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[norrisradio]

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️ gravitational meet-cute / caleb x reader

synopsis; when you take your 2nd graders to skyhaven university for an activity aiming to teach them about space and gravity, you don't expect the faceless professor xia on the website to be a cute guy around your age, instead of an old man. as it turns out gravity isn't the only force that's irresistible around here, his charm is, too.

🍎 pomme's notes — caleb flirts with you in front of your class for nearly two thousand words basically :9

✴︎ 1.8k words / fluff / 2nd person & fem! reader — additional notes: reader is a 2nd grade teacher & has no evol, i gave the kids random names, caleb is a prodigy in the aerospace engineering field, reader & caleb are in their early thirties!

the kids in the school bus are buzzing excitedly when skyhaven university's towering buildings come into sight, and you can only helplessly ask them to remain tightly in their seat until the bus reaches its destination.

to be fair though, you can't exactly blame them. they're getting to go to the "big kids school", and they're gonna learn about space — something far too big for their little selves to understand yet. how cool is that!?

"noah, olivia and kai! sit down right now, or else all three of you are gonna stick by me the whole time we're there! everyone, this applies to you as well!"

with a resounding "yes miss!" the kids finally settle down and give you some time to gather your thoughts prior to getting off the bus. this was a big day for your kids, even though you were out of it.

just the week before, you were drinking yourself silly and lamenting your bachelorette life, and your best friend, tara (who just so happened to be the school secretary), had the incredible idea of signing your class up for an activity at skyhaven university to distract you.

"come on, it'll be fun! you love seeing the kids discover new things and get this — you won't even be the one teaching! just think of it as a break. besides, who knows, maybe professor xia is a hottie!"

"tara, the average age for aerospace engineers is like.. 70. professor xia's probably just a decrepit old man — his picture isn't even on the website! i bet you he's too old to even figure out how to upload it."

"you won't know unless you go, though! it doesn't matter anyways, your class is signed up already, so just have fun with it!"

so here you were, "having fun with it", otherwise known as watching over 30 overly excited children. thankfully, the driver pulls into the university's designated lot — though not without some squeals and giggles from the class. after disembarking and doing a headcount, you clear your throat in order to grab their attention.

"one, two, three! eyes on me!"

and in unison, all 30 students responded, "one, two! eyes on you!"

it was a cute call and response you'd learned from one of your mentors some years ago, and it got them attentive and ready to listen to your directions quickly — only this time, another sound cut through the silence, a whistle followed by a chuckle.

"woah! i'll have to use that on my own students, that sure was effective."

when you turn to face the voice, you're met with a handsome smile from an even more handsome man. a TA, maybe? before you can ask him who he is, the brunette seems to sense your confusion and beats you to the punch, introducing himself to you and your class with a dynamic expression.

"all right, kiddos, it's nice to meet all of you! i'm professor xia, but that makes me sound old, doesn't it? you can call me mr. caleb!"

there's no way tara was right. what happened to the decrepit old man you were envisioning? surely, there was a mistake. one of the little girls in your class quickly pulled you out of your thoughts, raising her hand and asking this.. too young of a professor a question.

"how come you teach at the big kids school? you're not even an old man! you're like miss teacher!"

right. 2nd graders' questions. you pinch the bridge of your nose, ready to apologize, but instead it seems like caleb finds it very humorous, throwing his head back and laughing before squatting down to your kids' eye level and explaining himself.

"yeah? i'm super smart, so i skipped a few grades and started teaching here after i retired as a pilot! how cool is that?"

a choir of ooh's and aah's emerged from the children, and caleb got up before pulling out his faculty card and handing it to you with a subtle wink.

"just so you know i'm the right guy."

judging from his ID, it looks like he wasn't lying — caleb xia, one of the professors in the aerospace engineering department of skyhaven university. you flash him a smile before introducing yourself. after caleb gives both you and your class a quick rundown of today's activity, you get the kids to line up in two rows and follow caleb like ducklings into an empty auditorium. trailing behind to make sure none of them got lost in the halls, you pull out your phone and send a quick "fuck he's hot i owe you a drink girl" text to tara.

the kids were in awe at how cool mr. caleb was, and you were in awe at how calm they were. you're a good teacher, and your kids love you, but that took a bit of work, due to how rowdy they were. caleb on the other hand? it came to him too naturally — to the point where you felt a pang of silly jealousy. you'd have to copy some of his mannerisms with the class.

however, admiring his prowess with the kids, quickly turned into something more. your eyes landed on his face, and his cute freckles and bright smile while he interacted with the children made your heart swoon. his purple eyes were so expressive, and you could almost get lost in them — and if you did? you'd rather not be found. lowering your gaze a bit, you end up admiring his well-built physique, until you could feel a tiny index finger poking your arm.

looking to your right, one of the three troublemakers on the bus, olivia, was grinning at you, with a mischievous expression on her face.

"miss.. do you think mr. caleb is handsome?" she whispered.

you almost choke on your spit, and you can't help the faint warmth on your face when you tell her to focus on what the brunette at the front is saying.

"pleaaaase, i promise i'll listen after this!!" she begs with a lip jutted out, and you can't resist those puppy eyes. damn 2nd graders.

"you — fine! i think he's handsome, now go back to listening!"

olivia beams and quickly turns to the front, but not before whispering about her newfound discovery to her two partners in crime, noah and kai. somehow, this didn't look too good for you right now.

sighing, you focus your own attention to caleb — only to be met with his eyes looking at you already. there's no way he heard, unless he has the greatest ears mankind has ever seen. right?

"miss teacher! would you mind help me demonstrating how gravity works for the kids?"

his tone is playful, and his expression inviting, so you find yourself getting up from your seat to join him on the small stage. presenting both of his hands to you, he winks again, and you can feel butterflies in your stomach. somehow you can't figure out if it's out of anticipation for the demonstration or if it's because caleb looks so cute right now.

"if you could hold both of my hands tightly, please. it's for science, no ulterior motives," and more quietly, only for you to hear, he adds, "or maybe just a tiny bit of ulterior motives."

ignoring the kids' gasps and squeals at their teacher holding hands with the good-looking professor, caleb begins to explain gravity in simple terms.

"you guys are anchored to the ground because of this thing called gravity. it's a super strong and invisible force that pulls things towards each other, and right now, the earth is pulling you towards its center!"

suddenly you feel your feet lift off the ground, and with a gasp, your grasp on caleb's hands tighten. you look into his eyes, and you're met with a smile.

"i have a super cool power though — a gravity evol. right now, i'm making it so that miss teacher is no longer affected by the earth's gravity. how cool is that!?"

you can only laugh at the 2nd graders' amazed reactions, varying from "my turn", "that's so cool", "i want a superpower too" and "miss teacher is blushing". he slowly lowers you back down, but once your feet touch the floor again, you stagger a bit, and he moves a hand to your waist to stabilize you with a soft chuckle and a "zero gravity does that to you sometimes." caleb walks you to your seat before turning to face the kids' expectant faces and speaking.

"if you all come to the front — without running! — and link your arms together, i'll make you all float for a bit too! go, go, go, captain caleb's airline is about to take flight!"

with excited yells, all the students hold onto each other tightly — and when caleb makes use of his evol to make them float around for a few minutes, their laughter is filling your ears, making you laugh along. when he lowers them back onto the ground, it's almost time to return to school, and so ensues the QnA section of the activity. after caleb answers a few questions related to space and gravity, kai looks at olivia and noah before raising his hand.

"mr. caleb! do you think miss teacher is pretty?"

noah doubles down, and with a cute yet failed attempt at whispering, he lets caleb know that "it's a secret, but miss teacher thinks you're handsome!"

so that was what olivia was up to. that's why she was whispering and exchanging knowing smiles with them. you're about to intervene and save the brunette from this awkward situation before he hums and places a hand underneath his chin, as if pondering the situation.

much to your surprise though, he squats down to the kids' level, before gesturing at all of them to come close, like he's about to reveal a secret too. with a voice loud enough for you specifically to hear, he gives the kids a wink.

"this is a secret between all of us, okay? i think she's the prettiest woman i've ever seen. and this is top top top secret, but i'm gonna ask her out on a date after this. don't tell her!"

he looks over his shoulder, meeting your gaze with a smile and you can see the tips of his ears turning a soft crimson hue. he laughs at your flustered expression and red cheeks — all while your 2nd graders squealed and shook with excitement.

and now, here you were — riding the bus again with all all 30 of your rowdy kids, but instead of solely smiling at the songs they sang on the way back to school, you were also smiling at caleb's new messages on your screen.

— hey sweets. are you gravity?

— because i feel a force pulling me towards you :P 

— is saturday good for you? i'll pick you up at 7!

you really owed tara a drink after this. and you owed your class a pizza party.

🍎 pomme's final notes — i gave myself baby fever with this fic oh how i love the concept of caleb interacting with kids.. also this is just. caleb flirting and being playful. live laugh love loverboys. also if any 2nd graders feel poorly represented get off my damn blog

hey.. tagging those who were interested in this bad boy... love u guys…..

— @abyssyby @codedove @30jades @shewrites247 @cantaloupewatch @vesearlee @iloveh4nge @philosians

[bananabreads]

Dad!lads with their children after their kindergarten classes (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

A short one shot of each lads guy with their child ♥︎ Dad!Rafayel, Dad!Caleb, Dad!Sylus, Dad!Zayne, Dad!Xavier.

| I may or may not have a slight favoritism towards Seraphina.... |

RAFAYEL — ice cream after school

The low sound of a luxurious sports car engine echoed down the quiet kindergarten street. Rafayel had just pulled up, one arm resting on the wheel, sunglasses perched on his nose, wearing a casual white button down and rolled sleeves.

Inside the classroom, Seraphina perked up immediately at the familiar sound. Her big, curious eyes darted to the window, and within seconds, her tiny body was rushing toward it. She pressed her face against the glass, cheeks adorably squished as she waved both hands with all her might.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she cried out, her little voice muffled behind the glass.

The other kids gathered around her, a mix of awe and disbelief on their faces.

“That’s your dad?!”

“He has a cool car!”

“He looks like a prince!”

Even the teacher chuckled softly, gently ushering the kids away. “Alright, class, let’s give Seraphina some space. Her daddy’s here.”

The door opened and Seraphina ran out like a rocket. Rafayel had just stepped out of the car when she flung herself into his arms. He caught her easily, scooping her up and lifting her high.

“There’s my little guppy,” Rafayel murmured fondly, placing a soft kiss on her temple. “How was school?”

“I drew you today! But I accidentally gave you blue hair 'cause I ran out of purple,” she giggled.

“blue's not bad,” Rafayel said thoughtfully. “I might have to try it sometime.”

She nodded very seriously. “You’d look like a wizard.”

He chuckled at her response, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He helped her into the passenger seat, custom fitted with a booster seat that matched the car's plush leather interior. He even buckled her in himself, tightening the strap with care before tapping her nose gently.

With a smooth start, the car glided away from the kindergarten as Seraphina swung her legs and hummed her favorite melody, making up silly lyrics as she went. Rafayel glanced at her through the rearview mirror, one hand on the wheel and the other extended back just enough for her to hold his pinky.

“Mommy’s still at work,” he said. “So how about we steal a little time together?”

Her eyes quickly perked up, “Does that mean... ice cream?"

Rafayel smirked. “Of course. But only if you tell me what kind of secret mission you were on today.”

“I was on the Princess Operation. I had to build a castle out of marshmallows and glue.”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm “Sounds like hard work.”

“I got glue on my tongue,” she whispered.

He laughed, low and genuine. “You’re braver than I thought.”

The two ended up at a quiet, beachside gelato place—Seraphina’s favorite. She sat across from Rafayel on a high stool, her tiny feet swinging while she dug into a cup of bubblegum ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

CALEB — nonstop story teller

The second the kindergarten doors opened, she bolted.

“DADDYYYYY!”

Caleb barely had time to turn before his daughter hurled herself into his arms, arms wrapping tightly around his neck, little sneakers dangling in the air.

He caught her with ease, chuckling as he spun her in a circle. “There’s my princess. Missed me that much, huh?”

Her voice was filled with excitement, “Yes! Daddy, SO MUCH HAPPENED IN SCHOOL!”

She barely let him buckle her in the car before the words began pouring out, nonstop, back to back, no punctuation in sight.

“So first we made paper puppets and I made mine a sky princess named SKY like a cloud and she can fly so high she touches the stars and then she has a pet bird named birdy and a baby hawk named hawky and they can talk, Daddy, they TALK—”

Caleb listened, eyes flicking from the road to the rearview mirror just to catch the wild hand gestures she was making.

“Then we played Freeze Dance and I WON and everyone said I was the best at the silly moves and Teacher said I was like a shooting star because I moved so fast! And then at snack time—”

This continued. All. The. Way. Home.

And once they were inside, it didn’t stop. Not while she was taking off her shoes, not while she was drawing sky, birdy, and hawky on the living room floor, not even while Caleb was heating up her after school snacks.

“And then Seraphina said my puppet looked like a cloud but I said ‘No she’s a sky warrior, sera!’—and I showed her the backstory I made. Do you wanna hear it, Daddy?”

“I would love nothing more,” Caleb grinned, already bracing himself for Act II.

She stood on the couch and posed dramatically, arms outstretched like wings. “Sky was born on top of a storm cloud and raised by swallows and her bird has glowing feathers that light up when danger is near and—”

He watched her with nothing but awe. Like she was the only thing in the world worth watching. And to him, she was.

By the time you came home, exhausted but smiling, the first thing you heard was your daughter gasping like she’d just discovered treasure.

“MOMMY!!!” she shouted, racing to the door and nearly tripping over her sock. “You’re home!!”

You barely had time to drop your bag before she took your hand and started dragging you into the living room. “I have to tell you something! A lot of somethings!”

Caleb, sitting on the couch now with crumbs from her snack still on his shirt, gave you a smirk and mouthed, "It’s starting again."

“I made a puppet named Sky—wait no, I’ll start from the beginning!”

You sat down beside Caleb, already pulling your daughter into your lap as she flipped open her sketchpad to show off the drawings of Sky, birdy, and hawky.

“And THEN she saved a village from a sky fire, and hawky the hawk flew super fast and brought her water from the stars—are you listening, Mommy? Because this is the best part!”

You quickly reassured her, “I’m listening, baby.”

And you were. Every word.

Because watching her glow like that, retelling her sky high adventures with her whole heart, was its own kind of magic.

And Caleb? He just leaned back and watched the two of you, arms folded, heart full, thinking

This. This is everything he would ever wish for.

SYLUS — She's shy around people her age (⁠ᗒ⁠ᗩ⁠ᗕ⁠)

Most of the kids sprinted out, laughing and loud, bouncing around in little clusters. Sylus stood near the gate, quietly observing from behind dark sunglasses, hands in his pockets.

And then, there she was.

His daughter.

Quiet. Small. Lingering near the door, watching from the corner with those soft eyes that reminded him of you.

But not today.

Today, she spotted him and immediately lit up, her entire face brightening as if someone flipped a switch in her chest.

“Daddy!” she squeaked, voice full of excitement and joy.

Sylus barely had time to take a step forward before she ran straight into him, her tiny arms flinging around his legs.

He bent down instantly, gathering her up into his arms in one smooth motion.

“Well, there you are,” he said, his voice warm, his expression softer than anyone else ever got to see. “You missed me?”

She nodded furiously against his shoulder, giggling. “So much!”

Sylus smiled into her hair. “You had fun today?”

She leaned back in his arms, breathless and glowing, eyes wide with excitement. “I won!”

“You did?” he asked, adjusting her backpack so it didn’t slip.

“Musical chairs!” she beamed, holding out her hand. A golden star sticker shimmered slightly against her skin. “I won the whole game, Daddy! And everyone clapped for me! Even Teacher said I was fast.”

Sylus blinked, surprised, but proud.

“You’re usually not one to rush into things,” he teased gently.

“I know!” she grinned. “But I really wanted to try today.”

He opened the car door, setting her down in her seat, and she kept talking—quieter now, but rapid, nonstop.

“and I didn’t even fall when the music stopped, and I got to sit next to jasmine, and she said I was good at dodging the chairs, and Teacher gave me a star, look! and I wasn’t scared today, not even when I talked to someone new—”

She paused as he reached over to buckle her in.

“And I wanted to tell you first,” she added in a whisper, eyes shining. “Before I tell Mommy. Because… daddy picking me up is my favorite part of the day.”

Sylus stopped for a second.

His hand rested over the buckle, fingers still.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead.

“You’re mine too, little one.”

ZAYNE — future doctor

Zayne’s office was its usual haven of calm, clean, softly lit, and scented faintly of lavender from the diffuser he’d placed months ago after Jasmine said hospitals “smelled like alcohol spray.”

But it wasn’t just a doctor’s office anymore.

Tucked into one corner was a child sized desk, light wood, rounded edges, and a tiny matching chair. The bottom shelf of Zayne’s bookshelf now held coloring books, a few storybooks, a worn olaf plushie, and a box of crayons organized by color. Nothing too loud. Nothing too flashy. Just enough to say, this space is hers, too.

Jasmine sat at her desk now, feet not quite touching the floor, her tongue slightly poking out in concentration as she worked on her school assignment:

“Draw who you want to be when you grow up.”

Her crayon gripped tight, she looked up occasionally, brow furrowed, gazing at her father across the room like an artist studying her model.

Zayne was seated at his own desk, reviewing a medical file. He’d taken off his coat but was still dressed in his usual neat shirt and slacks. His sleeves were rolled just once, pen in hand, posture perfect.

“Daddy,” Jasmine said suddenly, holding up her sketchpad. “Do you think this looks like you?”

Zayne glanced up.

In her drawing was a small figure with a stethoscope, tiny glasses even though he didn’t wear any, and neatly parted dark hair. Beside him was another version—shorter, with pigtails and the same coat, the same serious expression. Herself.

Zayne walked over, crouching beside her to get a closer look.

“You drew me with glasses again,” he noted gently and lightly chuckled.

“You just look smarter with them,” Jasmine replied like it was a matter of fact. “And I want to be smart like daddy.”

He paused for a second.

“You want to be a doctor?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Jasmine nodded slowly. “I want to fix people like you do. And have a desk. And drink coffee.”

