#I’ve never seen anyone else talk about this moment

[d-z20]

Through Her Lens (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: You're not used to being in front of the camera—especially not like this. But Agatha Harkness is a name that carries weight, and when she tells you you're beautiful, you almost believe her. You booked this boudoir session with a world-famous photographer to help you feel confident, maybe even sexy. You don’t expect it to feel like… more.

- OR -

You went in for lingerie photos and left with your legs shaking, Agatha’s mouth everywhere, and a roll of film that definitely isn't safe for public release.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, bit fluffy, top Agatha, bottom Reader, lowkey dom agatha and sub reader, they like being told what to do okayyyy, slight mention of being insecure/shy, nude photos, oral sex, fingering, a singular use of 'good girl', accidental self-imposed edging, overstimulation

Words: 4.8k

A/N: SURPRISE SHAWTY!!!!! Dusted off my laptop for this one folks I do hope you enjoy :P Requested fic from like aaaaaaaggggggeeessss ago lol oops

AO3 | Masterlist

You didn’t know what you expected when you walked into The Velvet Hour that afternoon. Maybe nerves. Definitely self-doubt. But what you weren’t prepared for was the woman behind the camera.

Agatha Harkness wasn’t just a photographer—she was a name. The kind that lingered in editorials and high-profile shoots, spoken with a kind of reverence in art circles and whispered admiration online. Her work had graced gallery walls in New York and Paris, but it wasn’t the lighting or the angles people talked about; it was how she made her subjects look like they knew themselves. Like desire and confidence lived just beneath their skin, waiting to be seen.

And now, here she was, in front of you. The air around her shimmered with a presence. Black shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled just past her elbows, she held her camera like it was a natural extension of her hand. You’d seen her photos online, all those gorgeous people caught in moments that were less about the lace and more about the look in their eyes. Powerful. Free.

You’d booked the session two weeks ago. Not on a whim, exactly, but with something you hadn’t dared voice aloud: you wanted to feel sexy. Not for anyone else. But for yourself. The reviews had all said the same thing: She’ll make you feel like a goddess. I have never felt more confident than I did with Agatha. So, that’s how you came to find yourself here: shy, hesitant, wrapped in your favourite oversized jumper, and clutching a small bag of lingerie you weren’t even sure you had the nerve to wear.

Agatha raised a brow when she saw you. “You must be my 4:30 booking. Y/N, right?” she asked, voice all smooth warmth and curiosity.

You nodded.

She gave you a once-over—not lecherous, but thoughtful, like she was already composing a frame in her head. “Good eyes. Strong presence. Come on in, we’ll ease into it.”

She showed you around the studio. It had soft lighting, vintage chaise longues, a few draped backdrops, and racks of sheer fabrics. “You can change behind the screen,” she said, gesturing to the corner. “No pressure on what you wear first, this is about feeling yourself. The camera just helps catch the moment. There’s a robe in there if you’re more comfortable in that to begin with.”

You nodded again and slipped behind the curtain. Your fingers trembled a bit as you slipped on the softest set from your bag. It was simple a simple black set but delicate in ways that made you self-conscious to wear in front of a stranger. You tightened the robe over it before stepping out.

Agatha didn’t rush you. She had music playing—low, jazzy. Adjusting a light, she then looked at you again. “Take your time,” she said gently. “This isn’t about performing. It’s about presence.”

You swallowed. “I-I’m sorry I’m so nervous, it’s…” you hesitated, then forced it out, “it’s just, I’ve never done anything like this before; I haven’t even taken photos of myself like this. I saw some of your work online and wanted to be like those women: hot, sexy, gorgeous.” You gave a small, awkward laugh, glancing down at your hands where they twisted in your lap.

Her expression softened, lips curving into something between a smile and a secret. “Oh, honey,” she said, voice low and warm, something about the way she said it tugged in your chest. “That’s exactly why you’re here. You’ve got to feel gorgeous to see it. And I’m very good at helping with that.”

You didn’t know what to say, but the knot of anxiety inside you loosened.

She started shooting—just a few test shots. You stood near the window in your robe, looking down, not quite at the camera. “That’s good,” she coaxed. “Tilt your chin up. There. Look at me. Not the lens.” Her voice was confident; she didn’t just instruct, she encouraged.

“You have this softness to you,” she said as she moved, crouching slightly to find a new angle. “But there’s a spark too. I can see it trying to break through.”

Little by little, you followed her guidance. A shoulder dropped. The robe loosened. She caught a shot of your hand trailing along your collarbone and hummed an appreciative, delighted sound.

“Let me help,” she said at one point, crossing the room. She adjusted the fall of your hair, fingers trailing lightly against your neck. “There. Perfect.” A pause. “May I?” she asked, reaching for the knot in your robe.

You nodded. Her hands were deft and confident, untying the sash slowly. She eased the robe down from your shoulders, letting it gather loosely at your elbows. Her eyes roved and lingered on the exposed skin like she was tracing light with her gaze. “Now that is art,” she whispered.

As the session deepened, so did the poses. “I want to see how far I can take you,” she said, not as a dare, but as an invitation. She guided you into more provocative angles—bent knees, arched spine, fingers resting suggestively on bare thighs. And then her hands were on you again, not to fix, but to sculpt.

“Arch a bit more here,” she hummed, hand warm against your lower back. “Good. That’s it. That’s where the power lives.”

The robe soon slipped to the floor, left behind along with your apprehension. You barely noticed when it happened—somewhere between the steady click of Agatha’s camera and the way she spoke to you so certainly, as though she saw something in you you’d only ever hoped was there. Confidence bloomed slow, coaxed out by her praise, her artful direction, the glint in her eyes that made it feel like you were becoming something worth framing.

“Let’s try a few topless,” she said, voice easy, like it was just the next natural step. “You’re glowing, and I want to catch that before it fades.”

You paused, pulse skittering, but she only smiled, a calm and unbothered smile. Like she knew you’d come this far and trusted you’d keep going.

A few more shots, a little more skin, and then, “Shall we go bare?” she asked, quiet but sure. “It’s bold, but I promise you’ll feel so empowered by letting yourself be seen like that. And you’re ready. I can see it.”

And somehow, with her looking at you like that, you believed it too.

—

The afternoon had deepened by the time you noticed — golden light slanting lower through the curtains, softer now, brushing everything in a warm haze. The room felt quieter, the air thicker, settled. A scene half-rewritten, the mood grown deeper.

You hadn’t expected it, the way her steady, assured direction made something stir low in your stomach, the way Agatha spoke, the way she looked at you as if she already knew exactly what you'd respond to. It sent a warm, traitorous ache curling beneath your skin. It was more than flattery, more than nerves, something deeper had begun to unfurl under her gaze, her voice, her hands adjusting your pose.

The camera lay temporarily abandoned on the stool, lens cap off, still watching. Agatha, however, wasn’t behind it anymore.

She stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, lips curled in a small, unreadable smile. As if she were deciding something.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” she said. “But I wonder… have you ever seen yourself when you're lost in your own pleasure?”

The question landed between you with startling weight. Your gaze snapped up, caught in hers. She didn’t flinch, didn’t break eye contact. If anything, she stepped closer.

“I don’t mean performative pleasure,” she continued. “Just… you. Following the feeling wherever it wants to take you. That kind of honesty—it’s magnetic. Raw. Powerful.”

You shifted where you sat, heat curling low in your stomach.

“I—” You hesitated. “I don’t know if I can… in front of someone.”

A single brow lifted. “You don’t have to impress me, darling. You just have to enjoy yourself. That’s what I want to capture.” She let her gaze travel lazily down your naked body, lingering just long enough to make you feel it. “But if you’re too tense, that’s okay. Maybe you just need help relaxing.”

You felt the weight of those words. How they made the space between you heavier, warmer. Her fingers reached out tracing a path in the air just shy of your arm.

“Let me help?” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes glinted with something mischievous but reverent. “Purely in the interest of... a good end product, of course.”

You laughed shakily but the tension broke a little. She leaned in closer, fingertips brushing your jaw, then trailing slowly down your collarbone. Her touch wasn’t hurried. She knew exactly how close to get without overstepping.

She moved closer still, slow and deliberate, until she was standing just before you. Her hand came up again, gentle but sure, fingers curling beneath your jaw to tilt your face up. Her thumb tracing along your bottom lip, guiding your gaze to meet hers.

“Would you like me to help you relax, darling?” she asked, her voice steady like she was making a promise she intended to keep.

You nodded once, unsure whether you were agreeing to her words or the electricity pulsing in the air between you.

Agatha’s eyes held yours steadily as she scanned your face for any sign of hesitancy. “Lie back,” she whispered, her voice a soothing caress. You obeyed, the soft surface beneath you steadying your nerves.

Her touch moved like a feather, tracing slow, deliberate paths along your arms, coaxing the tension from your muscles. “Breathe with me,” she encouraged. “Feel every part of yourself, all the way down.”

You became keenly aware of her breath, warm and soft, drifting across your bare chest. The gentle exhale sent a shiver through you, and you felt your nipples tighten, responding to the closeness and the delicate heat of her presence.

Her hand slipped lightly, fingers gliding over your skin as she silently invited you to follow her lead. Tentatively at first, you lowered your own hand, fingertips trembling, down your sternum, along your stomach, until they rested between your thighs.

“Keep going,” Agatha breathed, the encouragement warming your skin as much as her presence did. “There’s no rush. Let yourself forget everything else, this moment is yours.”

Your stomach fluttered at the command, a light, thrilling flip that caught you off guard. The sensation spread warmth through your body, making your breath hitch just slightly.

Gradually, your hand drifted lower, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over your clit. Your touch was gentle at first, but you were more turned on than you realised and it felt like electricity was coursing through your veins. The cool air of the room brushed against your skin, sharpening every delicate movement.

A soft whimper escaped from your throat, barely more than a breath, but it held all the sparks kindling quietly inside you.

Agatha’s voice cut through the quiet with an edge that hadn’t been there before. “Start slow—really feel the sensations. Like you’re discovering yourself for the first time.” Her camera clicked softly, capturing the fragile moment unfolding before her.

You obeyed, fingers gliding gently through your slickness, lingering in tender exploration. The coil in your stomach tightened, a slow burn sparking through you, growing with every breath.

“Good,” Agatha sighed, voice thickening with something more urgent. “Now speed up. Show me the extent of your desire.” Her gaze darkened, unwavering, as she watched your fingers speed up.

More soft sighs slipped from your lips, breath hitching as the sensations deepened. The room seemed to narrow to just you and her, your quiet mewling mingling with the gentle click of the shutter. The heat beneath your ribs grew fierce, twisting tight like a flame.

“Fuck me, you’re stunning,” Agatha said, tone low and commanding. “Look at you—lost in it, beautiful and wild.” Her eyes burned into you as she leaned closer, voice dropping even lower, “Let go. You don’t have to hold back here.”

Your fingers trembled but didn’t stop. The tension inside you building with every stroke, every whisper of breath and sigh. Agatha’s presence was a weight and a fire, steady and consuming.

“Keep going,” she urged, voice thick with pride and want. “This is yours—own every bit of it. I want to see all of you.”

Her camera captured it all; the growing flush in your cheeks, the way your body moved beneath your own touch, the soft sounds spilling from your lips and pussy. She was there, fully present, letting her desire pulse beneath the surface, her words a tether pulling you deeper into the moment.

You could feel Agatha watching closely, the energy between you tightening with every passing second. She said little now, letting the slow, rhythmic clicks of her camera and her steady breath do most of the talking.

Letting your eyes flutter closed you narrowed your focus to the buzz of your skin under your own touch. The precipice of your impending orgasm was there: a warmth blooming low in your belly, the pressure growing and coiling with promise. For a breathless moment, you thought this was it.

But then it slipped it away.

Not suddenly. Not entirely. But enough to pull you back from the edge.

Your hips bucked chasing the thing you couldn’t quite reach. You pressed down a little harder, circled your fingers a little quicker, the tension in your body growing tighter and tighter still, but your orgasm evaded you. You could feel it humming under your skin like a live wire, but no spark. Just anticipation with nowhere to land.

Your breath hitched, caught in your throat. You tried to focus, to stay with it, but it was like trying to hold onto fog with your bare hands. Another powerful wave of arousal rose inside you, swelling beautifully and yet it faltered again, breaking apart before it could crest.

A frustrated whimper fell from your lips, unguarded.

Agatha lowered the camera, just slightly, enough to peer over the top and meet your eyes. There was nothing mocking in her expression. Just calm, interest… and a quiet hunger she wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.

“Not quite there?” Her voice was all silk and knowing, with the tiniest lilt of a smile behind it.

You shook your head, annoyed at yourself. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, usually I have no issue with cumming. Like zero issue.”

Her laugh was soft and low, the sound curling through the space between you like smoke. “It’s your head getting in the way. You’re overthinking it, pet.”

You made a small, exasperated sound and dropped an arm over your eyes, letting your head fall back against the pillow. “It’s like every time I get close, something in me just… pulls back.”

She gave a slow nod, considering, then leaned one hip against the edge of the bed, arms folding almost absently across her chest. “You know,” she started, tone still light but a little distant with thought, “there’s something about this part… that moment just before. When someone’s so close they can barely stand it…”

Her voice had gone softer, more absentminded, like she was speaking more to herself than to you.

“I’ve always liked seeing people get there, watching them squirm a little, holding them right on the edge...”

She blinked, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her gaze snapped back to yours, a flicker of surprise (and a hint of pink) warming her cheeks. “I mean—strictly professionally, of course,” she added quickly, though the small, amused smile tugging at her lips betrayed her momentary slip.

Clearing her throat, Agatha forced herself to refocus. “Let’s continue.”

Shifting closer, she gently guided you to the centre of the bed. The air seemed to tighten as she knelt between your legs, aiming for the perfect shot from above. Her thigh brushed lightly against your core—an accidental touch that sent a jolt through both of you. The faint moan you made hung in the air, fragile but undeniable.

Agatha’s breathing hitched. She swallowed hard, steadying herself, her eyes flickering down to your dripping pussy and then quickly back up to meet your gaze. The moment stretched, every second heavy with unspoken desire. Your eyes were locked on hers, dark and inviting, lips parting slightly as if silently asking for more.

Your hand found its way to the belt loops of her jeans, tentative at first but gathering boldness. You tugged, drawing her closer until there was no space left between you.

Agatha’s right hand stroked your skin briefly before she let the camera slip from her grasp, the soft thud against the bed barely noticed. Her eyes darkened with something fierce as she closed the distance without hesitation. The kiss crashed over you, not slow or tentative but raw and insistent. Lips parted, searching, claiming, as if all the restraint of the session had snapped in that instant.

Her hands moved urgently, exploring with hungry intent, pressing you closer as the air between you ignited. Every breath, every touch was charged, drowning out the quiet of the room with the heat building between you. The moment that had been stretched thin with anticipation finally shattered, spilling over in a rush neither of you could control.

Your bodies moved together as though some invisible thread pulled you tighter with each passing second—Agatha’s hands on your waist, you grinding up into her thigh, the heat between you building fast. She shed her clothes in hurried motions, skin warm and flushed as she pressed closer, her mouth finding yours again in a hurry.

That heat in your stomach, once elusive and teasing, flared to life again. It was hotter now, sharper, pulled tighter with every heartbeat. Your breath caught as her hands continued to explore your body with purpose, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. When her lips broke from yours, they trailed a heated path down your neck, lingering at your collarbone to breathe you in like she was memorising the moment, and then she moved lower still. She halted at your chest, mouth closing around a perk nipple as her grip tightened on your waist, drawing from you a sound that felt too honest to contain. You arched into her, every inch of you alive with sensation.

Before you could fully appreciate what she was doing, her mouth moved on, slower now, but deliberate. You could barely stay still; your fingers curled in the sheets, hips twitching beneath her, the need was unbearable. She chuckled softly against your skin, the sound maddening.

“Easy,” she murmured, a thrill running through you as one of her arms slid beneath your thighs, forearm pinning your hips down gently but firmly. Her head lowered until it rested lightly on your thigh, eyes lifting to meet yours with an unspoken assurance. “You’re not going anywhere, not until you’ve told me what I want to hear.”

You blinked, caught off guard, the heat of her gaze making your thoughts scatter. For a moment, you were lost in the haze of the room—the dim light, the sound of your own breath, the steady beat of your heart. What exactly was she asking for? The words hovered just out of reach, tangled in a mix of nervousness and something deeper stirring inside you.

Then it clicked.

You swallowed, cheeks warming, and whispered shyly, “Please. Please, fuck me, Agatha.”

Her smirk widened. Without hesitation, she leaned down, her breath warm against your skin, and dragged her tongue slowly—agonisingly—from your entrance all the way up to your clit. She didn’t stop. Her eyes, half-lidded and hungry, stayed locked on your face. Watching. Studying. Every flick of her tongue was calculated. When your brows drew together and your breath escaped in a soft, trembling moan, her pupils darkened with approval.

A wicked glint flashed across her face. She pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your clit, slow and lingering, the scrape of her teeth making your stomach clench. Her tongue followed, unhurried, tasting you as if you were something sacred.

You writhed beneath her, hips shifting against the mattress, fingers tightening around the sheets in a silent beg for more. Your chest rose with each unsteady breath, nipples pebbling as the air thickened with tension. You could feel the slick heat of your arousal dripping out of your entrance, which was left untouched and aching to be filled.

