked you into bed, wiping makeup from your cheek, something soft and unfamiliar had settled in his chest.

There was something about you. Something he hadn’t expected. Something he didn’t want to break.

You were easy to be around. You didn’t fawn over him or try to impress him. You didn’t treat him like he was made of glass, or like he owed you something. You were real in a way he hadn’t realized he was starving for. And yeah, maybe it had started as a petty plan to prove something to himself, to the world, to Lucy, perhaps, but somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a game.

And now, sitting across from you while you teased him about his free coffee addiction, that quiet, stubborn part of him wanted to wrap you up in bubble wrap, to keep that warmth you carried, untouched by the messes of his world.

He ran a hand through his hair, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched you mock-consider his ridiculous offer.

God, what am I doing?

But you looked up at him then, those eyes bright with mischief and something softer underneath.

“Alright, Harry. But you owe me.”

And he knew, without a doubt, he was already in deeper than he meant to be.

💌💌💌💌💌💌

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[bvlgary]

～ ｡☆ FAVOURITE JJK FICS ON AO3

ft. jjk men (toji, nanami, geto, gojo, and choso)

ヾ˙❥ all of these fics are nsfw (smut, sexual content! please read the tags and the warnings inside of the story before you read!)

ヾ˙❥ click here for jjk men fic recs on tumblr!

1. heat waves (ft. choso kamo) by nagumoan

～ ｡☆ it's too hot to even move a single muscle of yours, so the only logical way to deal with it is... working up a sweat with your boyfriend. at least it's logical in his mind.

2. tease me (ft. gojo satoru & geto suguru) by meowandyouui

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ "𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒."

↳ in which - y/n falls in love with her bullies. geto and gojo. though she can't have both, and is torn between having to choose. ︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑

3. seduce and destroy (ft. toji fushiguro) by skyredvenus

～ ｡☆ moving in with a wealthy family in their mansion for your new job, but nothing is as it seems. the house is haunted by a family curse and a mysterious blood-lusted creature.

4. fruit (ft. choso kamo) by thelovelyruin

～ ｡☆ he’s your ex, and he’s having a hard time moving on from you.

5. i know (ft. choso kamo) by thelovelyruin

～ ｡☆ choso wasn’t taking the break up well, and honestly, neither were you.

6. midnight (ft. gojo satoru) by tsunderetsukki

～ ｡☆ ❝ You look tired boss, let me help you out a little. Consider it an apology for making you work late ❞

╰---➤ 𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐞-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤.

7. slow bloom (ft. nanami kento) by princesspetty

8. shirt (ft. toji fushiguro) by skyredvenus

～ ｡☆ the arrival of a mysterious package leads to a hot, sticky situation.

9. wet dreams (ft. toji fushiguro) by meowandyouui

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ "𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔."

↳ in which - y/n is wedded off to the biggest enigma floating around. though... she can't stop having peculiar dreams about this very man. toji zenin.

10. bloodlust (ft. geto suguru) by teatimewithlevi

～ ｡☆ you move to the suburbs and a freakishly sexy man is your neighbour. he has a taste for blood—especially yours.

11. secret slut (ft. choso kamo) by meowandyouui

12. dark eyes (ft. choso kamo) by moonc0re

13. first time (ft. choso kamo) by chososdisordkitten

14. late mornings (ft. nanami kento) by l043

～ ｡☆ the weekend was for rest, relaxation, and sex.

15. feverish (ft. toji fushiguro) by angry_geese

16. cabin (ft. geto suguru) by slvttyplum

～ ｡☆ You and Suguru go on a group cabin trip, with a couple of drinks and your love for each other… what happens?

17. cadillac : a pimp's anthem (ft. geto suguru) by redskyvenus

～ ｡☆ an unexpected meeting at Suguru's nightclub ignites an interesting connection.

18. so, you got a boyfriend? (ft. geto suguru) by slttygeto

～ ｡☆ when watching a certain scary movie gives your husband, suguru, the perfect idea on how to ruin you.

19. hell is empty & love is wicked (ft. geto suguru) by soleilnomoon

～ ｡☆ geto suguru is the perfect boyfriend, until he grows bored with y/n & casts her aside; he doesn't account for y/n standing up for herself & getting revenge.

20. 00.00 (ft. nanami kento) by kamisathoes

～ ｡☆ In which you need some late night loving from your ex-lover, Nanami Kento. But things were not what you expected them to be, they were more than what you anticipated it to be.

[sunshineyuyu]

stereo hearts (s. mg)

★ summary: mingi’s had a crush on you since his freshman year. you’re a year older than him, infinitely cooler, and you share a love for music. one night, you end up making out in the storage closet of the campus radio station you both work at, and you end up getting closer. ★ pairing: mingi x f!reader ★ genre: smut (mdni!!), college ★ word count: 5.6k ★ tags/warnings: radio station dj!mingi and reader, reader is a year older than mingi, mingi is a computer science major LOL, reader is described as shorter than mingi, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, mentions of nicotine vape, frat party, american college setting, kinda sub-y mingi, kinda dom-y reader, slight dumbification?, reader is just a little mean to mingi, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, penetrative piv sex (with a condom!), minor super background seongjoong ★ notes: this one was written as a gift for @starhwas-bunny huhu, my bestie beta <3 ftr i have never dj-ed for a university radio station so hopefully this isn’t a super inaccurate representation of that experience. ★ masterlist | read on ao3

in the three years since mingi started volunteering as a dj at the university radio station, the little room they broadcast out of has become something like a second home to him.

three out of four of the walls are covered floor to ceiling with shelves that sag from the amount of vinyls, cassette tapes, and cds crammed onto them. tucked into one corner is a mini fridge that was found abandoned after move-out day years ago, and sitting on top is a weak little keurig gifted by the previous faculty sponsor. there’s a musty old leather couch shoved against the singular non-shelved wall, and in the middle of the whole room is the desk, overloaded with several monitors, a keyboard, and the sound board. the whole room smells faintly like sour coffee and old grandpa, but mingi has learned to love it all the same.

tonight, though, mingi would rather be anywhere else than here. grumpily, he blinks at the red numbers of the digital clock on the corner of the desk. 02:13 AM, it reads. he wishes he could go back in time and take a different shift, but the mingi from a month ago never could’ve anticipated all the developments that have happened over the last few weeks.

first, his compilers assignment is kicking his ass. he’s been working tirelessly on it for three weeks now, but his results are still a little off and the due date is fast approaching at the end of the week. he doesn’t even have any classmates to fall back on for help, since he’s taking the course a semester ahead of his other friends, and he hasn’t had enough time to make new ones yet.

second, his best-friend-roommate yunho just got a new girlfriend, which means he’s been spending less time hanging out with mingi. mingi likes to think that he’s not too clingy or needy, but he misses the routine of waking up to the smell of yunho burning breakfast and then getting in a game of valorant together before going to bed. instead, he’s had to play nice with yunho’s new girlfriend whenever she invades their apartment with her neverending peppiness, and sleep with noise-canceling earbuds because he and yunho share a wall.

he’s sleep-deprived and stressed and lonely and really wants a goddamn hug from literally anyone.

but he’s forced to toil away in the tiny campus radio station studio, where the playlist he’d painstakingly arranged last week to blend seamlessly between songs does nothing to soothe his anxieties.

⋆⋆⋆

there’s still half an hour left of mingi’s shift, but he’s already queued up all the music and timed out the ads, so he’s mostly just focused on chipping away at his assignment. the adrenaline from the celsius he crushed when he first arrived is already started to fade, and mingi is seriously thinking about digging out the elfbar from the bottom of his backpack (that he promised yunho he’d throw away) to extend the last fumes of his focus.

this train of thought is thankfully interrupted by the door of the studio being thrown open unceremoniously.

“shit!”

even on a good day, mingi is a jumpy person, and having the blinding light of the hallway enter the dark studio with no warning makes his heart skip several beats. his knee jerks up on instinct, and it whacks painfully against the bottom of the desk.

“ah, oops. sorry!”

standing in the doorway, haloed in fluorescent light, and appearing practically angelic, is none other than you. you have enough wherewithal to at least look apologetic, but mingi doesn’t care either way because it’s you.

you’re a senior—one year above mingi—and the one who trained him to be a dj when he was a freshman. back then, he’d been starstruck by how outgoing you are, the way you’d tease him with the familiarity of a close friend even though you were practically strangers. you have this eclectic but broad taste in music, and he likes that you challenge him to listen to new artists and genres.

and of course—you’re fucking hot. you’ve always been beautiful, with shining eyes and a big wide smile. but over the years, you’ve changed your hair style, dyed the ends, gotten a couple of piercings and tattoos, and it’s been game over for mingi ever since. 

so yeah, he’s had a crippling crush on you that’s only gotten worse with time.

“hi,” mingi says dumbly, massaging his knee where the pain has already mysteriously disappeared.

“hey!” you say breezily, beaming because it’s clear now that he won’t yell at you for scaring him.

“do you have the next shift?” mingi asks, using all his brainpower to compose a coherent sentence. he’s usually able to act relatively normal around you, but he’s all out of sorts right now, and it’s nearly 2:30 fucking am.

“oh, no,” you say. “i just really needed a caffeine fix, and this is the only place i could think of that’s still open on campus for me to get some.”

you both glance over at the sad excuse of a coffee station the studio has, and mingi lets out an undignified snort.

“it is what it is,” you sigh.

while mingi tries to think of a conversation starter, he turns back to his laptop so he’s not just staring at you like some lovesick puppy. 

your normally styled hair is thrown into an afterthought of a bun, but mingi likes that he can see the elegant line of your neck and the line of silver hoops stacked along your ears. you’re also wearing those rimless bayonetta glasses that he loves, and he always gets distracted by the little sparkle charm you added that dangles from the hinge.

“aw man,” you say. “there aren’t any pods left.”

mingi glances up briefly from his laptop to see you pouting down at the little box where they usually keep the coffee pods. 

cute, he thinks.

