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cressidagrey · 2 days ago

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White Horse - Chapter 36: October 2024 - Part 3

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

Belle had always known that Lorenzo loved Charlotte.

You didn’t need to be particularly observant to catch it — not when he looked at her like she was sunlight bottled into human form. He was quieter about it than most, but in a way that only made it more obvious: the way he listened, the way he waited, the way his eyes found her even in a crowded room. Not infatuation. Not flair. Just… certainty.

So when Lorenzo asked if he could stop by for coffee, she hadn’t expected it to be anything dramatic.

But then he sat at her kitchen table — still in his work clothes, his tie half-loosened, hands wrapped too tightly around the mug she’d handed him — and didn’t speak for almost five full minutes.

That’s how she knew something was up.

She didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just waited.

Lorenzo had always been the sort of person who unfolded in his own time, like a letter written in longhand — slow, thoughtful, deliberate.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I want to propose.”

Belle blinked. Once. Twice.

Then smiled softly. “You think?”

“I know,” he said. “I do. I’ve known. For a while. I just…”

He looked down at his mug.

“I want it to be right.”

Belle rested her chin in her palm and watched her oldest brother. He looked—nervous. Earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe since they were kids, before life got complicated and painful and messy.

“And what does right look like to you?”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo said, huffing a laugh. “I don’t know. I just keep getting in my own head. She deserves something special. Not flashy. Not over the top. Just… her.”

Belle smiled wider, something warm unfolding in her chest.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s build it.”

Lorenzo looked up, surprised. “You’ll help?”

“Of course I’ll help,” she said. “You’re my brother. She’s your person. This is literally my favorite kind of project.”

“But don’t you have enough on your plate?”

Belle gestured around the room, where baby things sat half-unpacked in calm, expectant chaos. “Max is currently on a mission to figure out how to swaddle a stuffed animal. I think I can spare a little time.”

He laughed, properly this time, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.

“Alright then,” she said, reaching for a notepad. “Talk to me. What are the non-negotiables?”

Lorenzo leaned back, thinking. “Nothing public. Nothing performative. And something that includes her family, somehow — she’s close to them. But also something quiet. Intimate.”

Belle nodded. “Sentimental. Classic. Maybe something outdoors? A picnic? Or a dinner somewhere that matters to you both?”

“There’s a lake house,” he said slowly. “Her grandparents used to take her there when she was a kid. We’ve been a few times, and she always looks… peaceful there.”

Belle’s heart softened.

“There,” she said. “That’s the place. That’s the moment.”

Lorenzo looked like he was still trying to catch up to the fact that she was doing this with him — no teasing, no commentary, just belief.

“Belle,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him — her oldest brother, who had been too busy or too far removed to see her as anything other than Charles and Arthur’s quiet shadow. But right now, he was here. Asking her. Because he trusted her.

“You’re going to do this right,” she said. “Because it’s not about perfect words or some cinematic moment. It’s about her. And you already know how to love her. You just need to show her that in a way she’ll remember.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “You’d be a terrifying wedding planner.”

“I’m saving that energy for Emilian’s first birthday,” Belle said dryly. “There will be a live band and possibly jungle animals.”

He laughed again, eyes a little glassy now. “God, you’re going to be a good mum.”

Belle smiled down at the notepad, heart full.

“And you,” she said, writing down lake house, sunset, something honest, “are going to be a husband.”

****

They were on the couch, tangled together in the quiet kind of way that felt like routine now. Max’s head was resting on Belle’s belly, his hand absently tracing slow circles over the stretch of skin beneath her shirt, like he was trying to memorize every inch before December came.

Belle had one hand in his hair. The other held her planner, open but forgotten on the coffee table.

“He kicked again,” Max murmured, pressing a kiss just above her navel.

Belle smiled, her heart aching in that full, quiet way that still caught her off guard sometimes. “He’s been kicking all day,” she said. “Probably hates how I folded over during that client call.”

Max snorted. “He already has opinions. Verstappen genes.”

She rolled her eyes, fond. “God help us.”

They fell into silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling. Outside, Monaco glowed—blue and gold and still.

Then Max said, softly, “We’ve got the triple header coming up.”

Belle nodded. “I know.”

“Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.”

“I know.”

“I want you to come.”

Belle looked down at him.

Max sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair. “If you feel up to it,” he added. “If it’s safe. I just… I know it’s the last one before—before you can’t really travel anymore. And I don’t want to go three races without you if we can help it.”

His voice was quiet. Honest.

Belle let her hand rest on the slope of her belly. Their son kicked again—just once, like punctuation.

“I was thinking the same thing,” she said softly. “I don’t want to miss this part. After Brazil, I’ll stay home. Nest. Wait. After that, I won’t be able to travel long haul. Not safely, anyway. I just… I want to be there with you. One last time.”

Max’s expression shifted—surprise giving way to something deeper. Something tender.

“You’d really be okay with all that travel?” he asked. “Three races in three weeks?”

She nodded. “I already talked to my OB. I’ll be 34 weeks by Brazil. She said if I’m careful, and I rest, and we don’t take risks, it’s fine. After that, no more flights. But until then…”

Max reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’d love that,” he said softly. “I miss you when you’re not there.”

Belle smiled. “You have GP.”

Max smirked. “GP doesn’t sneak me cookies or remind me to drink water. Or kiss me before every quali.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “You want kisses before quali?”

“Obviously. It’s good luck.”

She laughed and leaned in, pressing one to his temple.

“Then it’s settled,” she said. “Three races. Three cities. Then we come home. And wait.”

Max smiled. It was a tired kind of smile, edged in awe. “He’ll be here so soon.”

Belle nodded. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Max said. Then, after a beat: “Are you sure, though? It’s a lot of travel. Long flights. Weird hotel beds.”

“I’ll bring my pillow fortress,” Belle teased, nudging him with her foot. “And snacks. And compression socks. I’ll be fine.”

Max leaned over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Then her collarbone. Then her belly. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then we’ll do this together.”

Belle closed her eyes. Felt the hum of his voice against her skin. And the tiny flutter of their son, responding like he knew.

Together.

Until they weren’t two anymore.

But three.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Lorenzo: So… I have some news. Charlotte said yes 💍😊

Arthur: WHAT?????? WAIT YOU PROPOSED????

Charles: BRO. What do you mean “said yes”??? WHEN??? HOW??? WHERE???

Arthur: Wait Belle knew didn’t she SHE TOTALLY KNEW

Belle: 👀

Charles: UNREAL. I TELL YOU EVERYTHING. AND YOU STAYED QUIET FOR THIS???

Belle: It wasn’t my news to tell! 😇 Also… I helped pick the ring. And the spot. And the picnic menu.

Arthur: I KNEW IT THE BASKET IN YOUR BACKSEAT LAST WEEK YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A “CLIENT MEETING”!!!

Lorenzo: It was a meeting. With my future wife 😌

Charles: Okay but for real—congratulations. You both deserve all the happiness. Still mad you didn’t tell us though.

Belle: 🥹 I was under strict brother-sister confidentiality. But I’m so happy for you, Enzo. Truly.

Arthur: Can we plan the bachelor party?? Please??

Charles: No. I know you. Absolutely not.

Arthur: 😤

Lorenzo: Thanks, all of you. Belle, especially. I couldn’t have pulled it off without you.

Belle: Anytime. Now go be nauseatingly in love.

***

Pascale hadn’t even set her wine glass down when Lorenzo said, “Charlotte and I are engaged.”

There was a beat of silence—sharp, almost theatrical—and then the room burst into overlapping exclamations.

Arthur stood up to hug him, nearly knocking over the bowl of olives. Charles thumped Lorenzo on the back like they were still teenagers. Even Alexandra, who was usually more reserved around the Leclerc chaos, was smiling wide, clutching Charlotte’s hands and asking a thousand questions.

Pascale pressed both hands to her heart, eyes wet. “Oh, my darling—felicitations!” She turned to Charlotte, enveloping her in a tight hug. “You are already family, but now it’s official. I am so, so happy.”

Belle watched it all unfold with a soft smile, Max’s hand resting on her knee under the table. She was genuinely happy for Lorenzo.

But when Pascale dabbed her eyes and said, “Oh, we have to start planning,” Belle felt the old, familiar weight settle in her chest.

“Summer wedding?” Arthur asked. “Italy?”

“Too hot in July,” Charlotte said, laughing. “We were thinking September.”

“Belle should help you with everything,” Pascale added warmly. “She always has the best taste.”

Belle opened her mouth, closed it again.

“She already has,” Lorenzo said quickly, rescuing her. “She helped plan the proposal. Honestly, it was perfect.”

Charles raised his glass. “To love. And to Belle being a better event planner than all of us combined.”

They all drank. Belle sipped at her water, but she couldn’t quite keep the smile on her face when Pascale turned to her and said, with teasing affection, “Well, I expect an invite this time.”

The joke slipped out easily.

The silence that followed was harder.

Max’s fingers subtly curled around Belle’s under the table. “What do you mean?”

Pascale looked at Belle. “You know. The last wedding. The one none of us were invited to.”

“Maman,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m not trying to be rude, I just…” She trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “We found out from the press, Belle.”

Belle exhaled. “You forgot my birthday, remember? All of you,” Belle said sharply.

“I turned 25. And you were all too busy with Charles winning Monaco.”

“Belle,” Pascale said gently, “we didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Belle interrupted, and her voice wasn’t cold. It was tired. Bone-deep tired. “You never mean it.”

The table was quiet now. Even Arthur wasn’t fidgeting.

Belle glanced down at her plate. Then back up. Her gaze flicked to each of them—her brothers, her mother, Charlotte and Alexandra.

“Max and I got married on a Tuesday morning. At Monaco City Hall. We didn’t want the press. Didn’t want a spectacle.”

Pascale’s face crumpled. “But we should’ve been there.”

“No,” Belle said, with finality. “You really shouldn’t have.”

She folded her napkin slowly, carefully, like it would help her hold back the years she hadn’t said anything.

“Because in that moment, I didn’t want to wonder if any of you thought I was enough. I didn’t want to hear one more backhanded joke about how I decorate houses for Instagram. Or how I was the ‘soft’ Leclerc. Or how I should be grateful for being in the room.”

Max stayed silent beside her, but his hand remained warm on her knee, steady, grounding.

“I wanted to be surrounded by people who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t compare me to Charles or Arthur or Lorenzo. Who didn’t make me feel like a placeholder in my own life.”

She turned toward her mother. “So no, you weren’t invited. Because it wasn’t about you. Or about what a wedding should look like. It was about what felt safe.”

“Belle,” Pascale began, reaching for her, “we didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Belle cut in. “You’ve spent years not meaning to. Not meaning to forget. Not meaning to brush me off. Not meaning to act like my work is just expensive Pinterest. Like I’m the background character in someone else’s success story.”

Pascale’s expression shifted, like someone trying to balance shame and defensiveness and failing at both.

“When Max and I got married,” Belle continued, her voice lower now, steadier, “we had everyone there who mattered. People who saw me. Who remembered me. Who didn’t need a headline to decide I was important.”

Max’s hand tightened around hers under the table, silent but solid.

“It wasn’t a grand wedding. There was no string quartet, no designer gown. Emilie somehow managed to get my favourite flowers and cake. And it was the best day of my life.”

She looked at her mother.

“And I didn’t invite you. Not because I wanted to hurt you. But because, in that moment, I couldn’t handle the way you made me feel. Like nothing I did would ever be enough. Like even that day would be compared to someone else’s. Like I’d be asked why I didn’t wait. Or why the photos weren’t professional.”

Pascale looked stricken.

“I didn’t want to feel like an afterthought at my own wedding,” Belle finished, quietly. “So I didn’t invite the people who made me feel like one.”

Silence.

Lorenzo swallowed hard. Arthur looked like he might cry. Charles… looked wrecked.

And Pascale, for once, said nothing at all.

Belle pushed her chair back gently, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the quiet.

“I’m going to check on dessert,” she said, standing. “Max, come with?”

He rose immediately. ***

The kitchen was warm and low-lit, all copper tones and quiet clatter. Belle moved automatically, opening drawers, checking the oven—like she hadn’t just dropped every hard, buried truth onto the dinner table like a thunderclap.

Max followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

For a second, neither of them spoke. She reached for plates with trembling hands.

“Belle.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too flat.

He crossed the room in three steps, gently placing his hands on her hips. “You don’t have to be.”

Belle inhaled like she was bracing for another wave, but when it didn’t come, she sagged slightly into him, just enough that he felt it.

“I didn’t mean to make it a scene,” she murmured, voice frayed at the edges.

“You didn’t make a scene,” Max said. “You told the truth.”

She didn’t answer. Just stared at the cake tin on the counter like it might disappear if she focused hard enough.

“I’m just surprised you said all that out loud,” he added gently.

Belle let out a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a breath. “So am I.”

He rubbed small circles into her back. “They needed to hear it.”

“She won’t change.”

“Maybe not right away,” Max allowed. “But tonight… that landed. They were quiet, Belle. Your mother looked like she got hit with a brick.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she muttered, though she didn’t pull away.

Max lowered his head, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I mean it. You gave them a wake-up call they couldn’t brush off. That takes guts.”

She was silent for a long beat. Then: “I didn’t want to cry in front of them.”

“You didn’t. You stood up for yourself.”

Belle turned slightly to look at him. “Did I come off like an asshole?”

Max smiled, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “No. You came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.”

Belle exhaled. “I wasn’t trying to hurt her.”

“I know,” he said. “And deep down, I think she does too. But she needed to feel it. You gave her the truth. What she does with it is up to her.”

Belle leaned into his chest fully now, the tension finally starting to seep out of her limbs. “I just… I don’t want our son to ever feel that way. Like he has to earn being seen.”

Max wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “He won’t. Not with you as his mother.”

She let out another breath, steadier this time. “God. Dessert feels so stupid now.”

Max tilted his head. “It’s chocolate tart. Nothing about that is ever stupid.”

She laughed, soft and tired. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “are the bravest person I know.”

***

The moment Belle disappeared through the kitchen door with Max, the silence she left behind clung to the room like smoke.

No one spoke.

Charlotte gently touched Lorenzo’s arm, but he barely registered it.

He turned to his mother, voice low. “Do you realize what you just did?”

Pascale blinked at him, eyes still wide. “Lorenzo—”

“No.” He shook his head, biting back the anger rising in his throat. “You don’t get to play innocent now, Maman. You made a joke about not being invited to her wedding, and you didn’t think once about why you weren’t.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt her,” Pascale said, voice trembling. “It was meant to be lighthearted.”