Still, Agatha used only her mouth. No hands. No mercy.

Sensing you to be drifting away from her, she bit down softly at your thigh, her lips brushing the mark in apology, then lifted her eyes to you again. That look, so unrelenting, so shameless, so full of control, it made your breath catch in your throat. Her lips sealed round your clit again, sucking it into her mouth so she could massage it with her tongue before releasing it again, and your whole body jolted, involuntary and helpless.

“Please…” you gasped, voice cracking, breathless.

She raised an amused brow, but didn’t stop the slow onslaught of her tongue. It was maddening—the way she restrained herself, the way you couldn’t.

“Agatha…” You whimpered this time, arching up towards her without thinking. “It’s not enough. I-mngh, I want more. I need more. I need your fingers inside me.”

At that, she stilled.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then, with that mischievous grin returning to her face, she licked her lips and murmured, voice sinful, “Good girl.”

Her grin deepened as she shifted, one hand gliding up the inside of your thigh with a feather-light touch that made your breath catch hard in your throat. Her fingers were slow, dragging just close enough to make your core throb, but avoiding where you needed her most. She ducked her head again; mouth finding the soft skin of your inner thigh and sucked a mark into it. Her other arm still pinned your waist down, grounding you as her fingers finally slid inside you. You gasped, hips canting up into her palm, and she growled softly against your skin, tongue swirling over the mark she’d just made.

Your body jolted in response to her fingers curled just so, making her chuckle darkly. “There you are,” she husked, mouth trailing downward again, leaving heat and promise in her wake.

You whimpered as her lips wrapped around your clit joined now by the soft pressure of her fingers. They moved in tandem, teasing, exploring, coaxing every sensation from you with unbearable focus. You felt yourself coming apart too fast, too hard, the coil inside you threatening to snap.

All you could do was hold on—one hand fisting the sheets in a death grip, the other tangled tight in Agatha’s hair, pulling without meaning to—as your body began to tremble with what was coming.

On your own, your orgasm had stayed maddeningly out of reach, your body wound tight, desperate, but never tipping over. No matter how much you’d touched, coaxed, begged, it (and you) hadn’t come. The frustration had been unbearable, a tension so sharp it bordered on pain.

But now, with Agatha’s fingers inside you and her mouth working you open, the ache was finally cracking. She knew what she was doing, almost too well, unravelling you layer by layer, dragging you into sensation so deep it flooded the spaces where your thoughts used to be. Her tongue moved in perfect rhythm with the deliberate curl of her fingers, building pressure in slow, grinding waves that left your breath shuddering in your chest.

And then it snapped.

Release surged through you all at once, fierce and overwhelming, crashing over you like a dam finally bursting. A sobbed gasp was forced from your lungs as your entire body convulsed, spine bowing off the bed in a sharp, uncontrollable arc. The orgasm tore through your body like a current, hot and unforgiving, curling your toes and blanking your mind. The sound that tore from you didn’t feel human, it was a guttural, breathless moan that shook from the deepest part of you.

But Agatha didn’t relent.

Even as you rode the first wave, she stayed with you, her mouth working you through every pulsing spasm while her fingers relentlessly stroked that same maddening spot, knowing exactly how to keep your body wide open and utterly at her mercy. The orgasm went on and on, drawn out past the edge of pleasure into something wild and untethered. You could barely breathe. Every nerve was raw, lit up like a live wire, and all you could do was writhe beneath her: twitching, shaking, falling apart.

The second orgasm came quicker, smaller, but no less intense. Your muscles spasmed around her as your body fought to handle the overload. Your chest heaved as aftershocks rippled through you in scattered bursts, every nerve firing wildly, your body trembling so hard the bed shook beneath you.

Your vision blurred, edges going white-hot, and time seemed to fracture under the weight of sensation. Your grip in her hair tightened, fingers trembling, as the room spun and your body trembled, wrung out completely by the rhythm of her hand and the maddening skill of her tongue.

Even as you sobbed her name through clenched teeth, her mouth continued. Slow, deliberate laps, flicks of her tongue that teased and coaxed your twitching muscles into another spasm. Her fingers remained buried inside you, now stroking more gently, but still commanding, drawing out every ripple of your orgasm with merciless precision. You whimpered, half a plea, half a prayer, thighs trying weakly to close around her head, but she pressed them open again — firm and calm, her free hand pinning your hips down like she owned every inch of you.

And maybe she did.

Another climax crested before you could even process the last, a fresh rush of heat surging through you, too much and too perfect all at once. You gasped, back arching again, mouth falling open in a silent cry and your whole body quaked beneath her. There was no end, only unravelling, only the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears and the slick, obscene sound of her fingers moving inside you, matched by the heat of her breath on your oversensitive skin.

Finally, Agatha slowed. Her lips soft now, pressing gentle kisses over your inner thigh as if to soothe the fire she’d stoked. You felt her remove her fingers from you with deliberate care, and you whimpered again at the loss, your body clenching around nothing, still desperate even in the wake of release. She pressed a kiss to your hip before lifting herself up, her eyes drinking you in.

You were wrecked. Limbs trembling, chest heaving, skin damp with sweat, your whole body buzzed with aftershocks. There was no strength left in your arms, no coherent thought in your mind, only the thrum of satisfaction and the warm ache left behind. Agatha’s hand slid up your side, slow and grounding, fingertips painting lazy patterns across your skin as she leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“You okay, hon?”

You could barely manage a nod, still floating somewhere outside your body, still shaking in the aftermath of what she'd given you, what she’d dragged out of you.

“You should see yourself,” she whispered, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “So pretty when you fall apart.”

You blinked wearily as she leant over the side to the bed to retrieve a camera. This one was vintage and seemed heavier. She held it up, not quite pointing it at you yet, eyes searching your face for an answer to the question she didn’t voice.

You didn’t speak—just nodded. There was nothing guarded left in you now. No robe, no tension. Just skin and sweat and satisfaction.

Agatha sat up slowly, adjusting the curtain with one arm, letting the last of the sunlight paint your skin in gold. The film camera clicked once, then again, each frame more deliberate than the last. Between shots, her gaze lingered soft and awed.

“I fear even the camera won’t be able to capture what I see right now,” she said, voice quiet. “You’re glowing. Like the moment is breathing through you

Another photo.

Then another.

You reached for her without thinking, fingertips brushing hers. She set the camera down, took your hand, and pressed a kiss into your palm. It was featherlight and full of everything she wasn’t saying aloud.

The light would fade. The room would go still. But for now, the quiet held everything that needed to be said.

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Okiedokie folks I promise you I am working on the series fics as well but I'm trying to get those almost finished before posting so I don't randomly lose motivation so you'll get one-shots like this until then :D

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taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6stolenangel9 @jujuu23 @juls-stark @moonnsvturn

[thefabledpheasant]

During this sequence that’s supposed to feel victorious and like, “yeah things aren’t perfect, but the good guys won today!” Merlin watches Guinevere and Arthur hug intimately and you know what? He looks sad.

He looks like he wishes he could touch Arthur so freely and affectionately. He looks like he’s desperate to be seen for everything he is and everything he’s done for him. He looks like he’s accepting he’ll never be with Arthur like that and it’s breaking his heart.

That man is deeply in love and he can’t do anything about it. He is happy for them because he just wants them to be happy, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like a dagger in his heart.

It reminds me of that quote from Sherlock, “you look sad when you think he can’t see you”

[milkoise]

found another daigo enjoyer so i gotta loosen my tongue a bit. just wanted to bring out the parallel between kiryu rushing to daigo when he was ill in y3 rooftop scene and wrapping him to keep him steady and when kiryu fell ill after beating ebina and daigo was the first one to rush to him and wrap his arms around him just like the other man did for him 15 years ago.

oh you’re going to make me sick (in a good way)… daigo being the first to run over to kiryu at the end of iw and just like. the pure Panic on his face. it absolutely destroys me. they love each other so much and yet we only see any kind of protectiveness or physical affection between them when one of them is hurt and/or dying. it's like they've grown so distant emotionally that that's the only time that they feel like they Can show it… please just put down your walls and hug already!!

Also i saw someone on twitter point this out once, but right at the end you can see kiryu holding onto daigo’s knee :( subconsciously holding onto him in what he thinks are his last moments because if he’s going to die right now, he wants it to be in son’s arms. one last bit of comfort despite everything. i’m going to vomit

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

“I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.”

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.���

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously. 

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support 

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle:  You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle:  I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Out of frame 4/4

Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.

Genre : angst, SMAU

Faceclaim : @suanbeiii

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Group Chat: URGENT

Zak Brown : Everyone. Wake up. Emergency situation. I want you all on this NOW.

PR team : I’ve seen it. The Instagram post...

Marketing team: We’ve already hit global trending. "Lando Norris cheated" is number 1 on Twitter.

Zak Brown : Has anyone confirmed who the girl is?

PR team : I’ve checked everything. No tag. No follow. Y/N wasn't in Japan so it can't be her.

Andrea Stella : This can’t be real. After everything that happened in Japan? He goes and does this?

Marketing team : We’ve already been contacted by two sponsors asking for clarification. If he’s publicly cheated on a high-profile girlfriend, that’s serious brand damage not just for him, but for the team.

PR team : Y/N was his emotional leverage with the public. People loved her. He barely acknowledged her, and the fans still supported her. And now he’s replaced her with a mystery girl?

Digital team : Our comments are a war zone. Fans feel betrayed.

PR team : It’s the worst-case perception: him posted his new girl 48 hours after blowing Y/N off on live TV, and now he’s silent. Not even a clarification.

Andrea Stella : He’s destroyed his image.

Zak Brown : I’m calling him. Alone. Do not flood him with messages. Not yet.

The vibrating of Lando's phone had been relentless, like a jackhammer behind his eyes. Lando groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

The name barely registered through the haze, but instinct had him answering, "...Hello?"

"Tell me you didn’t just post your new girlfriend to your public Instagram in the middle of a media firestorm."

Lando winced at the sheer volume of Zak’s voice in his ear. “Wait, what? I don't hear you well.” he mumbled, rubbing his face.

"The 4AM post you did Lando, while the internet is still screaming about your breakup with Y/N. Are you completely insane?!"

"Breakup? We didn’t break up. We're just in a... difficult moment"

"Don’t split hairs, Lando. She unfollowed you, deleted tagged photos, skipped Japan, and the entire fanbase has declared you single. You might think you're 'working through it' but from the outside, and from your last Instagram post, you’re very much done."

Lando sat up, the room spinning wildly. "I... I don’t even remember posting. What are you talking about?"

"Don’t play dumb, Lando. It’s still up. We can see you kissing and dancing with a girl in the club. No tag. No explanation."

Lando's headache pulsed behind his eyes, each word from Zak crashing like thunder in his skull. “Wait, what? A girl?” he echoed, frowning. “What girl?”

“Don’t act clueless. The girl in the photos you posted on your account. Romantic captions, it looks like a damn engagement shoot. After everything with Y/N? Are you trying to commit career suicide?”

Lando blinked, nauseous, his whole body clammy with cold sweat. “I don’t remember… I don’t remember anything after the second round of shots,” he admitted. “Wait. Oh God. Did I...”

He cut himself off. The blood drained from his face. “Did I sleep with someone?” he asked, voice small. “Did I cheat on her?”

“Is that your actual question right now? You don’t even know?!”

“I don’t know, Zak!” Lando snapped back, panic flaring. “I remember feeling horrible. I was drunk. I was missing her. I swear I didn’t mean to...”

“You made it look like you replaced the girl fans loved with someone else. Overnight. And you made it public. We’ve had to pause social media scheduling because your name is being dragged through the mud.”

Lando could barely sit upright. His hands were shaking now. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

“You humiliated Y/N on TV, and now you’ve humiliated her online. If you actually spent the night with someone and then posted her? This isn't just scandal, Lando. This is career-killing shit. Sponsors are already reaching out.”

“I didn’t mean to post anything,” Lando muttered. “I swear I wasn’t thinking. I don’t remember opening Instagram. I just… I remember feeling like I messed everything up.”

“Delete it. Now. Delete the post. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

Lando rubbed his eyes. “Wait. No. Wait.”

He looked up suddenly. The pounding headache didn’t matter anymore.

“I remember now”

“What?”

Lando’s voice cracked. “It’s not a new girl. It’s Y/N. It’s her. Those are old pictures. From my birthday last year in Monaco.”

Silence.

“You’re telling me you posted your ex-girlfriend at 4AM, drunk, with no tag or explanation, two days after making a public joke about having multiple girlfriends?”

Lando’s throat closed. “ For the second time not ex-girlfriend, we haven't talk yet.  And I know it's not an excuse but I was sad, I was drunk...I thought she’d know it was her. I thought it would mean something. I just missed her so much.”

“Well congratulations. You’ve successfully convinced the world you’re both a cheater and an idiot.”

Lando collapsed back into the pillows. “Fuck.”

He covered his face with one hand, feeling bile rise in his throat.

“I didn’t cheat,” he said, barely a whisper. “But I think I just made her believe I did.”

"Delete the post. Text her. Clarify. Immediately.This is your only shot."

Lando nodded numbly. “Zak?”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t mean to ruin everything, really.”

Zak sighed, sharp, tired, but quieter now. “Then prove it. Start fixing this. And we will talk about it in team meeting on Wednesday.”

Texts messages

Lando: Y/N I didn’t cheat on you I would never do that Not now, not ever Those pics are of us. From my birthday party last year I posted it because I missed you and also because I was very drunk But mostly because I miss you

Lando: It was supposed to be a gesture I thought maybe you’d recognize it And know I was thinking about you

Lando: I didn’t tag you because I didn’t know if I should After everything After the fight

Lando: I wasn’t trying to hide you God, you’re the last person I’d ever hide I was trying to say I still cared Without pissing you off more Clearly I did the opposite and I’m so so sorry

Lando: I woke up to a furious call from Zak and still seeing your texts made me feel even worse Because you thinking I cheated on you? That’s hell I’ve done a lot of stupid things but not that

Lando: I know I act just as shitty as someone you could do that, so it's my fault I'm sorry Y/N I know I’ve said it so many times it might sound empty now, but I swear I am I understand if you hate me now

Lando: Please answer your phone Let me explain properly

Lando: I miss you so bad And I fucked everything up But I didn’t cheat

Lando: I don’t care about privacy anymore I don’t care about timing or soft launches or who’s watching I want you back

Lando: Please Text me Call me Anything

Y/N: Lando...

Y/N: I just saw your texts The girl in the photos… is me?

Lando: Yeah… I thought you’d recognize yourself

Y/N: Oh my god Lando

Y/N: You absolute fucking idiot You just soft launched me like the worst boyfriend on earth Everyone thinks you’re cheating

Lando: I thought they’d get it… I don’t know. I just wanted to try. I didn’t know how

Y/N: Oh Lando… You really are terrible at this

Lando: So bad??

Y/N: So bad.

Lando: Can we talk please?

Y/N: Of course, call me, we have a lot of things to tell each other...

@landonorris

My bad I forgot to post her pretty face @your_usurname❤️ It was her, always been her, I love you Y/N, forever thankfull for these 3 years with u even if I'm the worst bf ever sometimes

@_user1

WAIT WHAT I WASN'T READY FOR THAT 😭

@_user2

this the softest hard launch I’ve ever seen

@_user3

“forgot to post her pretty face” is crazy when she’s literally THE face

@_user4

I was about to fight you after that last post but you’re safe now. barely.

@_user5

SHE’S GORGEOUS AND YOU’RE LUCKY. DON’T FORGET IT AGAIN

@_user6

we almost lost it thinking you were soft launching someone else 😭

@_user7

She deserves 1 post per week MINIMUM. Set a reminder.

@_user8

ngl this is cute but you had us STRESSED

@_user9

so you finally understood the assignment 🔥👏

@_user10

soft launch panic turned into hard launch 😮‍💨 thank you for the emotional rollercoaster

@_user12

she’s literally the moment and you forgot??? don’t ever do that again.

Texts messages

Lando: Did I fix it? Be honest. Am I still in trouble?

Y/N: You were in so much trouble You caused global panic My friends were ready to slash your tires

Lando: I deserve that I panicked!! I wanted to post something and forgot the golden rule: Always show off the face of the goddess I get to love 😔

Y/N: The caption was cute But we still have work to do to get past this I want this to work, but that means you need to change the way you are seeing this relationship

Lando: I know I fucked up, and I acted like an idiot Because I was being too stubborn to realize you were right And I treated you terribly So I will do better every single day, you have my word

Y/N: I literally thought you moved on 💀

Lando: I would never You're the one thing I don’t want to keep private anymore I want to learn. To do better. Really To show you off the way you deserve

Y/N: You’re lucky I’m soft for you

Lando: I’m lucky for having you Always have been

Y/N: I'm touched by your efforts I'm sure if we both make efforts to communicate more it will be possible

Lando: I know we will get past this I will do everything for it Can I call you? I miss your voice

Y/N: Yeah. Call me, you disaster romantic ❤️

Lando: Also, I return in Monaco in 2 days, please let me see you and say sorry properly

Y/N: Of course, I actually have a gift for you too

Lando: Wait, what? You have a gift for me?

Lando: Didn’t I mess everything up like… epically?