Zayne tilted his head slightly, eyes softening. “Do you want the paperwork too?”

Jasmine blinked. “uhm..… Maybe just the healing part.”

He chuckled under his breath.

She gave a bright smile, “Daddy, when I grow up.. I’m gonna have a desk like yours. But mine’s gonna have stickers.”

Zayne glanced at her tiny desk, already decorated with a snowflake shaped sticker and a crooked cat drawing taped to the side. “Looks like you’ve got a head start.”

Jasmine giggled, leaning over to carefully draw a lanyard around the neck of her little doctor self.

“That’s your ID badge,” she said, showing it off. “I’m gonna have one too. And mine’s gonna say Dr. Jasmine!”

Zayne crouched again beside her, resting his hand on the edge of her tiny desk. “I think it suits you.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “When I’m big, can I still sit here in your office sometimes?”

He nodded without hesitation. “As long as you want to.”

She didn’t say anything after that. She just smiled again, sleepy this time,and went back to coloring in the soft gray floor under her characters.

XAVIER — a new friend

It was quiet when Xavier arrived at the school gate.

Most of the kids were still running around the yard to get to their parents, some playing tag, and some laughing at who knows what. And in the middle of it all, at the waiting area of the kindergarten, sat his son, legs tucked neatly underneath him, small hands resting in his lap, gaze pointed toward the trees.

He wasn’t lonely.

Just… still. Observing. Like always.

Xavier approached with his usual slow stride, posture relaxed but eyes trained on his son.

“Hey, buddy,” he greeted gently.

His son looked up, that familiar face lighting up instantly with a small smile, the kind he reserved only for the people he felt safe with. “Hi, Daddy.”

Xavier crouched down in front of him, brushing a stray leaf off his shoulder. “Good day?”

The boy hesitated… then gave a tiny nod.

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Just ‘good’?”

Another pause. Then..

“I made a friend.”

Xavier blinked.

You could’ve told him the moon fell out of the sky, and he might’ve had the same reaction.

“…A friend?” he repeated, this time softer.

His son nodded again. A little firmer this time. “Her name is Seraphina.. she has an ariel lunchbox. We sat together today. She gave me one of her cookies.”

Xavier felt something pinch gently at his heart.

His son wasn’t loud or bold. He didn’t climb fences or scream across the yard like the other kids. He was the type to watch the sky and ask questions no one had answers for yet. Sweet. Quiet. Thoughtful. Not shy, but rarely first.

So for him to say he made a friend? That was everything.

“That’s awesome, kiddo. Mommy's definitely going to be excited to hear that,” Xavier said, running a hand gently through his son’s hair. “You proud of yourself?”

His son shrugged, but he smiled. That small, bashful, almost secret kind of smile. The one that meant yes.

“Did you talk a lot?”

“Some,” the boy replied. “She likes mermaids and says that she's a mermaid... and also like stars. I told her about the moon rocks you showed me"

Xavier gave a hum of approval, standing up and offering his hand.

“Well then,” he said, “you ready to go home, Mr. Social?”

His son giggled quietly and slipped his hand into Xavier’s without hesitation.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, just the two of them, fingers gently laced.

Xavier didn’t press for more. He didn’t need to.

Because his son didn’t chatter.

He shared.

And today… he shared something big.

[xoxojuyo]

Out of reach pt.1 - jungkook

𐙚 summary: you meet the man of your dreams during a flight, but he seems to be out of reach…

𐙚 pairing: lawyer!jungkook x nepobaby!reader

𐙚 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, THIS SERIES CONTAIN MATURE CONTENT

𐙚 word count: 1,8k words

𐙚 warnings: jungkook is older than reader, they get very comfy with each other super quick, hold ing hands, kissing, jungkook has a gf, infidelity

𐙚 a/n: this is meant to be a series, it’ll get filthy in the future. Hope you enjoy it 🤍 pt.II

The soft hum of the airplane engines filled the air as you settled into your seat in the first-class cabin of Flight KE902 from Paris to Incheon. You tucked your Hermès blanket neatly around your lap, ready for the long journey home. The lavish seat next to you was meant to remain vacant—an indulgence your parents had arranged for your privacy. After all, the daughter of South Korea’s leading pharmaceutical magnates and Cartier’s latest muse wasn’t accustomed to sharing space, much less during a 12-hour flight.

You glanced out the window, watching the Paris night fade into streaks of neon blue runway lights. You had just begun flipping through the latest issue of Vogue when a deep, polite voice interrupted your tranquility.

“Excuse me, miss. It seems this is my seat.”

You looked up, momentarily caught off guard. A man stood before you, tall and striking, with features so sharp they might have been carved from marble. His tailored suit spoke of understated luxury, and the faint shadow of a smile hinted at an effortless charm.

“There must be a mistake,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “This seat wasn’t supposed to be occupied.”

The flight attendant quickly stepped in, bowing apologetically. “Ms. Choi, I’m terribly sorry. This is Mr. Jeon Jungkook, one of our Diamond members. Due to unforeseen circumstances, we had to reassign this seat to accommodate him. I assure you it won’t affect your experience.”

You hesitated, your mind whirring. Jeon Jungkook? The name sounded familiar, but before you could piece it together, he spoke again.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Jungkook said, his tone professional yet warm. “I’ll do my best not to intrude.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Jeon Jungkook? The lawyer?”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a modest nod. “I see my reputation precedes me. And you must be Choi Y/N. I’ve read about you in Forbes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You read Forbes?”

“I do my homework,” he replied, settling into the seat beside you. “It’s useful to know the people shaping the world around me.”

You couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Mr. Jeon.”

“Good to know,” he said, leaning back. “But who said I was trying to flatter you?”

The tension melted into a curious ease as the plane taxied for takeoff. As the flight attendants began their safety demonstration, Jungkook turned to you.

“Paris, huh? Business or pleasure?”

“An event with Cartier,” you replied, your voice laced with practiced grace. “And you?”

“Business, mostly. Though I was hoping for some pleasure before a client emergency pulled me back.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “You don’t strike me as someone who gets flustered by emergencies.”

“I don’t. But I’ve learned that flying halfway across the world is part of the job description,” he said with a rueful smile. “And you? Flying solo?”

You hesitated for a moment. “It’s… just a preference of mine.”

Jungkook chuckled softly. “Fair enough. Let’s just say the airline played matchmaker tonight.”

You smirked, feeling the ice between you dissolve. “A bold assumption, Mr. Jeon.”

“Call me Jungkook,” he said. “If we’re stuck together for the next 12 hours, we might as well get comfortable.”

As the plane ascended into the midnight sky, the cabin lights dimmed to a soft amber glow. You adjusted the recline of your seat, sneaking a glance at Jungkook as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. He caught you looking and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Long flight ahead,” he said. “What’s your go-to in-flight entertainment? Movies? Reading? Sleeping?”

“None,” you replied, crossing your legs elegantly. “I usually work or… just stare out the window.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Workaholic?”

“Efficient,” you corrected, your lips curving into a small smirk. “What about you?”

“Depends on the company,” he said, a teasing lilt to his voice.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks but masked it with a soft laugh. “And here I thought lawyers were all business.”

“We are,” he admitted. “But even we need a break every now and then. Maybe this is mine.”

You talked intermittently for the next hour, the conversation flowing effortlessly from topics like your favorite cities to your least favorite airline meals. Jungkook’s laugh was infectious, and you found yourself smiling more than you had in days.

At one point, the flight attendant approached with the dinner menu. Jungkook, ever the gentleman, gestured for you to choose first.

“The lobster risotto.”

“Good choice,” Jungkook said, handing his menu back. “I’ll have the same. Can’t go wrong with a classic.”

“You’re copying me?” you teased.

“Or I trust your taste,” he countered smoothly.

As the hours passed, your initial formality faded into a comfortable camaraderie. After dinner, Jungkook leaned back in his seat, glancing at the champagne flute in your hand.

“Celebrating something?” he asked.

“Maybe,” you said, swirling the golden liquid. “It’s not every day you survive a Cartier event without collapsing from exhaustion.”

“Impressive,” he said, lifting his own glass in a mock toast. “To surviving the glamorous life.”

“And to lawyers who manage to look good while working too hard,” you quipped.

You clinked glasses, your eyes locking briefly. You felt your heart skip a beat, a warmth spreading in your chest that had nothing to do with the champagne.

By the time the plane was over Siberia, the cabin had grown quiet. Most passengers were asleep, but you and Jungkook were wide awake, leaning toward each other as you whispered.

“So, what’s the first thing you’ll do when you get back to Seoul?” Jungkook asked, his voice low and soothing.

“Probably dinner with my dads,” you said. “We have this tradition where our chef cooks my favorite meal whenever I come back from a trip.”

“That sounds nice,” he said, his expression genuinely interested. “What’s the dish?”

“Kimchi jjigae, with extra tofu,” you said. “And you? What’s the first thing you’ll do?”

“Go straight to the office,” he said with a wry grin. “Not as exciting, huh?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. Something about you being so dedicated is… admirable.”

Your gazes lingered, the silence between you charged with an unspoken tension. Jungkook reached for the blanket draped over his seat and, without a word, tucked it around your shoulders.

“You looked cold,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

It felt natural when your hands brushed against each other on the armrest. Neither pulled away, and moments later, Jungkook laced his fingers gently with yours.

“This doesn’t feel real,” you admitted, your cheeks flushing.

“Maybe it’s the altitude,” he joked, though his voice was soft, sincere. “Or maybe it’s just you.”

Your heart raced as you looked down at your entwined hands. “Do you always move this fast, Jungkook?”

“Only when it feels right,” he said, his eyes meeting yours.

You and Jungkook were still wrapped in each other’s warmth, your voices a murmur as you traded soft laughs and tender glances. His hand rested over yours, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin.

But then, Jungkook’s phone buzzed against the tray table. His expression stiffened as he glanced at the screen, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“I need to take this,” he said, his voice tinged with regret.

You frowned slightly, sensing the shift in his mood. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, though his tone didn’t quite match his words. “It’s work. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He stood and slipped toward the bathroom, phone in hand. You watched him go, a strange unease settling in your chest.

Inside the restroom, Jungkook answered the FaceTime call. The face of a woman appeared on the screen.

“Jungkook,” she said, her voice gentle. “I was worried when you didn’t answer earlier. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replied, his tone measured. “Just caught up with work.”

The woman smiled faintly. “I can’t wait to see you. We have so much to talk about.”

He forced a small smile. “Me too.”

The call ended, and Jungkook stared at his reflection in the mirror, his expression conflicted. He lingered for a moment before returning to his seat.

You looked up as he sat down, your eyes scanning his face. “Everything alright?”

Jungkook hesitated, his hand brushing the back of his neck. “Y/N… there’s something I need to tell you.”

Your stomach tightened. “What is it?”

He exhaled deeply, unable to meet your gaze. “I have a girlfriend.”

The words hit you like a cold gust of wind. You blinked, processing, before narrowing your eyes. “What?!”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “But I can’t ignore how… how good it felt to be with you tonight.”

Your jaw tightened. “So you just conveniently forgot about her while holding my hand and—” you stopped, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”

You turned away, staring out the window as anger and hurt bubbled inside you. But even as the rational part of you screamed to push him away, your heart ached to stay close.

“Don’t say another word,” you said, turning back to him. “For the next hour, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Just… don’t ruin this.”

Jungkook’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded. “Y/N—”

“Shh,” you interrupted, leaning closer. Your hands found his, and despite the anger simmering beneath your skin, you couldn’t stop yourself from pulling him into a hug.

You stayed like that for a moment, the world outside the plane shrinking away. Then, almost without thinking, you tilted your face up toward his. Your lips met in a slow, hesitant kiss that deepened as you clung to each other, as if trying to capture something fleeting.

~

The announcement of your descent broke the spell. As you disembarked and retrieved your bags, an awkward silence stretched between you. Jungkook carried your carry-on for you as you walked toward the airport exit.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, stopping in the middle of the terminal.

“For what?” You asked, your tone sharp. “For kissing me? For holding my hand? Or for confessing you have a girlfriend after letting things get this far?”

“All of it,” Jungkook said, his eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have let it escalate. But I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why can’t we—”

“Because I can’t walk out on her like that,” he interrupted, his voice heavy with guilt. “It wouldn’t be right.”

You stared at him, anger and heartbreak warring within you. “And what about me? It’s okay to just walk out on me like nothing happened?”

Jungkook’s gaze softened, but he took a step back, shaking his head. “I’m sorry y/n, If destiny brings us together again, I promise you I’ll make it up to you.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the crowd.

You stood frozen, your hands clutching the strap of your bag as your mind raced. You were furious, confused, and utterly disappointed. Yet, beneath it all, a part of you longed for the man who had just walked out of your life.

[sapphicstrawcore]

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ Final Girl ! (Sevika x you) highschool au

Synopsis: Friday night. It’s your first official date with the girl you had a massive crush on at school— Sevika: the gym-rat with a mean stare, a leather jacket, her mech arm and a cigarette tucked behind her ear like a threat. And somehow, against all odds, she’s your girlfriend now. You’re just two eighteen-year-olds at the local cinema after class, going to watch a gory 80s slasher flick.

Mentions of violence in the movie, girls making-out, tooth-rotting fluff teenage love

words: 2.7k

Masterlist ᰔ PART TWO

“She’s seen a hundred horror movies. But watching you squirm? That’s her favorite.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ You never expected her to look twice at you. Sevika—eighteen, leather-clad, built like a sinner’s dream and cool as hell. She’s the kind of girl who doesn’t flinch during horror movies, doesn’t ask before she lights a cigarette, and definitely doesn’t get nervous around girls.

But she asked you out. Just like that. Sevika, the cool, confident girl who clocked you as a babygay from a mile away and decided “Yeah. That one.”

You check the mirror again. For the third time. Maybe fourth. Whatever. You touch up the gloss on your lips even though it’s already perfect and push a loose strand of hair back like it might suddenly change the entire outcome of the night. It doesn’t. You still look like someone trying really hard not to look like they’re trying too hard.

The butterflies in your stomach have fully evolved into bats. Flapping, frantic. You smooth down your shirt, then second-guess your choice. Is it too much? Not enough? She said “casual,” but what the hell does “casual” mean when your new girlfriend looks like she walked out of a lesbian leather-jacketed fever dream?

And then—you hear it.

The rumble of a car engine outside, low and familiar. Sevika told you she’d borrow her dad’s old car. Said it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like she didn’t spend two weeks making sure it didn’t smell like motor oil and cigarettes (even though it still kind of does, since Sevika smells herself of cigarette). The sound cuts through the quiet like a countdown. She’s here.

You catch the low rumble of the engine again—closer this time—and peek out the window. Sure enough, Sevika’s car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dusk. She doesn’t honk. Of course not. She just leans back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel like she’s got all the time in the world.

You stare for a second too long. Janna, but she looks really good.

Leather jacket, dark jeans, a grey tee that clings in the way teenage girls with crushes should not be subjected to. Her hair’s pulled back, loose and lazy, and she’s got this relaxed posture like she owns the street. Like she’s done this a hundred times before. Like she’s not your first girlfriend and this isn’t your first date with a girl ever.

You grab your bag, step outside, and try to act like your legs aren’t shaking a little.

She sees you and straightens up, slow and deliberate. Her eyes do a sweep—up, down, back up—and when they settle on your face, she gives you this half-smile. Not wide. Not flashy. Just confident. Like she knows you look good and she wants you to know she knows.

“Hey,” she says, nodding toward the passenger door as she walks around to open it for you. “You look nice.”

You blink. “Thanks. So do you.”

So do you?? Really? That’s the best you could come up with? Oh, fuck me. That’s embarrassing.

But Sevika just chuckles under her breath and closes the door once you’re in. She rounds the car again, takes her place behind the wheel, and starts driving like it’s the most casual thing in the world to pick up a girl for a date.

You sit there in silence for a few seconds. It’s short, but in your head, it’s so long. The radio hums something synthy and distant. Her fingers tap the steering wheel—

“So,” she says, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye, “you gonna scream in my ear the whole movie, or just during the murders?”

You groan and shove her arm. “Shut up, I told you I scare easy.”

“Exactly why I picked it,” she grins, eyes on the road, looking way too pleased with herself.

You roll your eyes, but the smile slips out anyway. She’s got that effect—annoying and charming in the same breath. The kind of teasing that makes your stomach flip, not your eyes water.

“You’re evil,” you mutter, turning toward the window to hide the heat crawling up your cheeks. You hear the engine and she starts to drive with ease.

“Mm, I’ve been called worse,” she says casually, shifting gears with one hand. The other stays on the wheel, her knuckles flexing every time she makes a turn. “I mean. Evil’s kinda sexy don’t you think?”

You look at her. She glances back just long enough to catch your expression, and there it is again—that smirk, that quiet, knowing curve of her lips. God, she’s so annoying.

And somehow, it makes your nerves ease up. Just a little, but it works. Like she’s letting you in on something—not laughing at you, but inviting you to laugh with her. It’s comforting, in its own weird way.

After a short moment, her voice drops just a little, not teasing now—just warmer. “Hey. You nervous?”

You hesitate. Then nod. Barely. “A little.”

“That’s okay,” she says, and she’s serious now, steady. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself, t’s just a first date.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just look out the window, smiling so much your cheeks hurt. Then: “You’re kinda good at this.”

Sevika snorts. “Yeah, don’t tell anyone. Ruins my image.” And all you can do is laugh softly, still looking at the window, a smile on your lips.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ The theater glows like a time capsule—neon reds and blues buzzing above the ticket booth, faded movie posters in glass frames, and the lingering scent of buttery popcorn and floor cleaner. People are milling around in denim jackets and graphic tees, talking too loud, laughing too hard. It’s alive in the way only a Friday night at the movies can be.

You and Sevika step into line, the buzz of the place settling in your chest like a second heartbeat. She’s standing close—not too close, but enough that her arm brushes yours now and then, and you can feel her heat even through her jacket. She’s looking around, casual, hands in her pockets like this is no big deal. You try to match her energy— You fail.

“So,” she says, leaning toward you just a little, “do I need to buy you earplugs for this, or are you gonna be brave?”

You elbow her. “I’m not that bad.”

She grins. “We’ll see.”