“And that’s the problem.” Lorenzo’s voice hardened.

Pascale blinked at her oldest son. “Lorenzo—”

“No,” he said, calm but sharp. “Don’t deflect.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Like you always do. Like we all do. And I’ve let it slide for years. We all have. Because it’s Belle, and she never kicks up a fuss, right?”

He leaned forward, fingers pressed against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold him down.

“But she remembers.” His voice dropped, hard with the weight of truth. “She remembers everything you brush off. Every joke about her job. Every time we prioritized a podium over a person. Every thing we forgot because we were too caught up in what one of us was doing on the track.”

Pascale’s eyes were glassy. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—”

“That’s the problem,” Lorenzo snapped, sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard him. “You keep saying that. You never mean to. But it happens anyway. And because she doesn’t fight you on it, you think it didn’t cut.”

Arthur looked down. Even Charles didn’t try to interrupt.

“She helped me plan my proposal, Maman. Thought of every detail, reminded me to tell Charlotte’s parents first—she did it all with a smile. And not once did she bring up her wedding. Not once.”

He sat back slowly, tone dipping into something quieter. “She didn’t even want a wedding with us. You understand how much that says?”

Pascale had a hand pressed to her lips now.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe with you. Not loved. Not supported. Safe. Do you know how devastating that is?”

Pascale blinked hard, and for once, she didn’t have anything to say.

“And you know what?” Lorenzo added. “That’s on you. Not her. She found someone who sees her. Who values her. Who protects her, because he understands what it feels like to be treated like you’re never quite enough.”

Lorenzo’s tone turned more bitter than he meant it to. “God, Max Verstappen treats her better than any of us ever have. And we’re her blood.”

Pascale shook her head, tears finally spilling over. “I didn’t mean—”

“But you did,” Lorenzo echoed Belle’s words, soft but resolute. “And I’m done pretending you didn’t.”

He stood, placed a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.

“I’m going to help with dessert,” he said quietly. He looked around the table, gaze landing on his mother last. “You can sit with what Belle said for a while.”

And without waiting for a response, he walked away.

***

Belle’s hands stayed on the countertop, gripping the edge a little tighter than necessary. Her breath was steady, but only because she’d fought for every inch of calm since leaving the dining room. Max hovered nearby, silently setting out the plates for dessert. He hadn’t said a word—just let her have her silence, the same way he always had when she needed to recalibrate.

Then she heard the second pair of footsteps.

Lorenzo.

“Belle,” he said gently, and that was all it took for her throat to go tight again.

She turned slowly, blinking fast. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—tonight was supposed to be about you. And I—God, I just—ruined it.”

He stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh and crossed the kitchen in two strides.

“Petite sœur,” he said softly, wrapping her into a hug so immediate and so warm that it nearly undid her.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured into her hair. “Don’t ever say that.”

Belle shook her head against his shoulder. “But I took the spotlight—”

“No. You spoke your truth. Finally. That’s not stealing attention. That’s surviving.” He pulled back slightly, hands still on her shoulders, anchoring her. “And frankly? Someone needed to say it. It should’ve been me. Years ago.”

Her eyes welled again. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. “It was about all of us. And what we didn’t see. What we didn’t do.” His voice softened. “And for what it’s worth? I’ve never been prouder of you.”

Belle blinked at him, stunned.

“I meant it when I said you helped make the proposal perfect. And tonight? You gave me the best gift you could have—your honesty.”

She leaned her forehead against his. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” Lorenzo whispered. “And I love you. Even if you made Charles nearly cry during dinner.”

Belle laughed, a wet, breathless sound. “He’ll recover.”

“Barely,” Max called from the counter without turning around. “Pretty sure he is still emotionally buffering.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I just emotionally nuked a family dinner. Max says it was brave. I think I might throw up. (Also, Charles looked like someone kicked his puppy.)

Emilie: WHAT. WHAT DID YOU DO. Please tell me it was deserved and you finally snapped. I’ve been manifesting it for a year.

Belle: Lorenzo announced his engagement. Pascale made a joke about not being invited to my wedding. So I told them why.

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: You didn’t just light a match. You set that table ablaze. I am SO proud of you.

Belle: I didn’t mean to make it about me. It just came out. All of it. Every forgotten birthday. Every time they dismissed my work. I told her she wasn’t invited because she made me feel like an afterthought.

Emilie: GOOD. She needed to hear it. You’ve spent your whole life trying to be palatable. Quiet. Easy. But you are not an afterthought. And it’s not your job to shrink so they’re comfortable.

Belle: Max has been perfect, obviously. Didn’t say a word while I was talking. Just stayed next to me. Held my hand. Told me later I didn’t make a scene—I told the truth. That they were finally quiet because it landed.

Emilie: That man. That man would build you a cathedral out of reclaimed stone and lavender if you asked.

Belle: I’d settle for the chocolate tart he just plated.

Emilie: I’m proud of you. So proud. I hope you know how big this is. You stood up for yourself and didn’t apologize for it. You chose yourself.

Belle: I think I finally did. And I think—for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel guilty about it.

Emilie: Damn right you don’t. Also I need Charles' face in that moment. Please. A voice note reenactment. I beg.

Belle: He looked like someone told him Ferrari ran out of red paint.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Just got back from dinner at Belle’s family’s place. It was… Intense.

Sophie: Oh? What happened? Are you okay?

Max: I’m fine. Belle’s a bit wrung out. Her brother Lorenzo got engaged. Announced it at dinner. Everyone was celebrating. Pascale made some joke about expecting an invite this time.

Sophie: Oh no.

Max: Yeah. Belle told them why they weren’t invited to our wedding. In front of everyone. Calm. Clear. Brutal.

Sophie: Good for her.

Max: She told them they forgot her birthday. That they treat her like she’s nothing. Said she only invited people who remembered her. I’ve never seen her do that before. Not with them.

Sophie: She finally snapped.

Max: Yeah. But it wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was honest. Tired. She just laid it out—like she wasn’t going to carry their excuses anymore.

Max: And her mother. God. She looked shocked. Like she couldn’t believe Belle didn’t feel loved.

Sophie: Because people like that don’t notice until it’s too late. They don’t think they have to change because they’re the mother.

Max: Exactly. She kept saying “I didn’t mean to.” And Belle just said, “But you did.”

Sophie: Oof. That girl has been swallowing it all for years, hasn’t she?

Max: All of it. Her work. Her feelings. Being ignored. She told them the reason she married me without them was because she didn’t feel safe. And I think it finally hit them. Maybe. Hopefully.

Max: But I don’t understand her mother. How do you look at someone like Belle and not see her? She’s brilliant. She’s kind. She feels everything. And they made her feel like she didn’t matter.

Sophie: Because some people only love the version of you they can control. And Belle? She’s soft, yes—but she’s also steel. That scares people who only know how to hold love with conditions.

Max: I didn’t even have to say anything. She did it all on her own. And then she turned to me in the kitchen and asked if she came off like an asshole.

Sophie: Oh, sweetheart.

Max: I told her no. She came off like someone who’s tired of being invisible.

Sophie: I’m proud of her. And proud of you. She needed someone who would stand beside her while she took her voice back. And that’s exactly what you did.

Max: I don’t get it, Mama. How can you have a daughter like Belle and make her feel like she has to earn your love?

Sophie: Because some people only know how to love the loud ones. The gold medals. The press conferences. The obvious successes. Not the quiet girl who builds beauty and doesn’t ask for applause.

Sophie: But you see her. And that matters more than anything.

Max: She told me she didn’t want our son to ever feel like that. Like he has to earn being seen.

Sophie: He won’t. Because his father will show him what love looks like. And his mother will teach him how to build a home out of strength and gentleness.

Max: I hope so. I just hate that it ever made her feel small.

Sophie: That’s because you love her. And you, my boy, are nothing like her mother.

Max: Good. Because she deserves better.

Sophie: She has better now. She has you.

***

Victoria hadn’t meant to stay long.

She’d only stopped by to drop off a scarf she’d picked up for her mother in Amsterdam. But Sophie had made tea, and the afternoon light was soft, and somehow they’d ended up on the couch with lemon biscuits between them and a conversation that turned, inevitably, to Belle.

Specifically, the Leclercs.

Max had told Sophie the whole story via text—blunt, half-capitalized, frustrated in a way he rarely got—but Victoria hadn’t realized how much had happened until Sophie quietly said, “Pascale made a joke about expecting an invite next time,” and stirred her tea like she was imagining stirring something else instead.

Victoria blinked. “She joked about not being invited?”

Sophie hummed. Calm. Neutral. Terrifying.

Victoria sat back a little.

Because she knew that sound. She’d heard it as a teenager when Jos yelled and stomped and slammed doors—and Sophie just got quiet. When Jos was a hurricane and Sophie was the pressure drop right before the sky cracked in two.

Everyone thought Jos Verstappen was the scary one. And he was, in his own way. But Jos exploded, and Sophie? Sophie waited. Sophie watched. Sophie didn’t lose control—she took it. And there was something so much more lethal in that.

“She said it with a laugh, apparently,” Sophie went on, still stirring. “Right after Belle helped plan the proposal. Said she expected an invite to this one.”

Victoria blinked again. “Oh, wow.”

“Mm.”

“She said that in front of everyone?”

“In front of Belle. At the table.”

Victoria felt something flicker in her chest. A cold edge of anger on Belle’s behalf. “What did Belle say?”

“She told them the truth,” Sophie said softly. “That she got married surrounded by people who remembered her birthday. That she didn’t want backhanded comments at her own wedding. That she didn’t feel safe with her own family.”

Victoria’s jaw tightened. “And Pascale?”

“Tried to say she didn’t mean to hurt her.” Sophie finally set the spoon down, slow and deliberate. “I suppose that’s supposed to count for something.”

There was a long silence then—thicker than the steam curling from the kettle, heavier than any of the words still hanging between them.

Victoria had grown up around volatility. Her father’s temper was legendary, a weather system that built and broke and sometimes came back with no warning at all. But Sophie—Sophie Verstappen was a different kind of terrifying. Jos exploded. Sophie observed. Calculated. Waited. And when she struck, it was always surgical.

Jos could knock you over like a thunderclap. Sophie could gut you with a whisper.

And right now, Victoria could see it: that slow, icy rage simmering just beneath her mother’s carefully neutral face.

“She told them,” Sophie said finally, “that she didn’t invite them to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. Not unloved. Not forgotten. Unsafe.”

Victoria swallowed. “Yeah.”

“I have half a mind to call Pascale and tell her exactly what I think of her.”

Victoria blinked. Sophie never said things like that. She didn’t make threats. She made decisions.

“She’s pregnant,” Sophie added, quieter now. “And still had to stand there and explain why her family made her feel like a placeholder in her own life.”

“I have watched Belle love that family with her whole heart,” Sophie said, and now her voice had an edge. “I have watched her shrink herself so they wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. I’ve watched her pretend she doesn’t care that they forget her. That they talk over her. That they diminish everything she is.”

The kettle clicked off, but neither of them moved.

“She was raised to believe love is conditional,” Sophie said, not looking at her. “That it comes after achievements. Or for being quiet. Or for not asking for too much.”

Victoria felt something lodge in her chest.

“She has spent her whole life shrinking to fit into their idea of family,” Sophie continued, her voice steady and lethal. “And they still managed to ignore her.”

Victoria swallowed.

“And then she gets married—to my son—and not one of them is there. And not because she wanted to hurt them, but because she didn’t feel safe with them.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but her tone dropped low. “That’s not something you laugh about over dinner.”

Victoria sat very still.

Because that was the thing about Sophie Verstappen. You never saw her fury coming. She didn’t yell. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t rant or throw things or storm out. She just… waited. Like gravity. Like consequence. And then she spoke with that glacial softness that made you feel every syllable like it might cut.

Victoria suddenly felt like she was sixteen again and had missed curfew by three hours.

“I’m so mad for her,” she said after a pause. “Belle.”

Sophie nodded. “So am I.”

“She deserves better.”

“She has better,” Sophie said. And that time, there was warmth in it. Fierce. Unshakable. “She has Max. And she has us.”

“You like her,” Victoria said, surprised by the softness that slipped into her own voice.

“I love her,” Sophie corrected. “I don’t care how she came into this family. I don’t care what her last name is. Belle is mine now.”

Victoria blinked fast. “God. Okay. You’re mad.”

Sophie looked at her, eyes dark and razor-sharp. “No, Victoria. I’m focused.”

And Victoria—who had seen Jos Verstappen angry enough to make grown men shrink back—felt a shiver run down her spine. Because Jos might yell. He might throw chairs and punch walls.

But Sophie? Sophie waited until your guard was down and then made sure you never forgot the consequences.

Victoria took a sip of her tea when Sophie finally poured it. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “I thought you learned that lesson in 2011.”

Victoria laughed, a little breathless. “Fair.” Then paused. “Do you think they even realize how lucky they are to still be in her life?”

Sophie gave her a look that said no, not yet.

But they would.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: i just left mom’s pretty sure she’s going to have words with your mother in law like. capital W. Italics. Possibly in multiple languages

Max: …oh no what kind of “words”

Victoria: the terrifying kind you know how dad yells? mom doesn’t yell. she plans

Max: okay but like what kind of planning are we talking tea-and-a-pointed-sentence planning or scorched-earth-PR-nightmare planning

Victoria: you know the answer to that she was calm. TOO calm. like she’s already made a list and put a neat little check box next to “remind pascale she’s on thin ice”

Max: oh god

Victoria: on the bright side if belle didn’t feel protected before she definitely has a battle unit behind her now

Max: she does she always did but still maybe warn me if mom starts practicing her diplomatic voice that one always ends in casualties

Victoria: consider this your official warning if Mom puts on pearls and offers to “drop by for a coffee,” RUN

***

Instagram DMs: @sophiekumpen → @charles_leclerc

Sophie: Bonjour, Charles. Would you mind sending me your mother’s number?

Charles:Bonjour… of course. Is everything alright?

Sophie: Everything is fine. I just think she and I should have a little chat. Mother to mother.

Charles: ... Is this about dinner?

Sophie: Among other things. Don’t worry. I’m always very polite. Even when I’m deeply unimpressed.

Charles: ...I’ll send the number. Should I warn her?

Sophie: If you like. Though I find surprise tends to make people more honest. 😊

Charles: Noted.