Y/N: You will see...

@landonorris 📍Monaco

She bought me a tee-shirt. Loving it 😌

@_user1

He really went from “privacy is key” to “LOOK AT MY HOT GIRLFRIEND” in 3 business days 😭

@_user2

He’s obsessed as he should be

@_user3

She’s the one that bought the tee… I love their dynamic actually

@_user4

Not to be dramatic but this healed something in me

@_user5

This is Lando’s soft launch redemption arc and I’m here for it

@_user6

He said “let me overcorrect real quick” and did 🫡

@your_username

📍Monaco

Beach days are the best days with him (he insist on last pic) 🐚

@_user1

THE CAPTION? The last pic ? you know Lando BEGGED for her to add it

@_user1 Wasn't ready for Lando peek-a-boo on last pic

@_user2

Okay but how did we go from soft-launch panic attacks to this? we’re so back omg

@_user3

Not Lando going full soft boy era after almost losing her 😭💗

@_user5

She’s glowing so hard it’s blinding he better treat her right FOREVER

@_user6

I need this kind of beach day or i’ll cry

@_landonorris

You’re unreal. Please never stop looking at me like that ❤️

@_user7 OH HE’S OBSESSED NOW @_user10 I swear if he ever fumbles again we’re rioting. LOOK AT HER.

@_user11 Omg Lando you’re so handsome I want you in my boat too 😩

@_landonorris Ma’am… I am very much taken. Back up 💀 @_user17 NAH THE WAY HE SAID THAT? He’s down BAD

@your_username

For those who don't get it : mine.

@_user1

The “mine” is so personal I actually need to lie down

@_user3

This post just healed me

@_user4

Not Lando going from no soft-launching to being owned in public 💀

@_user6

HIS BACK WITH THE KISSES??? MOTHER IS WINNING

@_user7

He is officially hers and he looks so happy to be

@_landonorris

Happily taken. don’t test me. 😘

@_user8

Lando I just wanted to say you look so good

@_landonorris No. She said I’m hers. Go away

🩶 The End 🩶

The series is officially over, I hope you liked it and enjoyed the journey!

Did you see the ending coming? And if you were in Y/N’s position would you forgive Lando?

Thank you for reading 💛 feel free to share your thoughts, i'd love to hear them!

@angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh,@tiaajosephin, @landosbabe4, @easy4, @jule239, @mercrussell, @skylandori, @ryuucollapse, @nickie-amore, @fairyjinn, @seonaw,@strawberrylov-er, @linnygirl09, @dilflover44, @bell1a, @f1fantasys, @sillyfreakfanparty

[kingkaisen]

ALONE || SATORU G.

♡ — SUMMARY: Yuji goes to Satoru for relationship advice, not knowing that the only love his teacher has ever known has been lost forever.

♡ — CONTENT: angst, mentions of reader’s death/dying during childbirth.

♡ — WC: 1.1k

“Are you busy?”

Yuji’s worrisome voice caught Satoru’s attention. The white-haired man, who sat on an outdoor bench, lost in thought, curiously looked up at the teenager standing in front of him.

“Hm?” Satoru paused. “Nope, I’m not busy at all. Something wrong?”

When Yuji didn’t answer immediately — his brown eyes glaring at the concrete ground as a telltale sign that something was bothering him — Satoru nodded at the empty spot on the bench, inviting him to sit.

Without hesitation, Yuji sat down and slumped over.

“I’m having girl problems.”

“Oh?” Satoru raised his eyebrows. “Do you need pads or-”

“Hey! Not like that,” with a frown, Yuji buried his face in his hands, the tips of his ears turning red from utter embarrassment.

Coming to his teacher for advice in general was humiliating enough for him, but he couldn’t imagine that anyone else would have been able to help him out.

Satoru was one of the very few people he knew who seemed to think about life outside of being a jujutsu sorcerer and could potentially offer him some advice.

“There’s a girl I’m interested in. I really like her, ya know? But I’m not sure how I should ask her out. I wanted to go see Human Earthworm 3 with her, but Nobara said that most girls aren’t into stuff like that. But if I ask her to see a chick flick, then what if she gets mad at me for assuming she’d wanna see that stuff because she’s a girl? But if I ask her to pick a movie, then it might seem like I’m putting pressure on her to make all the important decisions because I don’t care enough or something. What should I do?”

Satoru smiled softly. Looking at his dear student was like looking at his own reflection. Years ago, he too was a teenager, frustrated and flustered over a girl.

“Well, there are a bunch of movies that aren’t chick flicks or creepy films that you could take her to see. You could suggest three films and have her pick one. That way, it shows that you care, but you don’t make the mistake of assuming what she’d like. Also, I’d recommend going to dinner after the movie instead of before, that way you both have something to talk about.”

Yuji glanced up at his blindfolded teacher and blinked, taking in the valuable advice.

“Right! Good idea!” Breaking out into a smile, Yuji said, “I knew I made the right decision by asking you!”

“You sure did. I’m an expert, you know.”

Yuji laughed softly. Suddenly, the upturned corners of his mouth slowly fell into a frown, and his eyebrows furrowed as a thought crossed his mind.

“Hey,” Yuji turned his head to face Satoru, his eyes squinting from the afternoon sunlight. “You’re not really an expert, are you? I’ve never seen you with anyone before. Are you in a secret relationship or something? What goin’ on?”

A gentle, sad smile graced Satoru’s face, his voice soft and tender as he spoke. “Nope, I’m all alone.”

“Oh.” Yuji dropped his gaze to his red shoes. “Wait a minute, what about that one lady you went to go see?”

“What lady?”

“Uh . . .” Scratching his cheek awkwardly, the teenager mumbled, “I kinda overheard you telling Nanamin that you were gonna buy flowers on your way to see . . . uh . . . I think her name was Y/N. That was about a week ago. What about her?”

Typically, Satoru wasn’t the sort of person to find himself at a loss for words. But, right now, his mind, body, and soul seemed to have disconnected, caused by a broken spirit.

He was quiet only for a moment, but it was long enough for Yuji to innocently look up at him with great concern.

A lump formed in Satoru’s throat, but he spoke anyway.

If there was one thing he excelled at, it was being able to function through his pain. He had years of experience with that sort of thing.

“You misunderstood. That’s what you get for eavesdropping,” Satoru suddenly removed his blindfold, ignoring the ache in his head when he did so. He brought the soft black fabric to his lips, and gently kissed it. You had given it to him. “Y/N was someone I was in love with. I met her when I was around your age. She died five years ago, and I was getting flowers before heading to her grave.”

“Oh man, that sucks. I’m really sorry,” A flash of guilt washed over Yuji’s innocent face. “I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s fine,” Satoru interrupted, locking eyes with his student. “It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”

The soft buzz of insects bouncing around in the nearby grass filled the silence as the sky darkened, the sun kissing the world goodbye. Satoru’s eyes flickered down to Yuji’s fidgeting hands, his fingers toying with the sleeve of his hoodie as he stared at the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Satoru questioned. He knew his student all too well and could tell that the younger boy was biting his tongue, quite both figuratively and literally.

“I was just wondering . . . how did she die? If that’s an okay thing to ask. You don’t gotta tell me if you don’t wanna. But I won’t lie, I’m curious, ya know?”

Satoru hummed, thinking about how death was a peculiar topic that the kind sorcerer was wholesomely interested in.

“Childbirth.”

“What?” Yuji’s spikey strands of hair shifted as he whipped his head in Satoru’s direction, eyes widening. “Seriously? That’s . . . I thought . . .”

“You thought she might have died in battle?” Satoru placed his blindfold back on, not to ease his aching eyes, but so Yuji wouldn’t see the tears starting to brim in his reddened waterline. “Sometimes we forget that sorcerers can die in other situations as well, don’t we?”

“Yeah.” Yuji didn’t know if it was okay to ask another question or not. Satoru spoke with misery coating his words. But curiosity was a thirst that couldn’t be easily quenched. “What was she like?”

A heartbroken smile graced Satoru’s face.

“Well, she was shyer than most. Kind. A good person. It was pretty funny, because she could kill curses and take down enemies, but she was always too nervous to ask for oat milk instead of whole milk in her lattes whenever we’d go to a local coffee shop. And she was lactose intolerant too, but still wouldn’t ask. She was a hugger, but really only towards me. Couldn’t stand pollen. Loved watching TV and reading short romance stories about fictional characters. She was so . . . I loved her more than I can express with words.” Satoru had to clear his throat. “I wish I could say she died peacefully, but she looked scared. Died right in front of me . . . trying to deliver my kid.”

Satoru thought about your teary, bloodshot eyes, shining with fear as you held on to him while lying helplessly in a hospital bed.

He was stroking your hair, telling you that everything would be okay when the light left your gaze, and suddenly, you were nothing more than a corpse.

Yuji was silent, but Satoru knew what his next question would have been: did the child survive?

“My kid didn’t make it either.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuji mumbled. “I wish I could fix it. I wish there was something I could do. But . . . I hope you find love again someday.”

“I don’t.” As Satoru spoke, a single tear fell. “If it’s not with her, I don’t want it. I’d rather be alone.”

🏷️: @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @luvvmae @insomniacbehaviour @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @thewondrousdreamer @levisfavoriteteashop @preciousamethyst @irisveinn @iwanttohitmyself @shoyosdoll @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @sonarspace

[xoxolaw]

Here’s a lil request Suho x reader where they do everything a couple does but he is too emotionally confused to admit they’re dating and keeps saying he doesn’t have time for a relationship and isn’t looking for anything meanwhile reader keeps joking around with him being like you know you are my boyfriend right which he always denies UNTIL one day somebody flirts with the reader and when they ask if she has a boyfriend she says no and he absolutely HATES to hear that

+ 𝗜'𝗠 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗥 𝗕𝗢𝗬𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗

in which Suho swears they are not dating - until someone at school dares to believe it

+ 𝗔𝗛𝗡 𝗦𝗨𝗛𝗢 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥

fluff

It was a weird kind of almost-relationship.

They weren’t dating. Suho said so himself. Said it all the time, actually — like it was some kind of disclaimer for the things he did without realizing.

Like walking her home every day without fail.

Or texting her to ask if she’d eaten, even when he was busy with all his part time jobs.

Or keeping a spare hoodie in his bag — the gray one she always stole — just in case she got cold again.

"You’re so boyfriend-coded it’s insane,” she teased one afternoon, draped sideways over the library bench with his sweatshirt bunched beneath her cheek.

He didn’t even open his eyes from his nap. “I told you I’m not your boyfriend.”

“But you’re mine,” she grinned.

He sighed like she was exhausting — but didn’t deny it.

✮⋆˙

Mornings spent sharing bread in the school courtyard. Inside jokes scribbled in notebook margins. The way his hand always lingered near hers, never quite holding it — but never pulling away either.

Everyone else assumed they were together. Of course they did.

They bickered like a couple, clung to each other like a couple, looked for each other in every crowded hallway.

“Just admit it,” their mutual friend, said one day, nudging Suho’s side. “You’re basically glued at the hip.”

“We’re just close,” Suho mumbled.

“Dude. She wears your hoodie. Like, all the time.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

He snorted. “Sure.”

✮⋆˙

Then came the shift.

The common area was buzzing with after-lunch chatter, desks half-empty as people milled about. She was crouched in front of the vending machine, frowning at the drink that got caught on the metal coil.

Suho leaned against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching her struggle. There was a fondness in his eyes — subtle, soft — the kind that had been growing lately, even if he refused to name it.

“Want me to shake it for you?” he offered lazily.

“Please. I already tried threatening it.”

But before he could step forward, someone else did.

“Hey,” said a voice — smooth, confident.

Suho turned. A guy from their grade — not anyone he talked to. Tall, athletic. Too comfortable with the way he stepped into her space.

Suho straightened, arms unfolding.

The guy smiled at her. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just— I’ve seen you around.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”

“You’re always with that guy,” the dude nodded vaguely toward Suho without even looking at him. “But I figured I’d shoot my shot anyway.”

Suho’s jaw tensed.

The guy smiled. “You’re cute. Want to grab a drink after school?”

She let out a short laugh, unsure. “Are you serious right now?”

“Well, unless you’ve got a boyfriend.”

Another pause.

She hesitated, just a second.

“No,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then—

The air shifted.

It was subtle at first — a stillness behind her, like the moment before a storm.

Then Suho moved.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even touch the guy. But when he stepped forward, the energy in the room crackled — sharp, charged, and ice cold.

“You need to walk away,” Suho said, voice low. Dead serious.

The guy blinked, finally glancing at him. “Huh?”

Suho’s eyes were dark. No smile. No calm. Just a quiet, dangerous kind of fury barely leashed behind his words.

“You’re not gonna talk to her like that again. You’re not gonna look at her like that again. Got it?”

The guy scoffed, hands raised. “Alright, man. Chill. Didn’t know she was taken.”

“She wasn’t,” Suho snapped. “She is now.”

The guy backed off quickly, muttering something under his breath, but Suho didn’t care. He was too busy burning with something ugly and raw and real.

She was staring at him.

“You just—”

“You said you didn’t have a boyfriend.” His voice cracked, just a little. “And I hated it. I hated it so much I could barely breathe.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needed to get the fire out of his chest.

“I don’t care if I’ve been confused or scared or not ready. The second he opened his mouth and looked at you like you were available — like I wasn’t already yours — I knew I couldn’t do this half-way anymore.”

She stepped forward, gently.

“Suho—”

“I want to be yours,” he said, suddenly breathless. “Fully. No more pretending. No more maybe.”

A beat.

She reached for his hand, fingers lacing through his.

“You’ve always been mine.”

He let out a shaky laugh, forehead dropping to hers.

“God,” he whispered. “Say it again.”

“You’ve always been mine,” she repeated, smiling and he engulfed her into a hug.

+ 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 + 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

Hope you enjoyed this!!

+ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧

@l5byrinth @m3sty @inom17 @dna-black-and-blue @mizxuqii @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @mwsrphm @maxinehufflepuffprincess @intoanothermind @cayrelyra @coolasiangal123 @mariii-0001 @susuheartsyou @ineed-myspace @ruhaniii @ohtobelovedbyanartist @choihyunwookie @itzcandy

[mcu-binge]

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader Word count: 705

Summary: You bump into your ex while grocery shopping with Clark. He swoops in with a surprise kiss, a calm, confident “boyfriend” act that’s so convincing it leaves you breathless.

Tags: confident!Clark

=================================

“Can I walk you home?” Clark asks as I gather my things from my desk.

“Not unless you wanna go grocery shopping too. I have nothing left in my fridge,” I reply, my tone exhausted from looking at my screen all day.

“I’ll join, I need cereal.” He says with a sweet smile. We leave the Daily Planet together and talk about the leads we’re chasing.

We arrive at the grocery store and I grab a cart setting my bag in it.

“I’m gonna run to the back and grab some milk,” he says and walks ahead of me.

I’m in the pasta aisle debating between penne and farfalle when I hear it:

“Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

I freeze. That voice. That smug, self-satisfied voice I used to think was charming but now makes me want to throw a can of chickpeas.

I turn slowly.

Yep. Him. The ex. Loafer-wearing, ghosting-after-nine-months, “I’m just not in a place to give you what you deserve” him.

I grip the box of pasta like it’s a weapon.

“Hey,” I say, trying for casual. “Small city.”

He gives me a once-over. “You look good. Different. Still shopping for your ‘sad girl meal prep’ Sundays?”

I blink. Is he serious?

“Just grabbing groceries after work,” I say flatly.

He steps closer. Too close.

“Well, it’s nice to see you. We should—”

Then I feel it. A hand, warm and steady, sliding around my waist like it belongs there. A familiar scent clean, soft, like cedar and sunshine. And then Lips, soft sweet lips. Clark’s lips.

On my lips. A soft, deliberate kiss that shuts everything down in my brain.

“Hey, babe,” he says against my skin, his voice lower than usual. Calmer. Steady. “Sorry I took so long, but they did have your oat milk in stock.”

I blink up at him.

This is not dorky Clark who tripped on a filing cabinet This Clark is tall, solid, unbothered. His arm stays around me like he means it. He turns to my ex like they’ve met before and Clark already won.

“Oh,” my ex says, clearly thrown. “I didn’t realize you were…”

Clark smiles. Not his usual sheepish smile. This one’s controlled. Confident.

“Clark,” he says, holding out a hand.

There’s a pause before the walking red flag shakes it.

“Didn’t know she was seeing anyone.”

Clark’s smile grows just a little sharper. “Yeah, well. I tend to keep a low profile until I need to show up.”

My knees go slightly weak.

My ex looks at me like he’s trying to figure something out. “This new?”

Clark answers before I can. “That’s none of your business.” I glance up at him. He’s still watching the guy slightly threatening, not so much aggressive. Just… sure. Solid.

And suddenly, I feel like I’m watching someone I’ve never seen before.

“I was just saying hi,” my ex mutters, backing away slightly.

“Well hi,” Clark says, before turning toward me fully, brushing hair from my face, “You want carbonara tonight or that spicy pesto you like?”

I can’t even remember how to spell carbonara right now.

My ex says something else, but I don’t hear it. Because Clark’s gaze is on me now. Steady. Unflinching. And when the ex finally walks away, Clark doesn’t move his hand.

I stare at him. “What… was that?”