You’re about to snap back with something clever when she nods toward the candy counter. “I’m grabbing popcorn. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” you say, watching her go. She disappears into the short line at the snack bar, and you catch yourself staring. She’s got this easy way of moving—shoulders back, weight in her hips, like she owns the damn floor tiles. She chats briefly with the guy behind the counter, pays in cash, and returns with a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, two sodas in the other hand like it’s nothing.

And something about it—just that, her walking back to you like this is normal, like she��s yours and this is just what you do together—it makes your heart flip.

So you do something really stupid.

You step forward. Quickly. Before your brain can catch up to your body.

You rise onto your tiptoes, grab the edge of her jacket, and peck her lips.

Just a blink. Barely a second.

But it’s soft. Warm. Real.

Then your body catches up, and you pull back like you’ve just touched a flame. Your face burns hot, your stomach drops straight through your shoes, and you say the first thing that comes to mind.

Sevika blinks. And then— She smirks.

Not wide. Not cruel. Just that subtle, cocky little smile like she’s watching you squirm and liking it.

“Don’t be,” she says, shifting the popcorn into one hand so she can gently tug you back toward her by the sleeve of your shirt. Her voice is low, close. “You should do that more often.”

Your brain short-circuits. You stare up at her like an idiot, lips parted, no thoughts—just heat and the sound of your heart trying to hammer its way out of your chest. And Sevika? She just hands you your soda like nothing happened.

“C’mon,” she says, nodding toward the ticket guy. “Let’s go scream together.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ You follow her down the dark carpeted aisle, the smell of butter and fake cheese thick in the air. The screen glows dim and red with previews, flickering shadows dancing across rows of velvet seats. Sevika leads without asking, heading straight for the back—the back.

The last row.

Your heart does a little spin.

Everyone knows what the back row is for. It’s where couples sit when they don’t really care about the movie. Where the lighting is just dim enough to hide a kiss or a hand creeping over a thigh. You hesitate for half a second, but Sevika doesn’t. She settles into the seat like she owns it, legs spread a little, shoulders loose, and sets the popcorn between you like it’s just another Friday night. How can she be so confident ?

You sit down slowly, knees brushing. The cup holder’s already full with your drink, so your soda ends up wedged between your thighs. Great. Very sexy. Totally natural.

She shifts beside you, reaches over with one long arm to drop her soda into the shared holder, and then just… leaves her arm there.

Resting behind you.

Not touching yet. Just hovering, like a promise.

You try not to combust. You’re going crazy deep inside but nothings shows in real life. Or at least that’s what you think.

The lights dim more. The studio logos start flashing. And that’s when it happens—smooth and casual, like she’s done it a hundred times -which, to be honest, doesn’t make you indifferent-, Sevika lifts her arm and slides it around your shoulders.

Not possessive. Not awkward.

Just warm. Secure.

You stiffen for a second, eyes wide, then melt into it before your brain can protest. Her fingers rest lightly on your arm, thumb brushing once. Absentminded. Or maybe not.

You glance at her.

She’s watching the screen, eyes half-lidded, mouth curled in the faintest smile.

Like she knows.

Of course she knows.

You lean just a little closer. You don’t say anything, but inside, you’re a mess. A screaming mess.

Then, after a short moment— too short— “You’re regretting it,” Sevika murmurs, low against your ear. It’s not a question.

You don’t even turn your head, and answer way too fast. “No.”

She’s already smirking.

Not the dramatic kind—just that small, dangerous curve of her lips like she knew exactly what you were going to say and said it for you. Her arm stays firm around your shoulders, and her thumb brushes the outside of your arm like she’s trying to reassure you. Or tease you. Or both.

“Mm-hm,” she hums, eyes back on the screen. “Sure.”

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to ignore the way your body’s buzzing from how close she is. “I’m not.”

She snorts softly. “‘Think you will be.” And then the movie starts.

It wastes no time—no slow build, no gentle intro. Just a woman running through the woods, screams echoing through the surround sound, a knife gleaming in the dark.

You jump. Sevika doesn’t. You’re feeling ridiculous.

She calmly tosses a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth like she’s watching a cooking show and not a murder on screen. You hear a muffled laugh in her throat when you flinch again at a sudden violin sting.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl,” she says, offering you the popcorn with zero remorse.

You take it, mostly to give your hands something to do besides grabbing onto her shirt every five seconds. The screen flashes again—another scream, another blood spray—and this time, your body reacts before your brain can.

You shift closer.

Your arm brushes hers. Your thigh bumps against her leg. And her hand—like it was already waiting—slides down from your shoulder to the curve of your waist. Gentle. Steady.

You don’t look at her. Can’t. You’ll melt. You just sit there, trying to focus on the screen while her fingers tap slow, lazy patterns against your side like she’s drawing invisible hearts you’ll never recover from.

A brutal kill scene starts up—loud, chaotic, bone-crunching—and your whole body jerks.

Before you can stop yourself, your hand grabs hers. She just shifts her hand, twines her fingers through yours, and squeezes once. Firm. Warm. Assuring. But she loves it. She’s taking much more pleasure than she should, watching you squirm and being scared for any detail appearing on the big screen. It’s very entertaining.

During the movie, you try to anticipate the next jump-scare. You see it coming sometimes—the camera lingers too long on an empty hallway, the music dips into silence, and you know something is about to lunge out.

You brace. You fail.

A screech rips through the speakers and something grotesque flings itself across the screen. You physically jerk in your seat, nearly knocking over your soda between your knees. Sevika’s grip on your hand tightens instinctively, and you make a small, pathetic sound you will deny for the rest of your life.

Her quiet, fond but almost cruel chuckle vibrates against your side, warm and smug and unfairly hot. But thankfully, the movie dips into a lull—characters regrouping, plotting in a dimly lit cabin, no blood for at least the next five minutes. Your heart slows to something close to human.

You let out a long breath and shift again, resting your head on her shoulder. She doesn’t move. Just lets you be there.

Her shoulder is solid, warm through the leather jacket, and smells faintly like cigarette smoke and mint gum and something distinctly her. Your eyes flutter closed for a second. Just a second.

Then, slowly, Sevika turns her head. Her cheek brushes your temple, and before your nerves can catch fire again, you feel her lips—soft and slow—press against yours.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it was meant to happen in the back row of a theater, while a slasher plays and your soda goes warm between your knees. It’s just enough pressure to steal your breath, just enough care to ground you again.

Then you kiss, again. And again. And again. The kisses growing maybe a bit more heated, more adventurous and deep— until you’re almost making-out just like the two -possibly- horny teenagers you are.

When she pulls back, she doesn’t say anything. Just nudges your nose gently with hers. Your breath is a bit harsher for the both of you, and you smile.

Because somehow, that stupid little make-out session makes the monsters on screen seem a lot less scary.

You turn back to the movie. Your head stays on her shoulder. Her fingers play with yours absently, and you realize you don’t regret it. Not at all.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ At the end of the movie, the credits roll over a bloody title card and one last scream that makes half the audience laugh nervously. The lights come up too bright, too suddenly, washing the room in gold and making everyone blink like they’ve just come out of a dream.

You sit up slowly, reluctantly peeling yourself off Sevika’s shoulder, cheeks warm and lips still tingling.

“Still alive,” you mutter, stretching your legs.

“Barely,” she smirks, grabbing the now half-empty bucket of popcorn. “You flinched so hard you almost headbutted me.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong…” you say, but it’s breathless, too soft to sting.

You both shuffle out with the crowd, shoulders brushing, the air outside cooler now, heavy with summer-night warmth and the buzz of other teens loudly rating the kills. The parking lot glows under flickering streetlamps. Sevika walks a step ahead, swinging the car keys around her finger, always a little cooler than you can handle.

She glances over her shoulder at you as you approach her dad’s beat-up old car. Leans back against the door, arms crossed, eyes on you like she knows she’s got you.

“So,” she says, voice low, casual, almost lazy. “Wanna come over?”

Your heart skips. You look at her, eyes wide.

She shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like she’s not suddenly turning your whole body to static. “We can make fun of the kills. Watch something stupid. You don’t have to go home yet, do you?”

You hesitate. Just a second. Then: “No. I mean—yeah. I wanna come.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t say anything.”

Sevika laughs. Really laughs this time. Low and warm and full.

Once in the parking lot, she opens the passenger door for you, like a gentleman and a menace rolled into one, and says, “C’mon, scaredy cat. I’ll keep the lights on for you.”

You slide in, heart pounding, stomach flipping, trying not to grin like a total idiot. Your cheeks are warm and your hands just a little bit sweaty.

And yeah—maybe horror movies aren’t so bad after all.

She’s going to make you forget about all the jump-scares anyway.

I’m realizing I have the power of writing good smut… but still won’t, heh. There’s so many good smut writers here. Just wanted to write a fic abt my love for slashers and make it cute, really cliché teenage movie date until I realized it could be a really good smut fic tbh— but anyway!

dividers: @/cursed-carmine

taglist: @lonerslug @riotstemple29 @blessupblessup @sevikasswifee

[paarksunghoon]

DEEP HONEY | SUNGHOON

SUMMARY: the last thing you want to do is interrupt sunghoon’s time with his friends, but your doting boyfriend has always said he’ll be there whenever you need him. when a shift at work leaves you hanging by a thread, he and his friends are there to patch your soul back up.

NOTES: felt some type of way and naturally i need a hug from sunghoon. best i can do is write about it.

PAIRING: sunghoon x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

WARNINGS: angst, typical rough day stuff and typos, probably.

MASTERLIST

***

Your car comes to a complete halt when you situate yourself on the curb of Lee Heeseung’s apartment. The rumble of the pavement beneath your tires ceases to amplify the slight movement that naturally shakes your car seats and you sit in the driver’s side like you’re a zombie.

The muggy atmosphere from the heat attempting to displace the freezing air makes your skin feel sticky and gross as you turn your engine off. The overhead lights temporarily blind you as you stare ahead into the dark night and feel the tension building up in your body.

Your jaw clenches and your cheeks become warm with the sheer amount of frustration seeping into your bones. The cold sweat you harbor makes you feel hot and freezing at the same time. The coolness of your glass window does nothing to quell your body’s temperature.

The familiar two-story house beside you is where Heeseung lives. He rents the bottom property and has lived with Park Jongseong ever since you all collectively started the last year of university.

You don’t necessarily want to be here. Coming to Heeseung’s apartment because you feel like you might combust at any minute seems like an invasion of privacy. Your boyfriend Sunghoon had let you know that he was sleeping over at his friends’ apartment tonight and you had no qualms with the proposition. He deserved to have his time with his friends too. Although it seems that your mind has its own agenda and you find yourself in front of Heeseung’s place in no time.

You step out of the car and lock it. Your feet carry you around the hood and you step onto the hard sidewalk with a slight wobble. The air is chilling, throwing a stark shiver down your spine as you huddle in your arms for warmth. The jacket you have sprawled on the backseat looks at you with concern.

You’re a step away from ringing the doorbell but your finger hovers the white button as tears well up in your eyes. The feeling of desperation and burden weigh on your chest as you listen to the muffled laughter that comes from Heeseung’s living room. Sunghoon hadn’t seen his friends in a few weeks between classes, work, and you. The last thing you want to do is impede on his time with his friends when you’ve spent the better half of this month glued to his side.

But you can’t help it. Your nose feels like it could be burning from the cold and the weather forces you to ring Heeseung’s doorbell when it ripples through your shirt. You hear him padding to the front door and can make out his figure from the bottom, his shadow blocking the light from inside.

Heeseung opens it just slightly ajar to assess who’s standing outside his apartment at this late hour. When he opens it, seeing you standing in the cold with red eyes and no jacket makes him panic.

“Y/N?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”

You think he might close the door with the look of confusion on his face but he opens it wider to allow you into his apartment. He shuts it quickly behind him and notices your chattering teeth, eyes softening at the sound when you look up at him. Heeseung watches your eyes begin to water and puts a hand on your upper back to soothe your emotions, but it makes you spill a few tears.

“I-I’m sorry for coming here,” you hiccup. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“It’s okay, Y/N. You can always come over if you need something.”

You speak faster than you can think. “Today was so awful.”

Heeseung purses his lips and tells you to stay put. You watch him retreat into the living room and stare at the wall clock in front of you until you hear Heeseung say, “Hoon, your girl’s here.”

Sunghoon hears the worry in his friend’s voice because he stands up from the couch like he’s on a mission. With his eyebrows furrowed and heart beating in his chest, Sunghoon follows Heeseung to the front door and is immediately presented with you.

You look nothing like the happy-go-lucky girlfriend he said goodbye to before heading over to Heeseung’s. This morning, you’d woken up next to Sunghoon and he’d given you a tender kiss before heading to spend the day with his friends. Now, your eyes are swollen and your cheeks are stained with salty tears.

His heart plummets when he sees you standing in Heeseung’s doorway with no jacket on. You look helpless in a way he doesn’t see very often. Your knees buckle in your pants and the goosebumps on your arms are prominent to his eye.

Sunghoon wastes no time and envelopes you in a hug, pulling you into his chest until your face is situated in his neck.

“Baby?” he asks, feeling your hot breaths against his skin. “Talk to me. What happened? You’re so cold. Where’s your jacket? Did you bring one?”

His deep, honey-like voice that utter sweet concern only makes you cry harder. You try to keep your chokes and sobs as quiet as possible but the hiccups emitting from your throat make it impossible. You try to ignore the fact that Sunghoon’s friends can likely hear you weeping, instead focusing on your boyfriend’s warmth.

His arms encircle your body, one hand protectively around your waist and the other secured behind you. Sunghoon’s hands cup the back of your head and he strokes his fingers through your head lovingly.

“I had a bad day.” Your broken whispers makes Sunghoon’s heart sink even further. He pushes your hair out of the way and kisses your temple with plump lips.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Rethinking the events that led to your arrival at Heeseung’s place only fuels your tears and you shut your eyes, burying yourself further into your boyfriend’s neck.

Heeseung, helplessly standing around the corner, walks closer to tell him the two of you could use his bedroom. Sunghoon rubs the small of your back and slowly walks towards the room, guiding you inside without so much as a word spoken. Heeseung closes the door behind you two and Sunghoon immediately perches the two of you on the edge of his bed.

“My baby.” Sunghoon lifts your head and pushes the tears underneath your eyes away with the pads of his thumbs. “What’s got you upset, hm? Are you hurt?”

“No,” you choke. “I’m not hurt.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Sunghoon pulls you into his chest and further onto Heeseung’s bed when you give into him. He lets you cry against him, not caring that his shirt is becoming damp as the seconds pass by. His palm soothes the entirety of your back and he kisses the crown of your head, periodically squeezing you tighter when his heart breaks at the sound of your sobs.

“Life is so hard,” you say into his chest. “I feel overwhelmed and scared.”

“Scared of what, baby?”

“I don’t know. Everything? I had the worst shift at work today. A customer ordered a hot coffee but I made it iced by accident and instead of letting me remake it for her, she involved my manager and was making a scene in front of everybody there.”

“I’m sorry.” Sunghoon whispers against your temple and kisses it again. “That’s frustrating.”

“My manager tried to get her to leave but she was pushy. Usually I could handle that but I’m overwhelmed with school and my senior project that I just broke down when the manager sent me home.”

“Your manager doesn’t think you’re at fault, right?”

“No,” you shake your head. “Nothing like that. He said I looked like I needed some rest and told me to take the rest of the night off.”

“Thank God.” He squeezes you tighter. “I’m sorry you had such a bad day. You shouldn’t have to put up with mean people who get mad at you for making a small mistake.”

“Everybody is so fucking mean, Hoon.” You roughly push away the tears from your eyes with the heel of your palm. “I’m tired of everybody expecting so much from me. Between work, school, and my parents asking me what job I’ll have after graduating, it’s all too much.”

Sunghoon coos. “You’re so precious, you know that? You’re dealing with so much and you’re allowed to cry about it. I’m sorry everything is affecting you like this.”

“Sorry for ruining your boys night,” you sniffle. “I feel awful that I took you away from your friends.”

Your boyfriend shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. I’d come to you in a heartbeat if you called.”

His words only make you cry harder. Sunghoon is the perfect boyfriend. He dotes on you like you’re the only woman he’s ever loved in his entire life and lets you know how beautiful you are any chance he gets. He gets along with your friends and family, welcomes you into his own life, and makes you feel like you can achieve anything whether he’s in the picture or not.

Being with him has made you feel safer than you have in a long time. His arms provide the kind of comfort you’ve always been seeking and despite the amount of frustration and sadness in your body, it seems to be melting away with every kiss Sunghoon puts on your forehead.

Heeseung knocks gently and opens the door just slightly. You feel silly being held like a baby in front of Sunghoon’s friends who you’ve met only once before. It was at Heeseung’s house that you first met the three guys Sunghoon is closest to after they made an effort to invite you over to a night at the local dive bar before coming back to watch a marathon of Marvel movies. Your love for Iron Man catapulted the start of your friendship with Heeseung in particular and Sunghoon was starting to love how well you fit into his life.

“It’s been a while and I wanted to check in. You doin’ okay?”

You sniffle and hold onto Sunghoon’s arm. “Bad day. Everybody sucks.”

Heeseung laughs. “Preaching to the choir.” You immediately realize you neglected to take your shoes off when entering the apartment and scold yourself for bringing dirt onto his hardwood floors.

“Shit,” you say, pulling your legs higher so they’re farther from the surface. “I’m so sorry Heeseung. I’m sorry for barging in.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Take them off, I’ll put them by the door.”

You oblige. Sunghoon holds you to balance your body as you hand each sneaker to Heeseung, who doesn’t look at you weirdly or scold you for interrupting his time with your boyfriend. Instead, he smiles at you and lets you know Jongseong and Sim Jaeyun, another one of Sunghoon’s friends that you met during the movie night, are outside and concerned for you.

“We don’t have to go out if you don’t want to,” Sunghoon tells you as Heeseung closes the door behind him for a second time. “But they really like you and I know they care about you.”

“I only met them once,” you hiccup, toying with the hem attached to the bottom of his shirt. “How could they possibly like me?”

Sunghoon laughs and kisses your cheek. “I talk about you all the time. I’m pretty sure they’re sick of hearing me talk about you and would rather hang out with you instead.”

“You do?”