“hongjoong ordered more last week,” mingi says, waving towards the storage closet behind him. “but he hid them so people don’t try to steal them in bulk.”

at his words, you perk up and scamper towards the closet after dumping your backpack onto the couch.

with you out of sight, some of the nervous tension in mingi’s muscles finally bleeds out. mingi throws his glasses down onto the table and rubs at his weary eyes until he sees fireworks against the backs of his eyelids. he wishes he had even an ounce of the charisma that yunho has, but he’s so fucking tired right now that he can’t think of anything even remotely charming to talk to you about. eventually, he slams his forehead down onto the table and entertains the thought of knocking himself out. before he can let his imagination run too wild, he hears the sound of something heavy falling and a whispered “fuck!”

concerned, mingi straightens and rolls his chair closer to the threshold of the storage closet.

“you good?” he asks.

he forgot to put his glasses back on, so you’re really more of a blurry blob of a person, but somehow your sheepish smile still manages to come through.

“i found the pods!” you say brightly, pointing at a large cardboard box on the top shelf. “but, i can’t reach them.”

mingi huffs out a laugh and stands up. finally, it feels like something is going right for him tonight. you are short and need help, and mingi is tall and can help you.

he’s so hyper-focused on his task that he doesn’t think twice about crowding up behind you. doesn’t think twice about bracing one hand against your back to keep himself steady as he reaches with his other hand for the box. doesn’t think twice about leaning around your smaller frame to present you with the thing. 

“here,” he says, except it comes out breathy and rough because he’s just stretched his body for the first time in what feels like ages.

he doesn’t realize how close your faces are until you utter a soft thank you, and the words ghost along his cheekbone. he shudders at the sensation, and all at once the rest of his brain and body come online to recognize the position you’re arranged in.

it’s cramped in the closet, and mingi’s a big guy. his entire front is pressed up against your back, and the hand he’d used to balance himself has somehow slipped down to your waist, and you’ve turned your head slightly so that you can look up at him.

mingi stares down at you, and you’re seriously so close that he doesn’t need his glasses to see the way your lips part, the way your eyebrows furrow. 

“um,” he says intelligently.

oh-so-slowly, you push your glasses up onto your head and turn around to fully face him. like always, that stupid sparkle charm entrances mingi.

and then suddenly, he’s pulled down by the front of his shirt, and you surge up to meet him. your lips collide together with so much force that your teeth clack, but mingi doesn’t care because jesus fucking christ. he shoves the pods onto the nearest shelf to get his other hand onto your waist too. god, it’s been a while since the last time he’s made out with someone like this. while his mouth works furiously to remember how to kiss well, he fumbles his palms over the curves of your body. meanwhile, your fingers dance confidently along his chest and collarbones, finally curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. when you tug lightly, mingi actually whimpers.

he pulls back, embarrassed, but you look delighted.

“oh,” you breathe, grinning. “oh, fuck—make that noise again.”

mingi stares at you, uncomprehending and breathing like he’s just run a race. you tug again. mingi keens.

“cute,” you murmur. “c’mere.”

you don’t give mingi the chance to second-guess anything as you pull him back down. your chapstick tastes like peaches, and your tongue is doing things that mingi’s never felt before. you touch him everywhere—run your hands along his chest, his stomach, his back, his arms. mingi is putty in your arms, and he stops trying to hold back the sounds that you tease out of him.

you make out sloppily for what seems like hours. it’s so nice and mindless that mingi doesn’t even realize that he’s half-hard in his jeans until you finally take a step back. 

like the fucking touch-starved idiot he is, he unconsciously leans forward to chase after you. in response, you grin and press a single finger against his chest to hold him off.

“it’s almost the next shift,” you say quietly. “we should probably get out of here.”

“oh,” mingi croaks, as reality settles back in. “oh. yeah.”

you peck the underside of his jaw, and then leave the storage closet.

mingi stays for a second longer, collecting himself. finally, he grabs the box of coffee pods and follows you back into the studio.

he can’t get a read on you as you wordlessly retrieve your backpack. he mirrors your movement, albeit more lethargically. he feels like he’s drunk or high or both, body moving sluggishly, and he’s so so confused.

jongho, who’s taking the 3 am shift, shows up in the middle of your silence as a much needed buffer. it takes mingi five minutes to hand over control, and when he’s done, he’s disappointed to see that you aren’t in the room anymore. dejected, he says goodbye to jongho and leaves the studio, only to find you waiting in the hallway.

you look up when he stops in front of you and smile at him.

“walk me to my car?” you say.

mingi smiles shyly back at you. “yeah. okay.”

you start down the hallway, but mingi halts abruptly. “didn’t you- um- your coffee?” mingi stutters. jesus, he really needs to pull himself together.

you quirk your head to one side and then takes a step into mingi’s space. your gaze darkens, and your smile stretches into a smirk.

“nah,” you whisper, reaching to drag your thumb along his bottom lip. “i got my fix.” 

oh, mingi thinks giddily. she means me!

“c’mon,” you say, your face softening and your hand finding mingi’s. “it’s late.”

“yeah,” mingi says dreamily, trailing after you.

⋆⋆⋆

in the days following, mingi doesn’t see you at all.

this isn’t uncommon—you’re different years and majors, after all. but mingi is still bummed about it. he has your number, but he’s never texted you besides to talk about campus radio logistics. sometimes, you’ll send each other a new song or artist to nerd out over, but mingi feels like it’s a little too transparent if he texts you now when the last time you exchanged messages was weeks ago.

every night, though, mingi replays what happened in his head over and over again. how you had been the one to initiate, to guide and control the entire encounter—how that had turned him on in ways he’d never imagined. he tries vainly not to think about you when he jerks off, but right as he’s about to cum, his thoughts always stray to the way you’d tugged at his hair and cooed at his embarrassing noises.

in the aftermath, he’ll try to think instead of the way you held his hand while they walked to your car. the walk had been short but sweet. you’d been the one to intertwine your fingers, and mingi hadn’t been able to hide the stupid smile on his face as your hands swung between the two of you.

you’d given him one last kiss on the cheek before saying good night.

the rest of the night was a haze: walking to his car, driving home, falling asleep the moment his head hit his pillow without even changing out of his clothes.

⋆⋆⋆

it’s friday night, and mingi has managed to finish his godforsaken compilers assignment, so he’s planning on getting wasted.

mingi is still largely undecided on how he feels about yunho’s new girlfriend, but the one thing going in her favor is the fact that she’s the delta gamma social chair and—because of some bylaw somewhere—has automatic entry to every relevant frat party. she can even bring other people with her, as long as it’s not an egregious amount.

and that’s how mingi finds himself in the middle of an SAE party, just the right side of tipsy. he’s nursing a sweating can of beer and watching yunho and wooyoung absolutely destroy a couple of pledges at beer pong. when they win, mingi pounces on them, but ends up empty-handed as they’re each pulled into congratulatory embraces by their respective significant others.

suddenly, despite being surrounded by people, mingi feels incredibly lonely. it’s like he’s been doused in ice water, the way his head clears and his heart sinks. he knows it’s a passing feeling, knows that in two seconds his friends will turn their attention back to him, but the shots and beers from earlier tonight no longer sit right in his bloodstream.

under the guise of getting another drink, mingi ducks away from his friends and looks for someplace with a little more space and air. he wanders towards the yard, where there’s far fewer people. all of the lawn chairs available are already occupied, so mingi leans up against the wall and pulls out his phone. he’s two scrolls into his instagram feed when something collides into his side hard enough to make him let out a soft oof.

he thinks it must be some random drunk, but instead it’s—

you.

“mingi!” you shriek.

your arms wrap around his middle, and you gaze up at him with glazed over eyes. you’re wearing this tight black shirt with a big square neckline, and you’re all squished up against him so mingi gets an eyeful of your cleavage.

he swallows painfully.

“y/n!” he says, trying to match your energy without being as loud.

you peer around him, almost like you’re looking for someone else. “are you here by yourself?” you ask.

“no,” mingi says. “my friends are inside. i just wanted to get some air.”

“ah.” you nod sagely. “do you smoke? like—get high?”

mingi shrugs, and you bounce with glee. you drag him by the wrist over to a small cluster of people sitting around one of the few lawn tables available.

“sit sit sit!” you say, pushing him into the one empty chair before unceremoniously plopping yourself down in his lap. dumbstruck, mingi just sits there with his hands lying limply against the armrests as you shuffle around in his fucking lap to find a comfortable position. every ounce of his energy is going towards not popping a boner right now.

instead, he focuses on trying to recognize the people sitting around the table. there’s kim hongjoong, the president of your campus radio org, and his boyfriend park seonghwa. beside them is chaewon, your best friend, also sitting in the lap of some guy who mingi assumes is her boyfriend.

shit—what are these people assuming about him, then? 

“here,” you say, thrusting a small object like a usb towards his lips. “take a hit of penelope.”

“penelope?” mingi’s like, still reeling from everything that’s happened in the last five minutes.

you giggle. “my pen. here.”

obediently, mingi leans towards and fits his lips around the tiny weed pen. it’s been a while since he last got high—yunho and wooyoung both run cross-country and don’t like messing around with drugs while they’re in season. he tries to take a shallow hit, but doesn’t end up getting anything, so he throws all caution to the wind and inhales deeply. the tangy sour smoke hits the back of his throat harder than the smooth mintyness of his elfbar, so of course—

he ends up coughing.

little puffs of smoke leave his mouth and nose as he splutters. thankfully, everyone barely laughs at him. in fact, hongjoong hands him a bottle of water which he chugs gratefully.

“sorry, been a while,” mingi rasps, when he finally manages to take a normal breath.

you hum and brush some of mingi’s hair behind his ear. “cute.”

this nearly sends mingi into another coughing fit, but he manages to just laugh breathlessly instead. clutching the water bottle to him like a lifeline, he sinks back into his chair so that maybe he can be less in the spotlight.

“—anyway,” chaewon says, and mingi lets out a sigh of relief at the turn of attention, “sannie, tell them about all the shit they made you do when you were a pledge.”

san—the one guy mingi didn’t know—sighs and pinches chaewon’s thigh.

“babe, you can’t just make me tell this story to everyone. trade secrets, and whatever.”

hongjoong snorts. “so they got you pretty good, huh?”