He shrugs. “You looked uncomfortable. I heard him and I came over.”

“You kissed me.”

“I figured it would sell the story.” He says with a breathless laugh.

“It sold something, alright.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he steps back slightly, his hand sliding away.

But his voice, still low, still smooth, says, “I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry.”

I exhale, chest tight. “Where have you been hiding?”

He gives me a small smile. “I just needed the right moment, I guess.” I’m at a loss for words. My lips were still buzzing from the kiss and my head spinning from the whole situation. “Soooo carbonara or spicy pesto?” He asks with a grin. I want to answer with “you” but I’m still processing.

“You’re cooking for me?” I question raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he casually says. “Let’s do this for real.”

“Carbonara then.” I decide and his eyes light up.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Safe with Me | LN4

^ྀི summary ━━━━━━━ Lando has a nightmare and Y/N comforts him.

^ྀི pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

^ྀི word count ━━━━━━━ 1.3k

^ྀི warnings ━━━━━━━ dying in dream?

Based on this request.

"Y/N… Y/N…" 

Lando’s voice was strained, laced with desperation as he thrashed beside her. His fingers clutched the sheets, breath coming in rapid, uneven gasps, sweat dampening his brow.

Y/N jolted awake, heart hammering as she turned toward him. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating his panicked expression, his eyes still shut—trapped in the grip of whatever nightmare had seized him.

"Lando," she whispered, her voice thick with sleep yet steady. Gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. "Wake up. It’s just a dream. You’re okay."

His eyes snapped open, wide and disoriented, darting around the room before settling on her. His chest heaved, breath ragged, and she instinctively pressed a hand over his heart, feeling its frantic rhythm beneath her palm.

"You’re safe," she reassured him softly. "It was just a dream."

Lando said nothing. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe. His face burrowed into the crook of her neck, his body tense, muscles coiled like he was bracing for something terrible. She wrapped her arms around him, one hand tracing slow, soothing circles on his back.

What had shaken him so badly? He was always the one who laughed things off, who masked pressure with humor and a shrug. But here, in the quiet of his Monaco apartment, he seemed... unraveling.

"I’m sorry," he murmured against her skin, breath warm as his lips ghosted her neck. "I didn’t mean to wake you."

"Don’t apologize." She pulled back slightly, brushing damp curls from his forehead. "Talk to me. What happened?"

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the tangled sheets. For a moment, she thought he’d retreat into the familiar armor of indifference, but then he exhaled, shoulders slumping.

"I was in the car," he said, voice low, strained. "Something went wrong. I lost control. I felt the impact, the heat… and then…" He swallowed hard. "I thought I lost everything. I thought I lost you."

Her breath caught. She’d never seen him this vulnerable, his usual bravado stripped away. It terrified her—and made her ache for him in a way she hadn’t expected.

"I’m here," she whispered, cupping his face. "You’re not going to lose me, Lando. Not like that. Not ever."

His eyes searched hers, looking for something—reassurance, an anchor in the storm of his thoughts. Slowly, he nodded, hands gripping her waist as if afraid she might disappear. Foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingled in the quiet.

"I just…" His voice faltered. "Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you. Like I’m not good enough."

The confession hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d spent so long wondering if he truly wanted her, but hearing him voice his own doubts… it shattered something inside her.

"Lando," she breathed, fingers tracing his cheek. "You’re more than enough. You’re incredible. I’m the one who doesn’t feel worthy of you."

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

She hesitated, her insecurities bubbling to the surface. "I’m not like the girls you’re used to. I don’t have the confidence, the—"

"Stop." His grip on her shoulders tightened. "You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I need. And I don’t care about anyone else. I never have."

Silence stretched between them, their breaths shallow, uneven. Lando’s hands trembled against her skin, his hold almost desperate.

"You’re going to choke me if you keep squeezing like that," she teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t laugh, didn’t loosen his grip. Instead, his fingers dug deeper. "Don’t joke," he muttered. "Don’t…"

She sighed, cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his curls. "I’m not going anywhere, Lando. Ever."

"You don’t know that," he whispered, voice cracking. "I can’t lose you. I can’t."

"You won’t," she promised, her tone leaving no room for argument. She tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Look at me."

He hesitated, then obeyed. The fear in his eyes made her chest ache.

"I love you," she said, firm and unwavering. "Do you hear me? I love you. And whatever nightmare you’re fighting—you’re not fighting it alone."

His breath hitched, throat working as he swallowed hard.

"I thought… I thought I was dead," he admitted. "And then I thought of you. Of not seeing you again. Not holding you. I couldn’t—"

"You’re alive," she interrupted, hands steady on his face. "I’m alive. We’re here. Focus on that. Focus on me."

Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, wiping away the dampness she hadn’t realized was there. His eyes searched hers, as if trying to ground himself in the reality of her presence.

"You’re real," he whispered.

"Yes," she murmured, pressing her forehead against his. "And I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, Lando. Whether you like it or not."

A shaky laugh escaped him—weak, fragile, but real. "I like it," he admitted. "I’ve never liked anything more."

She smiled, trailing her hand down to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her palm. "Good. Because I’m not letting go. Not now, not ever."

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his body easing. His arms tightened around her, but the desperation softened into something deeper, more secure.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice muffled but sincere. "More than anything."

She traced slow circles on his back, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. "I love you too," she whispered, a vow sealed in the quiet of the room. "You’re it for me, Lando. My forever."

Her words anchored him. The weight he carried seemed to lift as his body gradually relaxed against hers. He didn’t let go, and she didn’t expect him to. She held him, letting the silence speak louder than any reassurance she could give.

Minutes passed, his breathing evening out, his body growing heavy in her arms. Her lips brushed his ear, soft and steady as she whispered, "You're safe with me. Always safe with me." Her voice was a low hum, soothing, like a lullaby for the trembling parts of him. "I’m not going to let anything happen to us, Lando. You’re my everything."

He didn’t speak. His silence was thick, heavy, but his arms around her waist tightened as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath fanned across her neck, warm and ragged still, but slower now. More controlled. He buried his face deeper into the crook of her shoulder, inhaling her in gulps like a man starved for air.

"That’s it," she murmured, her hand tracing slow, deliberate patterns up and down his back. "Just breathe. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere."

His fingers twitched slightly against her hip, a silent acknowledgment. She pressed her lips to his temple—gentle, lingering. "You’re not alone in this, Lando. Never alone."

Still, he stayed quiet, but his hold on her didn’t falter. It was as if words had abandoned him entirely, leaving him only with the need to feel her close, to remind himself she was real, tangible, his. The weight of his trust pressed into her, wordless but unshakable.

She kept whispering, her voice a steady anchor as his breathing finally slowed and deepened. "I love you," she breathed, soft and fierce all at once. "More than anything. My heart, my life... you’re stuck with me."

Her cheek rested against his head, fingers threading through his damp curls. The night wrapped around them, silent but for the rhythm of their breaths. She didn’t sleep yet—couldn’t. Instead, she stayed like that, holding him as he held her, their quiet unease giving way to something deeper. Something unbreakable.

Pressing a soft kiss to his temple, she whispered, "Sleep. I’m here. I’m not leaving."

His face lifted slightly, eyes searching hers once more. The panic had faded, but its shadow lingered. "Promise?"

She didn’t hesitate. "Promise."

A quiet nod, then his eyes closed as he settled against her, his grip still firm but no longer desperate. His trust in her, in this moment, was unwavering.

She stayed awake, her cheek resting against his head, fingers combing through his hair. And as his breathing deepened into sleep, she realized the full weight of being needed—not as a burden, but as a promise she would never break.

[rose24207]

Mine

Summary: Geum Seongje secretly stalks and obsessively protects you through the Union, forbidding anyone from speaking to you—until one boy unknowingly breaks the rule, triggering Seongje’s dangerous possessiveness, all while you remain unaware and think of him as the sweet boy who once saved you.

yandere!Geum Seongje x reader

A/N: ~ current location: Georgia ~

Navigation

You remember the first time you met him like it was nothing special.

It was raining. The kind of rain that makes the ground slick and dangerous, especially when you're running—running from a couple of older punks who thought it’d be funny to scare the new girl around the back of the building. You don’t know what you would’ve done if he hadn’t shown up.

He didn’t say much. Just grabbed the wrist of one of them mid-swing and broke his nose in one clean motion.

Then he looked at you with those wide, deceptively soft eyes and asked quietly, “Are you alright?”

You nodded, too stunned to speak, heart pounding from more than just fear. He’d only said those three words, but you remembered the way his voice slid into your chest like a whispered promise. Since then, you only ever saw him from a distance. He never approached you again.

You didn’t know his name then, but you'd come to learn it.

Geum Seongje.

What you didn’t know was that from that moment, you had stopped being a stranger. To him, you were his.

You had smiled at him that day—grateful, nervous, wet from the rain—and that smile made him feel something foreign and possessive inside his chest. He’d felt warmth, and then anger. Because someone had tried to hurt you. Someone had looked at you.

He couldn’t let that happen again.

So he didn’t.

You had no idea you were being watched.

Not by the students who looked away when you passed. Not by the boy leaning casually against the wall near the school gates every afternoon. Not by the ones who followed you when you went to the café, or the bookstore, or took the long way home through the alleys.

The Union boys kept their distance. You never noticed them.

They had been given very clear orders.

"Nobody talks to her."

"Nobody touches her."

"If she looks even slightly uncomfortable, message me."

"You are to watch her discreetly at all times."

"If she trips—tell me."

The Union had seen Geum Seongje angry before. Cold, cruel, detached. But never like this.

There was something else in the way he spoke about you. Something twisted and delicate all at once.

One afternoon, after school, you stopped in front of a convenience store. You were trying to count the coins in your hand when a boy walked past you, paused, and smiled.

He was tall. New. Probably didn’t know who you were.

"Hey," he said, easy and casual. "Do you go to Eunjang? I think I’ve seen you around."

You looked up and blinked. You weren’t used to people talking to you like this. You gave a polite smile and nodded. "Yeah, I do."

He grinned. “You’ve got a nice smile. Didn’t mean to bother you or anything.”

You chuckled lightly, brushing hair behind your ear, and said, “You didn’t. Have a good day.”

He waved and walked off.

It felt… normal.

For once.

His name was Jaeho. He lasted six hours in the Union after that.

He didn’t know, of course.

Didn’t know that behind the smooth surface of Geum Seongje’s soft gaze was something unforgiving.

He’d gotten the text a minute later.

Unknown number: “That girl. What did you say to her?”

Jaeho: “Just hi. Why?”

Unknown: “She spoke to you?”

Jaeho: “Yeah. She was nice.”

Unknown: “You’re out.”

He’d been yanked into a backroom by two boys he thought were his friends.

The only explanation given was a chilling warning:

“She’s off-limits. You don’t look at her. You don’t breathe in her direction. That girl is his. Consider yourself lucky.”

You noticed the change a few days later.

People who used to glance your way stopped entirely. Even teachers seemed oddly formal around you. You never heard whispers behind your back, never caught gossip in the halls. It was like you didn’t exist.

But you were being watched more than ever.

Every step you took, someone’s eyes were on you.

You couldn’t feel it—but if you had looked close enough, you would’ve seen a pattern. The same boy outside the convenience store each Friday. The girl two seats behind you in class who always texted with her phone under the desk. The quiet boy who “coincidentally” took the same bus home.

All reporting back.

Geum Seongje checked his messages every night.

She smiled today. Nothing unusual.

Some guys looked her way. We stepped in.

She bought coffee from the bookstore. Black, no sugar.

She tripped on a step. She laughed it off.

He read every one of them like they were sacred.

He had dozens of photos of you. Not in a creepy way—at least, not in his mind. They were for security. To know where you’d been, what you were wearing, who might’ve gotten too close.

Sometimes he zoomed in on your face and just stared.

You ran into him again by accident.

Library, late afternoon. You dropped a book. He was there, crouching beside you before you could reach for it.

“Here.”

You blinked, looking up. “Oh—Seongje?”

His name felt weird in your mouth. Familiar, but distant.

He smiled a little. Soft. “You remember me?”

“Of course,” you laughed. “You helped me before. When those jerks were chasing me.”

He looked pleased. “I remember.”

You didn’t know why, but your chest fluttered a little. He was quiet and strange but kind. And he was always alone, like you. Something about him made you feel… safe.

He handed you the book.

"Thanks," you said. "You’re always there at the right time, huh?"

His eyes flicked up to yours. “I try.”

You didn’t know how literal he meant that.

That night, he sat in his room with the lights off and played the sound of your voice on repeat.

"You’re always there at the right time, huh?"

You had no idea.

You started seeing him more after that.

Once in the hallway. Then again near your favorite café. A week later, outside the school gate with his earbuds in. He always acted surprised to see you.

But you didn’t see the way his fingers curled behind his back every time you smiled at him.

Didn’t see the fire in his eyes when someone bumped into you by accident, and he had to breathe through his teeth to stop himself from snapping their neck.

Didn’t know that after every brief encounter, he made someone report every detail.

He had a list of people who were never allowed within three meters of you.

He had warned the Union boys that if anyone—friend or foe—touched you, they’d need new teeth.

One day, you got home and found a package on your doorstep.

No label. No note. Inside: a charm bracelet.

Delicate, beautiful, exactly your style.

You wore it the next day.

Geum Seongje stared at it from across the hallway.

He smiled, calm and proud.

Like he’d just claimed something no one else ever would.

You still don’t know.

You still think he’s just the quiet, mysterious boy who shows up when you need him.

You don’t know about the boy who got kicked out of the Union for talking to you.

You don’t know about the secret chat logs, the daily surveillance, the quiet threats that circle around your name like a halo of blood.

You don’t know that your schedule is memorized, your routes tracked, your habits studied.

You don’t know that you are already his. Even though he hasn’t told you yet.

But he will.

And when he does, it won’t be a confession. It’ll be a statement.

“You’re mine.”

And you’ll smile, unaware of what it truly means.

Because to you, he’s just the boy who saved you once in the rain.

To him?

You were never not his.

thank you for reading!

Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane, @stxr-lilac, @geumseongjelicker, @itzzezraa, @night-fall-moon, @niggette, @martynka1, @intoanothermind

[pucksandpower]

Rumour Has It

Franco Colapinto x Princess of Norway!Reader

Summary: you’ve never heard of Franco before and Franco has certainly never heard of you … but when gossip magazines decide to set you two up, Franco realizes that he wouldn’t mind making the rumors a reality

“Have you seen this?” Noora says, bursting into your study with a tablet clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and frantic.

You look up, half-expecting the sky to have fallen or for Oslo to be under siege. “Seen what?”

Noora slams the tablet down on your desk, and your face is met with a tabloid headline in bold, obnoxious letters: Norway’s Princess Caught in Secret Romance with Argentinian Racing Prodigy Franco Colapinto!

You blink at the screen, then back at Noora, and then at the screen again, as if maybe the headline might rearrange itself into something more sensible. “Sorry, who?”

“Franco Colapinto!” She says, exasperated. “The Argentine driver — the rookie! In Formula 1!”

You tilt your head. “I don’t know who that is.”

Noora gives you a look that’s somewhere between sympathy and horror. “Okay, well, apparently you’re dating him. And half of Norway seems to think so too, thanks to this article.”

“Dating? Noora, I’ve never even heard of him, let alone met him! And this … this is nonsense!” You shove the tablet back at her, feeling your cheeks flush. “How did this even happen?”

Noora sighs, sliding the tablet away. “It’s the internet. They don’t need facts to build a story — they just need a blurry photo and a wild imagination.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling sharply. “And why didn’t anyone tell me sooner? It’s not like we don’t have a whole team for this.”

“Well, to be fair, it only surfaced last night,” she says, crossing her arms. “But now it’s all over social media, and your name is attached to his. People are actually talking about you two as if you’re the new royal couple.”

Your stomach does an uncomfortable flip. You’ve spent years cultivating a careful, respectable image — a modern princess who’s still traditional enough to respect the expectations placed on her. And now, you’re supposedly dating a race car driver?

“What exactly are they saying?” You ask, your voice quieter, laced with dread.

Noora hesitates, but you give her a pointed look until she relents. “They’re saying you met him at some secret event in Monaco and that you’ve been hiding your relationship to avoid the media frenzy. Apparently, he’s been visiting Norway on his off-days just to see you.” She snorts. “It’s absurd, really. But people are eating it up.”

You stare at her, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “This cannot be happening.”

“Oh, but it is. And the comments …” She trails off, biting her lip.

“Out with it, Noora.”

She sighs. “Some are saying it’s refreshing that you’re dating someone so … I don’t know, normal. But others …” She winces. “Others think it’s irresponsible. That you’re … well, neglecting your duty for some glamorous fling.”

You take a shaky breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “Neglecting my duty,” you repeat, more to yourself than to her. “Because I’m apparently sneaking off with some Formula 1 driver I’ve never even met.”

“I know,” she says, reaching out and giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But it’ll pass. A few days, maybe a week, and they’ll have moved on to the next scandal.”

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to imagine it blowing over. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then we get PR involved. Make a statement, deny everything.” She pauses, eyeing you with a wary smile. “Or, you know, we could just arrange a very public appearance with you and someone else. Nothing quashes rumors like a little royal romance with a suitable partner.”

Your eyes snap open. “Noora.”