He nods. “Mhm. I have the best girlfriend in the world, you know. They had a lot of fun getting to know you and were planning on inviting you to a barbecue Jongseong’s having next weekend.”

“Really?”

Your doe-like eyes makes Sunghoon’s heart melt. He nods and kisses your nose. “Yes, baby. They love you. Not as much as I do, but a close second.” Hearing you laugh makes him breathe easier.

“I still feel bad for ruining your guys’ night,” you say with a pout.

Sunghoon eases your mind and presses a tender kiss to your lips to displace said pout. “We’ve all been there. If you’re uncomfortable, we can go back to your place and sleep?”

You shake your head. “This is your night. I don’t want to interrupt and make things awkward.”

“Why don’t we at least get you some water. You don’t have to say anything but at least drink something so you’re not dehydrated.” You don’t want to get up and face the embarrassment of the other three boys seeing you cry, but you know Sunghoon is right. After all the crying you’ve done, you’re feeling parched.

You nod and stand from him, all while he still has one hand in yours. Moments like this make you appreciate Sunghoon even more than you already do. He’s willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat and it gives you butterflies when you remember this handsome, generous man is your boyfriend.

Jongseong and Jaeyun look at you with concerned eyes when you meet them outside. You try to speak but your mouth keeps opening and closing as you find the words to say.

“I’m okay,” you tell them. “And I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

Jongseong hands you a glass of water. “Don’t sweat it, Y/N. Everyone has bad days.”

“Yeah, but you guys haven’t seen Hoon in forever and this was supposed to be your weekend.” Your sincere apology and the cracks in your voice make Jaeyun’s eyes water too.

“It’s alright,” he tells you sincerely. “We love hanging out with you. You should stay and we can watch movies. We were gonna do that anyway.”

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Jongseong and I want you to stay,” Heeseung says. The two of them nod. “You shouldn’t be alone when you feel like this.”

“Fuck,” you say, voice cracking to the point where it makes you laugh. The four boys laugh as well and feel the relief in the air around them. “You guys are too nice.”

“We were gonna order takeout too,” Jongseong says, pulling his phone out. “We were thinking maybe fried chicken but Hoon says you love Thai food. Why don’t we order stuff from the place around the block and eat it family style?”

“Oh, you don’t have to change it for me.”

Jongseong waves you off. “Nah. We all love Thai. Any excuse to eat it.”

“And don’t think about paying us back,” Jaeyun says with a genuine smile. “I’ll pay for it.”

“We’ll split it by four,” Heeseung adds.

Jongseong lets you put in your order and everybody else follows suit. Sunghoon has you tucked underneath his chin as the whole ordeal happens and kisses the side of your face every so often.

“Feel better?” He asks, mouth against your ear. His warm breath is comforting, as to remind you that he’ll always be there for you.

“Much better.” Your voice is no longer brittle from your cries. Sunghoon smiles.

“My sweet baby,” he coos. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

“What about when I’m not crying?”

“Still pretty.” He squishes your cheeks with his hands and pressed a kiss to your fattened lips. “Adorable, even.”

Jaeyun looks at the two of you and laughs. He can only hope that he’ll feel like that with someone someday. It compels him to say something.

“You guys are stupid cute.”

Sunghoon says nothing. He smiles at his friend and squeezes you tighter. Having him to lean back on makes you feel like you might be the luckiest girl in the world.

***

comments and reblogs would be appreciated! xx

[wendichester]

hello, i don't know if you take requests but I saw a tik tok where a teacher was getting ready for firefighter day at the school and I immediately imagined teacher reader and firefighter dean winchester

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMBsQnGn4/

I'm sorry for my english

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ stop, drop... and flirt,

summary. firefighter day but this year's edition features a calendar-worthy firefighter

pairing. firefighter!dean winchester x teacher!reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 542

notes / warnings. just shameless flirting

You don’t usually get flustered. You run a class of twenty-five chaos gremlins on sugar highs and zero impulse control. You handle scraped knees, forgotten lunchboxes, and glitter explosions like a seasoned general.

But today?

Today, Dean Winchester walks into your classroom in a firefighter uniform—and your brain promptly short-circuits.

You were told someone from the station would come talk to the kids about fire safety, give the ol’ “stop, drop, and roll” speech, let them play with the siren. You were expecting someone older. Possibly balding.

You were not expecting six feet of flirty smirk and forearms that could carry you like a sack of flour.

Dean tugs off his helmet as he steps in, raking a hand through messy hair. “Hope I’m not too early.”

You manage a blink. A nod. A sound that might be a word. “You’re… just on time.”

He flashes you a smile that should be illegal in a school zone. “You the teacher?”

You almost say, I can be whatever you want, but somehow swallow it down in time.

“Yes. I’m Ms. Y/L/N. And you’re…?”

“Dean. Station 34. I usually don’t do these things, but my buddy was out sick, so…” He shrugs, then adds, “Figured I’d come hang with the cool kids.”

“Right,” you say, doing your best to focus. “Fire safety. Stop, drop, and roll.”

“Yep,” he grins. “Though I gotta say, I might need a refresher on the ‘stop’ part. Not when you’re lookin’ like that.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“Excuse me?”

He steps closer. Just enough to feel the heat of him.

“So,” he says, voice lower now. “I know I’m supposed to teach kids about fire safety, but you?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“You’re kinda making me forget all the rules.”

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “That a line you use often?”

“Only when I mean it.”

You’re definitely blushing now. “Uh-huh. You gonna charm the kids like that too?”

“I dunno,” he teases. “Think they’ll appreciate a ‘damn, teach’ moment?”

You try—really try—not to laugh. You fail.

The kids love him, of course. He talks about fire drills and escape plans and even lets them sit in the driver’s seat of the truck out front. They cheer. They squeal. He winks at you at least three times, and each time it knocks a year off your life expectancy.

By the end, when your classroom is empty and the chaos has cleared, you find him lingering at the door, helmet back under his arm.

“Thanks for coming,” you say, arms folded, leaning against a desk.

He grins. “Thanks for not calling HR on me.”

“I thought about it.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Hands it to you.

It’s a business card.

You raise a brow. “Calling in a fire?”

He shrugs. “Or dinner. Whichever comes first.”

You smile despite yourself. “You really don’t quit, huh?”

Dean winks. “You’ll get used to it.”

And just like that, he’s gone—leaving behind the faint smell of smoke, engine grease, and whatever cologne should be bottled and sold under the name trouble.

You glance down at the card, still warm in your hand.

Looks like Firefighter Day might become your new favorite school holiday.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[musitechnicformation]

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[lnracer]

Hey babe, I have a little request if you’re open to it !!

Could you maybe write something Kimi Antonelli x fem!reader where she’s still in high school and doesn’t come from money at all? Like she feels super out of place in his world — all the hotels, race weekends, the fancy people, and she kind of feels like she’s not “enough.”

But he’s just… soft. Gentle. The kind of guy who makes her feel safe, like she does belong, even when everything feels overwhelming.

I’d love something comforting, maybe with a tiny bit of angst because… identity crisis hits hard sometimes. I just feel like we don’t get enough of that dynamic. Golden boy driver and the girl who still takes the bus to school. No pressure at all! But if it ever inspires you… I will cry. In the best way.

Thank you so much if you do fill my request and of course I understand if you don’t. Have a lovely day!

➵ Pairing: Kimi Antonelli x High Schooler! Female Reader.

➵ Warnings: Mild angst with a happy ending, emotional arguments, self-doubt/insecurity, class difference/social disparity and hurt/comfort.

➵ Word Count: 2.164k.

➵ a/n: Ahh, thank you so much for the request! 🥹 It's really not the kind of dynamic I usually see around here, but I loved writing about it and I hope I was able to capture what you imagined (even the saddest and most complicated parts) I hope you like it! ☺️🩵

Her heels clicked softly against the pristine pavement of the Monte Carlo paddock, the sound nearly swallowed by the hum of engines and a buzz of conversation laced with designer perfume. She tugged at the hem of her floral sundress — a soft, pretty thing she’d found on sale weeks ago — and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to flinch under the eyes that passed over her.

They weren’t cruel. Not exactly. Just curious. Polished. Intrigued.

She knew how she looked next to them — tall women with sleek blowouts, tailored blazers thrown over slinky minidresses, legs that disappeared into Louboutins. Everything about them screamed expensive.

And then there was her. Pretty, sure. But simple. Sweet. A soft pink lip gloss in a sea of sharp red lips.

Kimi noticed. He always noticed.

“Hey,” he said as he reached her side, sunglasses pushing up into his curls. His hand found her waist like it was muscle memory, warm and easy. “You okay?”

She nodded quickly, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just… not really used to all this.” Her voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the luxury around them. “It’s a lot.”

Kimi’s jaw tensed, just slightly. He saw the way her gaze dropped whenever another glamazon strutted by, saw the way she folded inward, like she was trying to shrink herself.

He leaned in, voice low so only she could hear. “You don’t have to be like them. I don’t want you to be like them.”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“I like your dress,” he added, brushing a finger down the strap of her sundress. “I like that you’re here, even when it’s not easy. I know this world is loud. But you make it feel quiet.”

She blinked, heart stuttering at the way he looked at her — like she was calm in the chaos.

And in that moment, even surrounded by gold watches and camera flashes, she started to believe that maybe… she was enough.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Until she didn't think so.

It was past 6 p.m. by the time they got back to the hotel suite — lavish, towering above the harbor, too many mirrors and far too much silence. Kimi was in the shower, washing away the sweat and stress of qualifying. She was curled on the edge of the bed, phone clutched tight in her hand, screen glowing with a headline that made her stomach twist:

“Kimi Antonelli’s mystery girlfriend spotted in the paddock — pretty, but painfully out of place?”

Her cheeks burned. Her jaw clenched. And the comments were worse — anonymous, faceless words from strangers, dissecting her like she was a novelty.

“Looks like she wandered in from a flower shop in the countryside.”

“She’s cute, I guess, but she looks like a schoolgirl next to those women.”

“Sweet, but not really WAG material, huh?”

She locked the phone and dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned. It wasn’t new — she’d felt the stares. She’d felt the way some of the grid girls looked her up and down. But seeing it written out, confirmed, cemented in black-and-white — that hit different.

When Kimi stepped out of the bathroom in a t-shirt and sweats, towel-drying his curls, he spotted her right away — still, quiet, distant.

“Hey,” he said gently, moving to sit beside her. “You okay?”

She looked at him, eyes glassy. “I saw something.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer right away, just reached for her phone, handed it to him. Kimi read the headline, then the comments. His expression hardened. “This is bullshit.”

She gave a soft laugh, bitter and barely there. “Is it?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “Yes.”

“You didn’t think that the moment you brought me here? That maybe… maybe I don’t fit?” Her voice cracked. “Kimi, I’m still doing high school homework while you’re out there in an F1 seat. I don’t own a single designer anything. I smiled at Susie Wolff earlier and she looked at me like I was sweetly delusional.”

The air thickened. Kimi stood, pacing for a moment, frustration simmering under his skin. “I’m doing homework too. I’m your age too. Just because there’s money and cameras doesn’t mean I’m not still figuring things out.”

She shook her head. “It’s not the same. You’ve been groomed for this world since you were a kid. I… I still have to ask if we can split dinner when I go out with friends. I don’t come from anything, Kimi.”

He crossed the room in two strides. “I chose you. Out of everyone. And I don’t give a damn if you don’t have a designer bag or if you do homework in my hotel bed — I love that about you.”

She blinked at that. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to say it.” His voice was low. “Because it’s true. But if you keep looking at yourself through their eyes — those people who don’t know you — you’ll ruin us before they ever could.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Her eyes were glassy again. “I just… don’t want to hold you back.”

“You don’t.” He stepped closer, hand brushing her jaw, tilting her chin up. “You keep me grounded. Don’t push me away because the world doesn’t make room for girls like you. I’ll make room.”

He was genuinely sincere — he always was — she knew he really meant it, what she wasn't sure about was whether it would be easy in practice.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

Barcelona, Spanish Grand Prix – Saturday Night

The air in the hotel suite was warm, heavy with humidity and tension. She sat on the window bench, knees pulled up, trying not to cry. Again.

Kimi stood near the dresser, pulling off his team hoodie with too much force, like it had personally offended him. “You didn’t even come to the garage today.”

She flinched. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, turning to her. “You’re avoiding me.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his, voice low. “Because every time we talk lately, we fight.”

Silence. Harsh and sudden.

He ran a hand through his curls, exhaling hard. “So what? You just give up?”

She stood then, too fast. “I didn’t give up. I’ve been trying so hard, Kimi. But it’s like I’m never enough for this world. And now I’m starting to wonder if I’m not enough for you, either.”

His face twisted — hurt and anger flickering in equal measure. “Don’t put that on me.”

“Then what do you want from me?” she said, voice shaking. “To keep pretending I’m okay when the comments get worse, when I feel like your accessory instead of your girlfriend? When I’m expected to smile next to women who have million-dollar contracts and ten-year media training? You have no idea how hard it is to stay in a world that constantly tells you you’re out of place—”

He cut her off, sharp. “You think this is easy for me as well? Balancing racing, press, you—”

“Oh, I’m a burden now?”

He froze. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you said it.” Her voice broke. “You said it and you meant it.”

Kimi looked down, breathing hard. “I didn’t. I swear.”

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

She stepped back like he’d physically struck her, arms folded across her chest like armor. “Maybe we should take a break.”

His eyes snapped up, wide with disbelief. “No.”

“Kimi—”

“No,” he said again, voice rough. “You don’t get to walk away just because things got hard.”

“I’m not walking away,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I’m just… trying to protect what little of me I have left.”

He stared at her then, quiet, wrecked, and helpless. Like a boy lost in a world that was suddenly too big for both of them.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them knew how.

And in the silence between them, it was suddenly obvious:

They were still in love.

But maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

They barely spoke in the car that morning.

He asked if she wanted coffee. She said no.

He reached for her hand. She pulled her sleeve over her fingers.

It wasn’t cold in Spain, but something between them was frozen.

She didn’t make it to the paddock that day. Said she had homework to catch up on. He didn’t argue. He just nodded with a tight smile, then left.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ──────

The post-qualifying press conference was routine until it wasn’t.

A woman with too-white teeth and a smug smile leaned into her mic. She wasn’t with F1 media. Not really.

“Great quali, Kimi,” she purred. “You’ve been quite impressive this season. Seems like you’re adapting quickly to the F1 lifestyle — fast cars, jet-setting, glamorous weekends…”

He nodded once. She continued, voice light but loaded.

“…Just wondering, with all the attention and, let’s say, expectations around young drivers and their image, do you ever feel pressure to — hm — upgrade your personal life to match the brand?”

A few chuckles from the room. Microphones crackled. The other drivers turned to look at him.

He knew what she meant.

She meant her.

He sat up straighter. Calm. Still. But his voice cut like a blade.

“Are you asking if my girlfriend doesn’t fit the aesthetic you expect?”

The woman blinked. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Because that’s what you just implied.”

“No, I—”

“She’s not the one who needs upgrading,” he said, firm and deliberate. “She's smart. She’s grounded. She reminds me that there's more to life than this bubble. And if that doesn’t match your ‘brand,’ then maybe it’s your idea of success that needs to be rethought.”

Silence. Heavy and uncomfortable.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer a wink or a joke to smooth it over.

He just sat there, eyes locked on her like he dared her to speak again.

The moderator quickly moved on, but the damage — or maybe the justice — was done.

Clips went viral before the press conference ended.

And later that night, when she opened Twitter and saw the clip — Kimi Antonelli, eyes sharp, voice unwavering — defending her against the world she feared…

She didn’t call him.

But she showed up, cheeks pink from the cold, and whispered, “Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything, just pulled her into his arms like he’d been waiting all week.

“You didn’t have to do that, Kimi,” she said softly. “I didn’t ask you to defend me like that. I never wanted to cause you any trouble…”

He took a deep breath, shaking his head, guilt creeping into his chest. “I didn’t do it for trouble. I did it for you.” His hand brushed her arm, soft but desperate. “You’re not a distraction. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re everything. You make me feel alive.”

The tears she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks, and Kimi’s heart twisted in his chest. She looked so small, so vulnerable in this big, overwhelming world she didn’t ask to be a part of.

“I told you once,” he murmured, voice rough. “I don’t care if you don’t fit this world. You fit with me.”

She shook her head, sniffling. “But… I’m not like them. I don’t know how to… how to be the girlfriend you’re supposed to have. I’m just—”

“Stop.” Kimi wiped away a stray tear from her cheek. “You’re everything I need. You’re exactly who I need. And if I have to fight every damn person in this world to keep you — then that’s what I’ll do. I’m not in this for the ‘perfect’ girlfriend. I’m in this for you.”

She collapsed into his chest then, shaking as sobs wracked her body. Kimi held her close, his arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t belong. I just… I just wanted to protect you. I didn’t want you to think you were alone in this.”

She squeezed him tighter, the tears soaking into his shirt, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t feel so alone.

“I don’t need anyone but you, Kimi,” she whispered against his chest, voice muffled. “I never did. I was just scared... I was scared I wasn’t enough for you.”

Kimi pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re more than enough. You’re exactly what I need. Don’t ever doubt that.”

For the first time in weeks, they were both quiet — no more doubts, no more words left unsaid. They simply stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, letting everything else fade away.

And when she finally looked up at him, her eyes swollen but sincere, Kimi knew:

It didn’t matter if she fit into his world or not.

They fit with each other.

And that was all that ever mattered.

[goyardgoyangi]

𐙚 agora hills pt. 3 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⌗ pairings: suguru x reader

⌗ summary: you grew up in his orbit, your best friend’s older brother, always just out of reach. he was cool, unreadable, and never paid you much attention… or so you thought. but college changes things. and now guys are noticing you. he says he’s just looking out for you, that he’s being protective, but the way he touches you says otherwise. one night, one mistake that doesn’t feel like a mistake, and suddenly everything is different.

⌗ word count: 1.5k

♥ pt.3 ♥ masterlist ♥

You’ve been avoiding Suguru Geto for three weeks.

Which is hard to do, considering he’s your best friend’s older brother, and he’s been in and out of the apartment more often now that he’s wrapping up his final semester.

He’s almost gone. Degree practically in his hands. Full-time job lined up— some engineering firm downtown with sleek office floors and smart people doing what smart people do. The kind of job that means he won’t be around much longer.