“goddamnit,” san is like.

so san regails them with the harrowing tale of him pledging SAE, and mingi finally lets himself relax. san has this soft, earnest voice, and it’s nice to listen to. at some point, you press penelope into his hand, and even later, mingi works up the courage to take another hit. this one is much more successful than the last, and gradually, mingi works up a nice buzz. it spurs him to tug you deeper into his lap, fit his hands around your waist—jesus, have you always been this small compared to him?

mingi has no idea how long he spends there, vibing with you and your friends. he’s halfway to asleep when suddenly he feels something trail along his jawline. he feels the telltale graze of lips against his skin, and his pulse jumps.

suddenly, he is incredibly awake.

you nose at his neck, leave the lightest of kisses. mingi becomes hyper aware of his surroundings, and finally realizes that conversation’s been dead for a while. chaewon is fully straddling san in his chair, and hongjoong and seonghwa have disappeared.

“you wanna get out of here?” you murmur.

“yeah. yeah.”

⋆⋆⋆

mingi is aware enough to shoot a text off to his group chat with yunho and wooyoung letting them know that he’s going home with someone. he feels an odd rush of validation from the subsequent onslaught of vulgar texts and emojis he gets in response.

your place isn’t far from greek row, so you walk there. once again, you have threaded your fingers together, and mingi is noticing for the first time just how small your hand is compared to his. with your other hand, you scroll through your spotify playlists, trying to find one that “fits the ambiance” of the walk before settling for one titled vaporwave vibes.

mingi is just happy to be involved.

you’re a giggly mess as you stumble-walk-run into your apartment.

“roommate—?” mingi asks, as two of you toe off your shoes, and you turn up the volume of your music.

“chaewon’s shacking up at the SAE house tonight,” you say, grinning. you lean in close to mingi and poke his nose. “so you can be as loud as you wanna be, baby.”

baby?!

you lead mingi to your bedroom, where you spare a few seconds to turn on a lamp that casts the room into a soft pink hue and plug your phone into a speaker. you choose a different playlist—one with soft r&b and lofi.

then, you crawl onto your bed, swaying your hips as you do. mingi just stares at you, suddenly very out of his depth. this feels infinitely different from making out in a storage closet. this is your apartment, your room, your bed.

you’re leaned back against your pillows now, head cocked and eyes half-lidded.

you spread you legs and beckon mingi to come closer.

“c’mon, baby. let’s have some fun, hm?”

like a man possessed, mingi steps forward until he hits the edge of the mattress, and then he falls onto his knees, shuffling forward until he’s hovering between your thighs.

“cute.”

mingi waits for you to make the first move, because that’s what he’s used to, and you do. you hook your hands around his neck and pull him down, presses your lips together chastely. mingi’s eyes flutter close, and he lets instinct take over.

you must be wearing something like lipgloss tonight, because your lips are tackier than last time, and they taste like cherry. mingi’s intoxicated by it. he deepens the kiss, adds some tongue. his hands run along your thighs, your hips, your waist.

you do that thing with his hair again, and he whimpers. he feels you smile. you move his hands over your chest, inviting him to really touch, and he moans involuntarily when he realizes that you’re not wearing a bra under your shirt. 

“take it off,” you breathe, and mingi obeys immediately.

“fuckk,” he whines when he sees your tits. “fuck—you’re so—”

he surges forward and fits his mouth over one of your nipples and sucks. this time, it’s you who moans, and the sense of triumph rushes straight to mingi’s dick. after only a few minutes of worshipping your tits, mingi is already so hard he could cut through glass.

“you, too,” you say, trying to pull off mingi’s shirt. “take this off—take it all off.”

so he strips. first his shirt, then his jeans. he curses as he struggles with the button and the zip—when choosing his outfit earlier, he’d only been thinking about how this pair are a little tight so they make his ass look good. now, he’s straining to get them off without looking like an idiot.

finally, he manages to tug the jeans down to mid-thigh, which means you get a better view of the outline of his cock in his briefs. at least he wore dark underwear so you can’t see the frankly embarrassing wet patch that mingi knows is there. he’s always leaked like a faucet.

"god, i knew you'd be big," you sigh as mingi finishes shucking off his pants ungracefully.

he freezes, feeling a little exposed but also a little bold.

"you- have you thought about me- this before?" he asks.

"of course," you smirk. "big shy boy like you? that's my favorite."

you sit up onto your elbows and reach forward with one hand to cup his bulge. you squeeze, and mingi keens. it takes every drop of mingi's self-control to not cum on the spot. instead he falls onto his forearms and buries his face into your neck.

“fuck,” he squeaks.

you continue to work his dick through his briefs, but with such a light, teasing touch that mingi starts rutting helplessly into your hand to get more friction. it’s been a while since someone else has gotten him off, and the weed is making him so so sensitive.

"wanna- wanna make you feel good," he pants, but he can’t stop grinding down against you like some stupid fucking dog. 

"yeah?” you goad. “you wanna fuck me with your big dumb cock? do you even know how to use that thing?"

mingi whimpers. “yes, yes—please. let me- let me show you. please.”

“okay, big boy,” you whisper into his ear, finally letting him go. “show me.”

mingi doesn’t waste any time after that. he pulls off your pants and your underwear in one go. he’s practically drooling at the sight of your cunt and can’t help himself from running a finger reverently through your folds.

you’re wet.

because of him.

he drops down in front of your pussy and licks a line from your entrance to your clit. you fucking moan. 

“yeah?” you say, all dominant like always but a little breathless. “you gonna prep me first? gonna prep me for your huge dick?”

in response, mingi attaches his mouth to your clit and buries a finger into your hole.

“ah—fuck!”

one finger turns into two into three quickly, as mingi works you open, all while lapping at your clit. he has limited experience with this so he’s not super confident in his ability, but you’re making these high-pitched noises that must mean he’s doing something right. and then you tug at his hair, forcing his head back.

“thought you were gonna fuck me?” you say.

“yes, yeah, sorry.”

mingi has enough wherewithal to ask about condoms and lube, and while he tugs off his underwear, you retrieve the stuff from your nightstand. he’s so keyed up that he fumbles the condom, can’t get a good grip to tear it open, and finally resorts to biting one corner with his teeth to rip off an edge. it works, and he spits out the little piece of foil somewhere onto the bed beside them.

“oh, fuck.” he hears, and it’s the first semblance of a whine from you.

with renewed vigor, mingi rolls the condom onto his dick, hissing at finally getting some stimulation after being hard and untouched for so long.

“c’mon, c’mon,” you say, throwing the lube at him. “hurry up.”

he squeezes some of the lube onto his hand—there’s a light red sheen to it and a faint scent of cherry. feverishly, he thinks the smell of cherries is going to be ruined for him forever as he spreads the lube over the condom.

and then he presses just the tip into your entrance, and already he knows he’s not going to last long. you’re just too warm, too wet, too tight.

“jesus,” he whimpers, as he presses deeper into your cunt. “you’re fucking perfect.”

“fuck,” you groan. “you’re so fucking big.”

“gonna- gonna make you feel good,” mingi promises. “gonna fuck you so good.”

when he’s finally bottomed out, he takes a second. he hopes it looks like he’s just being considerate of his size, but really it’s mostly for himself, to make sure he’s not a one thrust wonder. and then you clench around him.

“fuck!”

it startles him into moving—with a strong grip on your thighs, he thrusts into you with so much force that the bed frame groans. 

“ah- yeah, baby. just like that. fuck, so good. so good, so big—so full. fuck!”

you babble nonsense into his ear, but every syllable fuels mingi’s determination. he snaps his hips against yours until his thighs burn, and then some more. but even in spite of his sheer will, mingi is just a guy finally fucking the girl of his dreams, and so his orgasm sneaks up on him entirely too fast.

“oh, fuck. oh, fuck. i’m sorry, i’m sorry—i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—”

he collapses onto you as he spills into the condom, his entire body twitching with pleasure from the sensation. seconds later, shame and guilt wash over him. he pulls out and crawls down your body to shove his face into your cunt.

he fingers you while he eats you out again, this time quirking his fingers for your g-spot. he’s delirious and desperate—needs to prove that he’s not just some guy who cums without getting off his partner. needs you to enjoy this as much as he is—needs you to want more.

“yeah, yeah, that’s a good boy,” you praise as he laps at your cunt like it’s his job. “so good, baby boy. so good. yeah, just like that—gonna cum. gonna—”

mingi can’t help himself. he pulls back when you climax so that he can watch. he finger-fucks you through it, but his focus is on the way your face scrunches up with euphoria, the way your back arches off the bed in pleasure.

finally, you shove his hand away.

“‘s too much,” you mumble, burying your face into your pillows.

mingi collapses down beside you, completely spent.

he comes to a few minutes later, when he feels the bed shift as you sit up. he must make some kind of noise, because you duck down close, brush the sweaty hair off of his forehead and kiss his temple.

“shh,” you soothe. “it’s okay. you can rest, baby. i’ll clean us up.”

“wait—let me help,” he slurs, starting to sit up.

“no no,” you coo, pushing him back down. “don’t worry, baby. i got it.”

mingi hums, too tired and spent anyway to argue. it’s nice, for once, to be the one being taken care of. he snuggles contently deeper into the bed.

it smells like sex and sweat, but also something kinda sweet. oh, right—cherries.

he drifts off to sleep soon after.

⋆⋆⋆

the next morning, mingi wakes up disoriented, pleasantly sore, but incredibly well-rested. the weed helped offset the alcohol, and the only grossness he feels is from not showering or brushing his teeth before falling asleep.

the bed is unfortunately empty, but the smell of fresh coffee in the air keeps mingi from spiraling too much about it. he lopes around the room, searching for his clothes. he locates those godforsaken tight jeans (which take him far too much effort to stuff himself back into), but doesn’t manage to find his shirt, so he sheepishly wanders into the kitchen shirtless like a moron.

the mystery of his shirt is solved immediately when he sees that you are wearing it. the hem falls right below your ass, and when you move a certain way, mingi can see the bottoms of your cheeks and the hint of black panties.

jesus, even after having the orgasm of his life last night, he’s still so easy.

“morning!” you chirp, when you notice his presence.