She grins, unphased by your glare. “What? It’s an option.”

“I’m not going to parade around with someone just to make the tabloids happy,” you say, crossing your arms.

“Well, that leaves us with the boring option: addressing it head-on, squashing the rumor, and hoping it dies quickly.”

“That will just make it worse,” you sigh resignedly. “The press will think any denial means we have something to hide.”

Noora nods, still eyeing you cautiously. “You could always lean into it a little — make it sound mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” You echo. “No, Noora. I want it gone. I don’t even know this man!”

“All right, all right,” she concedes, hands raised in surrender. “But you know, you could at least look him up.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Because people are going to be asking questions. You’re the Princess of Norway. If they think you’re dating him, it would help to know who he is.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she’s already pulling out her phone. “Just … humor me, okay? It’ll take two seconds.”

She taps her screen, and suddenly a series of photos pops up — images of a young man with dark hair and a serious expression, usually in some variation of a racing suit, often holding a helmet. He’s smiling in one photo, a faint smirk in another, but the confident gleam in his eyes is unmistakable.

“He’s twenty-one,” Noora says, scrolling through some text. “Started karting young, worked his way up. Got his big break with Formula 1 this year.”

You try not to look interested, but it’s hard to ignore the pictures flashing by. He has a kind of easy charisma, that much is obvious.

“And look,” she adds, holding up a picture of him on the track, eyes focused, mouth set in a determined line. “He’s pretty talented, apparently.”

You shake your head, forcing yourself to look away. “None of this matters. Because I don’t know him, and I’m certainly not dating him.”

Noora smirks. “Doesn’t matter. The media thinks you are, and as far as they’re concerned, that makes it practically true.”

You groan, sinking back in your chair. “So what do I do?”

“For now? Sit tight, let PR work their magic. But you might want to brush up on your Formula 1 knowledge, just in case anyone asks.” She grins, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Wouldn’t want you to sound unprepared.”

You roll your eyes, reaching for the tablet and skimming the article’s ridiculous details. “He brought me roses on the first date?” You mutter, incredulous. “We had a secret dinner at a villa on the Côte d’Azur? Do they just make this up?”

“Pretty much. And it’s only going to get worse if people keep sharing it.”

You rub your temples, trying to banish the lingering image of Franco’s cocky smile from your mind. “Fantastic. Just what I needed — a fake romance with a twenty-one-year-old race car driver.”

Noora pats your shoulder sympathetically. “Could be worse.”

“How, exactly?”

“It could be real.”

***

Franco is hunched over his phone, scrolling mindlessly through his notifications as he waits for his PR briefing to start. The Williams headquarters is bustling this morning, and he barely notices when the door opens until Abbie, his PR officer, strides in, her expression uncharacteristically serious.

“Franco, we need to talk,” she says, folding her arms.

He glances up, one eyebrow raised. “Am I in trouble already? That’s got to be a record.”

Abbie sighs. “No, you’re not in trouble. But you’re in … let’s call it a situation.” She pulls up a chair across from him, lowering her voice as if sharing state secrets. “Have you seen the news?”

“Can’t say I have,” he replies, half-interested. “What, did Carlos suddenly decide to retire and I get to keep my seat for next season?”

Abbie doesn’t laugh, which is a bit worrying. Instead, she hands him her phone, showing a screen filled with a tabloid headline. Princess Y/N of Norway in Secret Romance with F1’s Newest Rising Star, Franco Colapinto!

His brows furrow as he reads, slowly, taking in the headline, the photos, the fabricated “romantic details.”

“Wait … I’m dating a princess?” He says, breaking into a grin. “And nobody thought to tell me?”

Abbie sighs. “Apparently. They’ve got edited photos, fake details — everything.”

He leans back, intrigued. “Princess Y/N,” he muses, tapping his chin with a thoughtful smirk. “Of Norway?”

“Yes, of Norway.” She leans in closer, her expression serious. “This has gone viral, Franco. Everyone’s talking about it.”

He can’t resist; he grabs his own phone and taps out “Princess Y/N of Norway.” The first few links are about her background, her position in the line of succession. “So, she’s next in line to be queen or something?”

“Second in line,” Abbie corrects. “After her father. She’s a pretty big deal over there.”

Franco’s eyes sparkle with interest. “Second in line. And she’s what … like, forty?”

“Not even close,” Abbie says, exasperated. “She’s around your age, I think. She’s twenty-something.”

Franco looks at her, skeptical. “Twenty-something? And a princess?” He scrolls through images of palaces, state functions, and some photos of you smiling politely at dignitaries. She’s dressed elegantly, impeccably, not a hair out of place.

Then, finally, he finds one candid shot, and he stops scrolling. You’re laughing in the photo, a little windswept, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, your smile bright and entirely un-royal. He smirks.

“All right, all right,” he mutters to himself, still looking at the photo. “She’s pretty cute.” He taps back to the headline with a glint of amusement in his eye. “But still not a MILF.”

Abbie groans. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugs, still looking delighted. “Come on. You know my type. I like them older. But …” He trails off, grinning wider. “I could certainly do worse.”

“You’re not actually considering this, are you?” Abbie says, horrified. “Franco, this is a fake rumor. You’re supposed to be distancing yourself from it.”

“Oh, I know. I know.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “But it’s kind of funny, isn’t it? Me, a royal boyfriend?” He leans back, arms crossed, still smirking. “I’m almost flattered.”

Abbie sighs and taps her own phone, clearly typing something in response to the rest of the Williams PR team. “Look, flattered or not, you need to be careful. She’s a public figure. If you say the wrong thing, it’ll just fuel the fire.”

“Oh, please,” he says, waving a hand. “What are they gonna do? Put me on trial?”

“Maybe not you,” Abbie replies, giving him a warning look, “but she has an image to protect. This isn’t just gossip for her — it’s her whole life.”

He lets out a low whistle, thinking. “Must be hard, huh? Everyone expecting you to act a certain way. Not much room for fun.”

Abbie eyes him, her expression softening a bit. “I’m sure it is. Which is why we need to treat this carefully.”

Franco glances back at the photos, his smile fading a bit as he considers. He may not know you, but he can picture the situation well enough: the relentless tabloids, the public judgment, all the expectations.

“All right, fine,” he says, finally. “What’s the plan?”

She breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’ll be working with her team to prepare a statement. The usual ‘there’s no truth to these rumors’ line. But until then, keep it low-key.”

He raises a brow. “Low-key? Since when have I ever been low-key?”

“Then try for once.” She gives him a pleading look. “It’ll help her out. Trust me.”

Franco nods, though there’s a spark of amusement still flickering in his eyes. He can’t help it — he’s never been one to turn down a little excitement, and this whole thing is exactly that. He glances at Abbie. “So … if someone were to ask about it …”

She narrows her eyes. “Franco. Don’t even think about it.”

He chuckles. “Relax. I’ll be good.”

But as he heads back to the simulator, he can’t resist a smirk.

***

The meeting room is far more understated than you would’ve expected for something of this scale, tucked away in a discreet corner of a private suite in a London hotel. But it’s neutral ground, and it’s quiet, and no one outside this room will ever have to know about this awkward collision of worlds.

You’re early, of course. You’ve been pacing for the last ten minutes, scrolling through every frantic email your team has sent since this ridiculous rumor broke, trying to make sense of the tabloids’ spiraling narrative.

Franco arrives with a small entourage, though it feels like the entire room shifts the moment he steps in. He looks relaxed, perfectly at ease — too at ease. He catches your eye almost immediately, smirking as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this absurd situation to unfold.

“Princess,” he says, as if the word is a private joke just for the two of you. He holds out his hand, that ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes.

You don’t take it, instead clearing your throat and nodding a polite, “Mr. Colapinto.”

He drops his hand, unfazed. “Mr. Colapinto? Ouch. I thought we were past formalities, what with the whole secret romance thing.”

You stare, unamused, but he only laughs, taking a seat at the conference table across from you. He leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair, entirely too comfortable.

Abbie enters behind him, followed by Noora and two more of your advisors, who exchange a brief look with you before giving Franco a wary glance. The room feels divided: your side tense, professional; his side relaxed, as if they’re here for afternoon tea.

Noora clears her throat. “Thank you all for coming. We’re here to discuss … the situation between Her Royal Highness and Mr. Colapinto.”

Franco raises his hand like a schoolboy. “Just Franco’s fine.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I think it’s important that we treat this with the gravity it deserves.”

“Right,” Franco says, his tone playful. “Like a royal summit.”

Ignoring him, you turn to Noora. “What’s our best option? A joint statement? Something definitive?”

Noora nods, producing a folder from her bag. “Yes, we think a mutual statement from both parties would be the most effective way to dispel the rumors. The tone should be clear, respectful, and leave no room for interpretation.”

Franco grins at you. “So, no room for romance?”

You bite back a sigh. “Exactly.”

He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand as if studying you. “Pity. I thought we made a pretty good pair.”

You shift in your seat, folding your hands tightly in front of you. “This isn’t a joke. It’s an issue of public perception, protocol-”

“Protocol,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “Can’t say I’m big on protocol. Haven’t you heard? I’m dating a princess now. Practically makes me royalty, right? Protocol doesn’t apply to me.”

You shoot him a pointed look. “Protocol applies to everyone.”

“Boring people,” he counters, grinning wider. “Which, by the way, you are not. I don’t buy it.”

You feel your cheeks flush. “I don’t think you understand the stakes here.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly. But, come on …” He gestures to the small group of advisors around the table. “Look at this! Two teams acting like we’re two PR disasters waiting to happen … it’s ridiculous. You would think we were in the middle of an international scandal.”

“We are in the middle of an international scandal,” you say, exasperated. “People think we’re dating. It’s a breach of public trust for both of us-”

He snorts. “You’re talking like I’m some kind of international criminal. Come on, Princess. It’s just a rumor.”

“It’s more than that,” you insist, struggling to keep your voice steady. “This rumor reflects on me, on my family. On Norway.”

He watches you, head tilted, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “And do you care?”

You frown, feeling that flush creep back to your cheeks. “Of course I care.”

“No, I mean, do you care about it — us? I mean, the rumor?”

There’s something disarming in the way he says it, like he’s testing you. You can’t help but hesitate, your well-rehearsed words slipping just out of reach.

“It’s my duty,” you finally say, straightening your shoulders, “to uphold my family’s reputation.”

He doesn’t seem impressed. Instead, he shakes his head, a bemused smile on his lips. “You’re so serious. Makes me think I really did pick the right princess.”

Noora coughs, clearly eager to refocus the meeting. “Let’s discuss the actual statement, shall we?”

You nod, relieved to move on, but Franco holds up a hand, eyes still locked on yours. “I just want to say, for the record … I don’t think I’d mind the rumors, if they were true.”

There’s a moment of silence, thick and uncomfortable. You can feel the curious stares of your team, the surprise on Noora’s face, the quiet snickers from Franco’s side.

“Mr. Colapinto,” you say carefully, “this is neither the time nor place for that kind of … remark.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Who decides that?”

Noora jumps in. “We do. And as such, we have a preliminary draft we’d like to review with both of you. It’s brief and to the point, which is important.”

Abbie leans in, already reading over the statement. “The recent reports of a romantic relationship between Princess Y/N and Franco Colapinto are entirely false and without merit. Both parties are focused on their respective roles and responsibilities and have not been involved in any way that would support these rumors.” She looks up, pleased with herself.

You give an approving nod, glancing at Franco. “Short and factual. Perfect.”

Franco frowns, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s a little … cold, don’t you think?”

“That’s the point,” you say flatly. “We’re supposed to be shutting down the rumors, not fueling them.”

He lifts an eyebrow, eyes gleaming. “How about something more like … while I have great respect for Princess Y/N and have enjoyed our time together, I can confirm that we are, unfortunately, just friends?”

You look at him, horrified. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on.” He gives you a devilish grin. “It’s all about the narrative, Princess. People want romance, intrigue. You’re literal royalty — give them a little fairytale.”

You feel your cheeks burn, and it takes everything you have not to snap back at him. “This isn’t some soap opera, Mr. Colapinto.”

“Franco,” he corrects, eyes still dancing with mischief.

Noora clears her throat again. “I think it’s best we stick with the original statement.”

He gives you a mockingly solemn nod. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

You give a small, exasperated sigh, looking back to Noora and Abbie. “If we’re all agreed, can we proceed?”

Abbie glances between you and Franco, as if gauging the tension in the air. “Yes. We’ll finalize the statement this evening and have it released tomorrow morning.”

Franco pushes back his chair, rising to his feet. “Well, I suppose that settles it, then.” He glances down at you, his gaze lingering a bit too long. “Shame, though. This could’ve been fun.”

You fold your arms, giving him a pointed look. “We have very different definitions of fun.”

“Clearly,” he says, his smirk deepening. “But tell me, don’t you ever get tired of all this?” He gestures around at the meeting room, the stacks of paperwork, the solemn faces of your advisors. “The rules, the protocol. Doesn’t it get … dull?”

You purse your lips, resisting the temptation to give him a real answer. “It’s my duty.”

He tilts his head, his expression softening just slightly. “I get duty. But where’s the fun?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. And for a second, just a second, you wonder if he has a point.

Franco’s gaze sharpens as he watches you struggle to respond. And then, to your utter shock, he steps closer, his hand reaching for yours. “Here,” he says, with that sly, teasing smile.

Before you can pull away, he lifts your hand, bringing it to his lips in a slow, deliberate gesture. His eyes hold yours as he brushes his mouth over your knuckles, lingering just long enough to make you feel the heat creeping up your face.

“I promise,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, “the next time I kiss you, Princess, it’ll be somewhere much more pleasurable.”

You pull your hand back, heart pounding, but he only grins, unbothered, and gives you a playful wink.

“Until next time, Your Highness.”

***

The bar is dimly lit, tucked away on a quiet street where no one knows who you are and, more importantly, no one cares. It’s the perfect place to slip away from the weight of your title, from the headlines, from the rules and the statement that your team is probably drafting up at this very moment. For once, you just want to sit here, nursing a drink, and pretend you’re anyone else.

The whiskey burns as it goes down, but it’s a welcome distraction. You let out a breath, easing back against the bar, feeling some of the tension in your shoulders release. For the first time all day, no one is watching, no one is whispering. You’re just … here.

Until a voice slides into the quiet like a warm breeze. “Didn’t think I’d find royalty in a place like this.”

You don’t even need to look to know it’s him. You don’t turn, but your grip on the glass tightens as Franco slides onto the stool beside you, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, not bothering to mask the exasperation in your voice.

“Me?” He says, all innocence. “Just having a drink. Same as you.” He signals the bartender. “Tequila,” he says, then nods at your glass, smirking. “And whatever she’s having.”

You sigh. “Of all the bars in London, you had to pick this one?”

He grins, shameless. “Maybe I just have good taste.”

You roll your eyes. “Highly doubtful.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “Come on, Princess. I know you’re thrilled to see me.”

“Thrilled isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”

He leans in, his voice dropping low enough that it feels like a secret. “What would you use, then?”

You pause, taking a sip of your drink as you consider. “Mildly inconvenienced.”

He laughs at that, a warm, genuine sound that catches you off guard. You try to keep your face impassive, but there’s something disarming about his laughter, something that makes you wonder why it feels like he’s always able to unravel you with so little effort.

“Fine,” he says, leaning his elbow on the bar, mirroring your posture. “Then I’ll just sit here, mildly inconveniencing you until you admit you’re enjoying yourself.”

You scoff. “That’s not going to happen.”

His whiskey arrives, and he raises his glass, clinking it lightly against yours. “Care to bet on that?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you always think everything’s a game?”

“Only when it’s fun,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips. There’s something undeniably bold about the way he watches you, something that sends a little thrill down your spine despite yourself.

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here?”

“I thought that was obvious,” he says, his voice turning softer, more intimate. “I’m trying to get to know you.”

You snort. “Get to know me? I’m pretty sure you just want to use this as an excuse to fuel the rumors.”

“Maybe the rumors are more interesting than you think,” he counters smoothly, sipping his drink. “Or maybe I’m just curious.”

“Curious?” You echo, lifting an eyebrow. “About what?”

“About what a princess does when no one’s watching.” His eyes flash with that familiar glint, and he gives you a lazy, unapologetic smile. “And so far, you don’t disappoint.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “If you’re trying to charm me, it’s not working.”

“Oh, I don’t need to try,” he says, his voice soft but self-assured. “I just do.”

You shake your head, determined not to let him win this little game. “I don’t think you’re as irresistible as you think you are.”

“Maybe.” He tilts his head, studying you with an infuriating level of focus. “But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

Your retort dies on your lips as his hand moves closer, resting just on the edge of the bar, fingers inching toward yours. It’s subtle, but it sends a pulse of awareness up your arm, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is, the warmth radiating from him, the intensity of his gaze as it lingers on you.

You straighten, clearing your throat. “So what’s your endgame here, Franco?”

“No endgame,” he says easily, but there’s a promise in his tone, a flicker in his eyes that makes it hard to believe. “Just wanted a drink with a pretty princess.”

You almost laugh. Almost. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Is that why you’re smiling?” He asks, leaning closer.

You hadn’t realized you were. You quickly straighten your face, but he’s already noticed, that knowing smirk widening as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Relax, Princess. You’re allowed to have fun, too.”