Which is perfect, really. Ideal.

Because maybe once he’s out of the picture, you’ll finally stop remembering how it felt to have his hands on your waist in the dark. Or how his voice sounded when he whispered your name, all whiny and wrecked, like it meant something.

It didn’t, though. It couldn’t.

You’re just his little sister’s friend.

And it was just one night. An error in judgment. A mistake.

A big, stupid, why-did-I-think-this-wouldn’t-be-weird mistake.

“Still stuck on that assignment?” your best friend asks, peering over your shoulder at your calculus notes.

You slam the textbook closed, defeated. “I hate math.”

She laughs. “You need help.”

“I know,” you groan. “But no one in my class gets it either, and the TA ghosted me, and— ugh, whatever. I’ll just thug it out.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Suguru’s good at calc.”

Your spine stiffens. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying—”

“No.”

“I think he’d—”

“I said no, okay?”

She raises her hands, backing off, but not without a knowing look. “Fine. Just thought I’d offer. He’s on campus tomorrow anyway.”

You don’t answer. You’re already drowning in the memory of the way he looked at you afterward— half-shocked, half-silent, like he couldn’t believe what just happened either.

You haven’t talked since.

Not really.

So when your phone buzzes later that night and his name lights up your screen, your heart goes completely still.

You stare at the message.

Short. Neutral. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t once fall apart on his cock, his cum filling you until you could barely remember your own name.

Need help with calc?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then come back.

Just calc.

You press your lips together, eyes scanning the words like they might rearrange into something more honest. But they don’t.

And you already regret saying yes.

Because the second you see Suguru waiting by the steps outside the student union— tall, lean, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he’s trying to look casual— you feel the panic set in.

You said yes because you needed the help.

Not because you wanted to see him again. Not because part of you misses the weight of his hands on your waist. Not because—

It’s not just the way he looks (annoyingly hot, per usual) or the way he straightens when he spots you. It’s the way he smiles— small, almost hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to anymore.

You stop a few feet away. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, long fingers threading through his hair. “Brought you a drink. Didn’t know what you liked, so I went with something pink.”

He passes you the cup, your fingers grazing his. It’s stupid, really, how something so small makes your face heat up instantly.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Of course.”

The library is quiet in the way that makes your heartbeat feel loud.

You and Suguru take a seat at one of the back tables— hidden away between the towering shelves, tucked beneath a flickering overhead light. You’ve sat here a million times with your best friend. It’s never felt this small before.

He pulls his chair closer than necessary. Opens your textbook without asking. His fingertips graze the margin of the page like he’s easing his way into something more delicate than derivatives.

“So,” he says, pen in hand, “what’s killing you?”

“Everything after series and sequences.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods slowly and leans in.

And God— he’s close. So, so close.

His voice drops as he starts walking you through the steps, smooth, serious, and painfully focused. He’s always sounded like this when he explains things— like every word is weighed and placed intentionally. You never noticed it before. Or maybe you did and pretended not to.

But now?

Now you can’t stop noticing.

The curve of his mouth when he says “converges.”

The way his brow furrows in concentration.

How the longer strands of his hair fall forward when he leans closer, like it’s trying to graze your cheek.

He’s explaining something, but you can barely hear him over the warm, woodsy scent of his cologne and the heat of him sitting too damn close.

“You still with me?” he murmurs.

You blink. Fuck. His eyes are on you now— forcing you to really look at him, not just steal glances from the side.

You’re trying. You really are. But after hours of formulas and boxed-in equations, your brain’s fried.

Suguru’s been patient, too patient, if you’re honest.

You groan. “Ugh. I’m not built for this.”

Suguru chuckles. “You’re doing fine.”

“No, I’m not,” you mutter, leaning back and stretching your arms over your head. “I wish I had, like, a hot personal tutor or something. Someone pretty who just sits beside me and explains everything and doesn’t make me want to throw my textbook out the window.”

You say it without thinking. Offhand. Harmless.

But then you feel him pause beside you.

You glance at him.

Suguru’s jaw is tight.

He’s still looking at your notebook, pen motionless in his hand, but you can see the little twitch in his brow. The flicker of something restrained in his throat when he swallows.

“What,” you tease, nudging his arm, “jealous?”

He finally looks at you. Straight-faced. Dry tone. “I am your personal tutor right now.”

“Yeah, but you’re not—”

You stop yourself.

Too late.

You don’t even finish the sentence, but he raises an eyebrow anyway. “Not what?”

You pretend to focus on your page, suddenly very invested in the difference between divergence and convergence. “Nothing.”

But his voice drops, lower, a little slower. “Not hot?”

You glance at him— and he’s looking right at you now, eyes half-lidded, corners of his mouth barely curved, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your throat feels dry. “That’s not what I meant.”

He leans in just slightly. Not close enough to touch, but enough to tilt the air between you.

“Okay,” he says. “But just so we’re clear… if you did have a hot tutor—hypothetically— you’d be paying attention to anything but calc right now.”

Your stomach flips.

You open your mouth to say something. Anything.

But then his pen taps the textbook.

“Page 214,” he says, like he didn’t just throw your brain into complete disarray.

You stare at him.

He smirks. Barely.

And somehow, you're more distracted than ever.

You try to focus.

You really do.

But your mind’s a mess now, numbers and symbols smearing together behind the sharp curve of his jaw, the soft shadows beneath his lashes.

He hasn’t brought it up again… yet.

But then—

“So,” he says casually, spinning your pencil between his fingers, “what exactly qualifies someone as a ‘hot tutor,’ anyway?”

You look up from the problem you’ve been pretending to solve for the last five minutes. “Oh my god. Let it die.”

“I’m just curious,” he says, grinning now, fully leaning into it. “For academic reasons.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally so annoying.”

“Is it the voice?” he muses. “Because I have been told my voice is kinda sexy. Like, could probably convince you to join a cult.”

You groan, dropping your head dramatically onto the table. “This is bullying.”

He leans in, resting his chin on his hand, voice dropping to a low murmur. “I mean… if you ever did get a hot tutor, you’d let him sit this close, right?”

You look up slowly. His face is inches from yours.

“You’re unbearable,” you say, heart hammering in your chest.

He smiles wider, but there’s something softer beneath the smugness now. Something warm.

“You didn’t say no,” he murmurs.

You stare at him. “Suguru.”

“Hm?”

“Stop flirting.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I’m just trying to meet the academic standards you set for me.”

You glare at him, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He sees it. Of course he does.

“Besides,” he adds casually, going back to your notebook like the conversation never happened, “you already called me hot. It’s on record now.”

“That is not what I said.”

“Mm, close enough.”

You sigh, slouching back in your seat. “Remind me why I asked for your help again?”

He looks up at you, a faint, calculating smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Because, even though you’re clearly too distracted by me,” he says with a playful sigh, “you still need my help with calc. Unless, of course, you’d rather fail.”

And damn it— he’s right.

You don’t answer. But you don’t deny it either.

[ariestrxsh]

pervy!bsf!chris x innocent!bsf!reader

᧔•᧓ content warning: smut, innocence corruption, degradation, roleplay (reader wears a schoolgirl outfit), nipple play, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dumbification, (dare i say some brat-taming action?)

᧔•᧓ summary: chris returns the pair of underwear that he stole from you, but you catch him putting them back

requested/inspired by this ask, this ask, and this ask ᧔•᧓

dividers by @/anitalenia

Creeping

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 |

[ click to return to navigation ]

It was late Monday afternoon, and you were perched at the edge of your chair, still in the same outfit you'd worn to class, a plaid mini-skirt and a white button-up. You were sitting at your desk, scanning your textbook and taking in all the information you could for your upcoming tests.

You were scribbling down some notes in the margins of your paper when your phone started to vibrate, and you glanced down to see your best friend's name lit up on the screen. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach, your heart hammering away in your chest, as you answered.

"Hey Chris," you greeted him, trying to sound like you weren't as excited as you were while you pinned down the page of your textbook with your elbow. "Hey, I think I may have left my hoodie there the other night," he started off.

"Oh yeah?" You asked, peering around your room with a perplexed look on your face. You were certain he hadn't, considering you had just deep cleaned the night before. "I don't know, Chris. I don't think it's here."

"Well, I'm in the area. You mind if I swing by and check?" He wondered. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth at the thought of seeing Chris tonight, but it quickly faded when you remembered how much you had to get done. You let out a disappointed sigh.

"I don't mind. I just have a lot of homework to do with finals coming up and everything, so you shouldn't stay for long. Last thing I need is you distracting me and keeping me from getting my work done," you snidely remarked.

"Who? Me? Distract you? Never," Chris sarcastically replied. "Whatcha working on?" He asked, a bit of curiosity in his voice. "I'm just doing some reading for my psych class. We're studying the psychology of human sexual behavior," you told him, trying to hold back a smirk although he couldn't see you.

"Oh yeah?" He asked, his voice laced with lust. "Maybe I could help you study. I know a lot about sexual behavior." You giggled and rolled your eyes. "Just come up when you get here," you responded before ending the call.

Chris smirked to himself after you got off the phone with him. He wasn't just casually in the area, and he wasn't exactly coming over to look for a lost hoodie, but rather he was trying to replace your pair of underwear he'd stolen the other day before you noticed they were gone. Little did he know that you already had, especially because they were your favorite pair.

He pulled up to your house a few minutes later, his tires coming to a stop as he threw his transmission into park and cut the engine. As he approached your front door, he felt around in his back pocket for your panties.

He gently brushed his fingers against the silk, making sure they were easily accessible, so he could just quickly drop them off somewhere in your room discretely. He turned the doorknob, letting himself in, his heart racing as he remembered the last time he'd walked up to your room unannounced.

As he approached your partially-open bedroom door, he found himself hoping to find you in another compromising position despite the fact that he knew you were expecting him. He peeked in through the opening in your door, gently tapping on the wood with his knuckles to keep from startling you.

You swiveled around in your desk chair to face Chris, your face lighting up as you did. You were in a black and white plaid skirt that barely hit the middle of your thigh, a collared white polo shirt, and your hair in two neat french braids. Fuck, he thought silently to himself, admiring the way you looked just like a little schoolgirl who was working on her studies.

His eyes danced over your features and your body, remembering how you looked the other day when he caught you riding your pillow. Images of you rocking your hips back and forth flashed in his mind - your eyes screwed shut, your pink lips parted, and your sweet sounds filled the air while you desperately grinded against your bedding.

"I'm telling you, Chris. I've torn this whole room apart. Your hoodie isn't here," were the first words you said to him before you went back to chewing on the eraser of your pencil as you studied your notes, tearing him out of his daydream.

"Tore your room apart looking for my hoodie?" He asked, wrinkling his brow and wondering how you'd gotten the place looking so neat again in a matter of minutes. "No, I tore it apart the other night. I was.. looking for something else. Just an item of clothing I misplaced," you told him, pulling your gaze away from his.

You were too embarrassed to tell him that you were actually searching for an elusive pair of panties that seemed to have grown legs and walked off on their own. Shit, he thought to himself upon realizing you already knew they were missing.

"Well, I'm still gonna just peek around if you don't mind. Maybe you missed it," Chris replied, wandering further into your room and trying to make his search seem genuine. He reached into his back pocket, about to take out your underwear and shove them into a crack in your dresser drawer when he heard your voice from behind him. "Chris?"

"Yeah?" He asked, whipping around to face you, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. "Are those.. my panties?" You wondered aloud, gesturing towards the pink silk that you saw poking out of his back pocket. "What?" He asked, pretending to not understand what you meant, taking a few steps closer to you. You narrowed your gaze at him.

"Chris. You heard me. Why do you have my panties?" You asked, your face growing hot with embarrassment. "Don't worry. I washed them for you," he sweetly replied, dodging your question completely and reaching into his back pocket to hand them over.

He'd washed them twice actually.

He couldn't help himself that morning when he woke up with a hard on fueled by dreams of you. Your panties were just right there, and he couldn't control himself when he'd gotten the idea to jerk off using the soft, pretty fabric. He'd busted all over them in a matter of minutes, resulting in him needing to run them through the wash again before returning them.

Of course, he wasn't going to tell you that, but he knew exactly what he'd done.

You snatched them out of his hand, stuffing them into your desk drawer. "Why do you have them?" You huffed, furrowing your eyebrows and cocking your head to the side.

"C'mon. You know. The only reason any guy would take your panties," he replied in a low, quiet voice, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip. "And what reason would that be?" You wondered, still not understanding his motive.

Although you were a virgin, you weren't clueless. You'd seen porn, and you'd masturbated, but you didn't understand why your best friend wanted your worn panties.

"I wanted to sniff them," he chuckled, taking another step closer to you. His blue eyes pierced through you, and your face grew hot under his scrutiny. "Chris! Gross! Why would you do that? They were dirty. I wore them. I.." you started to say, but your voice trailed off.

You didn't want to admit to what else you'd done with them on.

"You got off while wearing them?" He interjected, finishing your sentence. Your jaw dropped, your eyes widened, and your hand flew up to cover your open mouth.

"I have a lot of work to do. Your hoodie isn't here. Thanks for bringing back my panties. They're my favorite pair," you told him, pretending that he hadn't just said that. You peered back down at your textbook, getting back to your assignment and hoping he'd drop the subject, take the hint, and be on his way.

However, he was having a little too much fun with you.

"I can see why," Chris chuckled. "They're soft and pretty. I bet they felt really good rubbing against you when you were riding your pillow, hmm?" Your eyes widened as your gaze flicked back up at him from your work. "How do you know about that?" You shot back in a defensive voice, trying to figure out exactly when he snuck in and took them.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have," he started off his sentence, innocently biting down on his lip and faking an apologetic tone. "I left my phone up here, and I came up to get it. I would have tried harder to get your attention, but you looked like you were really enjoying yourself. I didn't want to disturb you," he told you as if trying to paint it like he did you a favor by peeping on you through the crack in your door.

"You're such a fucking creep, Chris! Oh my god," you huffed. "But you were the one moaning my name while you were getting off, so what does that make you? A little slut?" He hissed, taking another step forward, leaning down, and gently tucking a stray strand of hair that had escaped your braid behind you ear.

You looked at him silently, your features softening, unable to hide how much you liked being called that.

"In fact, I bet you're turned on right now," he softly cooed, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand, his piercing blue eyes boring into you. "I am not," you scoffed, turning your head away from him. "Yeah? Then let me smell you," Chris smirked, reaching down and fiddling with the hem of your little plaid skirt.

"You can't tell something like that from my scent!" You exclaimed, whipping back around and narrowing your eyes at him as you batted away his hand. "Watch me," he lustfully replied, kneeling down in front of you.

"W-what are you doing?" You asked, peering down at him wide-eyed as he slowly hiked up your skirt, his fingertips brushing against the tops of your thighs. Your legs involuntarily fell open, inviting him in.

His stubble tickled the soft flesh of your inner thigh as he neared your heat, holding eye contact the entire time. He deeply inhaled, your arousal filling his senses. "Shit. You want it bad, don't you?" He replied without even touching or looking between your legs. "What?" You sharply replied, considering denying his claim for a moment. "How can you.. tell?"

Your heart pounded, and you grew even more wet at the thought that Chris could tell, on some level, what you were thinking about. You could feel his warm, labored breath hitting your clit through the fabric, and it made you shudder. He chuckled, paying attention to every subtle response.

"You smell different when you're turned on," he whispered, pressing his nose up to your panties and deeply inhaling your scent again. "Chris. That's so weird," you replied softly, feeling somewhat violated and wondering just how many times he'd deliberately sniffed your underwear.

Your mouth said it was weird, but your body language said otherwise.

You sunk further down into your seat, and Chris gave you a mischevious smirk from between your legs before leaning forward and gently kissing you through the damp fabric of your panties. The sensation made you jolt.

You tipped your head back, letting out a soft whine as you felt his soft lips against your clothed cunt. You gripped the arms of your chair, curling your fingers around the material and biting down on your lip as a look of desire washed over your face.

Chris pulled away, his eyes locked on yours as a dark smile spread across his lips. "I thought you had a lot of homework to do," he teased you, "or are you being a naughty little schoolgirl, hmm?" He reached up and gently tugged on one of your braids.

Your breath hitched in your throat, unable to give him a response, but he could tell he was driving you crazy. Chris hummed against the inside of your thigh as he lightly kissed your soft flesh again.

He started unbuttoning the top button of your shirt, his wandering hand slipping inside your top as he gently squeezed your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your hardening nipple. His touch was electric, sending a current of energy throughout your entire body with every carress and every word.

He undid the next few buttons, the white fabric falling open to reveal your tits. "Wow," Chris whispered, leaning forward to take one into his mouth. His soft, pink lips latched onto your stiff nipple, and you moaned as his tongue gently flitted over your sensitive bud. He started gently sucking and humming against your chest, your body relaxing into the wonderful feeling.

"Look at these! They're so pretty," Chris cooed, gently squeezing them with both hands, his mouth alternating back and forth between both the right and the left. "I thought you weren't gonna distract me," you whimpered, secretly hoping he wouldn't stop. "Then don't get distracted," he chuckled against your breast.

"Chris. I can't concentrate when you're doing that," you whimpered in a bratty tone. "Don't worry about me. You just keep being a good student and study," Chris demanded with a dominant edge to his voice.

You obediently nodded, your breath caught in your throat as he reached up your skirt, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your black cotton panties. You stabilized yourself on the arms of your chair, placing your feet on the ground below you and lifting your hips to help him take them off of you.

He slowly pulled the fabric down your legs, discarding them carelessly onto the floor. "C'mon. Pick up your book and start reading to me. Prove to me that you're actually learning something instead of just being a dumb little slut who daydreams about my cock all day," he taunted you, his words alone nearly sending you over the edge.

He lifted up the front of your skirt with a mischevious grin and roughly spread open your legs. His fingers jabbed into your supple flesh as he admired your wet cunt, licking his lips like a starving animal. You pulled your book off your desk, holding it up with shaky hands, but you couldn't take your eyes off Chris and the way he was teasing you, gently blowing cold air over your clit.