“morning,” mingi rasps. “can i- uh- can i help with anything?”

you pause to shoot him a big smile. “no, don’t worry, baby. just sit down. there’s coffee in that mug over there. milk in the fridge.”

mildly stunned at the revelation that your pet names aren’t exclusive to sexy time, mingi follows your instructions. he retrieves a carton of oat milk from the fridge and adds it to his coffee before hopping on a barstool at the kitchen island. he positively inhales the coffee, which must be some kind of special blend because it’s especially fragrant, and watches you bustle around the kitchen with efficiency.

the two of you settle into a comfortable silence, and it’s strangely intimate—domestic—but mingi doesn’t let that part of his imagination run too wild. for his own sanity, it’s probably best if he just takes whatever this is with you one day at a time.

soon, you slide a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast in front of him. you prance into the barstool beside him, nudging it closer so that your knees touch under the countertop.

it smells heavenly, reminds him of weekend breakfasts with his own family, and before he can stop himself, he says,

“thanks, mommy.”

it’s the kind of shithead joke he pulls with yunho and wooyoung often, but with you, it drips with subtext. over the rim of your coffee cup, you raise an eyebrow at him, and he feels his entire face heat up with embarrassment.

“i mean- um—”

“didn’t know you were into that kinda stuff,” you coo. “guess i’ll have to remember that for next time.”

mingi digs into his eggs so that he doesn’t have to look you in the eye while he processes that. next time?!

the rest of breakfast passes uneventfully. you take the reins of the conversation, yapping about your thoughts on chaewon’s frat bro boyfriend. mingi gives all the appropriate reactions at the appropriate times and just basks in the joy of eating a home-cooked breakfast the morning after having sex with his long-time crush.

later, mingi will rinse off your dishes and load them into the dishwasher, and you will return his shirt to him before sending him off with another chaste kiss to the cheek. mingi decides to walk back to his own apartment even though it’s nearly a mile away. but the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and his phone—barely hanging on with 10% battery—buzzes in his pocket with a single text:

y/n l/n has invited you to collaborate on a playlist: mommy issues ;)

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT next: love in withdrawal

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

listen to the inspo song!!!

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

Neglected Reader x Yandere Platonic Batfam pt 2

continuation of this au -> 🍁 , 🍁🍁🍁 , 🍁🍁🍁🍁

- well anyways, so the reader is stuck in this expensive limbo and they're like " uhhhhh so about the fact you've been avoiding paying your taxes for the past five years -" like reader is just trying to be professional .

- Bruce ignores their comment and just gives reader a cheshire smile and is like " Don't worry about that hun right now we just want to spend time with you " like he's just trying to reassure reader and they're just there like ' WHERE IS THE NEAREST TRUSTED ADULT THIS GRANDPA IS WEIRD ???'

- reader is just awkwardly sitting there like 🧍‍♀️ meanwhile damians just staring at them , enamored . So reader just awkwardly goes on their phone and text their secretary to track their location and pick them up because they are creeped tf out.

- Bruce is trying to be smooth by making dad jokes like " simba was moving too slow so I told him to mufasa "and readers just awkwardly laughing because she doesn't want the old man to feel bad .

- it gets worse when he tries using modern slang like " Hey ( reader's name ) you're so sigma today " and literally everyone in the limbo cringes and damian tells his dad to shut up and to stop embrassing them.

- anyways y'all reach the Wayne Mansion and you try to get out of the limbo but damian literally holds onto your hand and is like " allow me the most handsome , incredible , reliable , intelligent , best looking wayne to escort you out " and readers like okay whatever because he's just a little kid what's he gonna do ???

- so yall enter in and reader is escorted to a fancy living room , so reader sits dowm and whips out their laptop - insistent on being professional and wanting to get this over with so they could go home and take a much needed nap .

- " Okay Mr.Wayne ? It's says here you owe $100, billion to the IRS -" reader starts but then Dick and Jason enters in with big smiles . " Hey sis /bro !!" They greeted them but reader looks at them confused like who the hell are these randoms .

- this makes them both sad and sulk that their adorable little sibling wasn't as joyous to see them as they were to them. In comes tim with Alfred, and the reader perks up at Alfred. " Hey Alfred how are you ? didn't know you started to work for a new family !" Reader greets him.

- everyone just sits there in shock like does reader seriously forget about them - like they know they fucked up big time by ignoring /neglecting them but like they didn't recognize their own family??

- Alfred just politely smiles at reader and is like " Mr./Mrs. (Reader's Name ) I am still working for the same family, your adopted family in fact " he clarified. Reader just stares at him in confusion because like they don't ever recall being adopted ?? Like they've been in foster care they're whole life??.

- reader is just awkwardly like " hahaha hahaha nice joke man " and dick literally dramatically falls to floor and starts sobbing about how reader doesn't love them anymore .

- reader is just like ' wtf ' because like dramatic much and also they thought Alfred was their foster parent and they were just living in a big apartment complex w another family they didn't know they were supposed to be adopted siblings .

- tim literally grabs dick by his shirt collar and picks him up . " It's very nice to meet you :> " tim greets reader. Reader responds with a poker face , " uhhh we lived in the same place for 13 years mate it's a bit late to an introduction, yeah ?" reader says with a deadpan tone.

- everyone just looks at each other awkwardly and reader gets a notification from their secretary that they were outside waiting on them . Reader sighs and gets up from the couch and shoves their laptop into their travel bag . " Alright was nice knowing yall but I gotta dip " reader says and begins to walk right out .

- everyone immediately gets up to chase after them , Damian literally clinging onto their leg, and Jason and Bruce was trying to persuade them into staying saying ' its too late to go outside ' , " it's too dangerous ' . Reader just stops and looks at them both like " yeah grandpa it's 4 pm we know it's your bed time " and walks out the mansion.

- reader walks out , boss bitch style into their own expensive sports car not before waving at them and saying " See you later in court when you get arrested for tax evasion Bruce " and with that they drive off.

- the batfam just stands there in shambles because they failed in kidnapping and convincing reader to stay with them.

[eveningcherryblossoms]

It's A Beta Life, Not A Better Life | Part 13

A platonic yandere Batfam x neglected beta reader story

It was... to put it bluntly, a series of mistakes.

You couldn't be certain what the first mistake even was. Being born in this cruel world to begin with? Ha.

(No, you reminded yourself. Your mother wanted you, you should never forget that. Your existence was something she had eagerly looked for, your companionship something she had loved. You could have had a far more miserable life with the Waynes had it not been for your mother's money and lawyer. For your late mother's sake, not even as a joke should you think of you being born as a mistake.)

Nevertheless, there were mistakes. One was that you didn't kill that failure of a clown back when you faced against him, because? Even though he surprisingly did retain some broken bones from the fall, he otherwise survived sufficiently intact to execute his deranged scheme.

You followed the van carrying Duke as closely as you dared, but when it went into what looked like an abandoned warehouse, at the last moment you thankfully remembered to not follow it. You observed the van speeding in, welcomed by cackles that wouldn't have sounded out of place in hell before the roller shutter slammed down. Was it just you, or did it really sound like the final nail in the coffin? If so, who was buried?

Having parked your bike at a spot you hoped was near enough to be convenient and far enough to not be detected, you approached the warehouse. Soundlessly you scaled its grimy brick wall to the rooftop, then peered in through a skylight.

Yep, that was Joker, all right. Grinning madder than a kuchisake-onna, gesturing with his arms and occasionally flinching presumably from the bruises you gave him–then, making you nearly vomit from disgust, shuddering and moaning out loud.

Gods. Today was already a nightmare without him acting like that!

Forcibly tearing your eyes away, you observed what was more important instead. Your heart sank spotting multiple people being hauled out of the van by Joker's goons. You counted one, two, three, four, five, six and was beginning to freak out you had hallucinated Duke when you finally saw him taken out last. For one brief yet intense moment you could collapse in relief that Duke was there after all, then reality set in and your entire body was filled with horror because Duke was there after all.

The seven people including Duke were a mix of all genders–primarily, that was. You couldn't tell their secondary genders from up here, although judging by the collars some of them wore, there were omegas among them. So omegas, at least one beta with Duke, maybe alphas too?

They were all pale, shaking and crying. All except Duke, who had just regained consciousness and was stumbling along the other hostages. It was a relief to see him aware, but you couldn't help but remain concerned. You didn't see if Duke'd been stunned or chloroformed or something else so to fall unconscious in the first place, but either way it could've resulted in serious injury. What if...?

Stop, you told yourself. No spiraling. You ditched what was possibly your only chance to escape in order to save Duke, so save him you should.

Gas mask strapped, helmet buckled, visor down. You had a lockpick set, a multitool knife, a lighter and Joker's gun on your person. You could do it.

You had to succeed doing it.

You snuck in through a lower window that was, hopefully, completely hidden behind a stack of crates. That was when you realized you'd made another mistake: Not checking the location of the Bats.

Of course, the Bats! In hindsight it was obvious, why else would Joker do this if not to attract the Bats? You could've cursed yourself for realizing that far too late.

Some of the skylights and upper windows of the warehouse shattered, raining glass shards upon the people below as they crashed through hardly one minute after you. You all but buried yourself in an empty space created by the precarious way the crates were stacked, fervently praying not to get noticed by Red fucking Hood three steps to your right–wielding a gun in each hand to shoot goons on the southwest corner.

Nightwing flipped in the air once, twice, thrice, capturing the goons' attention before gracefully landing on the southeast corner–then beating them up, escrima sticks crackling dangerously with electricity. Red Robin, diagonally opposite him on the northwest corner, spun his bō staff using both hands while jumping down before proceeding to take down three of the goons at once. Robin, diagonally opposite Red Hood (and you) efficiently knocked down the nearest goons with the blunt edge of his katana, but refrained from joining in the fight in order to–you almost sobbed in relief–rescue the hostages.

Lastly from the skylight in the middle, throwing a batarang towards Joker with one hand while swinging with his grappling gun straight to the mezzanine floor where the clown was standing, was Batman himself.

Absently, you wondered how the other skylights shattered as well considering Batman's kids used the windows.

But you were no sitting duck. At the beginning, yes, you were. How could you not, being a plain law-abiding civilian on their first fight? But you quickly observed two crucial things.

First, Red Hood made sure to shoot at certain spots only, so that Nightwing and Red Robin could weave through without receiving friendly fire.

Second, Robin was struggling with the hostages.