“Define fun,” you say, though you’re painfully aware that you’re actually enjoying this little back-and-forth. It’s dangerous, exhilarating — two things you never let yourself indulge in.

“Fun?” He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “Fun is you, sitting here, pretending you don’t like me, while secretly hoping I’ll keep talking.”

You roll your eyes. “Delusional.”

“Maybe,” he says, and his hand moves again — this time, resting casually on your thigh under the bar. The touch is light, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch, enough to make you momentarily forget the carefully constructed boundaries you’ve set.

“Franco,” you warn, though your voice is less steady than you’d like.

He raises an eyebrow, his fingers tracing a slow, almost absentminded circle against your leg. “Problem?”

You don’t answer, but he takes your silence as permission, his fingers edging just a little higher, teasingly close, as if he’s daring you to stop him. And you should. You know you should. But for some reason, you don’t.

He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me to stop, Princess. And I will.”

Your mind races, every sensible thought colliding with the thrill that’s building inside you. You swallow, feeling the weight of his gaze, the heat of his touch.

“Why would I tell you to stop,” you say quietly, your voice barely more than a whisper, “if I don’t want you to?”

He grins, satisfied. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Before you can respond, he’s closing the distance, his hand slipping higher under your dress, his thumb brushing slow circles that make your heart race. It’s reckless and wild and nothing you’d ever thought you’d do — but in this moment, it feels impossible to resist.

The next few minutes are a blur of whispered words and stolen glances, your resolve slipping with every soft touch, every cocky grin he throws your way. You barely register the decision to leave the bar until you’re outside, standing on the quiet street, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

“Your place or mine?” He asks, his voice a playful drawl.

You hesitate, a thousand reasons to walk away tumbling through your mind. But when you look at him — at that unrelenting confidence, the challenge in his eyes — you feel your control waver. Just this once, you tell yourself. Just this once, you’ll let yourself break the rules.

“Yours,” you say, surprised at the steadiness of your voice.

He doesn’t waste a second, taking your hand and leading you down the street, his grip warm and solid, grounding you even as your heart races. You follow him, pulse pounding with each step, until you’re standing outside his hotel room door, the reality of what you’re doing hitting you in a rush.

But then he’s looking at you again, that mischievous smile softening into something more intimate, and your doubts fade. He opens the door, and you step inside, feeling as though you’re crossing some invisible line.

The room is dim, the city lights casting a faint glow through the windows. He steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle, almost reverent, and for a moment, you see a different side of him — something softer, deeper.

“Last chance to change your mind,” he murmurs, his voice low.

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his words. But instead of answering, you lean up, closing the distance between you, your lips brushing against his in a kiss that’s tentative at first, then deepening as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.

And for the first time in as long as you can remember, you don’t think about duty, or protocol, or anything else. In this moment, there’s only you and him and the quiet thrill of finally letting go.

***

francolapinto

Liked by f1wagupdates, royalwatchers, and 714,925 others

francolapinto all the rumours are true

View all 3,816 comments

pintobean everyone called me crazy for believing the articles but look who’s laughing now!

coca-colapinto because as much as i love franco, there’s no way i was about to believe he could’ve pulled a whole ass princess

pintobean this is a lesson not to underestimate his rizz

coca-colapinto please never say that unironically again

f1wagupdates pray for their PR teams, whatever they’re earning is not nearly enough 🙏

gridgossip franco had exactly nine races to turn the paddock upside down and boy did he not disappoint

f1wagupdates who needs an f1 seat in 2025 when you can have a throne?

***

The morning arrives far too soon, sunlight streaming through the hotel curtains and casting a warm glow over the rumpled sheets. You barely have time to blink yourself awake when a loud, frantic banging rattles the door, shaking you out of the haze of last night.

Franco groans beside you, his arm lazily draped over your waist. “You expecting someone?”

You’re too comfortable, too wrapped up in the warmth of his skin and the lingering bliss to even think straight. “Not … exactly.”

The pounding persists, and then voices — urgent, unmistakable voices — filter through the door. “Franco! Y/N! Are you in there? It’s urgent!”

Your eyes widen, a flash of panic cutting through the sleepiness. Franco doesn’t seem fazed. He barely lifts his head off the pillow, his hand lazily running down your spine as he mutters, “They’ll go away.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” You push yourself up slightly, glancing over the bed, finding discarded clothes and a vague sense of regret somewhere on the floor. The pounding grows louder, and finally, Franco sits up, rubbing his eyes, his hair adorably disheveled.

He stretches, glancing at you with a lazy grin. “What do you think? Just a few more minutes or …”

“Open the door!” Comes a familiar, exasperated voice from the hallway. You recognize it immediately — Noora.

Franco’s eyes meet yours, amusement glinting there. “Looks like we don’t have a choice.”

Reluctantly, he pulls himself out of bed, grabbing a pair of pants from the floor and slipping them on with a casual ease that only makes your heartbeat quicken. He tosses you a smirk over his shoulder before heading to the door.

As he opens it, a whirlwind of people floods into the room — Noora, Abbie, and a few more members of both your PR teams, all of them looking like they’re seconds away from losing their minds.

“Oh my god,” Noora gasps, her gaze darting between you and Franco, her face turning several shades of pink. “This … this is-”

“Completely reckless!” Abbie finishes, giving you a look that’s half shock, half scandalized admiration. “What were you two thinking?”

Franco crosses his arms, unfazed. “Good morning to you too.”

One of Williams’ other PR officers steps forward, looking ready to faint. “Franco, do you have any idea what you’ve done? Those photos … your Instagram …”

Franco grins, leaning casually against the doorframe. “What, people are talking?”

“Talking?” Noora squeaks, her voice an octave higher than usual. She glares at you, her eyes wide, almost pleading. “This is a disaster! Do you understand what you’ve done to our schedule, our statement plan? And the … the-” Her gaze flickers to the faint marks on your neck, and her knees buckle. Abbie reaches out quickly, guiding her to a chair.

“Maybe we overreacted,” Abbie mutters, though she doesn’t take her eyes off you. “Or maybe we didn’t react enough.”

You feel a rush of heat flood your face as everyone’s gaze lands on you. Franco catches it and gives you a cheeky wink, clearly enjoying the chaos he’s created.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, “maybe we got a little carried away, but it’s … it’s not like we did anything wrong.”

“Nothing wrong?” Noora says, her voice faint as she studies the marks on your neck again. “You … you have no idea how this looks, do you?”

Franco, completely unfazed, strolls over to the mirror above the dresser. He takes a long look at his own reflection, tilting his head to admire the scratches and darkening bruises scattered across his skin. “Looks like a good night to me.”

Your PR teams collectively groan, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. Franco catches your eye in the mirror, and the mischievous spark there makes it impossible not to crack a smile.

“Franco, this isn’t a joke!” One of his managers snaps, practically pulling at his hair. “Do you know how many calls we’ve received since you posted those photos?”

Franco shrugs, giving them a lazy grin. “Then turn off your phone. Worked for me.”

Another round of exasperated sighs fills the room, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for your PR team. Not enough, though, to actually feel bad.

Noora steps forward, hands on her hips, looking at you with an expression that’s somehow both sympathetic and stern. “Your Highness, this is … unprecedented. We need to issue a statement immediately, clarify this situation-”

“Or not,” Franco interrupts, his tone far too nonchalant. He turns away from the mirror, crossing his arms. “Honestly, I think the people like a little mystery, don’t you?”

Noora gives him a look that could wilt flowers. “This isn’t about what the people like, Mr. Colapinto. It’s about protecting reputations.”

“Oh, so we’re doing that now?” Franco glances at you, his smile playful. “Funny, last night I didn’t get the sense that the two of us in this room were all that worried about reputations.”

Your face flushes, and you shoot him a look that’s half reprimand, half reluctant amusement. “You’re not helping.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Who said I was trying to help?”

Abbie lets out a long sigh, rubbing her temples. “Can we at least agree that this … whatever this is, stays here? Quietly?”

Franco raises an eyebrow, looking at you with a smirk. “You hear that, Princess? Quietly. Doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”

You swallow, trying to ignore the way his gaze makes your stomach flip. “Maybe some things should be quiet,” you say, though your voice sounds unconvincing even to you.

Noora, still looking a bit wobbly, clears her throat. “Please, can we just … make a plan?”

Franco sighs, feigning disappointment. “Fine. Make your plan. But don’t expect me to follow it.”

Before anyone can respond, he gives you one last smirk and strides over to the door, pulling it open. “In fact, I think it’s about time we had the room to ourselves, don’t you think?”

The PR teams exchange panicked glances, but they don’t have much choice as Franco gives them a not-so-subtle wave toward the exit. Noora opens her mouth to protest, but Abbie gently ushers her toward the door, casting one last look at you that’s a mix of concern and reluctant approval.

“We’ll be in touch,” Abbie says, but there’s a hint of resignation in her tone, as if she knows that whatever control they thought they had is slipping fast.

Once the last of them has been herded out, Franco shuts the door with a decisive click. He turns back to you, a wicked gleam in his eyes, and before you can process it, he’s crossing the room, closing the distance between you in seconds.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “I think we gave them quite a show.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile that tugs at your lips. “We? That was mostly you.”

He laughs softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “You didn’t exactly object.”

You’re about to respond, but he doesn’t give you the chance. His hands find your waist, and suddenly you’re being guided backward, the mattress hitting the back of your legs as he eases you down. His gaze is intense, his smirk fading into something more serious, more intent.

“Franco,” you murmur, but the way he’s looking at you steals the rest of your words.

He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then to the corner of your mouth. His voice is barely more than a whisper as he murmurs, “We’re not done yet, Princess.”

Your heart races as he shifts, his hands warm against your skin, his weight pressing you back into the bed. And as he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both playful and possessive, you realize that whatever the consequences, whatever scandal might follow … right now, none of it matters.

Right now, there’s only him, the quiet thrill of his touch, and the feeling of finally — finally — giving in.

***

The night sky over Las Vegas glitters with a million lights, bright enough to drown out the stars, as the drivers’ parade winds down the track. The grandstands are packed, the excitement in the air palpable even before the race has started.

Franco is perched atop the back of a bus, arms folded, his easy smirk in place as he surveys the flashing cameras and cheering fans. Beside him stands Lewis Hamilton, calm and collected as always, with that practiced smile of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

Franco nudges Lewis with his elbow, grinning. “So, you know we’re both basically royalty now, right?”

Lewis chuckles, giving him a sideways look. “Oh, yeah? What makes you think that?”

Franco shrugs, looking as if he’s contemplating something serious for a split second, then tilts his head. “Well, you’ve got the knighthood, Sir Hamilton,” he says, drawing out the words with an exaggerated British accent. “And I’ve got, well …” He grins, his eyebrows waggling suggestively. “The princess.”

Lewis laughs, a rich, full sound. “Ah, I see. So you’re actually out here trying to one-up my knighthood?”

Franco clutches his chest dramatically. “Exactly. I mean, not to make it a competition, but I’m basically a prince now. Which, if we’re being technical, puts me a bit above you in rank.”

Lewis lets out a snort, rolling his eyes. “Shut up, man. I’m a knight, not a court jester.”

Franco raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Hey, I’m just stating the facts. I’m sure knighthood’s very nice, but I think there’s something to be said for having a princess.”

Lewis shakes his head, trying not to laugh. “So it’s true, then?”

For the first time, Franco’s smirk softens into something else, something quieter. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, glancing at the screen with an expression that’s unmistakably fond. He’s not looking at Lewis now, or at the cheering fans, or even the flashing cameras around them. His gaze is locked on his phone, where an image fills the screen.

It’s you, cozy on the couch with your Cavalier King Charles Spaniel in your lap, a warm blanket wrapped around you, hair falling casually over your shoulder. You’re looking straight into the camera, a relaxed smile on your face, and there’s an almost surprising intimacy in the photo — the kind that doesn’t come from a staged royal portrait but from a simple, real moment. It’s the type of photo someone only sends to someone they care about.

Franco doesn’t say anything right away. He just stares at the image, his thumb tracing lightly over the screen, as if he’s savoring the private moment before he has to lock his phone away for the race.

He nods, almost to himself. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Lewis studies him slowly, an almost invisible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t think I’d see the day,” he murmurs, a touch of amusement there. “Guess you’re growing up, huh?”

Franco finally looks up, chuckling. “Speak for yourself, man. I’m still a kid at heart.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “A kid at heart who’s dating a princess? That’s a combination I didn’t see coming.”

“Neither did I, to be honest.” Franco leans back, stretching his arms out along the edge of the bus, still clutching his phone in one hand. “One minute, I’m just minding my business, and the next … boom.” He snaps his fingers. “The entire world decides we’re dating. Didn’t even know her name before then.”

Lewis chuckles. “And now you’re on your phone looking at pictures she sent you. You’ve come a long way.”

Franco glances down at the picture again, a private smile playing on his lips. “Guess I have.”

The parade continues, the roar of the crowd swelling around them as they pass another section of the grandstand, but it all feels distant. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence, and Franco finds himself thinking back over the past few weeks, the whirlwind of rumors and statements, and then … the quiet moments that somehow followed.

Lewis studies him, eyes narrowing in that perceptive way he has. “So … you and her. Is it, like, official?”

Franco lets out a short laugh. “Are you kidding? This is Her Royal Highness we’re talking about. There’s no ‘official’ until we’ve been courting for at least a year. There’s procedure and … what’s the word she loves to use? Protocol.”

“Protocol.” Lewis grins. “That sounds … exactly like what you hate.”

“Oh, believe me.” Franco laughs, shaking his head. “She’s been trying to teach me, but I don’t think I’ve followed protocol a single time. I mean, she actually tried to tell me what utensils I should use at dinner. Like, why does it matter?”

“Didn’t go well, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’ve decided that those tiny forks are optional.” Franco sighs, pocketing his phone. “But that’s her. She takes it all so seriously. Makes me want to take it seriously too, in some strange way.”

Lewis tilts his head, watching him. “I get that. That’s what happens when someone really means something to you.” He pauses, as if weighing his words. “So, she’s watching tonight?”

Franco nods, a flash of pride evident in his smile. “She sent me this right before we went out for the parade.” He taps his pocket, where his phone is hidden now. “Said she’d be watching. Don’t know how she manages to get away with it, with her schedule planned out months in advance, but she’s … creative.”

Lewis laughs, shaking his head. “The lengths you two go to. Like some kind of fairytale romance.”

The bus they’re on takes another slow turn around the parade route, the lights of Las Vegas casting a surreal glow over the scene. The streets are packed with fans, all of them waving and shouting, and Franco finds himself wondering if you’re watching this right now. He imagines you, curled up on the couch with that fluffy little dog of yours, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Franco smiles. “Yeah, I guess it really is.”

[amourane]

so this is love

pairing: theodore nott x hufflepuff!reader

genre: fluff

w/c: 2.7k

summary: there's a weird feeling that erupts in theo's chest whenever he looks at you and for the first time in his life his mind goes silent.

warnings: none!

a/n: i honestly love this so much and it's so so sooo cute!

Theodore Nott was many things. Quiet, judgmental, emotionless and most importantly handsome. One of the prettiest boys in Hogwarts yet the most unapproachable. No one had ever seen a smile grace his lips and if you had tried to converse with the Slytherin he would only stare at you with blank eyes waiting for you to go away. He spoke little words but it was enough for people to get the point. Unlike his rowdy group of friends, he wouldn’t merrily join in conversation, rather make snarky remarks every now and then, an uninterested look always on his face. A scowl or a smirk always tugged at his lips as he listened to what his friends had to say. 

Even though Theo never voiced his thoughts out loud he always knew what to think. His mind was constantly running at a hundred miles per hour. Every little thing he wanted to say flitted through his mind. It was as if his head was a cacophonous symphony. 

Yet as he looked at the girl in yellow robes his mind was oddly quiet. He watched her silently as she dropped her ingredients into her cauldron. It was a rare moment. One he had discovered a month ago when he had finished his potion early and looked around to see if anyone else was done. There you were. Eyes scanning the contents of your Potion’s book but it was quite clear you had finished brewing whatever was in your cauldron as you leaned back into your seat. 

Theo’s mind was silent. 

There were no thoughts, no opinions, no judgments. He stared at you and it made him uneasy. There was something about you that unnerved him. He didn’t recall you from his other classes and it was the first time he had even seen you in Potions. As he felt the comforting silence settle in his head he concluded one thing - you were interesting and he was going to keep an eye on you.

“Nott, mate, what are you doing? I’ve been asking you to pass me a quill for about a century, have you suddenly gone deaf?” Blaise nudged Theo out of his trance and the brunette blinked for a second before passing over a quill. His partner frowned before following where his eyeline previously was and he smirked. “Still obsessing over the little Hufflepuff I see. Who knew you were capable of having feelings.”

“I don’t fancy her.”

“I never said you did.” Blaise’s smirk widened. “You came up with that on your own.”

Theo felt his face heat up. It wasn’t true. He didn’t like you, not in the slightest. He was merely fascinated at how you were able to turn his manic mind into a state of tranquillity. He looked over. You were talking to your partner beside you and Theo assumed she had said something funny because a grin had overtaken your pretty features and a giggle slipped past your lips. Theo didn’t fancy you but he couldn’t deny that you were the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

//

“He’s staring again.” Hannah said as she poked your side to get your attention. “It’s like he’s drilling holes into your skull. Do you think he wants to hex you?”