Sophie: Merci. And Charles? Be kind to your sister. She’s braver than most of you realize.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: Sophie Kumpen just DMed me asking for Maman’s number.

Arthur: wait what. as in Max’s mum????

Lorenzo: …what did she say?

Charles: She said she wants to “have a little chat.” “Mother to mother.” Also said she’s “always polite. Even when deeply unimpressed.”

Arthur: holy shit

Lorenzo: That’s… terrifying. She’s the quiet kind of scary.

Charles: Right?? Jos is like a storm. You see him coming. Sophie is the earthquake under your feet.

Arthur: did you give her the number???

Charles: Yes?? What was I supposed to do?? She said “merci” and then told me to be kind to Belle because she’s braver than any of us know. I was emotionally held hostage.

Lorenzo: She’s not wrong. Belle is braver than any of us. We just didn’t see it.

Arthur: we should’ve. we should’ve made her feel like she didn’t need to be brave around us.

Charles: Well. Now we wait for the Sophie Effect.

Lorenzo: Maman’s not ready.

Arthur: nobody’s ready.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie :Good Morning, Belle! I’m in Monaco on Thursday. Would you like to have lunch?

Belle: Yes. That sounds great. Please. Wherever suits you. (Unless you want to come to ours, I’ll make something.)

Sophie: I’ll let you choose. I just want to see you. 12:30?

Belle: Perfect. I’ll make a reservation. Thank you for asking. I’ve really been wanting to talk to you.

Sophie: As have I. I’ll see you Thursday, sweetheart. Bring that beautiful baby bump. And don’t you dare worry about anything else.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Did you know your mother is in Monaco on Thursday?!

Max: …no? I had no idea. Why? What’s happening? Is she okay?

Belle: She just texted and asked if I wanted to get lunch. No drama. Just lunch. She was very sweet.

Max: That’s good?? I mean, she loves you. I’m just confused why I didn’t know 😅

Belle: Maybe she didn’t want you to stress about it.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: The day has come. The talk is upon us. Mom’s going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Victoria: oh. oh no. is this about Pascale?

Max: She asked Belle to lunch. Alone. So I am expecting her to verbally annihilate Pascale for breakfast.

Victoria: SHE’S GOING TO EAT HER ALIVE IN A TAILORED COAT AND PEARL EARRINGS

Max: I’m honestly more afraid for Pascale than I was for Dad that one time

Victoria: she’s going to do the quiet voice

Max: the lethal quiet voice the "I’m not angry, I’m disappointed and also morally superior" tone

Victoria: may God have mercy on Pascale’s soul (because mom won’t)

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Max: Heads up. My mum is going to be in Monaco on Thursday.

Charles: Oh no.

Max:

I’m 95% sure this is about Sunday.

And your mother.

Charles:

Ah. She asked me for her phone number but clearly she has decided that she needs to talk to her in person…

Max: Yeah. She knows what happened at dinner. I didn’t tell her everything, but I didn’t need to. She’s connected enough dots to be… not thrilled.

Charles: How bad are we talking?

Max: Sophie-bad. Not Jos yelling bad—worse. The calm kind of bad. The “I will destroy you with facts and a smile” kind of bad.

Charles: …she’s going to kill Maman.

Max: She’s not going to kill her. She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.

Charles: Oh god.

Max: Belle has no idea. And I would prefer to keep it that way.

Charles: Understood. I’ll warn the others. (Should we call Lorenzo?? He’s the diplomat.)

Max:

If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: 🚨 Update: Sophie Verstappen is going to be in Monaco on Thursday. It’s not a social visit. It’s a Sophie visit. Max warned me. She knows what happened at dinner. Apparently Max didn’t even tell her everything—but she figured it out. She’s not happy.

Arthur: Okay but what does that mean exactly??

Lorenzo: It means she’s coming in tailored trousers and quiet fury and is about to emotionally dismantle Maman using three polite sentences and an herbal tea.

Arthur: …should we warn Maman??

Charles: That’s what I said.

Lorenzo: If we tell her, she’ll try to control the situation and that’ll make it worse.

Arthur: So we just… let her walk into the Sophie Trap??

Charles: We let Max handle it. He asked us not to say anything to Belle. She has no idea.

Lorenzo: She deserves a break, anyway. Honestly, Sophie giving Maman a long-overdue reality check might be the best gift Belle could get.

Arthur: She’s going to obliterate Maman, isn’t she. .

Charles: Max literally said: “She’s going to sit across from her in linen trousers and a silk scarf and say things that sound perfectly polite and make your mother spiral for weeks.”

Lorenzo: …well.

Arthur: Should we do something?

Charles: Max said not to. I quote: “If Sophie wants to talk, Lorenzo couldn’t broker peace if he tried.”

Lorenzo: Rude, but fair.

Arthur: I vote we hide.

***

Sophie hadn’t come to Monaco to start a fight. She didn’t need to.

People like Pascale Leclerc didn’t respond to raised voices. They responded to subtle shifts in temperature. Gentle truths. Icy clarity.

Sophie’s heels clicked softly against the stone path leading to Pascale Leclerc’s door, the rhythm even, precise. She’d chosen her outfit deliberately: clean ivory trousers, a soft blue blouse, hair pinned back. No jewelry except for her watch. Everything about her appearance said calm, collected, reasonable.

And that, of course, was the point.

Jos could intimidate with volume. Sophie did it with silence, with poise, with a steel-edged smile that didn’t need to raise its voice to be heard.

The door opened.

Pascale blinked at her, startled and still in her dressing robe, a coffee cup in hand.

“Sophie?”

“Bonjour, Pascale,” Sophie said, smooth as ever. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was in Monaco and thought we could catch up.”

“Oh, I—of course, come in.”

Inside, everything was as Sophie expected. Elegant. Neutral. Impersonal.

She took a seat in the sitting room, hands resting lightly in her lap as Pascale flitted to the kitchen to prepare espresso. Sophie’s eyes wandered—not snooping, just observant. Pictures of the Leclerc children lined the mantel. Arthur, Charles, Lorenzo—big frames, central placements. Belle was there too, but off to the side. Cropped in. Slightly tilted behind a decorative candle holder.

That told her everything she needed to know.

Pascale returned with the espresso cups and handed one over with a tentative smile. “Sugar?”

“Always,” Sophie replied.

There was a moment of polite silence.

“I’m not here because something’s wrong,” Sophie said calmly. “I’m here because something has been wrong for a very long time. And I think you need to hear it from someone who isn’t your daughter. I heard about Sunday finner”

Pascale blinked. “From Belle?”

“From my son.” Sophie’s gaze didn’t waver. “Belle doesn’t complain. She survives.”

Pascale flinched. “I didn’t mean to upset her—”

Sophie tilted her head, eyes cool. “You didn’t mean to. That’s always the excuse, isn’t it? You’ve built your whole motherhood on the idea that intention erases harm. It doesn’t.”

Pascale didn’t answer.

“You didn’t mean to forget her birthday. You didn’t mean to dismiss her work. You didn’t mean to make a joke about not being invited to her wedding when you didn’t even ask why you weren’t invited in the first place.”

Pascale went quiet.

Sophie continued, voice calm and exact. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. But you did. Over and over. Because you assumed she’d take it. That she’d understand. That she’d be fine.”

Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands neatly. Her voice didn’t sharpen, but it grew firmer. “I have two children. Max and Victoria.”

Pascale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“They’re just about two years apart. He was born in 1997. She arrived in 1999. They were loud. Competitive. Wild.” A fond smile tugged at Sophie’s lips. “Very much siblings.”

Pascale exhaled. “They’re close in age too, you know. All three of them. Charles was born in 1997. Belle in ’99. Arthur in 2000. They were always… together. Loud. Chaotic. There is no manual for parenting children so tightly packed.”

Sophie let the silence breathe before adding, “And yet somehow, I managed not to forget my daughter.”

Pascale flinched.

“I love both of my children. Equally. Differently. Fiercely. And not once have I ever made Victoria feel like she mattered less than Max. Even when he started winning karting trophies. Even when the spotlight was on him and him alone. I could’ve let him take up all the space. He’s Max Verstappen—how easy would that have been? One child chasing world titles, the other left in the background.”

Sophie folded her hands delicately around her coffee cup.

“I know what it’s like to sit at a dinner table and choose to ask my daughter how her week was. I know what it’s like to remember her birthday even when Max has a race. I know what it’s like to see them both as whole people—equally deserving of being seen, even when the world tries to make it about just one.”

She let that sit between them. Let it sting.

“I don’t think you meant to forget Belle,” Sophie said, her voice soft now. “But you did. For years.”

“I know I haven’t always handled things well,” Pascale said. “Charles’ career took so much of everything. Time. Energy. Attention. And Belle never demanded anything. Not like the boys.”

“That’s the thing about girls like Belle,” Sophie said. “They don’t demand—they just quietly disappear. Until one day, they don’t come back.” Sophie leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just forget your daughter. You erased her. Slowly. Kindly. With a smile. The kind of maternal neglect you can hide behind birthday cards and a roast chicken.”

Tears pricked in Pascale’s eyes. Sophie didn’t flinch.

“Belle is more than Charles’ sister. More than a Leclerc. She’s a woman. A professional. A wife. A soon-to-be mother. And you made her feel like the understudy in a family performance that never had room for her.”

A pause.

“She didn’t invite you to her wedding because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not an oversight, Pascale. That’s a statement. And she was right to make it.”

That landed.

“She didn’t marry Max because of who he is on the grid,” Sophie went on. “She married him because he saw her. Because he made her feel like she mattered. Because he never asked her to shrink.”

A long pause.

“She loves you, Pascale. That’s obvious. It’s why it hurt so much. It’s why she stayed quiet for so long. But she’s not going to beg anymore. And you don’t get forever to fix this.”

“I’ve watched Max fall in love exactly once,” Sophie said softly. “And it was with her. I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at her.”

That stopped Pascale. She said nothing.

“Do you understand what that means, Pascale?” Sophie asked. “Max is not an easy man. He’s brilliant, yes. But he is intense. Demanding. He grew up in a house where love was conditional, where you earned praise by winning. And then Belle—your daughter—walked into his life, and everything changed.”

“She softened him,” Sophie continued. “Not by shrinking herself, not by appeasing him. But by loving him exactly as he is. By never making him feel like he was too much. She steadies him. Sees the parts of him he doesn’t let anyone else see. And because of her, he’s gentler. Happier. Kinder.”

A beat.

She met Pascale’s eyes. “Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how much it means to me, as his mother, that the person he chose makes him feel safe?”

Pascale looked down at her hands.

“She is so good for my son,” Sophie said. “She sees him as Max, not a trophy. And he sees her—really sees her. Your daughter. Your brilliant, kind, fiercely steady daughter.”

She picked up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. “You may not get many more chances to prove you see her too.”

Pascale rose slowly, still blinking.

Sophie reached the door, paused, and turned. “It’s not too late, Pascale. But it’s getting close.”

And with that, she left. Silent, measured, devastating. Like a queen who didn’t need a crown to be feared.

***

Leclerc Brothers Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Charles and Lorenzo)

Arthur:ok but like who’s going to check on Maman

Charles:not me.

Arthur:not me. Enzo, you’re up.

Lorenzo:you’re both cowards. you’ve driven at monaco in the rain and you’re scared of a 60-year-old woman in linen this is above my paygrade

Charles: this is above everyone’s paygrade

Lorenzo:i’m not a diplomat. i can’t emotionally reparent maman.

Lorenzo: if i don’t text back in 20 mins assume the worst and tell Charlotte i loved her

Arthur: Also… maybe don’t bring up Belle for a bit.

Lorenzo: She already said, “I was trying my best.” I didn’t know what to say.

Arthur: Maybe: “Then your best wasn’t good enough”? 😬

Charles: Jesus Christ. Do not say that.

***

Belle was already seated at their usual table at Le Petit Marché by the time Sophie arrived—linen blouse perfectly pressed, sunglasses still perched on her head like she’d walked out of a silent film set in Saint-Tropez.

“Bonjour, sweetheart,” Sophie said, leaning down to kiss both her cheeks before taking the seat across from her. “You look glowing.”

Belle laughed, a little breathless. “I look puffy.”

“You look lovely,” Sophie corrected, settling across from her. She flagged down the waiter with a tilt of her chin. “Still sparkling water?”

Belle nodded. “You remember.”

“I remember everything,” Sophie said lightly, but her eyes lingered on Belle for a second too long to be casual.

They ordered—salads, tartines, nothing too heavy—and by the time the drinks arrived, Belle had finally let herself exhale.

It was easy, being with Sophie. It always had been.

Max’s mother had never made her feel like she needed to be louder, or smaller, or clever in a way that didn’t come naturally. Sophie simply saw her, and for Belle, that was still something of a quiet miracle.

They talked about everything and nothing. It was only when their plates had been cleared and coffee had been brought that Sophie said, in her most casual tone, “And how are you doing? Truly?”

Belle blinked. “I’m… okay.”

Sophie tilted her head.

“Some days are harder than others,” Belle admitted. “But Max makes them better. Always.”

Sophie stirred her coffee once, twice, then set her spoon down with precision. “He’s different with you, you know.”

Belle smiled, ducking her head. “I know.”

“I’ve watched that boy drive through everything—noise, pressure, fire. And still, you’re the first person who made him slow down.” Sophie’s gaze softened. “It’s beautiful. And it scares him.”

Belle was still smiling when she looked up and saw Sophie watching her. Not assessing. Not judging. Just… looking.

“I had coffee with your mother this morning,” Sophie said, tone gentle but deliberate.

Belle blinked. “You did?”

“I did. She didn’t know I was coming. I like the element of surprise.”

Belle set her fork down carefully. “Was she…”

“Wrecked? Defensive? A little of both.” Sophie shrugged. “But I said what I needed to say.”

Belle was silent, unsure if she wanted to ask what that entailed.

Sophie didn’t make her. “I told her that I have a son who drives a Formula One car. And a daughter who has spent most of her life in his shadow. Just like you.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

“But I didn’t forget my daughter,” Sophie continued, voice calm and precise. “I didn’t ask her to shrink so her brother could shine. I didn’t treat her love as smaller just because it wasn’t in a headline. And I certainly didn’t make her feel like the supporting character in her own life.”

Belle looked down at her water glass. Her eyes stung.

“I told her,” Sophie went on, “that my son saw your worth immediately. From the first moment. ”

Belle swallowed, hard. “Sophie…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sophie said. “It was overdue.”