Your eyes widened. Some of the hostages were omegas. Robin was an alpha. While rut and heat as a rule could be regulated using suppressant and scents could be hidden with scent blockers as you did with yours, in times of stress like this scents tended to spike up and showed through the blockers. More importantly, heats could be triggered. And when an omega was in heat, the nearest alphas could lose their self-restrain... or worse, have their ruts triggered as well.

Even taking for granted that Dami–Robin–he had some bullshit ability to regulate himself as taught by secret monks in Tibet or whatever, there were other omega hostages that could have sympathy heat. Maybe alpha hostages, who would not have said hypothetical ability.

You didn't care about the Joker vs Batman confrontation on the mezzanine. You ran.

Da–Robin's eyes were hidden by a domino mask, but you didn't need some magical sight to know he was glaring as you approached.

"Identify yourself! What do you want?!" barked Robin.

Instinctively, from three years of acting placating before him, you raised both arms, signifying how you intended no harm. "He's my friend," you said, nodding at Duke who appeared to be trying hard to remain awake. Your heart clenched in worry. "I saw him taken by Joker's goons so I went to save him myself."

Robin frowned, askance. "Why didn't you simply alert authority?"

You deadpanned, "You think authority has time to spare with so many places having been hit by Joker gas?" Then, no longer heeding him, you proceeded to kneel and untie Duke.

Duke remained bleary-eyed, but then he blinked hard and looked straight at you–your helmet's visor, to be precise. You knew your face would not be visible no matter how hard one peered in, yet somehow Duke recognized you anyway. His mouth was already blurting "You're Rea–?!" when you slapped your palm over it.

(You didn't notice it, but Robin's head snapped towards you and Duke at the spoken first half of your name.)

(You didn't notice it, but as he untied the rest of the hostages and clinically delivered the Victim-Comforting Speech, he kept looking at you from the corner of his eyes–noting down your figure, movement, everything he could get a hint on as to who you were.)

(You didn't notice it, but one goon miraculously managed to survive the onslaught of three Birds and staggered towards you, syringe drawn.)

You only noticed when Ro–Damian screamed, "Sibling, watch out!" while shoving you towards Duke.

By the time you turned around, Damian–your little brother–had gotten injected and collapsed.

Distantly, you registered many voices. The clang of Damian's katana as it slipped off his hand. The other Bats screaming Damian's codename. Their feet hitting the ground and, not infrequently, the more unfortunately placed goons. The groans of said goons. Joker bursting into the creepiest and craziest of his laughter you heard so far. Batman snarling at the clown. Duke babbling and asking questions you couldn't even hope to answer. But all were nothing but white noises to you, as your ears clearly caught but one thing:

Your little brother whimpering, "Sibling".

That was your mistake. Him, Damian, your little brother collapsing there taking the hit meant for you, was because you didn't notice in time.

You never meant to hurt them. Not–not like this.

Sure, you almost always imagined hurting them when you trained with the VR set. You did relish the thought of the Waynes falling apart after you left them. But. But–

Looking at Damian like this, you knew that you didn't want him hurt. Not your little brother, the only one who accepted you from the start. Not the one you had deliberately avoided and pushed away because it hurt your dignity to be accepted only by this little brother instead of your shared sire and said sire's chosen children.

That was... another mistake.

Still distantly, you registered the Bats coming closer. One of them–bō staff, Red Robin?–went to escort the hostages away. Another–flash of blue, Nightwing then–sprang towards Damian, only to be held back by–helmet, so Red Hood. Batman stood behind them, shadow looming large until it blended with the darkness of the ceiling, yet his own figure hunched pathetically. But why? Damian was still breathing, still alive. What was in the syringe?

You jolted when Duke spoke. You honestly forgot you were there for him to begin with.

"I–I'm a beta. I don't really know, but if I can–"

Oh.

Your brain digested the information piece by piece. The syringe contained a special serum. It was a form of biological warfare. There were different reactions to different people injected with it. In case of alpha teenagers, like Damian, apparently it would result in them changing into omegas. Then they would suffer heat non-stop until their newly omegan bodies broke–

Unless they were, as quickly as possible, scented by their betas.

The Bats had no pack beta. Batman–as Brucie–went through a most carefully chosen selection of betas for hire to stave off his needs. The older kids had their own juvenile packs, the Titans for Nightwing, the Outlaws for Red Hood, the Young Justice for Red Robin. None had pack betas too, but the presence of a juvenile pack of their own sufficed to keep the worst urge at bay while with their original pack.

Robin, Damian had none.

Robin, Damian only ever wanted you.

This is a mistake, a small part of you said as you knelt next to Damian's curled form.

This is a mistake, a bigger part of you said as you ripped off the scent blockers on your wrist.

THIS IS A MISTAKE THIS IS A MISTAKE THIS IS A MISTAKE, your whole body screamed as you gently, carefully moved your little brother in your arms.

You told yourself to shut up and proceeded to press your bare wrist against Damian's neck.

No matter what, you couldn't let your little brother die. Not after he risked his life to save yours. What kind of big sibling would you be, then?

A/N: *slams Post button* There we go, folks! After literal days I finally got this bad boy out of the metaphorical womb!

No, we haven't finished yet. Stay tuned for the next chapter 👀 (Which, hopefully, won't take as long as this one to write)

P. S. My notes decreased drastically after I didn't post for a few days 🫠 Could most of those have been bots...?

Taglist: @randomlyappearingartist @bellethesleepypotato @nirvanaxx1942 @tenswife @galaxypurplerose @shycreatorreview @cupid73 @time-shardz @mikusamsan @simpingpandas @kore-of-the-underworld @elmichi0 @mirabilis-polaris @farsketch @altumsomnum @hai-there-how-are-you @vanessa-boo @ashjade19 @yandere-enthusiast @a-lurking-fae @hyperfixatedcatlover @leeiasure @luckynemi @lowkeyjarrr @lunoorbonoor @deathbynarcisstick @tacendxx @staarflowerr @anonlikesfics @magical-panda2 @whognuthis @arwenyukiamoto @hon3ydewcaram3l @lilyalone @jazzyspaceghost @teabutnerdy @bunbunbread @darktrashpoetry @conqcakes @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter @unrelatedlily @ciatin @ratchetprime211 @mybones537 @anonasatoruu @vikkus-main @shqyou @sitepathos @ee-1ovelifedownthedrain @totallynotacat13 @ratterpatter @hayourdadgon

[daxisyzz]

⁺‧˚ ⋆ 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐥 | 𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔 ⋆ ˚‧⁺ (au masterlist)

Pairings: ceo!boss!bucky barnes × fem!reader

Synopsis: An ordinary office worker becomes embroiled in a fake relationship with her icy, CEO boss, Bucky Barnes. A deal that begins as a business arrangement spirals out of control when his grandfather declares she isn't suitable to be the bride. As pretend dates bleed into genuine feelings, misunderstandings have them falling apart. But when Bucky unleashes a grand gesture, they must confront reality—was it ever truly pretend?

Inspired by the kdrama "Business Proposal"

Contents: fake dating, chaotic relationship dynamic, workplace romance, contract relationship.

☆[Follow the tag ⁺‧˚⋆Business Proposal⋆˚‧⁺ for updates]☆

Episode 9 is out now!!

Aesthetics ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕:-

Episode 1: A blind date disaster

Episode 2: The contract relationship begins

Episode 3: The CEO’s new girlfriend

Episode 4: First date... Or boardroom strategy

Episode 5: Meet the Barnes family

Episode 6: The office bet & Jealousy problems

Episode 7: The Accidental Almost-Kiss

Episode 8: A soft CEO? Impossible

Episode 10: ....

Episode 9: The Aftermath

Episode 11:

Episode 12:

Episode 13:

Episode 14:

Episode 15:

Episode 16: ....

__________________________________________

☆[Follow the tag ⁺‧˚⋆Business Proposal⋆˚‧⁺ for updates]☆

Series Taglist: @calwitch, @scott-loki-barnes, @baw1066, @awesompawsum, @bucky-baby-barnes, @marianastudiesart, @pattiemac1, @maryevm, @borkybawnes, @mcira, @otterlycanadian, @mrsnikstan, @sebastians-love, @homiesexual-or-homosexual, @winchestert101, @julesandgems, @purplefluffycows, @brckenmemories, @avengersfan25, @samfunko, @mackevanstanfan80, @forthelovelyheart, @quinquinquincy, @ozwriterchick, @hagarsays, @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry

[sinofwriting]

Raised to Love - Max Verstappen (Dark Fic)

Words: 6,992 Summary: Drivers are shocked to find out that pretty much rookie Max Verstappen is married. Note(s)/Warnings: This fic is DARK! Taking place between 2002-2017. There's child abduction, mentions/talks of death, mentions/talks of underage sex, mentions/talks of sex, mentions/talks of periods, dubious consent. Jos is both somehow a better and worse person in this. Sophie and Jos are still married, Victoria and all of Max’s other siblings don’t exist. Inspired by Season 4 Episode 13 of Criminal Minds.

Masterlist | Support Me! 

2002

Tears are slipping down her face and she keeps rubbing at her eyes, small whines leaving her, but they won’t stop and her mom isn’t rubbing her back, trying to get her to calm down, her dad isn’t holding her and she cries harder. She wants her mom and dad, she wants them. But they aren’t here. She’s alone and in this room that’s cold and blank and she wants them.

She hiccups, eyes hurting and her hands can’t keep rubbing, tired of doing it. Sniffling, she turns on the small bed, burying her face in the pillow, even though her mom always tells her not to do it before turning her over. The tears fall faster now. She wants her mom. She wants her dad.

And now all she can think about is them sitting in the front of the car, completely still, not responding no matter how much she shouted or kicked at the back of her dads seat. How she was pulled out of the car through the window by a firefighter and how another one was talking about how her parents were dead.

They couldn’t be dead though, because her grandparents were dead, in heaven, her dad had told her. And they had been talking to each other just a minute ago. They were going to get dinner and candy because she had been a good girl. That thought had made her curl up in the firefighter’s arms, lip trembling, because she had been shouting and kicking the seat, she had been naughty.

And then when she got to the hospital, a nice nurse had given her candy despite her being bad and held her hand as another one cleaned her up. She even let her pick out a stuffed animal to have. It was okay, even though she kept asking where her parents were until another lady had come in. She had crouched down in front of and told her that her parents were dead.