You looked up from your cauldron with a frown as you faced your friend. “He doesn’t stare at me, don’t be silly Hannah. I’m sure he has a reason for looking this way.”

“Y/n you’re terrible at finding excuses for anything. It’s so obvious he’s looking at you and his glare is starting to scare me a bit.” 

Behind your fellow Hufflepuff was Theodore Nott. Your eyes glaze over his perfectly tousled hair and his dark coloured eyes. He really was handsome. You watch as he says something to Blaise and you see a tint of pink touch his cheeks. Cute. You smiled to yourself. Merlin, he was really cute.

Theodore Nott had been watching you for a few weeks now and you weren’t oblivious enough to not notice the Slytherin’s gaze. At first you didn’t know how to react when you first felt his eyes on you. It was weird. Every time you would turn around he would already be looking down at his piece of parchment, scribbling something down with his quill. You had never caught him staring at you but you could certainly feel it. The piercing feeling of his stare made goosebumps rise on your skin. In a way you found it endearing. Sometimes you would turn around and find him, nose deep in his textbook and you could faintly see the tips of his ears blush red. It was those times you would giggle to yourself. 

It was arrogant to assume that Theo felt that way about you but for some reason you couldn’t help but get a little giddy at the thought he might. That someone like him would even think about going out with someone like you. That the cutest guy in your year would fancy you. Then reality came crashing back and you knew that a Slytherin would never be seen with a Hufflepuff much less date one.

“Hello? Earth to Y/n? You still there?” Hannah waved her hand in front of your face. “Merlin, one mention of Nott and you go all dreamy on me. When are you going to ask him out then?”

Your cheeks flared up with heat and you couldn’t help a smile that tugs at your lips. “Shush Hannah.” You try to sound serious but with your blushing face and bright grin it’s hard to do so.

“You’re actually whipped, Y/n.” Hannah let out a laugh and you let a giggle slip past your lips at her statement. You didn’t feel the need to deny it after all, maybe it held some truth. 

//

Theodore Nott always knew what to say and when but as he stood in front of you he found himself speechless. Now as his eyes wandered over your delicate hands and beautiful face he couldn’t find the words that needed to be said. His mind was quiet again. Silence. He opened his mouth to apologise for bumping into you and nearly knocking you over but no words came out. So he did the next best thing, help you grab your books.

You were scrambling to grab scrap pieces of parchment that had escaped the grasps of your books and Theo grabbed the Herbology textbook you had dropped. He watched as you gathered your things before finally meeting his gaze. You smiled and he felt his heart stop. Suddenly it was as if he was being engulfed in a tidal wave. There was a twinkle in your eyes and it set off a spark in his chest that he didn’t know was there. Theo felt himself grow hot as you stared at him and for the first time in his life he felt self conscious.

“Thank you.” You said and he felt his ears ring as your voice echoed through his mind. “I’m really sorry I wasn’t watching where I was going and I was in a rush to get to my next class. I hope you aren’t hurt anywhere.”

A beat passed.

Theo blinked. He watched as your bright expression slowly morphed into one of concern. He watched as you reached out to touch his arm.

“Theodore?”

“It’s Theo.” Is the only thing he can think to say before he realised how it must’ve sounded rude. “But you can call me Theodore. I don't mind.”

Another beat passed.

The two of you were now standing in the middle of the hallway as other students passed by. Theo could hear their whispers as they looked. The curious eyes wondering what a Slytherin could possibly be talking to a Hufflepuff about. For a second Theo thinks he’s upset you and you’re going to storm off but he’s proven wrong. The bright smile returned to your face.

“Well Theo, I’m going to need my Herbology textbook back, I’ve already been late twice this week.” 

“O-Oh yes right, sorry I forgot.”

Theodore Nott has never once stumbled over his words. Yet as he stood in front of you he found himself wrapped in a world he had never known before. He felt himself grow even warmer and he reached a hand to loosen the emerald tie around his neck. This was unlike him. He never went speechless, he never struggled to find a smart quip or retort and he most definitely never stuttered. You brought out a side to him that was new and he didn’t know if he liked it or not.

“Thank you for helping me Theo, I’ll see you in Potions.” You waved goodbye as you hurried off down the hallway. 

Theo’s eyes remained glued onto your frame as you ran. A rising bubbly feeling began in his chest and he felt his heart quicken. He gulped. You had long disappeared from his view but he still felt a burning sensation on his cheeks and he tried to cool himself down with his hands but it served no use. Giving up, he turned away and marched down the hall determined to figure out whatever he was feeling.

//

“You know staring at her won’t make her your girlfriend Nott.” Mattheo smirked as he watched his best friend. The others at the Slytherin table tittered with laughter and Theo rolled his eyes. He was now used to his friend’s teasing and even though it was relentless he didn’t pay any attention to it. Why would he? It wasn’t true anyway.

“Very funny Riddle.”

“You know me Theo, always the jokester.” He winked as he sipped the pumpkin juice in his cup.

“But seriously Theo you should ask her out if you like the girl. Salazar, it's better than drilling holes in the back of her head.” 

“Pansy’s right Nott, we’re all tired of you mooning over the girl just go ask her out already and then the two of you can go snog in the broom cupboard.” Draco snickered and the other Slytherins erupted into another round of laughter.

“Well you’ve got it all wrong I don’t fancy her.” Theo looked at his friends with a scowl present on his face. “She makes me feel all these things and I hate it. I hate how different it is. I hate how quiet everything gets when I look at her. I hate how she makes me feel and it’s all horrible and downright disgusting. It’s like I’ve got a fever whenever I’m around her and I’ve somehow contracted some life-threatening heart disease. My mouth dries up and I stumble over what I say and it’s not like me at all. So no, you’ve all got it wrong because I don't fancy her.”

With that Theo leaves the table, dinner untouched, with red cheeks and a rapidly beating heart. His friends watched dumbfounded as their friend trudged away. They all exchange knowing glances before shaking their heads at his obliviousness to his own feelings.

“That guy seriously needs to realise that sometimes not being an emotionless prick isn’t going to kill him.” Pansy dug into her beef as she scoffed at her friend’s stupidity.

Unbeknownst to the Slytherins a certain Hufflepuff was watching as their friend stormed off, her eyes never once leaving his ruby red face and the angry glare that accompanied it. She excused herself from her table before slipping away to follow a certain brunette.

//

Annoyance was the main thing that Theodore Nott felt at the moment. Anger at the persistence that he had a crush on you when he didn’t, he knew he didn’t. You had cast some sort of spell on him. Some sort of hex that made him notice every little bit about you. The way your smile lit up the room, the way your laughter echoed in his mind like the happy tinkering of a bell. Every second he saw you it was as if you overtook his senses. Clouding his sight with your beauty, suffocating him with your sweet scent, muffling his ravenous thoughts until everything was calm. 

When Theodore Nott looked at you he felt an overwhelming emotion, one that he couldn’t explain, but it made his hectic thoughts still and as cheesy as it sounded it made time itself stand still. When Theodore Nott looked at you he noticed every fine small detail like the way you like to smile at yourself whenever you get a question right or the way you tap your fingers on the desk when you’re concentrating. When Theodore Nott looked at you he felt his heart soar and he isn’t used to feeling this unnatural emotion that had been brewing inside of him.

He didn’t even notice you were behind him until he heard your voice. Soft and gentle and kind. He spun around. You had a look of concern etched upon your face and you stepped closer towards him and he backed away feeling his heart quicked once again. He glared at you hoping that his stare would force you to go away and would force whatever he was feeling to disappear.

“Are you okay Theo? I saw you leave and you didn’t touch your food, did something happen?”

You were so caring, so nice, so calm. You were so many things and Theo couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take looking at you when he could hear his heart pumping. “What are you doing to me?” He whispered, backing away further.

You frowned. “I haven’t done anything Theo. Are you sure you’re okay you look quite red and-”

“You’re lying.” He seethed. “You’re lying because why are you making me feel these things? Why does my mind go quiet, my thoughts stop, the words fail? There’s no explanation to this. I don’t understand why my heart races and everything suddenly feels hotter around me. I don’t understand this feeling I have inside me, some magnetic force that keeps pulling me to you. You’re everywhere Y/n.”

His glare intensified as he spoke, each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate step forward. “I look at you and I feel things I’ve never felt before, this bubbly warm feeling. Whenever I’m around you I can’t think of what to say. I close my eyes and I see your smile, your eyes. I can hear your laughter even if we’re in the noisiest classroom. You’re everywhere Y/n. So tell me, what have you done to me?”

A beat of silence.

The both of you stare at each other. Your frown had long gone and now you simply looked at the Slytherin in front of you trying to decipher his anger.

“It’s love Theo.” You take a step closer. “All the things you’ve just said - it’s love.”

Theo froze. His expression remained stony yet his eyes betrayed his thoughts as he looked away for a second. He blinked before looking at you once again. Your eyes, the eyes he couldn’t help but notice everywhere he went, looked back at him. His mind was no longer quiet. An outbreak of noise erupted inside his head and he struggled to grasp what was going on. He couldn’t focus. All he could hear was his own voice in his mind, overlapping, shouting, screaming, crying. It all came crashing down and Theo didn’t know what to do.

Then your lips collided with his and he stilled. The noise died down. Chaos ceased. Theo let his eyes flutter shut as he kissed you back with fervour. Your lips were soft and you tasted sweet like strawberries. He wrapped his arm around your waist and you were warm as you leaned into his touch. He felt your arms tangle in his hair and he smiled at the feeling. This felt right. This didn’t feel weird or disgusting. It was something he never thought he would feel. 

The both of you broke apart and you blinked looking at Theo with your beautiful eyes. His heart continued to race. You beamed up at him and he couldn’t help but smile back. You were so pretty, so gorgeous and you had just kissed him. His mind was finally quiet again. The strange feeling that filled his body now didn’t feel so foreign at all in fact it felt natural as he gazed at you.

“It’s love Theodore Nott. That’s what you feel.” You give him another kiss. “And it’s what I feel too.”

Theodore Nott was many things but as he closed his eyes to kiss you once again there is only one thing that he wants to be - in love with you.

[bloomseishiro]

GOTTA DODGE ALL THE TABLOIDS

౨ৎ — due to your avoidance of the limelight, the media pins you as rin’s ungrateful wife. rin knows you’re clearly just misunderstood. 

itoshi rin x fem!reader. fluff, established relationship, pro soccer player!rin, fans r a bitch, just some drama fluff bc i’ve been watching wags lmfaooo 

word count. 1.3k

You know what comes with being the wife of a famous soccer star. 

The chaos, the drama, the jersey chasers trying to make a move on your man the second you turn around, and, of course, the unwanted media attention. 

You’re aware of the normal life you had to give up the moment you started dating a high-profile athlete. And while you wouldn’t change it for the world, there are moments you remember just how horrible the public can be. 

You consider yourself a bit of a reserved person. You’re on the quieter side until you feel comfortable around people, and you did your absolute best to avoid all paparazzi and even declined all interviews. Sure, you’re married to Itoshi Rin, but that doesn’t mean your sole identity is being his wife. You have a career of your own. A normal, albeit boring, office job. And the last thing you want to deal with after your nine to five are strangers shoving cameras into your face. 

For you, it doesn’t seem like a big deal. And most of Rin’s fans didn’t care either. He’s not a very public person, so the fact that he has a relationship is already more information than they thought they would ever get. 

But lately, there have been more and more accounts popping up with the sole purpose of questioning you and your intentions and calling you ungrateful. 

user1: not y/n wearing a disguise in public lmao does she think she’s special or smth she’s a nobody fr 

user2: y/n doesn’t even try to hang out with other wives and girlfriends :/ maybe she thinks she’s above them because she has a ring on it 

user3: so we’re supposed to believe rin is married to this rando when we’ve never even seen her talk about him, kiss him in public, etc? looool ok sus. seems like a fake relationship to me #TheTruthAlwaysComesOut

user1: GIRL this is so true !!!

Heaving a sigh, you turn your phone off and toss it aside. You knew casually scrolling through Twitter before bed would be a bad idea. There’s no way you can sleep soundly now. 

“What’s with that face?” asks Rin as he emerges from the bathroom, hair still slightly damp from his nighttime shower. 

He walks over to you and places his index finger in between your brows, lifting them to get rid of the furrowed wrinkles. 

A small giggle escapes you as you swat his hand away. Still, it doesn’t do enough to distract you from the heavy feeling in your heart. You know you shouldn’t care about what strangers online are saying, but it’s just not nice to see. It certainly doesn’t feel good to see it. 

“Well?” he prompts at your silence.

You shake your head softly. “Nothing. Just a bad day, I guess.”

“Your day seemed just fine thirty minutes ago before I got out of the shower.”

You crack a smile at his skepticism. Rin knows you too well, after all. Sighing, you lean over to grab your discarded phone, unlocking it and wordlessly handing it to Rin.

A look of confusion passes through his features for one moment before his jaw clenches in anger. 

“What bullshit,” he scoffs, a frown evident on his face. “Don’t listen to any of that.”

“I know,” you say, bringing your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “I’m trying not to, but… Do I really come across like that? I just don’t want to be in the limelight. I don’t think I’m better than anyone else…”

Rin sits next to you on the bed, mattress dipping slightly from his weight. He doesn’t make a move to embrace you, but feeling his warmth nearby is enough to help ease your tension. 

“Of course you don’t. If anyone is surprised with you not wanting to give any interviews or answer reporters’ questions, then they’re lukewarm idiots,” he snorts. “I avoid those, too. My wife shouldn’t be obligated to participate when I hardly do.”

Memories of Rin ignoring after-game interviews (that were being broadcasted live, mind you) and pretending he doesn’t hear questions when he doesn’t want to answer them pop into your mind. You exhale in amusement at the reminder of how little he cares about public image. All he wants is to be the best striker, not entertain his so-called fans. 

“Double-standards, I guess,” you sigh with a shake of your head. “It’s mysterious and badass when a brooding, hot man acts like that. But I guess I’m a bitch who thinks I’m better than everyone else when I do it, too.”

Rin chuckles but nods in agreement. “Is that what you think of me? A brooding, hot man?”

“Yes.” You grin, shooting him a wink. “My brooding, hot man.” 

He rolls his eyes, ruffling the top of your head once he sees you’re starting to feel better. “And you’re my perfect wife who shouldn’t feel pressured into giving the public more of her.”

Leaning against his shoulder, your eyes flutter shut and a small smile graces your lips. Rin is right. Not about you being perfect, of course, but certainly about not needing to feel pressured to step into the limelight. 

You’re a person, not a commodity. And you prefer keeping your relationship with Rin intimate and personal. Not something for the public to see.

“Thanks for snapping me out of it,” you say, planting a kiss on Rin’s cheek. Though he’s lean and muscular, his cheek somehow stays soft and squishy. Your absolute favorite. “Some people just need to get a life.”

He snorts at your bluntness. “Right. Those NPCs have nothing better to do than worry about yours. Unluckily for them,” he states, “yours is thriving.”

You giggle, pinching his cheek lightly. “Exactly. After all, whose life wouldn’t be amazing if they got to squish these bad boys every day?” 

Rin keeps a straight face, pretending to be annoyed at your little tweaks and squishes. 

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles after you get to your tenth pinch. “That’s enough. My cheek is going to hurt.”

After one more squish, you relent, your own cheeks hurting from how wide you’re smiling. 

“Sorry,” you giggle, holding your hands up in surrender. “I just felt happier with each little pinch!”

Pursing his lips, Rin hesitates before saying, “Well, if you still feel down…”

He offers his cheek begrudgingly, but you simply give him a big kiss instead. “I’m feeling all better now, Rinnie. All thanks to you.”

“You mean all thanks to these,” he jests, gesturing to his cheeks. 

“Those too,” you agree solemnly. 

Rin rolls his eyes before laying down on the bed, lifting the cover up slightly to signal you to join him. “Okay, that’s enough fun. Let’s get some rest now.”

You nod in agreement, finding a comfortable spot to lay your head on his chest and wrapping your arms around his torso.  

“I love you,” you murmur, the heat from his body warming your face. “Sweet dreams, Rinnie.”

“Goodnight,” he says simply, closing his eyes. 

But when you wake up in the morning, the first thing you notice is Rin’s Tweet blowing up overnight. 

ItoshiRin: Unless it’s to compliment how beautiful she is, everyone better keep my wife’s name out of their mouths. 

ItoshiRin: @/user1 @/user2 @/user3

rinfan123: lmfaooo not the direct call out omg u go king

You smile to yourself, sending him a direct message instead of replying under the Tweet. 

totallynotyn: ur so hot when ur threatening bullies 

totallynotyn: ily

ItoshiRin: …

ItoshiRin: I’m literally in bed next to you why are you messaging me this?

totallynotyn: for the vibes

totallynotyn: now say it back

ItoshiRin: Okay…

ItoshiRin: I love you too.

totallynotyn: ^-^ 

It’s safe to say you have the best husband ever. 

[endofthelinegang]

just one bite

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  john walker would love nothing more than to go to bed, really he wouldn’t but you won’t let him rest without him fulfilling your request.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  nighttime fun baby 

use this magical link here to find a number and give me a request for ANY marvel character :), you are also welcome to send me any ideas or even thoughts you have about any marvel characters!