“She loves you, I think,” Sophie said. “But love without effort is just sentiment. And you deserve more than sentiment.”

“Thank you,” Belle whispered.“I’m really glad you’re here,” Belle said softly.

Sophie smiled and reached across the table, brushing a piece of hair from Belle’s cheek. “You are my daughter now. I will always show up.”

Belle blinked fast. “If I cry in this café, Max is going to blame you.”

“He already does,” Sophie said breezily. “Now then we’re going shopping. I saw a pair of flats that are very you, and you’re not leaving without them.”

Which meant Belle left the afternoon with a pair of maternity jeans so well-tailored she could cry, a cashmere cardigan in the softest dove grey, and a little knit hat for the baby that Sophie claimed she couldn’t walk past without buying.

“I spoil the people I love,” she said, like it was obvious.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Charles: Your mother’s intervention has resulted in our mother questioning all her life choices.

Max:Good. She should.

Charles: She’s been sitting on the balcony for an hour Just… staring at the sea Like she’s in an existential French film. Alexandra brought her tea and she whispered "Am I a bad mother?"

Max: Sophie works fast. And thoroughly.

Charles: She didn’t even raise her voice.

Max: She never does. That’s how you know it’s serious.

Charles: Do you think she’s available for hire? We could send her to FIA meetings.

Max: I’ll ask.

Charles: No but seriously I think it got through to her. She hasn’t deflected once today. She’s just… quiet.

Max: That’s progress.

Charles: She’s still herself, don’t worry. She asked if Belle wanted a proper wedding And Arthur started choking on his juice.

Max: Tell your mother our wedding was already perfect. No upgrades needed.

Charles: Tell your mother she might be the only person who’s ever successfully made our mother reflect. It’s like watching a glacier move.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: And has your mother-in-law survived Mom? 👀

Max:

She’s still breathing. But I think she’s in a mild existential crisis.

Victoria: Mild?

Max: She spent twenty minutes staring at the ocean in silence. Then apparently asked Charles if she’s been a bad mother. Then actually listened when he answered.

Victoria: Oh damn. Mom really unleashed the linen-trousered therapy nuke.

Max: She just sipped her espresso and dismantled a whole family system. Belle doesn’t know the half of it.

Victoria: She doesn’t need to. Mom did what moms are supposed to do: Protect their daughters.

Max: I know. And Belle’s glowing today. She had lunch with her and came back with a cardigan, a hat for the baby, and suspiciously expensive flats.

Victoria: That’s the Sophie Kumpen Experience™ Phase 1: espresso. Phase 2: emotional reparenting. Phase 3: light shopping spree.

Max: Tell me you’re related without telling me you’re related.

Victoria: Tell Belle I said she’s now Mom’s favorite. Also tell Pascale not to test her again unless she wants a sequel.

***

The room felt softer this time.

There was no cold weight in her chest, no sense of armor laced tight under her ribs. Belle still sat close to Max, still had one hand resting over her bump, but for once, it wasn’t to brace herself. It was just—her hand. On her stomach. Because their son had been active all morning, and she could feel the light nudges that reminded her, constantly, of the new chapter ahead.

Camille gave everyone the same calm nod as she sat. “Thank you for being here again.”

They all murmured polite hellos. Belle caught her brothers’ expressions—Charles quiet but attentive, Arthur slightly wary, Lorenzo composed as ever. Max, steady and grounded next to her, nodded at Camille. She always liked how seriously he took this.

But it was Pascale who surprised her.

Her mother looked tired—but not defensive. Not braced. She looked… resolved. There were faint lines beneath her eyes, the kind that come from crying. Her hair was pinned back neatly. Her hands folded in her lap. Belle didn’t recognize this version of her. And somehow, that made it harder.

“Before we begin,” Camille said gently, “Pascale mentioned she had something she’d like to say.”

Belle tensed automatically. Max’s pinky brushed hers in silent reassurance.

Pascale looked at her daughter.

“I owe you an apology,” she said quietly.

The words landed like a stone in the water. Clear. Heavy. Real.

Belle didn’t speak.

“I didn’t come here today to justify anything,” Pascale said. “I’ve spent too long doing that. Dismissing things. Telling myself that good intentions were enough.” She exhaled. “They weren’t.”

The silence in the room wasn’t awkward. It was reverent.

“I’ve been thinking a lot this week,” Pascale continued. “About you, Belle. About how many birthdays I missed. How many quiet accomplishments I treated like background noise. I thought I was being fair. Letting everyone find their own way. But I see now—I see that I didn’t give you the same space I gave the boys.”

Belle’s throat tightened.

Pascale looked down, voice softer. “I told myself that because you didn’t complain, you were okay. That you were independent. That you didn’t need as much.” Her voice cracked. “But you did. Of course you did. And I wasn’t there.”

There was a moment—brief, flickering—where Belle’s heart stuttered. She tried to breathe through it.

“I was a good mother to Charles,” Pascale said. “And Arthur. And Lorenzo. But I wasn’t a good mother to you. And I want to say that out loud. I need you to hear it. No excuses. Just truth.”

A beat. Then another.

“And I am so proud of the woman you became anyway.”

That broke something in Belle. She didn’t cry—but the tears burned hot in her chest, where all the old silences used to live.

Pascale looked up, eyes glassy. “Your work is brilliant. Your marriage is strong. And this baby—this baby is so lucky. Because he’ll be raised by someone who knows how to see people. Truly see them.”

Belle exhaled shakily.

“I want to earn my place again,” Pascale said. “Not as your mother by name. But as someone who supports you. Who shows up. Who listens, even when it’s uncomfortable.”

Max stayed quiet beside her. Charles had his hand loosely over his mouth. Arthur blinked hard. Lorenzo watched his mother like he was seeing her clearly for the first time.

Belle’s voice was small. “It hurt.”

“I know,” Pascale whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

833 notes · View notes

natalianovnas · 2 days ago

Text

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request

꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

an ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

. . .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

. . .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

. . .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

#🗞️— ᝰ*. natalianovas writes⭑.ᐟ #୨ৎ . . noelle's work #𓂃 ๋ ࣭ 𔘓 natalianovnas #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #scarlet witch

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lucidfairies · 1 day ago

Text

— mess around (finale!)

part one • part two • part three • part four

synopsis: it wasn't everyday you moved to the south, surrounded by cowboys and their women, but here you were, and your new neighbor simply couldn't get any more enticing

pairing: rancher!sevika x married housewife!reader

warnings: dom!sev, sub!reader, breeding kink, squirting strap, eating it from the back, size/strength kink, praise, borderline voyeurism, pet names, sevika being head over heels in love, fem!sevika if you squint, pregnancy

wc: 3.5k

a/n: Nashik is a wine region in India! it's hinted that Sevika's background is Indian, but I mainly did that for the wine! I'm so sad this is ending, spinoffs are most definitely coming 😭

Marrying Sevika was everything you could’ve ever wanted.

It wasn’t just the wedding, it was everything to do with it. She took you out on her horses after teaching you to ride, to a special little spot on the back corner of her acres of land. It bordered a lake, the mountains and a sunset painting the background, and she dropped to one knee. You didn’t stop crying until the next morning, you were sure, for a number of reasons (most of which were not appropriate).

To make matters even better, she offered to pay for the entire thing, and she kept her word. Anything you wanted was yours, she told you. And so, you had a massive venue, every kind of food, a phenomenal photographer, and the dress of your dreams. It wasn’t like anything you’d experienced in your life.

Sevika wrote her vows like her hand had been blessed by an angel. And when she said them, accent thick and deep from crying, you couldn’t help kissing her on the spot. This was your heaven, your sanctuary, and where you sought to remain for the rest of your life. With her, in her arms, surrounded by all the people that loved you most.

The night only got better when she took you home.

You both created a plan several months prior; you were going to begin the journey of getting pregnant via donor sperm. You, of course, wanted to do whatever the doctor said, but Sevika insisted that you try at home. You hadn’t realized her malicious intentions in the moment, but you were quick to find out that she had no intention of doing things the medical way.

You spent months picking the donor, almost as long as it took for the wedding to come. You insisted that the donor look exactly like Sevika - down to the height and muscle mass. Eyes, hair, bone structure, all of it. And finally, after months of searching, you found a man who met all of the requirements. You cried hard that day, overcome with the feelings that you had truly been blessed.

Unbeknownst to you, she had prepped the strap that morning - the donor cum was already in it and waiting when you returned home, stumbling through the door as she grabbed onto every part of you. Sevika loved your dress, she adored the way you looked in it, but she loved the way it looked on the floor even more.

You were on the bed before you even had time to process what was happening, and soon enough, she had you coming… and coming, and coming, and coming. You often joked about going until the sun rose, but that night, it wasn’t a joke. She kept you in bed until you couldn’t form a coherent thought.

And, of course, your last round had you bent over and her strap buried as deep in you as she could get it. She held you in that position for a moment, obsessing over the sight of your spent cunt still so desperate for her, still sucking her in even though you whined and cried that it hurt and you couldn’t go any longer.

You could’ve blacked out when she grabbed you by your hair and dragged you up until your sweaty back was pressed against her front, whispering in your ear, “y’r gon’ make such a pretty mommy, bunny. ‘s gonna feel so good when I fill you up.” your eyes rolled back and a string of drool rolled out of your open mouth.

She wasn’t kidding, either. The feeling of her filling you and knowing that this time it could stick was an otherworldly one. Just like the first time the two of you messed around with something like this, she plugged you and had you keep it in you, legs in the air to make sure that it stuck.

The two of you spent the next day at home together, since the sperm had to sit in you for several hours. She had planned ahead for this, too, not booking the honeymoon flight until two days after the wedding. She made that day just as good as she made every other; planned a movie marathon, made all your favorite food, smothered you in love.

You were sure, when you landed on the first island of your honeymoon, that it was going to be better than the wedding. You didn’t even know that that was possible.

Sevika handled everything, even though you fought her on it. She carried your bags for you, got the rental car for you, made all of the reservations. She made you sit in the airport while she got the car, insistent that you couldn’t push yourself too much.

She booked an all inclusive stay at a resort, in a bungalow with an unlimited view of the water. The blue traveled as far as the eye could see, and when you leaned over the side of the patio railing, you could see the sand beneath the water. Shells and rocks, fish and seaweed mixed in the clear water, and you were beyond excited.

“Vika,” when you turned around, she was leaning against the doorframe between the room and the patio. “Vika, you’ve outdone yourself. I didn’t think I’d ever get you out of the south.” She grinned, coming to you and wrapping her arms around your waist.

“I’ll do anythin’ for my girl. Even if it means leavin’ the farm.” You giggled, looping your hands around her neck and pulling her in for a kiss. She pulled away moments before you could push your tongue into her mouth, instead opting to spin you by the hips, so that your back was against her front. “Y’know what’d make this view even better, peach?” Her hand slid over your stomach.

“What?” You teased, knowing exactly where she was going.

“You bent over the railing with no panties on,” You gasped, still perplexed by her ability to say such dirty things. “Think we can make that happen, bunny?” Her mechanical arm fisted your hair and pulled it back so that your head was against her chest. You nodded embarrassingly quickly. “Good girl. Go strip f’r me.” She released your hair and slapped your ass to get you going.

Sevika’s strength had always been admirable, but especially now. She had you bent over the railing as she said she would, except she was holding your entire body up and on her face. She was on her knees, eating you with a fervor that you hadn’t ever seen in her before - something more than just eating you out. She had both hands wrapped around your hips, lifting you off of the ground so that she could get the exact angle she wanted.

You could tell that this was about her. She had you at an angle she wanted, she was doing as she pleased for as long as she wanted, and she had such a tight grip on you that you couldn’t even grind back into her face. With the way she was moaning into your clit, you just knew that this was for her. Your cunt was hers.

“Fuck,” she groaned, pulling away from you for a moment, ignoring your whines. “Can’t wait to make you a mommy, y’r all mine.” When you looked back at her, it looked as if she was in a trance. Her pupils were dilated, all but filling the grey of her eyes as she looked at your cunt. “Y’r so.. fuckin’ pretty.”

Your stomach coiled at her words and you clenched around her tongue when she dove back in. She tongue fucked you until you came, whining and whimpering like a bitch in heat. She wasn’t done, though - still consumed by her fucked out craze as she picked you up and placed you over her shoulder with ease.

She kept you in bed for hours, indulging every want of hers that she could. She had you on her fingers, on her strap, on her face, she even let you scissor for the first time, something you were sure she wouldn’t ever be comfortable with.

The days passed slowly, the nights fast. You went on expeditions, lounged at the beach, went into town. Everything you could’ve wanted, she made sure it happened. You did the same for her too, though. Booked a massage to unwind her knots of shoulders, took her out to restaurants you were sure she’d love. In total, the first week was nothing but magic.

The trip was two weeks, with the two of you packing up and leaving the first island at the end of the second week. When the day came to pack, you felt bad for Sevika - your body was so tired, practically leaving you bedridden. You were sure it was from fucking all day every day on top of expeditions, but Sevika had no problem packing for you.

The next island was definitely better than the first. By some miracle, the water was even clearer than the first place, the plants even more luscious and colorful. You couldn’t help yourself from squealing when you arrived at the first beach. “Sevi, can you believe this?”

She wasn’t looking at the water.

Sevika was sure before you that her life was comfortable without another person in it. She liked her house and her dogs, her horses and ducks. She was fine without anything or anyone else. But then there was you. Sun and stars and everything beautiful that exists in the universe. She knew from the moment she saw you that she had to have you.

The moment you appeared at her door, introducing yourself with your stunner of a smile, she knew. Her heart leapt out of her chest and her eyes grew wide, and she hoped you hadn’t noticed. She couldn’t fathom how someone like you simply existed in the house across the street, sweet as sugar and fine as wine.

It was easy for her to be everything you wanted. Anything was better than your ex husband. She loved doing things for you, buying things for you, teaching you to ride her horses and finally buying you a nice pair of boots. As she was everything you wanted, you were everything she could’ve dreamt.

Her love for you was the deepest, purest, most true feeling that her body held. There weren’t any questions, or any ‘what if’s’ when it came to you. You were simple, you were always the right choice. There wasn’t a lifetime that she wouldn’t pick you in, no matter any other option. It would always be you.

“Yeah baby, I believe it,” she grinned at your excitement, fluffing out a towel for you on the warm sand. She wanted to pluck the little blue suit you had on right off and show you just how much she loved you right here on the beach. “I love you, sugar.”