"C'mon. Quit being a little slut, and focus on your work, huh?" Chris purred, digging into your thighs so harshly that his fingers started to leave red marks. You nodded your head eagerly as you tried to focus your vision on the text. "Naughty little thing. You're drenched," he rasped, his mesmerized gaze fixed on your glistening folds as he spread them open with his fingers.

You clenched around nothing as Chris' words reached your ears. He smiled deviously at how submissive and responsive you were. You cleared your throat, getting ready to read from the introduction. "Sexual human behavior is a complex and multi- oh!" You were cut off by the soft feeling of Chris' tongue swiping over your clit.

You shuddered, clutching your book to your chest as you peered down at the boy grazing between your legs. You watched for a moment, soaking in the feeling of Chris slowly and gently running the length of his tongue from your cunt to your clit, but he wasn't letting you get away with not obeying him.

"I didn't say stop, did I? Start over," Chris sternly responded, his angry stare reaching yours. You slowly nodded and brought your eyes back down to your psychology textbook. "Human sexual behavior.." you started again, but you felt the blue-eyed boy wrap his plump lips around your clit, and you bit back a moan as you felt him gently suckling on it.

You squirmed around in your seat a bit as he held you in place. "You're not gonna do a very good job on this test if you can't focus while under a little pressure, are you?" He smugly asked you, pulling away for a moment. "Start over."

Before you could pick up where you left off, Chris suddenly spat on your pussy, and your whole body tensed up as you sharply gasped. You felt his saliva slowly dripping down your fold as he darkly chuckled from between your thighs, knowing he was driving you crazy.

"Human sexual behavior is a complex and multi-faceted aspect of human experience that is influenced by biological, psychological, social, and cultural factors," you managed to rush through the sentence, your voice trembling as Chris attached his lips to your sensitive bud again. You took a deep breath before you started the next sentence.

"When focusing on the psychological factors," you stopped again, gripping the cover of your textbook tightly as Chris gripped the edge of your seat, pulling you closer to him, "we must look at the motivation behind sex." You felt your breath involuntarily quickening as Chris explored you with his tongue, slowly licking up and down your slit as he teased your hole.

"Keep reading, naughty girl," Chris whispered before returning to his long, gentle licks. "Sexual desire - oh, Chris - is driven by - mmm - pleasure, intimacy, and procreation," you managed to get out, struggling to keep your concentration.

"Hmm. Interesting," he hummed before taking your clit between his lips again. "Chris, I don't know if I can do this," you whimpered, clutching your textbook to your chest again and tipping your head back, your eyelids fluttering closed.

"Such a bratty little thing. I should give you detention for not doing as I say, hmm? Keep reading," Chris purred, his warm breath hitting your heat. You shuddered, looked down at your book, and started reading from it again. Chris sped up the flicker of his tongue, and you gasped as you felt his middle finger pressing up against your hole.

Without hesitation, he pushed it inside, your jaw dropping as he inserted it to the knuckle. He started pumping in and out of you, pulling more desperate sounds from you while he continued to work his mouth on your most sensitive area. You peered down at the page, the text beginning to blur as your eyes lost focus.

You stumbled over your words, struggling to get through each sentence, your mind swirling with several thoughts, not one of them having to do with the homework you needed to get done. The longer Chris' relentless assault on your tender pussy went on, the less thoughts you had at all until you were a pathetic mess, babbling incoherently and squirming around in your seat.

"My pretty schoolgirl going all dumb on my tongue and my fingers?" Chris asked in a tantalizing tone, smirking against your most sensitive place, but you were too fucked out to answer or give any sign that you'd even comprehended what he'd said at all.

Chris gripped the seat of your chair, pulling you closer to him until he was devouring your pussy whole, softly nuzzling against your clit as more broken syllables and whimpers fell from your lips. You couldn't take it anymore. You couldn't focus on school right now, not when Chris was teasing you like this.

You pulled the textbook against your chest again, your gaze falling to the boy who was knelt between your legs, his blue eyes flickering up at you with a lustful glint as you started grinding against his face.

"Don't look at me, little slut. Look at your textbook. What are you gonna tell your professor if you don't finish your work, huh? Too busy getting your sweet pussy eaten?" Chris cooed in a condescending voice, gripping your hips to keep you still. "I don't think he'll think that's a very good excuse.."

Chris' words added to your pleasure, especially the way his breath ghosted over your hole while he spoke them. You shuddered at the sensation before lifting your book again in your trembling hands, your shaky voice struggling to get through the paragraph.

You felt a warmth spreading in your lower abdomen as Chris slipped another long finger into your cunt and started curling them, rutting up against your g-spot. "Oh!" You yelped as Chris hummed against you, his lips closing in on your clit.

Your body started to spasm beneath him, nearly dropping the book you weakly held in your hands. Chris peered up at you, the way you were struggling to hold on, feasting his eyes on the sight of you in your little plaid skirt about to finish on his tongue and his fingers.

After a few more seconds of suckling on your sensitive bundle of nerves, your orgasm was crashing over you. Chris didn't falter in his movements, softly grunting against your pussy in satisfaction as you released onto his tastebuds. He slowed the pumping of his fingers, but he left them inside of you, still feeling the way you throbbed around them as you came down.

"My slutty schoolgirl. I wonder what your teacher would think if he knew you were creaming all over my fingers instead of studying your work," his lips curled into a devious smirk. "I bet he'd fail you for being such a dumb little slut."

You gave Chris an embarrassed smile, blood rushing to your cheeks as you tried to catch your breath. He withdrew his fingers, standing to his feet, his eyes still locked on you as you closed your legs and smoothed your skirt out back down over your thighs.

You couldn't believe you'd let Chris do that and while calling you such degrading names, too.

He gave you a smug smile as he took his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean and humming in delight as he savored your flavor. He wiped his chin, that was glistening in your arousal, on the back of his hand. "I'll let you get back to your school work. Let me know if you find my hoodie," Chris winked, knowing damn well there was no hoodie to be found.

He ruffled your hair in a teasing manner, and you scoffed and rolled your eyes, trying to pretend that Chris didn't just have you stumbling over your words and finishing all over his face. After Chris left the room, you buried your face in your textbook, half-embarrassed and half-hoping he'd spontaneously turn around and take it a step further.

Chris trotted down the stairs and out the door, greeting your unsuspecting mother who had just pulled into the driveway and was starting to unload groceries. His blue eyes danced over her figure, appreciating the genetics that ran in your family as he headed towards his car.

"Hi, Chris. Leaving already?" Your mom called out to him, blissfully unaware of the names he had just called you upstairs as you came on his tongue. "Yeah, I just stopped by to look for a hoodie I thought I left here. She's got a lot of studying to do. I don't wanna distract her," Chris lied through his teeth, his lips curling into a smile as he reached up and innocently rubbed the back of his neck.

He gestured towards the bags in her trunk, silently offering to help carry them in. "Awh, Chris. You're so sweet," she replied, handing him a grocery bag. "Why don't you stay for dinner, sweetheart? We'd love to have you."

Chris was right about to thank her for the offer and politely decline when his phone started to vibrate. He peered down to see the name of the girl he'd hooked up with the other night while he was thinking about you, and even now, that was all he could do.

"I'm making spaghetti. Unless you've got somewhere to be," your mom motioned towards his vibrating cell.

After a few seconds of deliberation, Chris sent the call to voicemail, knowing exactly what the girl was calling for. "Nah, actually. I'd love to stay for dinner," Chris responded, his gaze raising to meet your mom's again. It wasn't like Chris to turn down a desperate girl who was calling to get her fix, but he didn't want to fuck anyone until he could have you.

"Let's get these groceries inside," your mom said, grabbing the remainder of the bags and shutting the trunk of her SUV. His eyes immediately dropped to her ass, watching the way her hips swayed as she made her way towards the entrance of the house.

"My daughter's so lucky to have you as a friend, Chris. You're always such a gentleman," your mom said as she turned around, glancing over her shoulder at the blue-eyed boy.

"Thanks, ma'am," Chris replied, getting off on the fact that your mom was practically inviting a wolf in sheep's clothing into her home to further defile her daughter. He followed her in through the front door, his smug grin never falling from his facial expression.

His phone vibrated again, but only once this time. Same girl. "Come over? I need you," her text read. Chris let out a sigh and rolled his eyes at her desperation. "Can't. Busy," he coldly responded, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

click to read part 3 ᧔•᧓

[romerona]

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

Another cute interaction between Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Carmy stood in the dimly lit laundry room, hands on his hips as he glared at the washing machine like it had personally wronged him. The display panel flashed erratically, like it was trying to send an SOS in Morse code, while a faint but concerning smell of burning plastic wafted through the air.

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. All he wanted was to wash his clothes—just one normal task in a sea of chaos. Apparently, even that was asking too much.

With a frustrated sigh, he muttered curses under his breath and gave the machine a half-hearted nudge with his foot, as if that might magically revive it. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The machine remained defiantly lifeless.

“Wow. Bold strategy. Were you planning to wrestle it next?”

The voice startled him. He turned sharply to see you standing in the doorway, holding a laundry basket overflowing with brightly colored clothes. You were dressed in the epitome of Saturday comfort: an oversized t-shirt with a graphic that read 'Physics: It’s Not Rocket Science... Oh, Wait, Yes It Is,' paired with baggy sweatpants and ridiculously fluffy, colorful monster feet slippers. Your hair was slightly messy like you’d just rolled out of bed—or perhaps fought the laundry demons he was now dealing with.

Your lips curved into a teasing smile as you tilted your head. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know machines responded to passive-aggressive foot taps.”

Carmy let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t have a better idea.”

“Well,” you said, stepping into the room and setting your basket down on the counter, “I hate to break it to you, but this thing looks like it’s plotting your demise. What’s the issue? Won’t open?”

“It stopped mid-cycle,” he explained, gesturing toward the uncooperative machine. “Clothes are stuck. It’s probably fried.”

“Oof. Smells like defeat and polyester.” You crouched down to inspect the machine, tilting your head like a mechanic sizing up a stubborn engine. “Looks like it’s giving you the silent treatment. Did you try apologizing? Promising to separate your whites and darks next time?”

“Funny,” Carmy deadpanned, though the twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

You straightened up, planting your hands on your hips in a stance that could only be described as authoritative. “Well, lucky for you, Carmy-next-door, I happen to be an expert in broken things.”

Carmy raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah? How’s that?”

You let out a playful scoff, crouching in front of the washing machine as if it were a patient in need of your expertise. “When you work in a place that runs on shoestring budgets and prayers, you pick up a thing or two about fixing stuff. I’ve practically got a minor in MacGyver-ing. It’s part of my many talents.”

He smirked, watching as you pressed a few buttons and tapped the side of the machine like you were coaxing it back to life. “Sounds like a tough gig.”

“Oh, it’s a blast,” you replied sarcastically with a grin, peering at the machine’s latch. “But the real fun is my lovely fourth graders and their… slippery fingers. Nothing keeps you on your toes like finding out your class stapler’s been dismantled to ‘see how it works.’”

“And you adore them,” Carmy guessed, his voice soft but sure.

“Ugh, to a fault,” you admitted, sitting back on your heels to glance at him. “They’re chaos in human form, but they’re my chaos. Like when Marcus decided to see if he could use glitter glue as a bookmark. Spoiler alert: he couldn’t. And then there was Kayla’s science project that involved exactly zero science but a lot of snacks. Kids are wild, but they’re kind of the best.”

Carmy chuckled, the sound low and warm as he shook his head. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full.”

You huff a laugh nodding. “But they make all the broken stuff worth it... also, they’ve prepared me for moments like this. Fixing things? I’m a pro. Diffusing meltdowns? Also a pro. Dodging paper balls? Let’s just say my reflexes are unmatched.”

He chuckled quietly, his blue eyes softening as he observed your easy confidence. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Oh, hardly,” you said with a self-deprecating laugh.

He watched as you tinkered with the inner workings of the washer, the way your monster-footed slippers stuck out behind you, and the light in your eyes as you spoke about your students. There was something captivating about the way you moved—confident but never overbearing, your words spilling out in an endless stream of humor and warmth. For someone who probably dealt with endless chaos in your day-to-day life, you had an energy about you—warmth—messy and vibrant—that felt oddly grounding in his otherwise muted world.

Finally, with a triumphant click, the washer’s door popped open. A puff of warm, damp air escaped, carrying with it the faint scent of detergent. You rocked back on your heels, grinning up at him as if you’d just disarmed a bomb.

“And there you have it!” you declared standing up, sweeping your arm dramatically toward the liberated laundry like a game show host revealing a grand prize. “Your clothes are finally free, Chef Carmy. Laundry liberation, courtesy of yours truly. I accept gratitude in the form of snacks, coffee, or eternal admiration—your choice. But please, no autographs. I have to stay humble.”

“You’re something else, you know that?” Carmy said, huffing a quiet laugh as he shook his head, stepping forward to start transferring the damp clothes into another machine. His tone softened slightly as he added, “But thanks, really. I owe you one.”

You waved a hand dismissively, already moving to the next machine with your own basket in tow.

“Don’t worry about it, Carmy…” you said, your tone casual, though the smirk playing on your lips suggested otherwise. “But, if you do feel like you want to repay me, feel free to bring me more of those leftovers—like the ones you brought when I first moved in.”

He paused, eyebrows raising slightly as he met your gaze. “That’s what you want? Leftovers?”

“Not just any leftovers,” you clarified, turning back to load more clothes. “The fancy ones. Braised short ribs, perfectly roasted vegetables... whatever culinary magic you’re whipping up in that kitchen of yours. Don’t think I forgot.”

Carmy paused mid-transfer, glancing at you with a faint, almost embarrassed smile. “You liked those, huh?”

“Liked?” you scoffed, tossing a pair of socks into the machine. “I was ready to write you a thank-you sonnet. That braised short rib? Poetry in food form. You’ve ruined me for takeout forever.”

He chuckled softly, shutting the door to his machine. “It was just a test recipe.”

“Well, then I’d be happy to test more of your recipes,” you said with a wink, starting your own machine and leaning back against it. “Strictly as a favor, of course. I’m nothing if not generous.”

“Generous,” he repeated, shaking his head with a smirk as he pressed the start button on his machine. He glanced at you, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

“See?” you teased, flashing him a grin. “You’re already getting the hang of this whole neighborly exchange thing. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my expectations high.”

Carmy shook his head, letting out another quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are,” you quipped, settling yourself into the nearby chair and grabbing a book from the empty laundry basket at your feet. You opened it casually, like you weren’t fully aware of the fact that his attention was still on you. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, Chef Carmy. I’ve got standards now.”

Carmy smirked faintly, shaking his head as he leaned back against the counter, arms loosely crossed. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than he intended, watching as you flipped through the book, completely at ease. The light in the room, though dim and slightly yellowed, softened your features, making you look... warm. Pretty, even. The oversized t-shirt, the messy hair, and those ridiculous monster slippers didn’t detract from it—in fact, they only made you more endearing. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Instead, he tucked the thought neatly into the back of his mind, letting it sit there quietly.

The faint hum of the working washing machine filled the space, stretching the silence between you into something that felt oddly comfortable. He wasn’t used to that—not in conversations, not in moments like these. Usually, silence felt heavy, awkward, something to be broken. But this? This felt... different.

Still, the need to say something eventually won out, despite his lack of finesse with small talk. Clearing his throat softly, Carmy shifted his weight and finally asked, “So... uh, how are you liking it here?”

You glanced up from your book, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “In the building? Or in the laundry room?”

Carmy huffed a quiet laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. “The biulding, I guess."

“Oh, it’s not bad,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “The walls are a little thin—I may or may not know the entire plot of the soap opera your upstairs neighbor is binging—but they are decent. A little quiet, though, except for one guy who keeps kicking appliances. Total menace.”

“Sounds rough,” Carmy deadpanned, though his smirk gave him away.

“It is,” you said with mock solemnity before your smile softened. “But honestly? I like it. It’s... cozy, you know? Feels like a place where things can settle down.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor. “That’s good.”

“It’s growing on me,” you admitted, closing the book and resting it on your lap. “I mean, it’s not every day you move into a building and immediately make friends with someone who’s probably going to be on the cover of Some Fancy Chef Magazine someday.”

“Friends?” he said, arching a brow.

“Yeah, friends,” you replied with a teasing grin. “Or at least laundry room acquaintances.”

He shook his head, his smirk softening into something closer to genuine. “Friend's better.”

"Good," You smiled, shifting slightly in your chair. “So, Carmy-next-door, aside from working and battling possessed washing machines, what do you do for fun?”

“For fun?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow as though you’d just asked him to name every spice in his kitchen alphabetically. “Uh... I don’t know. Not sure I’ve got much time for that.”

“Not buying it,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes playfully. “Everyone’s got something. Come on, spill. What’s your guilty pleasure? Do you secretly knit in your downtime? Binge-watch trashy reality TV? Start a garden but refuse to tell anyone because it ruins your ‘serious chef’ vibe? And if you are, I know someone who could be your new best friend.”

He let out another quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “None of those, but now I’m thinking I should start knitting just to throw people off.”

“Do it,” you said, pointing at him. “Then you can make me a scarf. But seriously, what’s your thing? There’s gotta be something.”

Carmy hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “I guess... sometimes I’ll just walk around the city. Clears my head, you know?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “That’s a solid choice. City walks are like people-watching with a side of fresh air. What’s your favorite spot?”

“There's this park near the river. Quiet, not too crowded. Good place to think." Carmy tells her.

"Sounds nice," you replied, smiling. "I might have to check it out sometime."

"You should," Carmy said, his expression softening. He clears his throat, "I-uh, I used to draw, though. Sketch stuff when I had the time.”

“Used to?” you asked, leaning forward a bit, intrigued. “You mean you don’t anymore? Or are you just too modest to admit you’ve got sketchbooks hidden under your bed?”

His smirk faltered into something a little more genuine, a touch of shyness creeping into his expression. “I still do. Sometimes. When things aren’t too crazy.”

“Now that’s interesting,” you said, sitting back with a thoughtful smile. “What kind of stuff do you draw? People? Landscapes? Elaborate food masterpieces?”

“A little of everything,” he said with a small shrug. “But mostly recipes, or at least how I want them to look."

“Like a visual diary,” you said, nodding. “That’s actually really cool.”

“Yeah, well...” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s nothing big.”