She shakes her head at the memory of the lady’s face and her words. She didn’t want to believe that her mom and dad were dead. But they weren’t here, they should be here. They wouldn’t ever leave her by herself, alone, and in this room.

Lifting her head slightly, she sucks in a large breath of air, the pillow soaked in her tears and warm. As she takes another breath, she doesn’t hear the sound of the door opening and shutting.

She wants to bury her face in the pillow again, but her nose hurts from it and it’s gross and wet. Turning over, sits up, her small legs going up to her chest as she presses her back against the wall. It’s then that she notices the man in the room with her.

She stiffens at the sight, eyes going wide, and the blank expression that had been on his face softens.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” She greets, voice quiet as she wraps her arms around her legs.

“You were crying. Is everything okay?”

Her bottom lip trembles and she shakes her head. “My mom and dad,” Her voice breaks. “The lady told me they’re dead.”

“I’m sorry. Are you waiting for your grandparents or an aunt?”

She shakes her head.

He frowns and then he moves, sitting on the bed with her, though he is at the foot.

“What’s your name?”

Her voice is a little louder as she says it.

“My name is Jos.”

“Hi Jos.”

He smiles. “How old are you?”

“Four.”

“I have a son that turned five recently.”

Her arms loosen around her legs. “What’s his name?”

“Max. He’s at home right now, I think, trying to convince my wife to get a puppy.”

Her eyes widen and her arms drop, legs falling away from her chest. “Do you have a puppy? I’ve always wanted one.”

“No.” He laughs and she frowns. “But I want dogs, so does my wife and Max. We just have been waiting.”

“For what?’ She asks, head cocked to the side.

Jos laughs again. “Special occasion, I suppose.”

She frowns as one of the things the lady said to her as they were in the car on the way over pops into her head. “Jos. Do you think whoever I stay with will have dogs?”

“I don’t know.”

Her frown grows. “Do you think they’d let me get a dog?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” Her voice is quiet.

“But, I’m sure I could talk to Anna about you coming home with me. That would be a special occasion. You and Max could both get your own dog.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

She scrambles towards him, throwing her arms around him. “Thank you, Jos!”

“Of course. Now let’s get you to your new home.”

—

“Do you know who’s coming today?”

Max nods, small brows furrowed together, looking so much like his father, she wants to take a picture. “My wife.”

She’s proud of the way his nose doesn’t wrinkle, no disgust clinging to his words. Max thinking girls were gross wouldn’t do.

“Papa never said, but is it the one I choose?”

Sophie smiles, remembering how Jos had shown him a bunch of girls and the way Max had seen the one and just kept looking, had easily chosen her. “Yes. Papa was able to get the one you chose.”

He smiles and she runs a hand through his hair. “Will they be here soon?”

She spares a look at the clock. “Yes. Papa had to drive a bit away, but he should be here soon. Why don’t you come and help me set up her room.”

It was pretty much already set up, but Max could rearrange some of the toys and books, place them how he’d like. She expects him to nod, eager, but he looks confused.

“But mama, if she’s my wife, why isn’t sleeping in my room?”

She coughs to hide a laugh. “You two are much too young for that, Max. And you don’t know each other yet. Maybe in a few years you two can share a room.” In ten years, maybe, she privately thinks.

“But what if I want to share a room now?”

Her eyes narrow. “Max.” His eyes drop to the floor and she sighs. “You two could have sleepovers in your room, not every night, but some nights if you’d like.”

He nods, but still doesn’t look at her. “Can I go help set up her room?”

“Of course.”

She watches fondly as Max clumsily copies things he’s seen her do when making his bed, adjusting the blankets, fluffing the pillows before he moves onto the small amount of toys she bought, not wanting to buy too many without knowing what the girl did and didn’t like.

He frowns at them before he’s darting out of the room, she thinks of calling after him, but she can hear him moving down the hallway and then into what she thinks is his room. Only a minute passes before he’s back, a stuffed animal in his grasp. Walking towards the bed, he carefully places the toy so it’s resting against the pillows and she nearly gasps seeing what it is.

“Max, that’s Leo.”

“I know.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to give her Leo. Leo’s yours.”

He shakes his head. “We’ll share. I want her to have it right now.” Her heart melts at the answer.

“Are you sure?” She double-checks.

“I’m sure.”

“Alright.”

2008

Crawling out of bed, she shivers as the cold air of her room hits her skin. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tiptoes away from her bed and to her door. One of her arms leaves her to slowly twist the knob, making sure it slowly opens. As soon as it’s open enough for her body to slip through, she does. Her feet taking an all too familiar path.

Opening the next door, she does the same as she did with hers, slipping through the tiniest gap possible before shutting it behind her. The words of the maid ring in her head now that she stands in the room. How wrong this is, how inappropriate it is, how wanton she is. She doesn’t know what wanton means, but the way she said it had made her flush, bottom lip trembling as she made herself smaller.

The reminder makes her hunch, teeth finding her lip and she wants to go back to her room, she doesn’t want to be wanton. But her room is cold and the nightmare she had is lurking in the back of her mind. And sure this room is cold too, but Max is here. And she knows if she slips under the covers with him that it will be warm and he’ll even at least wrap an arm around her if not his whole body.

A shiver hits her and she darts over to the bed, slipping under the covers.

“Flower?” Max mumbles.

“It’s me.” She says, feeling warm on the inside at the nickname he gave her six years ago when she met him.

He makes a small noise and then his whole body is curling around hers and she can’t help but sink into it, sink into him.

She tries to fall asleep, but the word wanton just rings in her mind.

“Max.” She whispers.

“Hmm.”

She twists in his arms, making them face to face. “What does wanton mean?”

“What?” His voice is full of sleep and his eyes are starting to open.

“What does wanton mean?”

His nose wrinkles, “I don’t know. Why?”

“Mrs. Loeh told me I was wanton.”

“I,” he’s squinting as he looks at her. “I don’t know. I’ll ask my mom at breakfast, okay?”

She nods before pressing closer to him. “Okay. Thank you, Max.”

“Of course, Flower.”

2012

She stares in shock at the blood on the toilet paper. “Sophie!” She calls, voice nearly a shriek. She knew what this was, Sophie had told her about her body changing, getting a period, but this. This couldn’t be normal. There was so much. It was nearly bleeding through the toilet paper before she let it go.

She hears two different voices say her name, one far louder and closer than the other and she starts to see the door knob turn. “Max, no!”

The doorknob stops. “What’s wrong?”

“I need Sophie.”

“Flower, what’s going on?” The knob started to turn again.

“Please, no!” She begs and tears are starting to form in her eyes. “I’ll tell you later, I just need Sophie.”

She watches as the door knob stays paused and then hears a sigh from Max before the doorknob is released.

“Max, go to the living room.”

She breathes a sigh of relief at Sophie’s voice.

“But mama.”

“Go.”

She can hear him stomping away and can imagine the frown on his face as he curses in his mind.

A small knock sounds on the door. “Can I come in, darling?”

“Please.”

Sophie easily slips inside the bathroom, shutting the door behind her quickly. “Oh, darling. What happened?”

She looks down at where her legs are pressed together. “I,” she hiccups. “I started my period.”

“Oh darling.” And Sophie is right beside her, giving her an affection tap of the fingertip to her temple. “It’s alright. I know, it’s a bit scary, huh?”

She nods. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood.”

“Well, it’s probably that heavy because this is your first cycle. Mine was like that as well, but it lightened up after a few months, and birth control helps as well with that.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks at the mention of birth control. “I’m a late bloomer, aren’t I?”

“A bit.” Sophie allows. “I told you about this two years ago for a reason. I didn’t think you’d be nearly fifteen.”

“Am I okay?”

“Of course. Everyone is a bit different. If you want though, we can talk about it with the doctor. Make sure that everything is okay.”

“Please?” She asks and Sophie smiles.

“I’ll schedule it right after this. Now, let me show you again everything you’re gonna need.”

She watches and listens intently as Sophie shows her everything. It’s overwhelming and she wants to cry, just lay in bed, bury her head in Max’s pillow and cry. She’s thankful when Sophie slips out of the bathroom as she still sits on the toilet. Is ever more thankful when as she begins to stand, pulling up her underwear and shorts and it’s like she can feel it wanting to drip out.

The pad in her underwear is weird, but nothing compared to the new weird sensation of feeling like she’s leaking. It makes her want to sit back on the toilet and never leave. What if she didn’t change her pad in time and bled through? The thought leaves her mortified and as she leaves the bathroom after washing her hands thoroughly, she darts into her bedroom, forgetting her promise to Max.

Laying on her bed, she makes a face, trying to find a comfortable position, everything feeling weird. Maybe she’d buy a pad or a mattress protector, maybe both with how weird this felt. It would help any mess that might happen as well if she leaked.

Rolling onto her side, she smiles at Moos. The ten-year-old dog looks back at her, head resting on her front paws. “Where’s Freckles?”

“The backyard.”

She turns, Max stands at the entrance of her room, a look she doesn’t think she’s ever seen on his face before.

“It’s later.”

Blood rushes to her face at the words, at the reminder that she promised she’d tell him what’s going on, and she has to tell him. She tells Max everything, always has. And he does the same to her. It’s why she found out when she was six that Max and her were going to get married, that he picked her. That and he was confused about her wanting to play house and how he had to play the husband because they were already husband and wife in his six-year-old mind.

She nearly smiles at the reminder that Max picked her. He’s told her a few times over the years about it. The memory is still so strong in his mind, despite it now being a decade ago. The way he had looked at a bunch of girls in an array of photos, but she immediately caught his eye, was drawn to her and the flower behind her ear.

He snaps his fingers and she can feel Moos stand up before she gets off the bed, no longer leaping in her old age. Max moves into the room, leaving the door open as Moos slips out before shutting it behind the dog.

“What happened?” He asks, approaching the bed and she cranes her neck to fully see his face.

Her face feels like it’s burning. It feels embarrassing telling Max this, about this, even though they’ve talked about far weirder and gross things. Maybe, and her eyes drop staring at the hollow of his throat as she thinks, it’s because this means they can finally have sex.

The thought alone makes her swallow, breaths turning a little shallow as she imagines it. Max and her have done a lot of fooling around since his birthday last year. He knows how to speed her heart up with just a brush of his fingers. She knows how much he loves the feeling of her boobs pressed against his chest, bare or covered. Their breaths intertwined with soft pants as they move together, at least one piece of clothing still separating them.