You giggled, taking a seat next to her on the large towel. “You haven’t called me that one in a while.” She laid back smiling, her flesh arm behind her head, mech arm reaching out to hold your hip where you sat on your knees. “I love you more.” You laid with her, and it wasn’t long before you were both sound asleep, together, on the beach.

The final week came and went with haste.

That being said, Sevika surprised you with the nicest dinner date you had possibly ever been on on your final day. She took you shopping in the morning, bought you a dress and some heels, and then took you to the beach again. Your muscles ached of fatigue and it began to worry you.

She helped you get ready when the time came, curling the ends of your hair for you and brushing it out pretty, holding your makeup palettes for you, clipping your heel strap around your ankle. Her knuckles brushed against your spine as she pulled the zipper for your dress, causing you to shiver.

“You look gorgeous,” she murmured while she kissed her way from the spot under your ear down your exposed shoulder. “We ain’t gotta be at dinner f’r a few minutes,” her hands slipped over your hips and pulled you against her.

“Sev, you haven’t even gotten ready,” you spun, placing your well-manicured hands (by her dime) on her chest as her hands found your ass. “Go get ready. We have all the time in the world after dinner.” With a groan, she took her dress bag and went to get ready.

You didn’t actually know what she bought as she did it while you were trying things on, but the moment your eyes landed on her, none of it mattered anymore. She walked out of the bathroom in a tightly fitted button-down and slacks, her shirt unbuttoned deep enough to subtly flaunt her cleavage. Her slacks were widely cut, but they weren’t wide enough to hide the muscle in her legs, putting them effortlessly on display.

“Y’r lookin’ at me like we ain’t gotta be at dinner for a few minutes.” She grinned, tooth gap on display as she leaned against the wall with her arms crossed. “C’mon, peach. Wanna get you somethin’ nice before we go home.” She grabbed your purse for you and kissed you, soft lips finding yours like they were made for them.

The venue was nothing short of breathtaking. The ambiance made it dark, candles and floor lights lighting the room just barely. The patio, where Sevika booked the two of you a table, overlooked the ocean with a magnetic view. You gasped when the hostess saw you to your seat. Sevika pulled your seat out for you as you sat when then took hers, picking up her menu.

When you picked yours up, your eyes widened to the max that they could. “Sev,” you whispered through clenched teeth, “every entree on this menu is at least two hundred dollars.” She smirked, eyes dragging down her menu and then up to your eyes.

“Want the best for my baby. ‘s not that much.” You restrained yourself from crawling across the table and slapping her across the face. “Pick out whatever you want, peach. ‘s not y’r job to think about money anymore.” Your jaw hung open but you were quick to close it, blush coloring your cheeks like a child’s painting.

It was difficult to believe that people ever said “marriage is hard”. Being with Sevika was easy. She knew what you liked and what to order you, she let you talk about whatever you wanted and was interested in it, she explained the farm and your role in it (hint: you didn’t have a role outside of homemaker unless you wanted one).

Conversation came and went with the food, the both of you commenting on the people around you and the dishes you were served. Even the wine, an intelligent conversation you never would’ve had with your ex husband. It was then that she revealed to you that her family owned a winery in Nashik, and you were beyond baffled.

Everything was going swimmingly until your main entrees came out.

The smell of your order had you reeling. The meal was something you loved, and you ordered regularly - but the smell of it this particular time had your insides twisting the second it was on the table. Sevika looked up from her plate before cutting into her food, brows twisting. “Y’okay, baby?” You were paler than she’d ever seen you. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” You pushed your chair back and shot up, clutching your stomach.

“‘m gonna be sick.” You mumbled before running in the direction of the bathroom. You ignored the waiters’ concerned looks, bee-lining it to the bathroom. Sevika was chasing behind you, and caught up with you just in time to grab your hair as you threw up into the toilet.

She rubbed your back and nursed you until you were finished. She wiped your mouth for you and pulled you against her as you slumped against the wall. As she went to speak, she glanced at your expression and paused. “What’s wrong?”

“Vika,” you said quietly, “I think I’m pregnant,” you looked up at her with tears in your eyes - some from puking moments prior, some from the fact that you were sure you were about to be mothers. “It’s been two weeks, my symptoms have started.” You sniffled, and Sevika pulled you into her tightly.

“Holy shit,” you both sat in silence while the gears in her brain ticked. “Holy shit,” she repeated. “You taken a test yet?” You shook your head.

“I wanted to wait and do it with you. I wasn’t sure until this.” Sevika’s head fell back against the stall door, eyes blown wide. “We could go take one now?” You suggested, knowing that you couldn’t go out and eat the food waiting for you.

“You get cleaned up and I’ll pack up the food ‘nd pay. ‘s that okay, sugar?” You nodded and she effortlessly helped you up off the ground, dusting the dirt off your ass while you giggled. She kissed your forehead, still looking like a deer in headlights. “I’ll be back, I love you.” You said it back, and she was off on her mission.

The two of you looked funny in a convenience store at nine o’clock at night. Her jacket was over your shoulders and you were giggling with her as you grabbed four tests. “Why so many?” She looked concerned as you placed test after test in the small cart.

“To be sure. No false positives, y’know?” She hummed. The man at the register gave the two of you strange looks and Sevika glared at him. He was quick to turn away and you smiled. This was it, this was heaven. Standing at a counter, late at night, buying pregnancy tests with your wife. It couldn’t get any better than this.

Sevika paced outside of the bathroom like a mad woman. You peed on all four tests and sat them on the counter and came out to her. You immediately caught her attention and she scanned you, looking for the tests. “Take a breath, they have to sit for a few minutes,” you giggled, walking past her to change.

She stood in the middle of the room simply looking at you for quite a while. “Y’r gonna be the best mommy, y’know that, peach?” You looked away from her, tears welling in your eyes. That was another thing - your emotions were stronger than ever.

“If I’m even pregnant, we don’t know yet,” the alarm rang and you looked at each other.

You made Sevika stand outside the bathroom while you checked the tests. She was more nervous than she had ever been. More nervous than marrying you, more nervous than asking for your hand, more nervous than traveling north to meet your parents and asking for your father’s permission to marry you.

“Close your eyes,” you yelled from the bathroom and she did. “Open your hands, palms up,” she did, and you placed two tests in each hand. “Open,” she opened her eyes and looked down at the four positive tests in her hands.

“Oh my god,” the tests crashed onto the floor as she pulled you into the tightest hug she’d ever given you. “Oh my god, oh my god, y’r pregnant.” she was crying before she could even register it. “‘m gonna be a mom, y’r gonna be a mom. We’re gonna be moms, peach.”

You were both ugly crying. You’d only seen Sevika cry one other time - your wedding day, when you began your walk down the aisle. When she fell into a squat, hands covering her face as she cried. She cried harder today than she had in her entire life.

And she kissed you, lips salty with tears. She kissed you with all the love in the world, every drop of emotion that the world contained. She kissed you to the stars and the moon. She kissed you with a promise. “I love you,” she pulled away, just to kiss you again, “so fuckin’ much, sugar. You mean the world to me.” She pecked your lips before falling to her knees, lifting the shirt that you had changed into to kiss your stomach.

“I love you, Vika.” you cradled her face in your hands, and gazed into the same eyes that you fell in love with all those years ago, on her porch, looking at her dirty boots.

above all else, I owe all success and glory of this series to @sevsgiirl . Sarah is the reason this series exists. they convinced me to write it and bounced ideas back and forth with me for every part. she helped me in every aspect of this and this would not exist with them. please please go follow her and like their work!!! they're a phenomenal author and person 💖

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avengxrz · 1 day ago

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rooster is not a leech (except when he is) ; bradley "rooster" bradshaw [part 1]

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x reader

word count: 10.7k (oops)

summary: bradley bradshaw should’ve gotten the callsign leech with the way he stuck to you since college. he followed you everywhere, through the academy, every flight, every base. you never told him to stop, not really. until one day, you finally said the words—let go. and he did. he actually let go. but when he stopped trying, why did it suddenly feel like something was missing?

warnings: smut (soft, emotional, detailed, consensual), angst, slow burn, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sunshine x grump dynamic, reader is cold and emotionally repressed, rooster is clingy and hopelessly in love, one bed trope, hoodie lore, crying rooster hours, yelling because she cares, post-ejection hospital scene, rooster chokes on jello, thunderstorm cuddles, power outage, forced proximity, quiet confessions in the dark, emotional intimacy, body heat science, rooster being annoying on purpose, reader slowly melting, unresolved tension, rooster finally letting go, second chances, heartache turned comfort, soft love after long silence.

note: english is not my first language, so please be kind. i wrote this in the middle of the night, raining heavily outside while “iris” by goo goo dolls was playing on loop. this is just something that sat in my chest too long and needed to breathe. thank you for reading.

part two

masterlist [part 2]

your call sign is sunbeam.

You knew fate was a smug little bastard the second you walked into the academy’s briefing room and saw him. There he was—Bradley Bradshaw, in the flesh, mustache thicker, smile cockier, and posture still carrying that same brand of infuriating confidence like the world owed him a high-five for showing up. He hadn’t seen you yet. You considered ducking back out. Honestly, if there’d been a vent large enough, you would’ve crawled through it. But your boots were already echoing against the tile, and his head turned.

The moment your eyes met his, the entire room fell away for him. He stood so fast his chair nearly flipped backward. “No way,” he gasped, as if God had delivered you straight to his personal wishlist. “Sunbeam?!”

You resisted the urge to sigh through your teeth. “Bradshaw.”

His grin widened, shameless and bright, like he was starring in some reunion special where only one of you had read the script. “You’re here! I can’t believe you’re actually here! I thought—well, I hoped, but I didn’t know—I mean, I put your name into that database search like five times just to—”

“Bradley.”

He shut up. Briefly. His eyes scanned you, like he was checking for damage, like the four years hadn’t just been years—they were famine, exile, and he was seeing light for the first time. And you? You just stared at him. Quiet. Blank. Letting the silence stretch in that wonderfully uncomfortable way only you had ever mastered. Because if you’d learned anything in college, it was this: if you waited long enough, Bradley would start talking again just to fill the silence.

You weren’t wrong.

“God, you haven’t changed a bit. Still got that resting glare, huh?” He nudged your shoulder like you were best friends reunited at a wedding, not two adults thrown together again by cruel chance. “Still wear those dead-inside eyes like a badge of honor. I missed that. I mean, I missed you, obviously. But that too.”

You didn’t answer. Just blinked at him. Long and slow.

“Right, sorry, I should shut up.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, and sat back down, clearly not shutting up at all. “I just… I can’t believe we’re finally gonna fly together again.”

And oh, did you fly. Every assignment. Every damn deployment. It didn’t matter if the mission was recon, escort, or hell-dive—you could bet your last ration bar that Rooster would be there.

You could’ve gotten assigned a WSO from a completely different squad, and somehow Bradley would pull strings or trade favors or “coincidentally” end up slotted as your wingman.

There were times you wondered if he bribed someone. Or if he had dirt on every CO.

Maybe he was the dirt.

It got to the point where you stopped asking how or why. You just accepted it. Like gravity. Like taxes.

Like the fact that every time you zipped up your suit, you’d hear his voice chattering from the locker next to yours, saying something like, “Your helmet looks good today. Real aerodynamic.” Or, “Did you sleep okay? You looked a little murdery this morning—more than usual.”

At first, you thought the others would question it. They didn’t. They just got used to it. Because by the time the Dagger Squad came around—years into this strange, lopsided partnership—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had cemented his role as the enthusiastic golden retriever to your chronically unimpressed house cat.

Phoenix noticed it first. “So, uh… does he always talk that much?”

You stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Hangman snorted. “And she always look at him like she’s mentally measuring his coffin.”

“Also yes,” Phoenix replied, eyes wide.

They watched, in horrified fascination, as Bradley launched into a detailed monologue about some new band he found on vinyl, how the drummer reminded him of you, how maybe you two should start a band—“You could be the bassist. You look like a bassist”—all while you slowly chewed a protein bar and stared blankly at the wall behind him. You weren’t even nodding. Just enduring.

It wasn’t love. Not on your end. At least not obviously. It was more like… tolerance. Deep, patient, bone-deep tolerance for the man who had once given you a call sign like Sunbeam and then made it everyone else’s problem.

“Why does he call you that?” Coyote asked once, during a long deployment.

You didn’t even look up from your maintenance checklist. “Because he doesn’t shut up.”

Across the hangar, Bradley was mid-ramble about constellations and how you once told him Orion was overrated.

“And she says it like she’s bored,” he said proudly. “But I know she’s secretly passionate about space. She just hides it like everything else.”

You didn’t correct him. You never did. Not once.

It became a game. For them. Not for you, obviously. You were simply trying to live your life in peace and silence and protein bars. But for the Dagger Squad, observing Rooster’s one-man devotion tour had turned into the squadron’s favorite reality show.

They started keeping score.

“He’s said her name fifteen times in the last hour,” Payback whispered, eyes wide, jotting something on a little notepad. “That’s a new record.”

“He made her coffee again,” Fanboy pointed out. “Three creams, no sugar. That’s love. Or a cry for help.”

“I think he’s nesting,” Phoenix added, arms crossed as she watched Rooster adjust your seat in the jet before you even got to the cockpit. “Like a bird. Bringing shiny things to the one he’s trying to mate with.”

You were aware of all of it. Every look. Every snort. Every dramatic reenactment of your interactions that happened two feet away, like they thought you were deaf just because you refused to engage. And still—still—you said nothing. Because saying something would validate their nonsense. And you? You didn’t negotiate with chaos.

Bradley, of course, was blissfully unaware. Or worse—he was aware, and just didn’t care.

One morning, he brought you a bagel. Not just a bagel.

A custom bagel. The exact one you used to get back in college from that one overpriced hipster café with the annoying tip jars labeled “Star Wars” vs “Star Trek.” That café had shut down five years ago. You had mentioned it in passing once, probably half-asleep and pissed off about the lack of decent breakfast on base.

But somehow, Bradley had remembered.

“Boom,” he said with a grin, holding out the bagel like it was a peace offering to a feral cat. “Sesame, toasted, cream cheese, pepper flakes, and a little honey. Just like old times.”

You stared at the bagel. Then at him. Then back at the bagel.

“Did you rob someone?”

He gasped, wounded. “Excuse you, I couriered that. Special delivery from San Diego. You’re welcome.”