“Carmy,” you said, tilting your head at him. “You just admitted to having an actual hobby, and I’m here for it. Don’t downplay it.”

He huffed, shaking his head flushing ever so slightly. “Alright. What about you? What do you do for fun?”

“Me?” you repeated, your eyes lighting up as you sat back in the chair, clutching your book like a prop in a comedy routine. “Well, let’s see. I’m a professional daydreamer, certified in overthinking, and an expert-level snack enthusiast. It’s an impressive resume, I know.”

Carmy chuckled, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rare smile. “Sounds like a full-time job.”

“Oh, it is,” you said with a mock-serious nod. “But if we’re being serious... I like to read, obviously.” You held up the book for emphasis. “And I’m a sucker for a good movie. Big screen, small screen, doesn’t matter. I also like to go out with friends— go to clubs, a karaoke bar, grab dinner, play board games, complain about life. You know, the usual.”

He tilted his head, his expression softening. “Any favorites? Books or movies?”

“Hmm,” you mused, tapping your chin. “For books, I like a little bit of everything—mysteries, fantasy, even the occasional cheesy romance. Keeps life interesting. And movies... I’m a sucker for feel-good comedies. But every now and then, I’ll binge something dark and broody just to balance it out.”

Carmy nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “Feel-good comedies? Got any recommendations?”

“Oh, I’ve got tons,” you said, your eyes gleaming. “But only if you’re ready for some real classics. Think Clueless, The Princess Bride, or When Harry Met Sally. If you’ve never seen those, we might have to reassess this friendship.”

“Clueless,” he repeated, remembering the movie because of Natalie who forced him and Mikey to watch it, one eyebrow-raising. “That the one with ‘As if’?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, pointing at him with enthusiasm. “See? You’re already on the right track.”

He smirked, shaking his head again. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“What about you? Do you watch movies, or is that too much fun for someone as serious as Chef Carmy?”

He smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I watch stuff sometimes. Nothing specific. Just... whatever’s on.”

“Lame answer,” you teased, narrowing your eyes at him. “We’ll work on that. I’ll make you a list. Everyone needs go-to favorite movies.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said, his smirk softening.

“Good,” you replied with a playful nod, leaning back in your chair. “And since you’re such a layer enigma, like an onion, I’m guessing you don’t do the whole ‘night out with friends’ thing often?”

“Not really,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “Doesn’t happen much.”

“You should,” you said, leaning forward slightly, your tone teasing but warm. “You might surprise yourself. One minute you’re awkwardly standing in a corner, and the next, you’re reenacting a dance scene from Dirty Dancing with a stranger. That’s how the best stories happen.”

Carmy shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Not sure that’s my thing.”

“Hey, it doesn’t have to be Dirty Dancing,” you said with a shrug. “But everyone deserves a good night out now and then. Even mysterious chef-next-door types.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But no promises.”

“Fair,” you replied, looking over at him with a soft smile. “I’m just saying, Chef Carmy, you can’t live in your kitchen forever. Sometimes you’ve gotta step out and find your own rom-com moment.”

Carmy stared at you for a moment, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head, as though amused by something he couldn’t quite put into words, but the warmth in his expression lingered.

The hum of the machines filled the room, a soft backdrop to your easy conversation. What started as playful banter drifted into more thoughtful exchanges—small glimpses into each other’s lives, quirks, and histories.

Minutes melted into what felt like seconds, neither of you noticing the time slipping away. For once, it wasn’t about schedules, responsibilities, or the ever-present noise of the outside world. Just two neighbors sharing stories in the glow of the laundry room’s dim light.

A/N: So, thank you so much for all the support. It really keeps me going. I'm thinking of making like a small series of this, like a few interactions before they started dating- maybe some jealousy along the way lol- the first date- maybe the future but idk.

Also, just in case I do, please tell me if you would like to be tagged.

Part 4?

@themorriganisamonster

[love-lilacs]

as simple as that | tyler owens x reader (18+)

“That alright?” Tyler asks, voice husky and breathy in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine as heat pools in your core.

You nod quickly, not trusting your voice not to waver and betray you.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. porn w minimal plot, not beta read. smut. unprotected pnv (wrap it before you tap it pls). oral, m+f receiving. spanking. dirty talk. no use of y/n. slumby in a truck on the side of the road yk.

word count: 3.7k

It’s the middle of the night. The middle of the fucking night, and you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Tyler’s beat up red truck as you make your way through the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma. There aren’t any streetlights here, and the last car you saw was nearly an hour ago. 

“Tyler, the storm will still be forming tomorrow morning. Please, lets just pull over and get some sleep.” 

He shakes his head stubbornly, “It’s better if we make it tonight.” 

You huff, crossing your arms. “We won’t perform any better if you’re half-asleep while we’re chasing.”

“Darlin’ when have you ever known me to half-ass anything?”

You grit your teeth, unwilling to concede. “There’s a first time for everything.” 

Another half-hour passes in silence with only the tinny music crooning from the radio to fill the air. 

It annoys you, how perfect the great Tyler Owens is. He was the big man on campus back in college, 4.0 at graduation, party guy, and never turning down a challenge. 

And your personal nemesis, because while you were studying late into the night, he was blacked out at a bar and still managing perfect scores. He would always tease you in class, gently tugging your ponytail or stealing your pretzels during group projects. 

“I’m just saying-” 

You’re interrupted by a loud thunk from underneath the hood. You lean forward, peering through the windshield as if you could miraculously see through the metal to see what went wrong. 

“It’s probably nothing.” Tyler says calmly, anticipating your quip, “we’re only an hour and a half to the hotel. Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll get it checked in the morning.” Even as he speaks, Tyler grips the steering wheel a little tighter, an action you don’t miss in the dark cab. 

Something rattles, as if in response to his assuredness. 

“Oh yeah, it sure sounds like nothing.” You snark, turning to face him.

“Just relax, would ya?” Tyler snaps. “I know my truck.”

Silence fills the air as the truck begins to loose speed, the hood steaming as the two of you come to a slow, rumbling stop. On the side of the road, in Bumfuck, Oklahoma. 

Tyler must be reading your mind as he whips open his door and points a finger at you. “Don’t go anywhere.” He slams his door shut before you have a second to respond, circling the front to open up the hood. 

“Couldn’t if I wanted to!” You call sarcastically at his slammed door. Huffing out a sigh as you wait, petulant and childish as you sulk. 

But you aren’t good at waiting, and you aren’t half awful with mechanical things, so you jump out and join Tyler at the front of his truck. You stare down at the mess of metal and the steaming engine. 

“I can’t get it going again tonight.” He begrudgingly admits. “We’re going to have to wait until tomorrow morning for Triple A or someone on the team to get us.” 

“You’re fucking kidding.” You groan, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“It’s not half bad out here.” He muses, looking around. “We have our sleeping bags and blankets. We can just stretch out in the truck bed and sleep there.”

“Seriously, Tyler? That’s your best idea? Motel Owens?”

“Do you have a better one?” He fires back, putting his hands on his hips. “If so, I’d love to hear it. The next town isn’t for another fifteen miles, the team is blacked out at the motel, and even if they weren’t, there’s no service to call. Even if we walk, we aren’t getting there until daylight anyways.”

“If you had just listened at the last town-”

“Fuck! Okay! I get it! I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know the truck would break down.” Tyler yells, stepping closer to you. 

“It’s not my fault your truck is old and shitty!” You yell back. 

“No, but you could be less of a dick about all of this. I’m not trying to piss you off, but you because you hate me you’re apparently determined to make me feel like shit!”

You open your mouth and close it. Your faces are inches apart, only illuminated by his headlights. You feel his breath coming quickly, in cool puffs from whatever mints he kept popping, and for a split second your eyes dart down to his lips. You don’t say anything and neither does he, chests heaving as if waiting for the other to say something. 

“Can we just suck it up for tonight?” He says lowly. 

You swallow thickly and nod.

“Good.” He steps backwards, slamming the hood and going to grab the bedding to make up his truck bed, leaving you standing alone and questioning the sudden desire you’ve had to kiss Tyler Owens. 

When he’s done creating a makeshift bed, you clamber into the truck next to him. Neither you or him have changed into sleep clothes, him in those stupidly tight jeans and flannel, you in linen shorts and a tiny t-shirt. Not the most comfortable sleep clothes, but you both seem determined not to complain to the other.

Tyler gave you the right side, knowing you like to be on that side of the bed in whatever hotel you crash in. He gave you the only sleeping bag you have, leaving him covered only by a thin fleece blanket. It’s springtime in Oklahoma, and while its been warm for the last few days, the incoming storm brings a cold front that leaves you wishing you had a sweatshirt and that you couldn’t feel him curling tightly into himself to try and keep himself warm.  

You tuck your hand under your chin, musing to yourself about Tyler’s chivalry. He wasn’t bragging, and knew without asking. You know each other more well than either of you would ever like to admit. 

So you don’t hate Tyler. Maybe you like how determined he is to contribute to every project equally. Maybe you love how much he strives to make everyone feel included, and how he volunteers in towns that storms have hit badly, searching through rubble for precious lost items and offering free food to the locals. Maybe you steal his food right back, secretly hoping he doesn’t eat the blue and red sour gummy worms because he knows you like those best, buying the spicy pretzels because he off-handedly mentioned that he really liked them the first time you brought them. You don’t hate Tyler Owens at all, in fact you might like him more than you can possibly handle. 

You’re both facing away from each other, staring at the walls of the truck bed. You roll over to face him, greeted with his plaid covered back, the blanket comically small and barely covering his waist to feet. 

“Tyler?” You ask tentatively.

He grunts out a “Hm,” in response. 

“I don’t hate you.” You say meekly.

There’s a pregnant pause, filled with the sound of crickets from the nearby field. Tyler rolls over. “Sure have a funny way of showing it, darlin’.”

“Well, I-I don’t. I’m sorry if I made you think so.”

“It’s okay.” 

Crickets again, and you can’t help but notice him shiver again as a rough breeze lifts the ends of his hair from his forehead. Abruptly, you sit up, yanking down the edge of your t-shirt where it had ridden up and unzipping the sleeping bag. 

“What are you doing?” Tyler asks groggily. 

“You’re clearly cold. We’re both adults. We can share the sleeping bag like a blanket for tonight.”

Tyler’s green eyes are wide in the moonlight, looking up at you uncertainly.

“Really, darlin’, it’s okay. I don’t want you to-”

“Tyler, we’re sharing a blanket. It’s not like I’m asking you to cuddle or something.”

“You don’t want to?” Tyler teases, propping himself up onto his elbow, that relaxed, crooked grin making an appearance on his face. 

You laugh and it comes easily as your cheeks go pink, imagining your body pressed against Tyler’s, him holding you close. “Are you asking?”

Tyler shrugs, laying down again with the sleeping bag covering him and an open space for you next to him. “Just to stay warm, right?”

You swallow hard, nodding slightly. You can’t deny that you want to cuddle him.

“Right.” You echo, laying down next to him. 

Your back is pressed to his front as he tucks the sleeping bag and blanket into your side to trap any heat from escaping. Tyler carefully tucks a thigh between your knees, wrapping his arm around your middle to secure your bodies together. 

“That alright?” Tyler asks, voice husky and breathy in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine as heat pools in your core.

You nod quickly, not trusting your voice not to waver and betray you. Tyler’s chest is firm and comforting at your back, his arm securing you to him as if he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. His breath comes in soft, even puffs against your neck. However close you were to sleep before, its all gone now. 

Tyler has consumed your senses. His touch, his scent, his voice, and you’re becoming very aware of his hardening cock against your ass. 

Fuck it, you decide, testing the waters and grinding ever so slightly back against him.

The soft groan he lefts out surprises you both and you freeze. Tyler grinds forward into your plush ass, pulling you ever tighter as he whispers.

“Now darlin’, I know that wasn’t an accident.”

You respond by grinding back again, whimpering as you feel him against you. He’s so close to where you want him and yet so far. 

“Please?” Is all you can manage, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation. Wether for in preparation for rejection or mortification, you aren’t sure. Tyler flips you over to face him, green eyes searching your own for any sort of hesitation or regret. 

“Kiss me.” You beg fervently, running a thumb over his lower lip. “Please, Tyler.”

You don't have to tell him twice as he surges into you. It’s hard and rough, yet romantic in a way that only he could manage to pull off. Those mints are still on his breath and you find yourself addicted to the taste as it mingles with the scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing. Tyler’s tongue prods gently into your mouth, exploring with gentle fervor. 

You’ve never understood just how romantic kissing with tongue could be until this moment. 

Tyler bites your lower lip, taking advantage of your shocked moan to haul you on top of him, cradling your cheek gently as he presses your body to his. He’s warm and smells intoxicating, like sandalwood and sage. You can feel him pressing into your thigh. 

Tyler’s fingers trail up your shirt, tracing the underwire of your bra. You sit up, pulling your shirt over your head as he stares at you with what must be awe. His lips are kiss-bitten and swollen but his eyes are wide as he takes in the view of you topless and perched on his thighs. 

He surges up to meet you, kissing you again and letting his hands rove over the newly revealed skin. Your body shudders with anticipation as he reaches behind him to yank off his own shirt. Toned, tan skin meets your hungry gaze and your eyes catch on a newly revealed scar at the base of his neck. You must know what it feels like under your tongue, so you attach your lips to it, biting softly.

Tyler lets out a guttural groan, filling his large hands with your ass through your jean shorts. 

You grind down onto him, moaning as the rough fabric of his jeans catch on your shorts just right. You must be soaked through your panties. Still, you rock forwards on his groin, him guiding your movements. Need is pooling in your lower abdomen- it must be pathetic how close you are just from grinding on him. Your motion becomes quicker, chasing a high you never knew could come so quickly.

“Does that feel good?” Tyler prompts, slapping your ass.

“Yes!” You cry out, raking your nails down his pecs to his abs. Ignoring the throbbing in your cunt from your abandoned orgasm, you slide down his body to mouth at him over his jeans. Eyes darting up to meet his, he gasps as you pull the zipper down. 

“Shit, baby. You gotta let me have a chance to-”

You don’t give him a chance to finish, instead trailing your hand to the waistband of his jeans. The soft hair of his happy trail meets your fingers as you dip your fingers inside and grab his thick cock. 

He groans like he’s been punched, when you first reach your fingers around him. Tyler changes his grip to fist his hands in your hair as you pull his jeans and boxers down, taking him out. 

No wonder he walks around like he does. He’s long and thick, with a thick vein trailing down the side. His tip is swollen and leaking cum, a rosy pink color you’d love to have a lipstick shade in, making you question why you’re waiting so long to have him in your mouth. 

When you first wrap your lips around him, Tyler sighs, the sound music to your ears as you take him more and more. What you can’t fit in your mouth, you pump gently with your fist. His breaths are coming in short jagged bursts.

“Fuck.” He cries out as you start bobbing your head. “I can’t believe I’ve been letting you run your mouth all this time when I could’ve been using it for- shit, this.” 

You love having the weight of him on your tongue, love the taste of him as you bring him closer to the edge. 

Abruptly, he pulls you off of him, eyes wild and crazed as he pulls you up to his mouth again. “I don’t want this to be over too fast, baby. I’ve gotta get my mouth on that pretty cunt.”

You let out a moan without thinking and he smirks.

“You like the idea of that, huh baby?”

You nod and he smiles, laying you down on your back. Where you were quick and eager, he was slow, taking his time as though you were something to be worshiped. Tyler took his time making his way down your chest, sucking your nipple into one mouth while he flicked the other with his fingers. You moaned softly as he lifted up his head, blowing cool air onto the hard bud. 

When he finally makes his way down to your core, you squirm. He presses a kiss over the top of your underwear before sliding them down your legs. Tyler spreads your legs, using his shoulders to hold you open as he drags a thick finger through your sopping folds, pausing to suck the finger into his mouth. 

“So goddamn’ wet, tell me how bad you need it, baby.” Tyler breathes, settling in. He rubs slow, tight circles on your clit, light enough to leaving you keening into his touch. He watches you intently as he waits for your reaction.

“So bad,” You whisper, “so, so bad.”

“What do you want?” Tyler teases, nudging your hole with his fingers. But he hold back, not quite giving you what you want without you asking.

“Your fingers. Your mouth, please Tyler.”

Tyler smirks, pushing his fingers into you and you gasp at the sweet intrusion. “Please, Tyler.” He mimics you, “I could get used to hearing that. Lucky for you, I’m desperate to taste your sweet pussy.”

He doesn’t give you a second to think, much less respond as he leans forward and licks a long stripe through you, thrusting and curling his fingers as he down so. You clench around him as he manages to find the right spot, barely curling his fingers before doing do. 

You gasp, pressing a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound.

“Don’t do that. I wanna hear you, darlin’.” He pulls your arm down, hand away from your mouth and lacing his unoccupied fingers through yours. His forearm bands across your waist, holding you in place as he sets his unwavering pace, rubbing your clit gently through it all. 

When he finally wraps his lips around your aching clit, you nearly scream, feeling him smirk into your wetness as the sound reaches his ears. “Atta girl. So sweet, baby. Come for me, I know you wanna.”

You can’t control yourself as you chase your high, grinding into his face. He moans as you do so, encouraging you as you chase your high. The sight of Tyler between your legs is nearly unholy, him deriving as much pleasure from it as you are. The thought turns you on even more as you feel back, all shame lost as you squeeze your eyes shut and stars bloom behind the shut lids. 

“Atta girl. Come for me baby, you’re so beautiful. This pussy is so sweet, so sweet for me. You gonna come for me? Let me feel this pussy come for me.”

Your high washes over you in a wave, warmth surrounding you as he works you gently through it. It finally starts to calm as Tyler presses a kiss you your clit, causing you to jolt up.

“‘S sensitive.” You whisper as he comes up to you, kissing you sweetly. His chin is wet, dripping with you and you can taste yourself on his tongue. The thought makes you want him more. 

“You did so good for me, baby.”  

You peel your eyes open as Tyler nudges his nose against yours. The action is sweet, but your mind isn’t on sweet. His cock is still resting against your thigh, throbbing, hard, and you’re desperate to be stuffed with it.

“Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t fuck me in the next minute, I’m going to kill you.” 

Tyler laughs, then groans, “Fuck, I don’t have a condom.”