She’s broken away from the thoughts by a hand under her chin, drawing her face up.

“Flower.”

“I,” she pauses, eyes darting around before settling on his face when she feels his thumb and forefinger gently apply a little pressure to her chin. “I started my period.”

His brows are furrowed for a moment then his face smoothes out, mouth dropping into a ‘O’ shape, the fingers and hand under her chin disappearing.

“Are you hurting? Cramps?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “It just,” and her voice is quieter than before. “It feels gross, like leaking.”

His head cocks to the right. “Even with the pad thing? Is it not working?”

“It is. I think it’s just how it can feel.”

“I’m sorry. Can I do anything?”

She glances at the empty space in the bed next to her. “Lay with me?”

He smiles, a laugh shaking his body. “Of course, flower.”

2014

“I have an F1 seat.”

“You have an F1 seat.”

The shock is so clear on his face it makes her giggle and he immediately smiles, but that shock still lingers behind it.

“Max Verstappen,” She begins, watching as his eyebrows draw together, fingers twitching before his hands settle on her hips. “Youngest F1 driver ever, youngest to score points, youngest on the podium, youngest to win a grand prix.” She doesn’t know if the last three will be true, but she hopes they will be, thinks they will be.

“You think so? I mean, it’s just a seat in Toro Russo.”

“It’s not just a seat at Toro Russo.” She laughs, feeling flushed as his hands sneak beneath her top. “It’s an F1 seat, an F1 seat that you will do amazing in. I mean, Max. There’s never been an F1 driver younger than eighteen before.” She smoothes the slight furrow between his brows with her thumb before kissing that spot. “You are going to do amazing and achieve so much.” She pecks his lips. “I’m proud of you.”

His cheeks are pink at her words, her flutters a little at him blushing because of her, like she hasn’t seen it thousands of times before.

Brushing her fingers over the apples of his cheeks, she frowns. “Maxy.”

“Hmm?”

Her fingertips trail down to his jaw. “Let me get you a skin care routine? Please.” She adds, sticking her lip out a little.

“Flower.” He sighs, his left hand moving to span across the small of her back, pressing her closer.

“Please? You know I don’t care about the acne, but you’ll be the youngest on the grid, still in the thick of it. This will help. It won’t be anything complicated, either.”

He sighs, a small smile on his face. “Okay. But promise me nothing complicated. You won’t be there to remind me how to do it.”

“Nothing complicated.” She promises, beaming. “I’ll even write up a little instruction thing for you and you can call me every time you’re doing it, so we can do it together if you like.”

“Yeah? Even when I’m like eight hours behind or ahead and you’re sleeping.”

“Even then.”

“Oh.” She presses up on her toes in excitement and Max’s smile widens seeing it. “I got us new sheets.”

“New ones?”

She nods.

“Can I see them?” Voice going a little low and he’s thankful that his voice doesn’t crack. She never laughed when it did, but it was still embarrassing.

Her teeth find purchase in her bottom lip for a second, before she nods. “You can see my new underwear too.” A giggle leaves her at the way he groans, hands pressing her body closer and against his bulge.

2016

Max stares at the ceiling as his dad talks to someone on the phone. This is what they wanted. They wanted him here in the Red Bull seat. Getting here this early was amazing, proving how good he was in an F1 car. And escaping the nightmare that was Carlos and his father was also a plus, even if both of them had taken to glaring at Max every time they saw him.

Max was pretty sure they were betting on him crashing out this race, costing Red Bull money, and then he’d get booted back down and Carlos would get called up. He shook his head at the thought. That wouldn’t happen. He was good, he’d prove he should be in this seat, should be here this early. Because he did. Max was talented no matter what the other drivers said, or the journalists or the legends who told him he had no business in their sport. His jaw clenches, holding back a scoff. Their sport.

It makes him more grateful to his dad and mom. They had told him, prepared him for not being liked. He was aggressive on track, abrasive off to people he didn’t know well. They knew it would make things harder and they had made sure he knew that too. He’s grateful for his wife as well and he wishes she was here now with him for his first F1 race in the big leagues.

He had wanted her there for his first race at Toro Russo, but that hadn’t been an option. But now? Now that he got promoted up, maybe, he looks at his dad considering asking him before shaking his head. His dad would never go for it. Not because she’d be too much of a distraction but because they didn’t need to deal with more media attention, Max was more than sure of that. He nearly shudders thinking of when he had arrived at the track yesterday and today.

“Max.”

He sits up, spine straight. “Is everything okay?”

His dad smiles and Max’s shoulders loosen. “Yes. I have to go and meet a friend quickly. You will stay by Christian or Helmut if you leave the garage, understood?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” He nods. “Look over the data. We don’t need you crashing out in free practice of all things.”

He dives into the data as soon as his dad leaves. A thread of curiosity is in the back of Max’s mind as he looks it over. Talking to all the mechanics and engineers, getting a feel for them, just like he knows they are getting a feel for him.

When Helmut calls him over he wonders if by friend his dad really meant a friend of Helmut’s. His dad didn’t have many friends after all.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Max nods. “I haven’t gotten into the car yet though.”

The older man nods, frowning like he nearly always is on race weekends. “You’ll do fine.”

“I will do my best.”

Helmut nods and Max takes the silent dismissal.

Standing towards the back of the garage, he looks at the track data displayed on one of the bigger screens. Seeing it displayed so large and clearly makes him breathe a little easier as he looks at it all. He doesn’t get to look at it long, however. The sound of his dad asking where he is breaking him away from the data and he steps out from where he had been tucked away.

His mouth opens, ready to greet his dad, but it clicks shut at the sight of her.

She smiles at him, but it’s just a bit wrong, too tight at the corners. It makes his chest ache, makes him want to snap and tell people to stop looking at her, makes him want to whisk her away so he can see his smile. “Hi Max.”

The quiet sound of her voice makes him move, striding towards her. “Flower.” He breathes just a step away from her before he brings her into his arms and she melts into him as he hides her face away from everyone else. “What are you doing here?” He asks, lips pressing to the side of her head.

“Jos got me a flight here. I couldn’t miss this race.”

His eyes flicker to his dad who’s standing behind her, looking at them, easily ignoring all the eyes of the Red Bull garage on them and the whispers that are starting. “Thank you.” He murmurs and his dad nods.

He pulls away just enough to look at her, his hands now framing her waist, hers resting on his chest. He feels breathless looking at her. Dressed in some pants, a shirt that he remembers his mom buying her last year for her birthday, the shoes that match his, she’s gorgeous and he can’t help but quickly kiss her. Their lips connect for just a second, but it’s long enough for her hand to land on his cheek, for him to feel the warm metal of her wedding ring and band.

“I missed you. Missed you so much.” He tells her as soon as they are in his driver’s room, alone.

She smiles at him, hands cupping his face, and he can’t help but lean into the touch, into her. Happy to see her smile, his smile. “I missed you too. How are you feeling?”

“Nervous.” He admits. “But I’m ready. I can do this. I’m ready for this.”

Her smile seems to grow. “You’ve got this.”

“Will you watch from the garage for me?”

“Will Jos be watching from there?”

He nods. “Always does.”

“Then yeah, I’ll watch from there.”

—

Daniel looks at the slip of a girl standing next to Jos, intrigued. She was young, as young as Max if not a bit younger, but more importantly she was hot. Nudging his new teammate, he tilts his head in her direction. “You never said you had a sister.”

The eighteen-year-old just looks at him and Daniel hates the way it’s somewhat unsettling. He was twenty-six, there shouldn’t be any reason for it to unsettle him. But as Daniel looks back over, he supposes most eighteen-year-olds don’t have dickhead near abusive dads that are Jos Verstappen. “I don’t have a sister.”

“Really? Hot cousin then?”

“Not my cousin either.” And before Daniel can say anything else Max is walking away from him over to his trainer.

“Alright then.” Daniel mutters to himself, eyes lingering on the girl before he goes to his own trainer.

—

“Daniel thinks you’re hot.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks and the shirt in her hands falls onto the floor. “What?”

“Daniel, before we got into the car for FP1, he was asking me about you.” His face is burning with anger.

“Thought you were my sister or my hot cousin.” Max scoffs.

“Oh.” Her voice sounds lost and her arms wrap around herself.

The anger softens on his face at the reaction and he wraps his arms around her from behind, exhaling when her arms loosen, hands resting on his arms, fingers stroking his skin. “You’re mine.” He breathes, dipping his head to press his lips against her neck, barely resisting the urge to leave a mark.

Her breathing comes out shaky and in her next breath, his pinky finger starts to dip below the waistband of her sleep shorts. “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Max.”

—

Max is shell shocked. He’s celebrating, screaming, throwing himself into the arms of his team, but behind his helmet, he’s shocked. He had hoped for points, dreamed of a podium, but a win? A win? That had never been in his wildest dreams for this weekend.

He’s guided over to the weighing station and then the first spot, a member of the team talking to him. His hands don’t shake as he removes his helmet and gloves. They don’t shake as he removes his balaclava either. Not when he clasps a few drivers’ hands. They shake as soon as he sees his flower.

She’s standing next to his dad, crying, nearly sobbing. He can tell from the pattern of her chest moving up and down. And he knows that he should be going over to get interviewed, but he ignores the team member trying to guide him, darting over to her. The people surrounding her, all wearing Red Bull shirts, cheer, patting him wherever they can reach, but he’s only focused on her. His hands enveloping her face as he kisses her.

She gasps into the kiss, her hands settling on his biceps before moving down to his wrists, fingers wrapping around them as she returns the kiss.

“You won, Max.” She’s breathless when they break apart. “You won.”

He grins at her, enjoying the shine to her eyes, the width of her smile. “I won.” It’s breathless as well, and a laugh follows it. “I won.”

“You won.” She laughs, quickly pressing another kiss to her lips before pushing him away. “Now go.” He nods, but leans in for one more kiss before leaving her to go to the post race interviews.

The questions are a blur to him and so are his answers. Except for the final one.

“Is there anyone you want to thank?”