You took the bagel. Not because you wanted to encourage him. But because you were starving and he was right. It was just like old times.

“You didn’t have to,” you mumbled, biting into it.

He lit up like a damn Christmas tree. “But I wanted to. Anything for my Sunbeam.”

Phoenix choked on her coffee across the room. You didn’t even blink.

Later that week, Bradley rearranged the locker room just so yours would be next to his again. You never agreed to this. You never asked for this. But there it was—your nameplate suddenly moved, your gear transferred neatly, and a sticky note taped to your helmet that said:

“i missed you. this is cohabitation now. ~r.”

You stared at it for a solid minute.

Then you calmly peeled the note off, walked over to Bradley—who was stretching unnecessarily in front of a mirror like some tragic Top Gun calendar shoot—and handed it back to him without a word.

He took it, smiled, and folded it into his wallet like it was a love letter.

Hangman witnessed the whole thing and immediately muttered, “I’m telling you, it’s like watching a wolf try to flirt with a statue.”

Phoenix nodded solemnly. “No. It’s worse. It’s like the statue lets him.”

You learned to accept certain facts as constants in your life. The sun would rise in the east. Gravity would do its thing. And Bradley Bradshaw would find a new, profoundly unnecessary way to remind everyone within a five-mile radius that he knew you first.

“Oh yeah, Sunbeam used to fall asleep in lectures with her eyes open,” he was saying one afternoon on the tarmac, while you methodically checked the flaps on your F/A-18. “Scared the hell outta me the first time. I thought she died. Turns out she just disengages from reality like a light switch. Isn’t that adorable?”

You didn’t even pause. You just yanked the panel open a little harder than necessary.

“I have not known peace,” you muttered under your breath.

“Did you say something?” he chirped, leaning his elbows on your wing like you were having a moment.

“She did,” Hangman answered for you, appearing with a smirk and a handful of popcorn. “She said she’s actively drafting your murder in her head.”

Rooster only laughed. “Classic Sunbeam.”

And then there was the base-wide Rooster Alert System—coined by Phoenix—because no matter where you went, he showed up. Like clockwork. Like taxes. Like glitter at a children’s birthday party.

You went for a run at six a.m.? There he was, jogging up beside you, too chipper for someone who hadn’t had caffeine yet. You went to grab a snack from the vending machine? He popped out of the hallway like some sort of clingy airman jack-in-the-box, saying, “You want my granola bar? It’s peanut butter. Just like you like.”

You hadn’t told him your favorite granola flavor in years.

“Do you have, like… a tracker on her?” Bob asked once, dead serious.

Bradley just smiled. “No. But her soul and mine are cosmically linked.”

You stared at him. “I will un-cosmically unlink us.”

He winked. “You always say that.”

The worst part wasn’t even the talking. It was the commentary team he’d unknowingly recruited. Dagger Squad started giving running analysis like it was an Olympic sport.

“Oh look, he’s fixing her helmet strap again,” Payback muttered, crouched beside Fanboy and Coyote behind a storage crate. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Still no ‘thank you,’ though,” Fanboy whispered, scandalized. “Do you think she’s gonna snap and shove him into the ocean?”

“Honestly, I think she’d miss him,” Coyote said. “But only in, like… a ‘this is too quiet now’ kind of way.”

You knew they were watching. You knew every move you made around Rooster was being documented like a wildlife special: Here we see the elusive Grumpus Sunbeamus in her natural environment, ignoring the over-affectionate Roosterus Clingicus.

“Hey,” Bradley said one morning during pre-flight checks, gently brushing something invisible off your shoulder, “you know, if you ever wanted to hang out outside of training, I’m down.”

You glanced at him. “We hang out every day.”

“No, I mean like... not at work. Like movies. Or drinks. Or mini-golf.”

“Mini-golf?” you deadpanned.

“Okay, bad example. But you’d look good swinging a putter.”

You blinked at him once. Then turned away without a word.

“...She’s thinking about it,” he whispered behind you.

“No, she’s not,” Phoenix called from across the room.

You were in the hangar, tucked beside your jet with the sun dripping low through the open bay doors. The golden hour light slanted across the concrete floor like a mood filter, softening the sharp edges of the world—not that you noticed. You were busy swapping out a busted nav panel, hands deep in wires, trying to make sense of a system that didn’t want to be understood. Peaceful. Focused.

Then came the footsteps.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. You could tell it was Bradley from the rhythm. Always just a little too heavy on the heel, a little too eager in the pacing, like even his feet couldn’t wait to be near you.

“Hey, Sunbeam,” he said softly, like he thought if he said it quieter, maybe this time you’d say his name back.

You grunted in reply, not pausing your work.

He sat down cross-legged across from you, his back against a crate, like this was storytime and you were the campfire. A moment of silence passed. You savored it. It was rare.

Then, tragically, he began.

“I was thinking the other day,” he said, which was always a bad sign, “if we ever weren’t in the Navy, like, say we were just... two regular civilians, I think you’d run a bookstore.”

You stopped moving. Not because you were touched. But because—what?

He nodded seriously, gesturing with both hands. “Yeah. Like a tiny one. Corner lot. Dusty shelves, quiet jazz. You’d sit behind the counter and judge people’s taste in fiction. Maybe knit. Maybe glare at people who talk too loud.”

You stared at him. “You think I knit?”

He grinned. “You look like you secretly knit. Like angry knitting. Spite scarves.”

You went back to your wires.

Bradley leaned his head back against the crate and smiled up at the ceiling like it had the answers to everything. “And I’d come in every day and buy the weirdest books just so you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like, ‘That author’s a hack.’ And I’d be like, ‘Yeah, but I thought the cover was neat.’”

You didn’t respond.

“Then I’d ask you what you’re reading, and you’d pretend not to answer, but you’d leave a copy by the register the next day. Dog-eared. And that’d be your way of saying I’m not the worst.”

You slowly looked up. “Are you high?”

He laughed, full and loud, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just on life. And maybe jet fuel fumes. Hard to tell.”

You let your gaze settle back on the panel. “You’re a lunatic.”

“And you’re still talking to me,” he said, utterly unbothered. “Progress.”

Silence.

Then, casually, he pulled something from the inside pocket of his flight suit and held it out to you. It was a patch.

Not just any patch—your callsign, Sunbeam, stitched in your usual yellow and burnt orange, except this one had a small embroidered rooster just below it. Not his full patch, not Rooster, just a tiny little chicken, peeking out smugly like it lived there.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He raised his eyebrows. “What? I thought it was funny. And, you know... accurate. You may be a Sunbeam, but you’re my Sunbeam.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I will burn you alive.”

He smiled so bright it could’ve powered a damn aircraft carrier. “See? There’s that sunshine.”

You weren’t trying to make him jealous.

In fact, you weren’t trying to do anything beyond finishing your post-flight diagnostics and maybe, maybe, drink a bottle of water without someone appearing like a golden retriever with boundary issues. But Rooster had wandered off for a second—probably to go flirt with the vending machine or whatever it is he does when he disappears—and in that fleeting, blessed moment of quiet, Bob slid into the space beside you with a nod and a clipboard in hand.

“Your rudder inputs were clean,” he said, calm and matter-of-fact. “Flawless on descent. You clipped the throttle smoother than I’ve ever seen you do.”

You glanced up at him. “You were watching?”

Bob shrugged, faintly smiling. “You always fly tight. Makes it easy to watch. Hard to miss.”

It wasn’t a line. Bob didn’t do lines. He said it like it was a scientific observation. And maybe that’s why you let the corner of your mouth twitch upward, just for a second, before going back to your own list.

Bob tapped his pen against his thigh, hesitating a beat. “I was also wondering…” he began, voice low, “did you ever finish that book you brought on deployment? The one with the red cover. Looked like poetry.”

You blinked. No one ever asked about the books. Rooster always called them your “silent weapons” and then launched into his usual running bit about how your “resting murder face” should be studied by psychologists.

But Bob? Bob noticed the cover color.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Finished it last week. It was better than I expected. Kind of hurt, but in a good way.”

He nodded. “I like those kinds of stories. The ones that don’t try to heal you, just… sit with you in the dark for a while.”

That made you pause.

No one ever talked like that to you. At least, not without trying to attach a tracking device and propose marriage in the same breath.

“Yeah,” you said again, softer this time. “Exactly that.”

Bob smiled. Then, surprisingly, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared paperback, holding it out like a peace offering. “This one’s like that. If you’re interested.”

You took it, carefully flipping through a few of the worn pages. The lines were underlined. Notes in the margins. A few faint coffee rings on the corner.

He read this. He lived in it.

Your fingers brushed the cover as you turned it over. “Thanks, Bob.”

That’s when you heard it.

The sound of a very specific, dramatic throat-clear. The kind that belonged to someone who absolutely could not stand being left out of a conversation for longer than two consecutive minutes.

“Wow,” Rooster said, standing behind you both with his arms crossed and his eyebrows fighting for dominance. “It’s, uh… real book club hours over here, huh?”

You didn’t turn around. “Go away, Bradley.”

“Funny,” he muttered, walking around to insert himself directly into your line of sight. “I leave for two seconds and suddenly Bob’s got you talking like you’re not legally required to ignore everyone on this base.”

“She talks to me all the time,” Bob said gently, still not picking up the battlefield tension radiating off Rooster.

“Oh I’m sure she does,” Rooster bit back, plastering on a grin that was two shades too bright. “Sharing books, huh? That’s cute. Real deep. Real emotional. I should’ve known it was the poetry that would finally crack her.”

You turned a page in Bob’s book. “It wasn't poetry. It was the silence.”

Rooster’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. Just a heartbeat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels like a sulking toddler denied dessert.

Bob, bless his soul, remained oblivious. “I just thought she might like it,” he offered. “It’s kind of slow-paced. Thoughtful.”

“Oh yeah?” Rooster said, voice climbing an octave. “That’s cool. I’ve got a book too. It’s a graphic novel. About a fighter jet that turns into a robot. Very thoughtful.”

You looked up slowly. “Are you… jealous of Bob?”

He gasped. “What? No! Jealous? Me? Of Bob? Pfft.”

Bob tilted his head. “You sound kind of jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re pouting,” you said plainly.

“I don’t pout.”

You stared at him. He pouted harder. It was like watching a Labrador lose a game of fetch to a cat.

There was a long silence. Rooster shifted again, clearly realizing this wasn’t going the way he planned.

“I brought you jerky,” he tried weakly, holding up a sad little plastic bag like it was a peace treaty. “Peppercorn. Your favorite.”

Bob blinked. “She doesn’t like peppercorn. She likes teriyaki.”

Rooster’s mouth dropped open like he’d just been stabbed.

You took the jerky without comment and handed it to Bob, who pocketed it politely.

Rooster stared at you. “Et tu, Sunbeam?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Stop using Latin. You don’t know what that means.”

“I know betrayal when I see it.”

You stood, tucking the book under your arm. “You gonna cry?”

Rooster opened his mouth, then closed it. Then, he opened it again.

Then, with the grace of a truly defeated man, he muttered, “Maybe a little.”

And as you walked away with Bob, calmly discussing character development and sentence structure, Bradley Bradshaw stood behind you like a kicked puppy, arms crossed, muttering to himself about how the real emotional literature was found in comic books.

The book was only the beginning.

After that day, Bob started showing up more. Not in a clingy, leech-on-your-soul kind of way. Just… consistently. Quietly. He had a rhythm to him, like good jazz. Never pushed. Never demanded. Just offered something—an observation, a book, a coffee—and let the silence hold space instead of filling it with noise.

You liked that. And Rooster hated it.

You and Bob sat together in the ready room during briefings now. It wasn’t a planned thing. You just always seemed to pick the same seats. And when you talked—God forbid—he listened. Actually listened. Rooster, three seats over, always looked like he was trying to solve calculus in his head. Eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching against his notepad, occasionally glancing over with the tragic longing of a romcom protagonist who’d just realized the girl next door was on a date with someone normal.

You caught him staring during debrief once. You didn’t say anything.

Bob noticed, though. Because of course he did.

“He okay?” he asked under his breath.

You didn’t look up from your checklist. “He’ll survive.”

“You sure?”

You shrugged. “He survived four years without me. He’ll manage four feet.”

Bob smiled faintly and passed you his pen when yours ran out of ink. You accepted it with a nod. Meanwhile, Rooster watched from across the room, gnawing on his highlighter like it had personally wronged him.

It only got worse from there.

You started spending breaks with Bob in the hangar’s quiet corner, the one where the breeze came through just enough to keep things cool, where the light slanted perfectly across the concrete and made everything feel a little less like a military base and a little more like… a place.

Bob brought crossword puzzles sometimes. Sometimes you filled them out together in companionable silence. Other times, you talked—about nothing important. Music. Stories. Flight technique. The exact point at which caffeine became counterproductive for mental clarity. Bob had theories.

One afternoon, you were halfway through filling in the word equilibrium when Rooster walked by with two coffees in hand and a bounce in his step that deflated immediately when he saw who you were sitting with.

“Oh,” he said loudly, pausing mid-stride. “You guys are here. Together. Again. That’s… great.”

You didn’t even look up.

Bob did, offering his usual warm little nod. “Hey, Bradley.”

“Bob,” Rooster said, voice tight as he dramatically sipped from one of the coffees. “Hey. You want one of these, Sunbeam? I brought options. Vanilla cold brew or, uh… hazelnut.”

“I already got her one,” Bob replied, lifting the cup next to you. “Plain black. No sugar.”

Rooster blinked. His whole world shattered in a single moment. “…She drinks it black?”

You finally glanced up. “Since college.”

“I—okay.” Rooster sat down on the bench beside you like he’d just been told Santa wasn’t real. “I’ve been putting cinnamon syrup in your drinks for years.”

“I’ve been pouring them out for years,” you replied evenly.

Bob choked on a laugh and turned it into a cough. Rooster looked devastated.

“You could’ve said something.”

“You don’t listen.”

“Yes I do!”

You leveled him with a look. “What’s my favorite author?”

“Uhhh…” He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at Bob in betrayal. “Okay, that’s not fair, he’s a librarian in human form—”

“He’s a WSO.”

“And a book nerd. You’re emotionally cheating on me.”

“I was never emotionally dating you.”

“You’re emotionally something-ing me.”

You ignored him and went back to the crossword. Bob leaned closer, scanning the half-filled boxes.

“‘Eight-letter word for a balanced state of opposing forces,’” he murmured. “You already nailed it.”

“Equilibrium,” you said at the same time, writing the last few letters in.