“Don’t care.” You mumble, kissing him, “I’m clean and on birth control.”

Tyler groans, pressing his cock to your dripping pussy. “Thank fuck. Me too.” 

He pushes in slowly, and you grip his shoulders, lips ghosting over his in a silent moan when he bottoms out. Tyler stays still to let you adjust, an oddly romantic gesture. Then again, your last boyfriend didn’t give you a chance to adjust to the feeling and he wasn’t anywhere near Tyler’s size. Tyler must know that too, based on the gentle praise he’s whispering into your ear.

“Gotta move, baby.” Tyler says after a moment, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. 

You nod, digging your nails into his back and gripping the short blonde strands at the base of his neck, looking down at where your bodies join. You watch as Tyler pulls his hips from yours, relishing as the drag of his cock against your velvet walls. Tyler trusts back in sharply and you cry out as he sets a bruising pace. The way he moves is intoxicating, playing your body like a violin as he works you towards your high with just his cock. 

“You take it so fucking good, darlin’.” Jake sighs into your ear. You can only cry out in response as he hits that spot inside you again and again. 

Tyler trails his fingers down your body, never ceasing his movements as his fingers reach your swollen clit. He rubs tight circles on the nub, determined not to reach his high before you can get yours. 

“Tell me who makes you feel this good.” 

“You, Tyler!” You maon breathlessly, tugging at his hair again, “So good. You’re so fucking good.”

Tyler groans shamelessly into your ear. 

“Atta girl. I know you want it. Come for me, baby. Let go.”

Stars bloom from behind your eyes as your whole body goes hot, coming with his names on your lips. You feel like Jell-O as he pulls your orgasm from your body. Yet, he slows down as your clench around him, coming down from your high. 

When you open your eyes, Tyler is gazing sweetly down at you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “All good, darlin’?” 

You don’t say anything, rolling your hips in response. You take advantage of his shocked expression and agape mouth to slip off of him and flip him over. Before he can open his mouth to speak, you’ve mounted him and are riding him within an inch of your own life. 

Tyler’s emerald eyes are wide as he gazes up at you, running his hands from your hips to your breasts, squeezing tightly as he gasps sharply. He thrusts up to meet you with every rock of your hips. Tyler is looking at you like you hung the moon and stars, pure wonder in his eyes. It only spurs you on; you like being under his gaze. 

“Gon- gonna- fuck, baby.” Tyler moans, “so fucking good for me.”

You rake your nails down his chest as he thrusts quickly and messily. You don’t stop as you feel him spill inside you. Slowly, you still your movements and slip off of him. He turns to look at you as you flop next to him. Tyler doesn’t say anything as he pulls you into his side, brushing a thumb up and down your spine. 

“Never would have taken Tyler Owens for a cuddler.” You mumble, kissing gently at his pec. You feel his laugh rumble though his chest. You tangle your legs with his, snuggling closer to him. 

“Is this just a tonight thing?” His voice permeates the silence.

You sigh, looking up at him. For once, he looks unsure and timid, afraid of your answer. 

“If you want it to be.” Is what you reply, feeling nerves settle in the pit of your stomach at his question. 

“Honestly? I don’t. Been chasing you for years, baby.”

“So ask me out.” You sit up, legs still tangled with his and blanket pooling around your waist, “and I’ll say yes.”

Tyler swallows hard, eyes catching on your exposed chest and pebbled nipples. “As simple as that?”

“As simple as that.” You smile reassuringly, placing a hand on his cheek. Tyler turns his head slightly, pressing a chaste kiss to the palm of your had. Instead of saying anything else, he pulls you back down into a searing kiss, holding you close as the sound of the Oklahoma night lulls you both to sleep.

[bad268]

MercDuo (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X Mercedes Strategist! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Yeah (I was wondering if you could possibly write something about Kimi and a reader who is very young, but works for an F1 team (maybe in the strategy side or on the pitfall as someone's engineer). Maybe even at Williams with Logan to create some drama about Logan being replaced.) (Anon, thank you for being so nice! I <3 you!)

Warnings: Danica Patrick mentioned (but Jenson Button is a reader-defender on live!)

POV: Second Person (You/your/They/them)

W.C. 1221

Summary: Kimi and the reader are the youngest driver-engineer duo in F1.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

You started your internship with the Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 team when you turned 16 and in the short year and a half you were there, you flew through the ranks. When Bono told you he was stepping down to follow Lewis to Ferrari, you assumed the new person would be just as cool.

As it turns out, Bono personally recommended you to Toto Wolff to take his place as race engineer. 

Your boyfriend Kimi, who you met at a smaller karting track when you first started learning about engineering, was going to be your driver. There’s no way this could have gone right. There were too many conflicting relationships and forces for it to run smoothly. At least, that’s what the media said. 

Well, you learned from the best and the best nominated you to fill the void. That said something. Not to mention, Toto would not have put you in the role if he didn’t think you could handle it. That said something. And last but most certainly not least, you and Kimi always had a working relationship. 

Ever since you joined Mercedes after him, you two set clear boundaries. Rule number one, no flirting on the job if they are in the middle of something. Randomly in passing was fine, but it was kept to a minimum. Rule number two, you work together, and work to find common ground. Sounded like a given. Rule number three, work is work; leave it at the garage, track, factory, or wherever you are at. Work stays at work and it’s not brought home. Vice versa. Your personal relationship stays outside of working hours.

It was never a problem because Kimi was in the junior program and you were in F1, shadowing Bono. Obviously, with Lewis leaving, the new seat was open for practically anyone. Also, while you were usually a part of the driver decisions and contracts, the team conveniently left you out of the new driver decisions until Kimi himself told you he was taking Lewis’s place. 

This was fine at first because you already saw Kimi around the factory, and you would just be in the background during races. There was absolutely no crossover.

Yeah, then Bono decided to go with Lewis, and Toto promoted you to Kimi’s race engineer. Queue the iconic moments between you and Kimi.

Australia, round one of the 2025 season, was one for the books. Not only were you and Kimi excited to show off the new car (which is definitely championship worthy!), but the entire fanbase was curious (and some angry) to see how you and Kimi would match up against the rest of the grid. You two were barely legal, and neither of you had much experience. That’s what they thought, at least. You had been studying strategy since you could read, and you were ahead of your classes. It was the same story with Kimi except he was driving.  Both of you flew through your respective ranks and were highly regarded. Some people were anticipating you both living up to the hype. Others were honestly hoping you would fail. 

You both walked through the gates hand in hand toward the Mercedes garage. Journalists and fans alike shouted questions at you both, but you two just walked straight past them and put on some sunglasses. This was the first sign you both meant business, and it brought a lot of attention to Mercedes in general.

“Here we see Mercedes rookie, Andrea Kimi Antonelli, and his race engineer and partner, Y/n L/n,” Jenson Button said as you two walked past the camera where he was commenting on the prerace show. “They are probably the youngest driver-engineer duo in all of motorsports, but they are proving everyone wrong with Kimi topping the free practice sessions and bagging pole in qualifying.”

“Not many people know this, but Y/n actually graduated at the top of their class super early, and started an internship shadowing Peter Bonnington, Lewis Hamilton’s race engineer, when they were 16. While that’s impressive, I just don’t think they’re ready for this kind of pressure just yet. They only just turned 18, and 2 years is not enough experience before being the lead race engineer.” Leave it to Danica Patrick to say something condescending, but Jenson was not going to stand for it.

“I am a(n) Y/n-defender first, commentator second,” Jenson chuckled, but anyone watching or listening knew he was being completely serious. Jenson knew your character. He knew how hard you worked to get where you are, and he was not going to stand for anyone shit-talking you. It just made it a little better that he got to tell off his nemesis, Danica Patrick. “I will fight for Y/n any time, any day. They have worked too hard for someone to start badmouthing them.”

“But don’t you think it’s at least a little questionable of Toto Wolff to bring on the second youngest driver, next to Max Verstappen, and the youngest race engineer of all time?”

“I think the answer is in the results,” Jenson stressed in disbelief. “You said it yourself that they’ve topped every session together, and the team has been looking pretty reliable for pitstops all weekend. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Kimi pulled out a win on his maiden race.”

“Kimi, radio check,” the broadcast cut to the drivers lining up on the grid, and your radio message to Kimi rang out.

“Loud and clear,” Kimi answered, and that was the end of the broadcast, so they didn’t catch the second half of Kimi’s message. Instead, it cut short, and the commentary team jumped into their own conversation.

“This goes to show they can be professional when needed,” Jenson laughed. “They may be young but they are professional enough to know there is a time and place. On the grid is not one of them.”

If they had heard the rest of the message, they would know everything Jenson just said was a lie.

“Oh, I don’t get any good luck?” Kimi teased as he looked to the lights for the formation lap.

“Amour (love), now is not the time,” You lectured as you talked a little quieter, especially around the rest of the team. They did not need to be alerted that their driver was currently distracted as he proceeded through the turns of Australia.

“What if I crash? Do you really want the last thing you say to me be ‘now’s not the time’?” Kimi retorted as he went through the formation lap.

“You’re so dramatic,” You groaned, but you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. You glanced around at everyone briefly just as Kimi was coming around the last turn and into his grid slot. You signed, “Ti amo. Stai attento bello. Torna a casa da me (I love you. Be careful handsome. Come home to me).”

“Sempre (Always),” Kimi said as he waited for the green flag to fly at the end of the queue.

“Now, focus on the race,” You turned serious again, “In the words of Sebastian Vettel, go fast, don’t crash.”

“I try my best,” Kimi chuckled as he turned his full attention to the lights for his first Formula 1 race. His first pole position. His, eventual, first win in Formula 1.

~~~ Part 2 ->

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[takumiraine]

Once Upon A Time Chapter 2

<prev> <next>

So Danny? 100% has PTSD. I do have a vague plan for this. And most of the next chap written. The Fentons may or may not be terrible parents. You’ll have to wait and see. I do have plans to break everyone’s hearts at least once. Anyways. This is considered my like…. Audience test before Ao3. Things may change. As a reminder all I know about dc is from fandom and wiki and everything I remember about dp is prob poorly remembered.

—

Once upon a time, there had been a young boy who was happy. Once upon a time, there was a young boy who had dreams and a future. Once upon a time, there was a boy who had been alive in every sense of the word. Once upon a time, everything shattered. Once upon a time, there was a man who was filled with anger. Once upon a time, there was a man just as alive as he was dead. Once upon a time, there was a man who was haunted and hunted.

As the stabbed kid shuffled off, leaving Jason baffled, he grabbed the guy who he had slammed into the wall. His head was bleeding but his breathing was steady and Jason huffed. He knew he definitely cracked the guy’s skull, but he had survived worse.

“O, what do we know on this guy?” He asked the woman in his ear. Oracle’s answer would determine whether he took the guy in to the ER or let him roll the dice of fate.

“Rap sheet about a mile long. Pretty basic stuff. Armed robbery, possession with intent, B&Es, assault and battery, the usual.”

Jason shrugged then and dropped the guy against the wall. Rolling the dice it was. He turned away, looking towards where the kid disappeared around the corner “and what about the guy he was mugging?”

“That’s where it gets weird.” Oracle’s typing was coming through loud and clear. “It’s hard to get a clear picture of him. He has some sort of distortion on the feed. Everything else comes out clear but…. He’s a mess of pixels. Voice too. Scrambled. It’ll take time.”

“Think he’s a meta?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me, considering he got knifed and just…. Walked off with it. Wonder what his issue with B is though.”

“Couldn’t tell you. Think it might be time to update my armor if I’m being lumped in with people B and the bird brains have pissed off.” Jason took an evidence kit out of his pocket and swiped at the blood on his chest. Old habits and all. “Got a sample of the kid’s blood though.”

“Good thinking. Wonder if he’s in any databases. I’ve got a cleaned up picture now. Enough that it’s pinging in GU’s database. Dan Nightingale, Mechanical engineering major. It says he’s 19, it’s his freshman year and he’s in like every remedial class he can take, high school transcripts are mediocre at best. No other information about him really. Rogue in the making that one.” Oracle reported. Jason groaned, grapneling up to the rooftops to follow where the kid went off to.

“Someone should keep an eye on him. Ugh. This’ll be a conversation for B and the birds won’t it? Kid won’t like having a bunch of birds following him.” Jason flicked through the different visual modes on his visor, finding…. Cold moving through one of the apartment buildings. It was human shaped, but where he expected to find heat…. “Weird…. You seeing this?”

“Very weird,” Barbara agreed, tapping into his visor’s feed. “And hey, you could just…. Not tell him. You wanted a Lit degree right? Go to class, befriend him. Do some recon.” Jason knew Babs always walked the fine line between what Bruce needed to know about the rest of them and what she had to keep secret to keep helping them. He didn’t envy her position. Jason still wanted Bruce to hurt sometimes. Not as much as he used to, something about the sins of the father and all that. He just wanted Bruce to be aware that everything he had ever hoped for his boy to be was… out of both of their reaches forever.

“That sounds annoying.” He was 23. He didn’t have any interest in taking on a degree on top of his full time crime fighting and criminal empire running jobs.

“Yeah, but what other choice do you have? It’s go back to school, tell B, or wait for him to become a rogue.”

“I hate you sometimes.” He muttered, unsure of what made him suddenly so interested in that angry guy.

“Feeling’s mutual Hood,” She replied with what was definitely a fond tone. He grimaced.

—-

In the apartment, Danny was less than thrilled. That was his favorite shirt! Now not only was it covered in blood, it had a huge hole in it. His core still thrummed with the urge to fight, but he tamped it down. Slowly, as he pulled the knife out, he sealed the wound with a layer of ice, pulling his shirt off and throwing it into the bathroom sink. The knife was dropped into the kitchen sink. His keys and phone in his bedroom on the battered nightstand next to the bed.

He returned to the bathroom and turned the water on cold. He let it spray full blast before working on scrubbing the blood from his shirt. He looked up to eye himself critically in the mirror before noticing the waistband of his jeans were saturated with blood too. Damn it. He kicked off his shoes and pulled his pants off, throwing them into the now overfilled sink. The bathtub would probably be a better choice. Turning off the sink and turning on the tub Danny picked up the sopping clothes and dropped them with a wet thump into the basin of the tub. Carefully he lowered himself onto the floor, wincing at the way pain clawed through him.

He would need to actually eat food to heal from this at any reasonable speed. He thought of the two dollars he had, then the emergency stash of….he racked his brain to remember how much of the emergency cash he was left with once he got to Gotham…right. Twenty bucks…. That was all he had in the wall.

He missed the days when Sam would just throw money at him whenever his parents forgot to do things like pay rent or put food in the fridge.

As if agreeing his stomach rumbled loudly, demanding actual food to sate the expense of energy healing his injury would take. He thought about calling Sam. Seeing if she could arrange a prepaid card for him. He knew she would in a heartbeat.

Even cut off from family money she seemed to be doing better than he was. Wracking his brain, Danny thought she was working in Bludhaven as some sort of personal assistant. He wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion that came from sustaining a human body on nothing but ecto or if he had been too distracted in the moment to pay proper attention, but he couldn’t remember if that was right. Getting the blood out of his clothes he wiped at the remaining blood on his body, getting most of it off. He grabbed the clothes and turned off the water.

Slowly, Danny pushed himself to his feet. He had survived worse, multiple times. But pain never seemed to stop being painful. It lanced through his side and he almost fell back to his knees with the way it stole his breath and doubled him over. He wished he could go back to the Zone and just… wait it out. But in order to do that without drawing attention he’d need a portal. The only ones he knew of were either destroyed or…. Compromised.

Maybe he should call Vlad. Danny shook that thought away almost immediately as he realized how silly it was. Vlad spent most of his teen years antagonizing him. Besides the GIW had probably gotten to Vlad too. If he wasn’t captured he would likely be compromised. Memories of Amity Park flooded in before Danny could stop them. Of asking for help. Over and over. Of the GIW storming in and locking everything down. Of Danny frantically telling his parents, only for their eyes to dart to the kitchen before they could stop it. Of the sound of energy. The smell of his flesh burning. Of pain.

Danny forced himself to take a breath. He focused on the wet clothes in his hands. On the tiles beneath his feet. Of the too harsh fluorescents in the bathroom that buzzed. The sounds of the people above him arguing over bills and needing better jobs.

Slowly he banished the memories back where they belonged. He’d… figure it out. He had to. Somehow. For now, sleep. Danny hung up the wet clothes over the shower bar, made sure there was a towel on the floor and shuffled into the bedroom. Double checking that his alarm was set, even though his class wasn’t until early afternoon, he didn’t want to miss it, he slid into his bed and pulled the pile of blankets up over him.

Almost instantly, he was out.

—-

“B,” Jason said in lieu of a proper greeting as he stepped into the Batcave, hood tucked under his arm.

“Jason,” Bruce looked up and turned the surprised expression into something more fond. “To what do I owe the visit?”

Jason leaned against the rock. Foot braced against the wall. “I know semester’s already started, but something came up. How hard would it be to start at GU?”

Bruce stared at him for a long moment and Jason knew it was his way of trying to figure out what buttons to press. Then he tilted his head and turned back to the computer screen. “Not too hard. It is early yet. Anything I should know?”

“Babs was lonely.” It was an out and out lie, but it seemed to soften things in Bruce further, reminding him of the two children that failed him within months of each other.

“Hm.” Bruce was silent at his computer for a long moment. Convinced that was the end of the conversation, Jason tightened his grip on the helmet he had tucked under his arm. “Either way. It is a good choice. Literature?”

The comment and question rankled Jason, the thing from the pit scratching at his carefully contained emotions. Pushing for any crack. Bruce was trying he reminded himself. Too little too late, but trying.

“Yeah. Going in in the morning.”

“Should I call ahead?”

“No. I can handle it. If not I have no business being there.”

“You will do fine.” The ‘you are a Wayne’ was left unspoken.

Jason snorted. “Right. Good talk.”

“Are you staying the night?” An olive branch. Jason wanted to burn it. He tempered the impulse to a spark.

“I have my own place.”

“Your room is still yours when you want it.”

“Yeah. The room of the worst Robin in history. Pass.” Jason turned and walked stiffly back up the steps. Hearing the soft growl of Batman behind him. The start of an argument.

He considered it a victory that he didn’t run into any of his siblings or Alfred on the way out.