“The team of course. I mean really without them this wouldn’t have been possible, we hoped for a podium, for points, a seemed out of reach with how the Mercedes have been performing though. My dad and mom as well. And my girl.” As he continues he fails to see the reactions from people with those two words, my girl.

The person interviewing him’s eyes are wide, almost having stumbled back. Nearly everyone from Red Bull has their jaw on the floor. Daniel though already feeling pissed from Max winning and not him has more anger coursing through him. Because seriously? He had been eyeing her up since Friday and she was with Max apparently? Max of all people? He scowls as his eyes land on her, she is far too pretty to be with Max.

Sebastian at the weighing station let out a disbelieving laugh, adrenaline was a hell of a thing and he hoped for Verstappen’s sake that the girl he kissed didn’t take his words to heart of him calling her his girl. He’d cool down later and most likely get embarrassed by the slip. Perhaps even angry, he was the type, after all.

A few of the other drivers share looks, shaking their heads and murmuring to each other that it wasn’t going to end well. It was a hell of a thing to say after getting a win, your first win, but PR was going to be all over him after and they all winced at the thought of what statement he’d have to make and put out in the next few hours or days.

His former teammate scoffs, “bullshit.” he spits. It should have been him in that Red Bull seat if anyone was going to replace Kyvat. He and his father had banked on Max doing something stupid, crashing the car, finishing out of the points, so he could get the seat like he should, but Max just couldn’t do that. Had to have a one-off fluke of a race. And now he was claiming he had a girlfriend. Probably some sort of PR stunt to make him look better, more stable, like an adult and not a kid squeezing his way into where he shouldn’t be.

Kimi lets out a small chuckle, one that Sebastian hears but doesn’t question him on. Of course, the kid would let it slip that he had a girlfriend. He had been hoping that Max would have made it until the end of the season or even next season, but it was fine. Kimi would just have to make sure to not make another bet with Minttu, it was getting a little embarrassing how much he kept losing to her. At least Kimi considers, he didn’t let it slip that they were married.

“Well, she’s pretty, I’ll give him that.” Jenson comments, looking at the girl Max had kissed, the one that must be his girl.

Fernando chuckles. “She is jail bait.”

“And taken.” He eyes her. “I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t mentioned her at all. I didn’t even know he was seeing someone. Did you?”

The Spanish driver shrugs. “We talk about racing not personal. And yes.” He adds. “I am shocked. Mainly because of that.” He nods his head in the direction of Jos, still stern faced, though Fernando had caught a smile on his face earlier.

Jenson lets out a sharp whistle. “Yeah, that is the surprising part. Wonder what Max had to do to get his dad to agree to that.”

He shudders, “I don’t want to know.”

“Yeah, best not to think about it.”

Max lets the podium celebrations wash over him, laughing when Kimi claps him on the shoulder as they leave, murmuring his congrats. Walking back towards the cool down room, out of sight from fans and cameras, Max takes a deep breath, heart still racing inside his chest. This was unbelievable.

He follows the FIA official as they direct them through another room, this one filled with some team personnel and such and his grin widens, feet picking up their pace as he scoops her into a hug, ignoring her squeal of protest.

“Max! You’re dripping in champagne.”

He holds her tight to him, face buried in her neck. “Good. Means you can shower with me.” She doesn’t say anything to that, but he knows that he’s flustered her with his whispered words. It makes him chuckle and he puts her on her feet, keeping her close, though. “I love you.” He murmurs.

“I love you too.”

He makes them keep standing there, his face still in her neck, at least a dozen eyes on them, but he needs this. Needs to hold her, needs to breathe her in, needs to feel her against him, needs her to calm him down. He wants to stay there forever, but before anyone can interrupt them, he pulls away. Pressing a kiss to her forehead before he lets her go.

“Go wait in my driver’s room, while I finish up.”

She nods, flashing him a small smile, before walking over to his trainer, who nods at him before guiding her out of the building and he knows to the Red Bull garage.

—

“Max, during your post race interview, you thanked quite a few people including and to quote you, my girl. Was that the girl you kissed today?”

Max is happy he’s already flushed from winning that they can’t see the way more blood rushes to his cheeks at the question. Red Bull had told him to expect at least one question that was personal during the conference because of the kiss, but he hadn’t been thinking it’d be so early.

“I think we have to remember,” Max’s eyebrows furrow at Sebastian speaking and he glances at the older driver. “That adrenaline is a hell of a thing. And we can’t hold something the kid says in the rush of a moment or does really against him.” Sebastian finishes before giving Max a wink, making his brows furrow more.

Was Sebastian trying to say that he didn’t mean to thank her, didn’t mean to kiss her? He can hear a few reporters mumbling, the scratch of pens against paper.

“To answer your question,” Max starts. “Yes, the girl I kissed was the one I thanked, that I called my girl. We’ve been together a while, she’s seen my whole career in karting now single-seater. She deserved thanks.”

Kimi lets out a small chuckle, leaning forward a bit to look around Max and see the puzzled expression on Sebastian’s face. Served the German right for thinking that Max misspoke and acted while high on his win.

—

“No girlfriend?” Daniel asks Max as they head into debrief.

“What?”

“No girlfriend?” Daniel repeats himself. “I haven’t seen her yet. She not here?”

Max sends him an odd look, “If you mean Y/N, no. She isn’t.”

He scoffs. “Of course, I mean, Y/N. Unless you’ve got more than one girlfriend. And if that’s the case, I call dibs on Y/N.”

The younger stops in his tracks, grabbing a fistful of Daniel’s shirt and yanking, making him stop as well.

“What?” Daniel laughs. “She’s hot, pretty, whatever you want to call it.” His laughter dies when he catches sight of Max’s face.

It was the face that everyone loved to talk about. The first thing that had been brought up when it was announced that Max had gotten an F1 seat. It wasn’t his age, though that was a close second. It was the look he’d get if something didn’t go his way on track, if someone smashed into him, made a risky move. It was the face that had to have been born from all the near fucking abusive shit that Jos was rumored to have done to Max.

It was narrowed eyes, glare sitting heavy and Daniel could feel sweat gathering on the back of his neck at the sight of it. Nostrils flared, lips in a thin line, but somehow Daniel just knew that as soon as Max spoke his mouth would look like it was gathered into a snarl.

Seeing it and seeing it directed at him, reminds Daniel how all of them had joked in 2014 about how Max was going to be so scary, just scare them shitless. It had been jokes because despite the rumors they had heard, the stories they had been told, none of them really believed it. It wasn’t because Max couldn’t have been some hotshot on the track with an aggressive style, refusing to back down and winning because of it. No, it was the fact that people thought anyone of them would be scared of it, would be wary of him, that made them all laugh. And then they’d seen him in an F1 car and suddenly all those rumors and stories came rushing back to them, because fuck they have might merit in them when it came to Formula 1 after all.

Daniel has the urge to reach for his phone and call Jules’ godson, Charles, and ask how the fuck he managed to race against Max for so long and never get terrified of him, on or off track. But before his fingers can even twitch to reach for it, Max is speaking and god, he does look like he’s snarling.

“Daniel, if you mention how my wife,” The Australian driver’s eyes widen and the word fuck starts bouncing around his head. “Looks hot one more time, I will crash into you, and I will take the fine, the penalty points, the promotion down, or the loss of my seat.”

“Okay.” Daniel clears his throat, the word coming out high-pitched. “Got it. I’ll stop talking.”

Max releases his shirt, fingers flexing, jaw shifting before the murderous look he had disappeared. “Good. Now let’s go, we are probably late for debrief.”

Daniel nods, silently following his teammate while the words what the fuck echo in his mind.

—

“So, Max is married.” Daniel says, as he sits with a bunch of drivers, downing a shot. “Yeah, Y/N, not his fucking girlfriend.”

“Daniel,” Jenson looks at the younger, eyebrow raised. “What exactly did you do?”

He winces, throwing another shot back and fuck he should’ve grabbed more than two. “Called her hot in front of him, again.” The last word comes out as a whisper, but the whole table hears it and they all shake their heads.

“Dude.”

“I know! But like the first time I didn’t know, alright? It was Spain, before free practice, I thought she was like his little sister or cousin. This time, I shouldn’t have done it, there happy?”

Kimi shakes his head. “I think the kerbs are going to your brain.”

Daniel scowls at the Finnish driver, but Sebastian thankfully steps in before he can tell him where to stick it.

“What happened this time? When you called her hot? Which to be fair she is.”

At Seb’s agreement, Daniel can’t help but shoot a look around, despite knowing that Max was in his hotel room and probably talking to his wife. The thought makes Daniel frown. “He, uh, he told me he’d crash into me and happily lose his seat if it came to it for crashing into me.”

The other four drivers look at him, Sebastian and Fernando looking with disbelief, while Kimi looks unsurprised, same with Jenson. “Are you sure you just called her hot?” Fernando checks.

He nods. “And pretty. I think it was pretty, hot, whatever you want to call it.”

“I don’t even want to know the context.” Kimi murmurs.

Daniel opens his mouth ready to say but gets a tap to the back of the head, making his mouth shut. “Let’s not do that tonight, alright.”

It’s near instinct to fight the words, because why not tonight, but he slumps in his seat, nodding at Jenson’s words. He didn’t have the energy for it anyway.

2017

“Max, put up a hell of a fight.”

Max’s eyebrows raise, “I didn’t know you knew my name.” He murmurs, the microphone still catching it, however.

Lewis lets out a laugh. “It’s your second win, right? Lots of pretty girls here to celebrate with tonight.”

The slight smile on his face from Daniel trying to poke at his ribs vanishes at Lewis’ words and he can hear Daniel’s sharp intake of breath, the journalists coming to life a bit. “Well, I don’t think my wife would appreciate that.” It’s deadpan, or at least he tries to make it deadpan, he didn’t actually want to make his PR officer’s life hell, but he knew there was a bit too much steel in it.

“Your what?”

Daniel leans forward, peering around Max. “Dude, where were you last year? It was all anyone was talking about at COTA.”

“You got married at COTA?”

“I got married in February 2016.”

“Aren’t you like twenty?”

Daniel peers even more around Max. “Once again, where have you been for the last year, two years?”

“Well,” a voice interrupts. “I think we can call this press conference to an end. Let Max celebrate his win and let Lewis come to terms with things.”

“Come to terms is putting it lightly.”