Rooster slumped. “You guys even finish each other’s crosswords now?”

You didn’t answer. Bob smiled.

Rooster pouted so hard he could’ve powered a wind turbine off the force of his sigh.

“Fine,” he said, dragging himself up off the bench like gravity had it out for him personally. “I’ll just… go polish my plane alone. Like a sad, betrayed, caffeinated man.”

“Bye,” you said without inflection.

He paused mid-walk.

“…Love you too.”

Bradley was glaring.

Not just watching. Not idly observing or casually monitoring or curiously glancing.

No. He was full-on, arms-crossed, mouth-twisted, jaw-tight glare mode, posted up at the end of the Hard Deck bar like a tragic movie villain who’d been double-crossed by love and was now plotting world domination… or, at the very least, someone’s mild emotional inconvenience.

Because there you were. Again. With Bob.

Sitting in a corner booth with those damn low lights softening your edges, like the universe was putting a spotlight on how not miserable you looked without him. You were leaning in slightly, listening to Bob say something—something no doubt devastatingly intelligent and weirdly charming in that quiet way Bob had—and then, you laughed.

Bradley’s stomach sank like an aircraft carrier hitting a minefield.

“She’s laughing,” he muttered into his beer.

“She’s allowed to laugh,” Phoenix said beside him, not looking up from her pool cue.

“Yeah, but not like that.” He gestured vaguely, eyes locked on the way your shoulders shook with amusement. “That’s her real laugh. The one with the nose scrunch. I haven’t seen that laugh in weeks.”

Coyote leaned in on the other side, nursing his drink. “Dude. They’re just talking.”

“They’re bonding.”

“They’ve been bonding for months,” Fanboy added from across the table. “We all see it. You’re the only one acting like it’s a crime.”

Bradley groaned and thunked his forehead against the bar. “Why Bob, though? I mean, Bob? I’ve been trying to get her to laugh for like a decade and all it took was one poetry book and a crossword?”

“Bob listens,” Phoenix said.

“I listen!”

“No, you monologue,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

He sat up, eyes wide. “Are you saying I talk too much?!”

Everyone just looked at him.

He deflated. “Okay, fine, yes, I know. I get excited. I have thoughts. And feelings. And deep emotional convictions about her, alright?! Is that a crime?”

“Bradshaw,” Hangman drawled as he approached with his beer, “I say this with love. You look like a golden retriever who just watched their owner adopt a cat.”

“I’m gonna throw up,” Bradley muttered, dramatically dropping his head into his hands. “She hates me now. I ruined it. I should’ve played it cool, should’ve just been normal, but noooo, I had to follow her around like a lost duckling for the past ten years, and now she’s emotionally defected to Bob.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Bob said calmly, appearing out of nowhere with an empty glass in hand.

Bradley shrieked. “JESUS CHRIST—how long were you standing there?!”

“Long enough,” Bob said, unfazed, as he slid the glass onto the bar and nodded politely at Penny.

Everyone stared.

“Where’s—where’s she?” Bradley asked, panic rising in his voice like a kettle about to blow.

“She went to the jukebox.”

Bradley practically jumped off the barstool. “She likes music.”

Bob nodded. “Yes. Most people do.”

“I could’ve picked her song,” Bradley said, borderline hysterical. “I have playlists. Playlists, Bob. For her. One’s called ‘Sunbeam Vibes’. It’s acoustic. It has themes.”

“That’s… a lot,” Bob offered carefully.

Bradley slumped back down, burying his face into his crossed arms. “She’s never gonna choose me,” he said, voice muffled. “Not like this. I’m just a background character in the Bob Show now.”

Phoenix patted him on the back. “You’re not a background character.”

“Really?” he sniffled.

“No. You’re like… the comic relief that accidentally makes people cry near the end.”

“I don’t want to be the comic relief! I want to be her main character!”

“You’re pouting,” Bob observed gently.

“I know!” Bradley groaned. “I hate it! But I miss her and she’s right there and she looks so happy without me and she laughed at your joke, which isn’t fair because I’m the funny one.”

“She didn’t laugh at my joke,” Bob said softly. “She laughed at yours.”

Bradley’s head snapped up. “What?”

“I just reminded her of something you said during a mission years ago,” Bob replied, casual, kind. “The one where you told the tower that ‘Sunbeam’s got it handled and I’m just here for moral support.’ She remembered it. Thought it was cute.”

The whole squad went quiet.

Bradley blinked. “She remembered that?”

“She remembers a lot more than you think.”

And then Bob turned, grabbed his refill from Penny, and headed back toward you—no rush, no smugness, just that Bob energy. Steady. Present. Unshakable.

Bradley watched him go. Watched you look up as Bob slid back into the booth. Watched the small smile you gave him. It wasn’t the one you gave Bradley, no—but it was real. It was warm.

He sighed and let his forehead fall back to the bar. “God,” he whispered. “I should’ve been quieter.”

Phoenix handed him a napkin. “You still can be.”

He stared at it. “It’s too late. She’s in Bob’s book club now. I don’t even know how to read emotions, let alone poetry. I’m a golden retriever in a library.”

“No,” Coyote said, finally breaking into a grin. “You’re a rooster in love.”

And for the first time that night, Bradley didn’t argue.

He just sighed.

And pouted.

And whispered, “Do you think she still wears that hoodie I gave her back in college? The one with the chicken on it?”

“Absolutely not,” Phoenix said. “Burned it.”

Bradley groaned again. But then—barely, faintly—he heard your laugh ring out again from across the bar. And he smiled. Just a little. Even if it hurts.

Rooster woke up that morning with a feeling.

Not a bad one. Not a gut-clenching we’re-about-to-fly-into-a-hurricane kind of feeling. More like a warm, fluttery, I’m-about-to-see-my-person-and-remind-them-we’re-destined kind of feeling. He even did his hair extra nice. Perfect swoop. Subtle cologne. Crisp undershirt. His callsign patch had been ironed the night before.

Because today? Today was training flights.

And historically—historically—Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw had always been paired with you.

It was a known fact. A sacred tradition. A celestial bond. Sunbeam and Rooster: light and feathers. Grit and chaos. Sugar and salt. He talked, you blinked. It worked. The whole damn Navy knew it.

So when Maverick started calling out the pairings for the day, Rooster stood tall with all the pride of a man seconds away from hearing his name next to yours.

“Sunbeam,” Mav said, scanning the list.

Bradley straightened his back. Smiled.

“You’re with Hangman.”

Rooster’s face broke.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Tilted his head slightly like maybe his ears malfunctioned. “Excuse me?” he squeaked.

Hangman, already walking toward you, shot Rooster a wink over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me too much, partner.”

You didn’t react. Didn’t even look at Rooster. You just nodded, grabbed your helmet, and walked toward your temporary jet like this wasn’t the biggest betrayal since Brutus took a dagger to Caesar’s spine.

Rooster stood frozen. Still waiting. Still hoping. Still trying to comprehend what parallel universe he had just been dropped into.

“Rooster,” Mav said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied tightly.

“You’re with Coyote.”

Bradley nodded. Then turned directly into a wall.

Not on purpose. He just… misjudged. That’s how scrambled he was. That’s how personally wounded he felt. He ricocheted off the wall with a muttered “I’m fine,” and stomped after Coyote like a sulky six-year-old being told he couldn’t sit next to his crush on the bus.

The flight was fine.

Which is to say, it was technically successful, but Rooster flew like a man emotionally concussed. Missed a cue. Forgot to say “copy” once. Got called out by Mav for radio silence.

And the whole time, you and Hangman were in the sky above him, probably outmaneuvering clouds and swapping war stories like a functional pair of professionals. Disgusting.

Back on the ground, Bradley ripped off his helmet and tossed it onto the bench like it had personally orchestrated his heartbreak.

“Everything okay?” Coyote asked carefully.

Rooster slumped down, legs splayed, arms limp at his sides. “She didn’t even look at me.”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Coyote blinked. “You mean your flight partner for life who was assigned someone else for literally one session?”

“It’s the principle,” Rooster said, voice raw with indignation. “We have history. We’ve got muscle memory. Telepathy. I look left—she’s already flying formation. I tap the stick—she knows I want to be evasive. I say ‘Hey, I saw this cool vinyl shop last week,’ she says nothing, but she hears me.”

Coyote snorted. “You need a nap.”

“I need her,” Rooster muttered, head falling back against the wall. “I need her flying with me. Not Jake ‘I-do-barrel-rolls-for-attention’ Seresin.”

Hangman chose that exact moment to stroll in, still in flight gear, grinning like a cat who just got adopted by a lactose-intolerant mouse.

“Gotta say,” Jake drawled, “Sunbeam? Hell of a wingwoman. Smooth, precise, unshakable. No unnecessary chatter. Dream partner.”

Rooster’s eye twitched.

Jake leaned in a little closer. “She even said my turns were ‘efficient.’ I almost cried.”

Bradley stood so fast the bench screeched. “She complimented you?”

“I mean,” Jake shrugged, “she didn’t say much, but I felt it. Like… spiritually.”

Rooster made a noise somewhere between a growl and a wounded gasp. “She’s never complimented me. Not once.”

“That’s because you never shut up long enough to earn one,” Phoenix called from the other end of the locker room.

“I’m expressive!” Rooster snapped.

“You’re emotionally codependent,” she said. “And clingy.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t mind.”

“She paired with Hangman without blinking.”

Rooster looked like someone had just stolen the sun.

“…You think she’s tired of me?” he asked, voice suddenly small. “Like, actually tired?”

Coyote raised an eyebrow. “Like, hypothetically?”

“No. Like, in reality. What if… what if all this time I’ve been this loud, flappy goose honking around her while she’s just quietly praying for Bob or Hangman or literally anyone else?”

No one answered. Which only made the silence worse.

Rooster slumped again, defeated. “I peaked in college. I was the golden retriever who imprinted on a stray cat, and she’s been tolerating me like a recurring allergic reaction ever since.”

Hangman patted his shoulder. “That’s the most self-aware thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m gonna change,” Rooster whispered.

Phoenix raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“I’m gonna stop talking.”

“…For how long?”

“Forever.”

“You won’t make it twenty minutes.”

“I will if it means she misses me,” he said dramatically. “I’m gonna be mysterious. Brooding. Emotionally distant. Like Bob, but with better sunglasses.”

They all stared.

“Watch,” Rooster said, dragging a hand down his face. “Next time she walks into the room, I won’t even look up.”

He turned and faced the wall. Silence.

And then the door creaked open, you walked in.

The room went still.

Rooster clenched his jaw. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

You walked right past him, looked at Coyote, and said, “Hey. You left your notes on the runway.”

Then, walked out.

Coyote blinked. “Thanks.”

Bradley slowly turned back to the group, face pale. “She didn’t even see me.”

“She did,” Bob said from behind a locker door. “She just didn’t acknowledge you.”

Rooster whimpered.

Bradley was dying.

Not physically. No, he was in perfect health. Heart rate steady. Vitals fine.

Emotionally? Spiritually? Existentially?

Gone. Absolutely obliterated.

Because you—his Sunbeam, his ride-or-die, his emotional support stoic—were laughing.

With Jake Seresin. In public. In the middle of base. In broad daylight with witnesses and everything.

Bradley was crouched behind a Humvee, sunglasses askew, clutching a protein bar he no longer had the will to eat.

“What the hell are they even talking about?” he whispered to Bob, who had unfortunately been dragged into this surveillance operation against his will.

Bob squinted from behind his own sunglasses, arms crossed. “It looks like Hangman’s telling her a story.”

“A story? What kind of story?”

“I don’t know, man. A funny one?”

Bradley squinted harder. You were leaning against the fence, arms crossed, lips twitching as Jake animatedly gestured like he was reenacting a high-speed maneuver. You said something. Jake barked out a laugh. And then—

You smiled. A real one.

Not the forced, strained kind you gave Rooster when he followed you around quoting Top Gun lines in his best impression of “charm.” No—this was casual. Comfortable.

Like you enjoyed him. Bradley felt like he was going to throw up.

“I have to stop this,” he muttered, standing abruptly.

Bob caught his arm. “What are you gonna do? Run over there and declare your eternal love? In front of Hangman?”

Bradley flinched. “No. I was just… gonna say hi. Casually. Like a guy who also exists in this general area.”

Bob didn’t let go. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I always sweat when I’m emotionally compromised!”

Bob sighed. “Bradley. Look. Maybe she’s just… being friendly.”

“Sunbeam doesn’t do friendly,” he hissed. “She does annoyed. And cold. And occasionally concerned when someone’s bleeding.”

“She was friendly with me.”

“That’s because you speak in whispers and smell like libraries!”

Bob blinked. “Thanks?”

Bradley ran a hand down his face and peeked again.

You were sitting now.

You were sitting with Hangman. Oh no.

Oh no.

Hangman said something else—probably something stupid and Texan—and you laughed. Not the nose-scrunch one, but a shoulder-shaking one.

Bradley staggered back like he’d been shot.

“She’s falling in love with him,” he whispered, clutching his chest. “I’m gonna die. I’m gonna be replaced by a man who wears cologne to flight training.”

Bob patted his shoulder. “She’s not falling in love with anyone. She probably just likes his stupid story.”

“What story could he possibly tell that’s better than the one where I saved her from a malfunctioning cockpit door and got a concussion?!”

“You also threw up on her boots that day.”

“That was months later! She knows that!”

Bob just gave him a look.

Bradley crumbled.

That night at the Hard Deck, Rooster didn’t sit with the squad.

He sat at the bar. Alone. Nursing a whiskey he didn’t even want, sulking like a man who just watched the love of his life be wooed by the human embodiment of a country song.

The worst part? You weren’t even doing it on purpose.

You weren’t leaning into Jake’s side. You weren’t flipping your hair or batting your lashes. No, you were just… listening. Occasionally giving him a rare smile. Saying a word here and there. Just existing.

And somehow that was worse. Because you never looked like that around him.

“Alright,” Hangman said, sliding up beside Bradley with that damn smug grin, “I gotta ask. You good?”

Rooster didn’t look at him. “Peachy.”

“Uh huh.” Jake signaled for a beer. “You’ve been glowering at me like a cartoon villain for the past hour.”

“I’m not glowering.”

“You look like you’re about to monologue about revenge.”

Bradley exhaled sharply. “What do you want, Seresin?”

Jake leaned on the bar. “Honestly? I just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna, like, spontaneously combust. You’ve been watching her like a wounded Victorian husband whose wife dared to laugh at another man’s joke.”