It continued with the sock.

A sad, balled-up sock that smacked him directly in the face like the universe was punishing him for trying to sleep. John exhaled slowly, one eye cracking open as the sock rolled off his cheek and onto the pillow beside him. Earlier it had been you laughing so hard there were tears at a war movie. That then turned into you poking him and getting his face which he just loved. He had briefly settled you down by practically holding you down and talking to you. But that was short lived.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, voice gravelly from sleep and exhaustion and you, dragging him through hell at 1:00 a.m.

You were a blur of an oversized t-shirt and bare legs as you half-skipped, half-crawled across the foot of the bed, energy buzzing off you like static. The lamp on the nightstand threw everything into gold-edged half-light: soft shadows, warm skin, the sharp gleam of your eyes. You threw yourself down hard onto John’s chest to which he let out a huff watching as you tossed your hair around right in his face. 

“You’re being dramatic,” you said, breathless with the kind of laughter you only got after midnight. “You didn’t even flinch.”

“Because I’m numb,” he muttered, pulling the sides of his pillow around his face he mumbled out the words, “Numb to your late-night bullshit.”

You ignored him completely and got comfy on top of him using his chest as an arm rest you kicked your feet in the air behind you. Eyes alight with mischief and something warmer. “John.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me ask.”

“Don’t need to. I’ve seen that look before. That’s your ‘I’ve had three caffeinated drinks and cannot tell you how much caffeine was in each one behavior.” You had moved his pillow out of his face, his grip weakened from his need to get some sleep.

You grinned. “Okay, true. But seriously. Just hear me out.”

“No.”

“But what if—hypothetically—” you were leaned in as close as you could be without your faces touching, chin resting on your hands, face inches from his, “—I bit your bicep?”

His eyes closed for just a moment and then opened. Slowly. Like he couldn’t believe you’d said it. He blinked a couple of times for good measure before speaking,

“…what?”

“Your bicep,” you said, tone sultry-soft now, a velvet drawl wrapped in chaos. You were now touching your forehead against his. Your hair makes almost a fort around your two faces, “I want to bite it. Just once.”

A beat of silence. The hum of the night pressing in around the room. The overhead fan spinning a lazy circle above you both. John stared at you like he was asking whatever higher power cursed him why. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, not even sure what else to say. He had never heard even a similar request from you or anyone else. In fact he had never even heard it be asked on TV.

“But hot?”

“You are trying to bite me like I did not get you dinner earlier.” He was seriously confused, he considered it maybe being one of those trends where women were asking their boyfriends and that you were not being real about this. 

You moved one arm to stretch down his, your palm finding his forearm, thumb dragging over the warm stretch of muscle. His body was tense—coiled, even—like he couldn’t decide if he should roll with it or run.

“You can’t blame me,” you whispered, leaning in so your breath kissed his jaw. “You walk around all day with these arms out, sleeves pushed up just enough to ruin my life. What did you think was gonna happen?” You knew that stroking his ego would get him to bend or at least consider your proposal. 

He made a noise. A low, strangled kind of grunt that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“I should sedate you.”

“You could,” you said, fingers sliding up over his bicep now—slow and featherlight. “Or you could let me have one bite. A sexy one. Like... a ‘we’re alone, and it’s quiet, and you look really good in this lighting’ kind of bite.”

He turned to look at you. Really look at you. Your lips were slightly parted, breath hitching in the quiet. The lamp cast golden halos over the lines of your face, your neck, the sliver of thigh visible beneath the hoodie. And you weren’t laughing anymore—not really. There was humor there, yeah, but behind it was something hungrier. Real.

You tilted your head. “I’ll make it worth it.”

His jaw clenched.

And then, slowly, deliberately—he flexed.

You lit up like a struck match. Gleeful and glowing. Straddling his lap even tighter than before so that he could not change his mind, you let your hands smooth up his arm like you were worshipping it, not teasing it. Your lips brushed at his shoulder first—soft, reverent—then your mouth moved down to what you had been begging for. That is when your teeth sank in. Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to mark the pressure, enough for him to feel it through every nerve. You hummed low in your throat, content, lingering. Let your nose nuzzle against the skin. His hand landed on your hip without thought, fingers pressing into the curve of you.

His breath caught.

When you pulled back, you were grinning—but there was something else in your eyes. Heat. Need. That wild, unspoken ache that only surfaces in the dark when the world feels far away. You ran your tongue over your teeth with your lips slightly parted making the deepest eye contact you could. 

John was looking at you like you were trouble.

Beautiful, irresistible trouble.

“That wasn’t a bite,” he said, voice rough. His hands stayed put on your waist, he could still feel the nerves in his bicep twitching and the saliva from where your tongue had just lightly touched the skin was getting cold. 

You shrugged. “Wasn’t it?”

He exhaled through his nose. Shook his head. Then reached up and pulled you to him like it had been inevitable all along, he had wrapped his arms more around you to place his hand in the middle of your back in order to keep you stable. The kiss was nothing like the bite. It was hungry, unguarded—months of willpower unraveling all at once. His mouth was hot and heavy on yours, hands tight on your body like he didn’t know how to be gentle with this kind of want. You gasped into it, hands roaming anywhere you could reach, pressing your body to his like you could climb into his chest and stay there.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his.

“Still want me to go to sleep?” you whispered, breathless. Now touching his face lightly grazing your fingers on and through his facial hair. 

“Hell no,” he muttered. But he rolled you onto your side, tucked you under his arm anyway, buried his face in your hair, and pulled the blanket around you both like a cocoon, one hand still splayed across your hip. And when you finally fell asleep, lips tingling and heartbeat in your throat, you could’ve sworn you felt him kiss the top of your head.

Just once.

Just soft.

[wendichester]

hiiiii! I think it would be really cool if you wrote a Dean x reader inspired by lay all your love on me by abba, like she was always chill but she just started dating Dean and yk what deans like, a flirt, so she gets jealous or something?

-💌

⋆˚꩜｡ don't go wasting your emotion,

summary. everything's going smooth between you and dean. that is--of course--til the moment he starts flirting with some blonde waitress right in front of you. oh, honey... he's got it wrong.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. tense n' steamy

wordcount. 649

notes / warnings.oh, the hardship that is dating someone like dean winchester sigh // jealousy, reader getting possessive, strong language, suggestive dialogue, heated tension.

You were fine.

Totally fine.

Until you weren’t.

Because watching Dean Winchester lay that crooked smile on a blonde waitress for just a little too long? Laughing too loud, leaning in too close, letting her write her number on the damn receipt?

Yeah. That cracked something open.

You’re quiet all the way back to the bunker. Arms crossed. Eyes on the window. Dean doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he’s just pretending not to.

Figures.

He throws the Impala in park like nothing happened, tapping the steering wheel with that usual cocky rhythm. “That was a pretty decent burger, huh?”

You don’t answer.

He glances over. “Okay. What’s up?”

You swing the car door open without a word and stalk inside.

“Hey,” he calls after you. “What the hell?”

The door slams. He follows you into the war room, boots heavy on the concrete floor.

“Alright, you gonna give me the silent treatment now?”

You whip around so fast it makes his brows jump.

“Oh, now you want to talk?” Your voice is low, sharp. “Should’ve waited till your waitress girlfriend left her shift.”

Dean’s head tilts. “Waitress… what?”

You scoff. “You’re unbelievable, Dean.”

He blinks. “What the hell did I do?”

“She gave you her number,” you snap, arms crossed, heartbeat in your throat. “And you let her. Smiled at her like she was the highlight of your night.”

His jaw clenches. “Jesus. Are you jealous?”

You hate how the word makes your cheeks burn. Hate that he says it like it’s funny.

“No,” you lie, obviously. “I’m pissed. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, come on.” He throws his hands up. “I was being nice.”

“Nice?” You take a step forward, voice rising. “I’ve seen you be nice. That wasn’t nice. That was full-on flirting.”

“She wrote her number, not me asking for it!”

“But you didn’t throw it away.”

He’s silent. For a beat too long.

You laugh bitterly. “God, I was stupid. Thought maybe this—whatever this is between us—was different for you.”

Dean’s eyes flash.

“It is different,” he says, stepping closer. “You think I take just anyone home? Let just anyone sleep in my bed?”

“Well, I don’t know, Dean,” you shoot back. “You sure act like I’m just another girl in a bar.”

He’s in front of you now. Chest rising. Jaw tight.

“You’re not,” he growls.

You hold your ground.

“Then act like it.”

He grabs your wrist—gentle but firm—and backs you up until your spine hits the wall.

“I flirt,” he says, voice low, “because it’s easier than feeling like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I might actually lose my damn mind if you ever walk away.”

You stop breathing.

“I’ve never had something this real,” he says. “So yeah, I flirt. It’s habit. But you—” he swallows hard, eyes flicking between yours “—you’re not just another girl. You’re the one I don’t want anyone else looking at. Touching. Thinking about.”

Your fingers tighten in his jacket.

“Then maybe you should remember that next time some blonde bats her lashes.”

He huffs a breath—half growl, half groan—and crashes his mouth to yours.

It’s hot and angry and needy. All tongue and teeth and months of tension snapping like a rubber band. He fists your hair. You bite his lip. He presses you hard into the wall like he’s trying to melt into your skin.

Your legs hitch around his waist before you even realize what you’re doing.

“You wanna know something?” he mutters against your mouth. “You losing your shit over me? Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You tug his hair, making him hiss. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I’m already cocky,” he smirks. “But right now, I’m yours.”

You look him dead in the eye, panting.

“Good,” you whisper. “Lay all your love on me, Winchester.”

And he does.

Hard.

Fast.

Devoted.

Because Dean might flirt with the world—but every inch of him belongs to you.

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[clarkeysbedchem]

slip ups

george clarke x fem reader

summary: you and George have been hiding your relationship from the internet but there’s been a few slips along the way before George finally bites the bullet.

masterlist | main masterlist

At first, your appearances were barely noticeable—just subtle background moments that, if you blinked, you'd miss. You and George had been officially together for just over eight months, having been talking for just under a year. So, when you started spending more time at his flat, it was only a matter of time before your presence began to be noticed.

Example A: In George’s one-shot-every-minute Halloween video with all his friends, you could be spotted for a split second, helping Arthur Hill get a bowl of water for the apple-bobbing challenge.

Arthur stumbled into the kitchen, half-blind from his ghost-face mask, rustling around in the cupboards. You were sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching the five boys with amusement when George nodded toward Arthur, “Help him, will you?”

You laughed softly and got up to join him in the kitchen. Kneeling down, you grabbed a saucepan big enough for their heads and held it up just as the camera turned to you. “I’ve never been in this kitchen before. I don’t know where the bowls are,” arthur joked, in a terrible attempt at the Ghostface voice - one that was slowly slipping into a Donald Trump impression.

The boys laughed, and the camera panned back to them as you stood up, filling the saucepan with water, and dropping the apples in. You carried it over to the table for them, prompting a drunken ArthurTV to laugh, “What a great assistant you have, George!”

You flipped him off with a laugh before taking your seat back on the sofa.

Example B: At George, Chris, and Arthur’s annual New Year's party, the fans a new girl made a random appearance.

You had been featured in a few of Florence’s TikTok’s and Youtube videos over the years so that lead the fans away from assuming you were dating any of the boys. But being pictured near George? That was new. Still, it apparently wasn’t enough to make fans speculate anything.

You were sitting on the sofa, squashed between your boyfriend and the back of the couch, while a particularly drunk Chip sat next to you, yelling over the music.

“You two make a good-looking couple, you know?” he slurred, taking a long sip of his drink. You and George both laughed, “Like you’d have gorgeous kids. Nice hair and eyes.”

“Oi, Chip!” Isaac yelled grabbing his attention, pointing his phone at him, the flash blinding him.

The two boys burst into laughter, and Isaac posted the video to his TikTok without a second thought. He didn’t realize that in the background, you could be seen with your legs draped over George’s.

The fans brushed it off, too busy laughing at Chip’s antics to notice that George was clearly cozy with someone – a few of them saying it wasn’t even George in the background.

But when Liv and Sabina posted photos the next day and you appeared in them, fans started matching the tattoo on your wrist to the one in the Halloween video, some of them started to get a little suspicious.

Then George started streaming on Twitch and you both knew it would be harder to stay in your secret bubble. Still, you were okay with it.

The biggest giveaway of your presence in his life happened during one of George’s casual streams where he had no set plan - just chatting with the fans while scrolling through ‘Private Clarking,’ laughing at some of the ridiculous tweets people were posting.

“Anyone else think it’s weird he has a willy?” George read aloud from the chat, making you snort from the bed off-camera, “What the hell does that mean?”

You laughed louder at his confused, defensive tone, which made him smile and glance over at you. His eyes flicked back to the chat as it suddenly flooded with question marks about the mysterious laughter in the background. But George didn’t acknowledge it; he just kept scrolling through Twitter.

His eyes landed on a poorly photoshopped picture of him. He opened it full screen, let out a sigh, and spun in his chair to face you, pouting.

“You’re such a drama queen,” you muttered, teasing him, but loud enough for the chat to hear.

George froze, not expecting you to speak. His mouth opened in shock, blinking like he’d been hit. He quickly spun back around in his chair, shaking his head with a shy laugh, “Ignore that,” he mumbled, reaching to mute his mic immediately.

He walked over to you, pulled you to the edge of the bed, and you let out a surprised yelp before laughing at his stunned face, “They’re gonna go mental,” he muttered, referring to his chat.

You shrugged, “So?”

Instead of replying, George cupped your face in his hands, pulling you in for a sweet kiss before returning to his stream, red-cheeked and smiling like nothing had happened.

That’s when the fans finally started to catch on. Not completely, but the seeds had been planted.

The moment it all blew up came during a podcast episode. George and Max had shown up for a recording, and you were off-camera as usual, sitting with Calum, Andrew, and Maisie. The boys were deep into one of their random tangents while Calum tried his best to steer them in a more normal direction.

But Max was in top form as he leaned back in his chair, smirking, “So, George, important question, because I’ve been seeing it all over TikTok,” Max began, “Do you have a new flatmate?”

George blinked, confused, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter, “What are you talking about?”

Max grinned, “You know, the mysterious giggling, the random arm that keeps popping in and out of videos. There’s some off-camera entity in your flat. So, either a new flatmate, or a ghost.”

George sputtered on his drink, laughing nervously, “We’re not doing this,” he mumbled, eyes darting off-camera toward you.

“Oh, so we are.”

And that’s when the fans started losing it.

Old clips from nearly a year ago – from both your socials - were being shared all over social media, edits popping up within hours of the podcast dropping.

Slow zooms on George’s reactions, dramatic music, and screenshots of every moment you were half-visible. Stan Twitter threads started mapping every single appearance you’d made, complete with timestamps, and even theories about who you were - some of which were surprisingly close to the truth.

You had officially been dubbed “The Mystery Girl” by fans, even though many of them already knew who you were and followed your channel.

But with the love came the hate. Some people started sending you hate and threats, even though they didn’t know who you were. You swore it didn’t bother you - but it definitely bothered George. He did everything in his power to protect you, even posting a long message on his story and a stream where he ranted for an hour defending you.

And, of course, then there were the theories. Some fans swore you were just friends, others thought it was a PR stunt to boost George’s subscriber count, which made him laugh and turn it into a running joke.

George never expected to do a ‘hard launch’ to be honest, he thought they were a bit cringe. But there he was, at 1 a.m., having just finished a stream, with you asleep beside him, one arm flopped across his chest, the other tucked under your cheek.

His mind was racing, replaying all the questions he’d dodged during the stream. Almost every question in his life had become “Who is George’s girlfriend?” And yet here you were, peacefully curled up next to him, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil your boyfriend was experiencing.

He exhaled slowly, brushing his thumb across your knuckles.

He could just keep denying it - say you were just a friend, a flatmate, or claim Max was joking. But the fandom wasn’t buying it anymore. They had screenshots, edits, and the timeline down to a tee.

And you weren’t a secret he wanted to keep. He wanted to show you off, share moments of you on his social media, involve you in his videos. He wanted you more than anything.

He carefully reached over for his nightstand, making sure not to disturb you, and opened his phone, staring at his camera roll for a moment before tapping on his favorite photo of you.

It was from the recent ski trip to Lapland: you smiling at the camera while George leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. It was his favorite photo from the whole trip, and he hadn’t been able to share it anywhere.

He posted it without hesitation, tagging you and adding a simple red heart emoji.

Then, in a panic, he tossed his phone across the bed, “What did you just do?” you mumbled, curling closer into him, your voice groggy from sleep.

He pulled you close, hiding his face in your hair, “Ruined my life.”

“Okay, but did you post the one where I look cute?”

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to your head. “Obviously.”

“Then I think you’ll survive.”

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chrismd10 thank god abt time 🙄

arthurnfhill brilliant now i dont have to keep lying

userone THIS IS TOO CUTE 😭😭

usertwo shes so pretty i cant 🥰

bambinobecky those 🫵 are my parents

italianbach this is so cute dafaq

userthree she’s not what i imagined him to be with icl

┃usertwo good think nobody asked

arthurtv ah its my favourite assistant 🙂‍↕️

userfour she definitely timed this with her channel blowing up, don’t be blind

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