Rooster side-eyed him. “So you are trying to steal her.”

Jake blinked. Then laughed. “What? No. Dude, I like her. Sure. She’s cool. Scary in that ‘emotionally unavailable assassin’ kind of way. But I’m not you.”

Bradley frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jake sipped his beer. “I mean you’re the one who knows what her favorite coffee is. You’re the one who follows her around like a love-sick puppy. And you’re the only person who’s ever made her roll her eyes and almost smile at the same time.”

Rooster blinked.

Jake leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. “She talks about you, you know.”

“What?” Bradley nearly dropped his glass.

“Nothing crazy. But she does. Usually when you’re not around. Usually like…” Jake shrugged. “Like she’s trying not to admit she misses you.”

Rooster stared at him, stunned.

Jake shrugged. “Anyway. Keep pouting if it helps. Just don’t let her walk away before you say something that matters.”

And then he was gone.

Later that night, Bradley sat alone outside the bar, legs stretched out, staring up at the stars.

He could still hear your laugh in his head. Still see the way you looked at Jake—open, relaxed, soft.

And for the first time, he wondered:

Maybe you weren’t drifting toward Jake.

Maybe you were just drifting away from him.

And if he didn’t speak soon—really speak—you might never drift back.

He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and whispered to the night:

“Please. Don’t pick him. Don’t pick anyone.”

And somewhere inside, he swore he heard your voice say:

Then stop waiting.

The next day, Rooster came back swinging.

Spirit fully revived, delusion fully reloaded.

Last night’s brooding on the patio? Over. Jake’s unsettling pep talk? Filed away for later trauma processing. This morning, he had a plan. A brilliant, foolproof, emotionally catastrophic plan:

Be normal.

Totally, perfectly normal.

Which for Rooster meant... being louder than ever.

So when you walked into the hangar, head down, clipboard in hand, face set to “resting war criminal,” Rooster popped up from literally nowhere with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever high on espresso.

“Hey, Sunbeam!” he called, jogging toward you like an idiot in aviators. “You’re five minutes early. I knew you were gonna be early. That’s so you. You’re always—y’know—early. Punctual. Military. Classic.”

You didn’t stop walking.

He kept pace beside you anyway.

“Anyway,” he continued, completely undeterred by your silence, “I was thinking, right, since we’ve got a break after drills today, we should go get food. You like food. I know you like food. Everybody likes food. Unless... do you not eat? Wait. Are you secretly a cryptid?”

You stopped.

Looked at him.

Expression flat. Voice monotone.

“Bradley. What do you want.”

His entire soul did a backflip at the sound of his name in your voice, even though you said it like it physically pained you to do so.

“I just—uh.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Wanted to see if you wanted to hang out. Like old times.”

“No.”

“Okay—cool—no’s valid,” he stammered. “But like, is it a no because you’re busy? Or a no because you’re emotionally allergic to me now? Because I can change—”

You blinked at him once. Twice. Then turned and walked away again.

He stood there.

Alone. Rejected. Spiraling.

“Okay,” Rooster announced to the squad at lunch, dramatically throwing his tray onto the table. “I am officially a burden.”

“No arguments here,” Hangman muttered, not even looking up from his sandwich.

“I’m trying, okay?” Rooster ranted, collapsing into his seat. “I’m being sweet. I’m showing up. I’m not even being clingy anymore—I gave her space. You saw it. I gave her like ten feet this morning.”

Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “And then immediately trailed her down the tarmac talking about cryptids and food.”

“I’m making conversation!”

“You’re monologuing again,” Bob said gently, sipping his water.

“She’s just—she’s so cold now,” Rooster whined, voice going full tragic lead in a sad rom-com. “She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t snark. She doesn’t even threaten to punch me anymore. I miss when she wanted to punch me. At least then I knew she felt something.”

Hangman rolled his eyes. “Maybe she’s just over it.”

Rooster looked like he’d been physically stabbed.

“Over it?” he choked. “She can’t be over it. We had a thing. A vibe. A deeply spiritual dynamic.”

“You mean the one where you followed her around for a decade and she occasionally acknowledged your existence?” Phoenix asked.

“Exactly! That one!”

Bob cleared his throat. “Maybe you just overwhelmed her.”

“I underwhelmed her,” Rooster moaned, banging his head gently against the table. “I took her for granted. And now she’s bonding with Hangman and laughing at his jokes and probably thinks I’m just some loud idiot who peaked emotionally in 2016.”

“I mean,” Hangman started.

“Not helping,” Phoenix cut in.

Rooster slumped. “I’m losing her.”

“You never had her,” Hangman said, then paused. “Wait. Is that why you asked Mav to reassign flight pairs?”

Everyone turned.

Rooster blinked. “I—what?”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “You asked Mav to pair you with her again.”

Rooster went red. “I—I didn’t—technically—”

“Oh my God,” Fanboy laughed. “You’re insane.”

“She flies better with me!” Rooster cried. “We have synergy! We have unspoken communication! And I missed her laugh! And her annoyed glare! And the way she corrects my jargon mid-flight like it’s a personal offense to naval protocol!”

“You need therapy,” Bob said calmly.

“I need her back,” Rooster replied, despondent. “She’s my Sunbeam.”

“And yet you treat her like she’s a houseplant you can scream compliments at until she grows toward you,” Phoenix deadpanned.

Rooster opened his mouth. Closed it. Sighed.

Back in the hangar, you were reviewing mission parameters on your tablet when the clomp-clomp of heavy boots approached again.

You didn’t even look up.

“Don’t.”

“I just—”

“No.”

“But—”

You lifted your eyes slowly. Your glare could’ve frozen the sun.

Rooster flinched. “You’re really not vibing with me right now, huh?”

“Nope.”

He ran a hand down his face. “Is it the talking?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the constant attempts to insert myself into your personal schedule?”

“Also yes.”

“Is it—”

“Bradley.”

He froze.

You lowered your voice, calm, sharp, quiet like a blade in the dark. “You talk too much. You try too hard. You act like we’re still in college. I’ve changed. You haven’t. And whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

The words hit like a missile strike.

He actually staggered back a little.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just turned back to your tablet like it didn’t cost you anything to say it.

But it cost him everything.

And for the first time in forever, Rooster Bradshaw didn’t know what to say.

Rooster was lying on top of his plane.

Face to the sky, arms folded beneath his head, boots crossed like he was sunbathing on a yacht instead of brooding on cold metal in the middle of an aircraft hangar.

He hadn’t moved in over an hour.

No music. No phone. Just him, his self-loathing, and the sound of other people moving on with their lives without him.

He’d tried everything. The casual good-morning chats. The coffee deliveries. The dramatic Hard Deck monologues. The tragic, emotionally vulnerable pout.

And still—you treated him like he was background noise.

No, correction: you treated him like static.

And worst of all?

You were right to.

Because somewhere between college and now, Rooster had convinced himself that just being there for you was enough. That his love was this constant, obvious thing. That you’d just know.

But you didn’t want someone who hovered. You wanted someone who saw you.

And Bradley had been too busy chasing your orbit to realize he never learned your language.

He exhaled loudly.

“This is pathetic,” he muttered.

“I’ve seen worse,” a voice said below.

He flinched. Propped himself up. Squinted into the sun.

Maverick stood at the base of the ladder, aviators on, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Oh,” Bradley groaned, flopping back down. “Great. A pep talk. Just what I need.”

“Not a pep talk,” Mav said, starting to climb. “More of a… course correction.”

Rooster didn’t respond.

Maverick climbed up and sat beside him, swinging one leg over the wing.

They were quiet for a minute. Just metal, and heat, and that heavy silence between two men too stubborn to say what they actually felt.

Finally, Maverick spoke.

“So,” he said slowly. “She shut you down.”

“Like a government program with bad press,” Rooster mumbled.

Maverick huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Heard about that.”

“Of course you did. Everyone knows. I’ve been publicly humiliated at least three times this week. She barely looks at me, Mav. She talks to Jake now.”

Mav raised a brow. “You mean the same Jake she once threatened to kill mid-flight?”

“People change.”

“So do relationships.”

Rooster sighed. “Yeah. She changed. She’s... not the girl I knew.”

“No,” Maverick said. “She’s the woman you didn’t bother to get to know.”

Rooster sat up sharply. “Excuse me?”

Mav turned toward him, calm but firm. “Bradley. You’ve been so wrapped up in chasing her that you didn’t stop to see her. You think you’re in love with who she was ten years ago. Are you even paying attention to who she is now?”

“I—of course I am—” he started, then paused. “…I mean. Kinda.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Rooster’s jaw tensed. “She was my best friend.”

“Was,” Mav echoed. “You want her back? Stop being the version of yourself that needed her in college. Be the version she might respect now.”

Bradley looked away, throat tight. “She said I haven’t changed.”

“Have you?”

That one hit like a punch.

Because no—he hadn’t. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

He still talked too much. Still covered fear with jokes. Still loved loudly and clumsily and expected the people he loved to just get it.

But you were calm. Quiet. Sharp. You didn’t need a cheerleader.

You needed a partner.

“I just thought,” he said finally, voice quieter, “that being there for her all these years would be enough.”

Maverick’s voice softened. “Being there isn’t the same as being with someone. She’s not a planet you orbit, Bradshaw. She’s not gravity. She’s a pilot. You want to be in formation? Match her altitude.”

Rooster blinked, stunned. “That was... almost poetic.”

“I’ve had therapy.”

Bradley barked a broken laugh and stared up at the sky again. “It hurts.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“What if I already lost her?”

Mav was quiet for a second. Then said, “Then stop losing yourself too.”

Later that day, Rooster sat on the hood of his truck in the back lot, chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t gonna follow you.

Not this time.

He wasn’t gonna corner you with twenty questions or drop some poorly disguised compliment bomb or ask if you wanted to “vibe.”

He was gonna sit there, for once, in silence.

And hope that maybe—just maybe—you’d notice the absence.

That maybe you’d feel the space where he used to be.

Because if Maverick was right—and damn it, he probably was—then it wasn’t about chasing you anymore.

It was about showing up right.

Being still.

And waiting to see if you ever looked back.

It started with the coffee.

Bradley always brought two.

One for himself—black, hot, usually with a dumb doodle Sharpied onto the cup. And one for you—how you liked it, never wrong, always on time.

You never asked him to bring it.

He just... did.

But one morning, it wasn’t there.

Your locker bench was empty. No cup. No sticky note with a sun drawn on it. No annoying rooster-shaped heart beside it.

Just the sterile scent of detergent and jet fuel and silence.

You didn’t say anything. Not out loud.

But it was the first thing you noticed.

The squad noticed, too.

Not right away. At first, it felt like peace. Like a blessing.

No Rooster singing “Highway to the Danger Zone” at full volume in the locker room. No long-winded stories about gas station burritos and near-death dogfights. No sunflower metaphors or rants about vintage vinyl.

The silence was strange.

Nice, maybe. For a day.

But then it kept going.

“Okay,” Phoenix said flatly, hands on her hips. “Who killed Rooster?”

They were all sitting around the Hard Deck’s usual corner table, and Bradley was nowhere to be seen.

Coyote raised a brow. “He said he was gonna skip tonight.”

“Skip?” Fanboy echoed. “Since when does he skip?”

“He’s probably tired,” Bob offered gently.

“He’s always tired,” Phoenix snapped. “He still shows up. He shows up with jokes and weird trivia and unsolicited karaoke. He’s Rooster. He doesn’t just... go quiet.”

Hangman leaned back in his chair, swirling his beer. “Maybe someone finally broke the golden retriever.”

Everyone looked at you.

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Just took a sip of your drink and kept looking out at the water like their suspicions didn’t hang in the air like jet exhaust.

The next day, Bradley flew like a ghost.

Sharp. Efficient. Silent.

He didn’t crack a joke over comms. Didn’t comment on your turns. Didn’t say “Nice flying, Sunbeam,” when you touched down on the tarmac.

He just parked his bird and walked past you without so much as a glance.

And still—you didn’t say a word.

“Okay, seriously,” Phoenix hissed, cornering you in the locker room later. “What the hell is going on with Bradshaw?”

You shrugged, pulling off your gloves. “I don’t know. Ask him.”

“I did. He just gave me a polite nod and walked away like we’re strangers at a dinner party.”

“And?”

“And I don’t like it!” she snapped. “It’s creepy. It’s not normal. He’s not normal. He’s not supposed to be—mellow. I saw him reading alone yesterday.”

“He reads.”

“He was reading in silence. Like a divorced English professor. And he didn’t even look up when I passed!”

You sighed. “Maybe he’s just growing up.”

Phoenix narrowed her eyes. “No. This is something else.”

You didn’t reply.

At briefing the next morning, Bradley sat at the far end of the table. Not beside you. Not diagonally where he could pass you dumb sketches. He didn’t look over. Didn’t make a single sound.

When Mav called for flight assignments, Bradley just nodded and took his orders with no protest, no rerouting, no desperate plea to be paired with you.

And when you turned your head—just a little—expecting to catch his eye, maybe out of habit—

He was already looking away.

“Dude’s in withdrawal,” Hangman said later, not even trying to whisper. “You see him? He’s like a sad country song in a flight suit.”

Bob glanced at you. “He hasn’t smiled in three days.”

“He hasn’t talked to me in three days,” Phoenix added, insulted.

“Do you think he’s broken?” Fanboy asked.

“Or maybe he’s just... tired,” Coyote offered gently. “Y’know. Of trying.”

The silence that followed was a little too loud.

You stood. Walked out. Didn’t say a word.

That night at the Hard Deck, Bradley showed up late.

Alone. Quiet.

He didn’t go to the jukebox. Didn’t talk to Penny. Didn’t find the squad.

He just sat at the bar, ordered a water, and sipped it slowly, like it tasted the same as every regret he hadn’t said out loud.

Phoenix watched him from across the room, arms crossed. “This is weird.”

“He looks like someone stole his dog,” Fanboy said.

“He looks like someone stole his person,” Coyote corrected softly.

Hangman leaned back in his chair. “I give it a week. Tops. Then he either snaps or confesses or flies straight into the sun.”

They all looked at you.

Again.

You said nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, you glanced toward the bar.

And you saw him there.

Still.

Quiet.

Distant.

And for some strange reason, it didn’t feel like peace anymore.

It felt like something you didn’t know how to name.

You didn’t notice it at first.

Not really.

Because silence had always been your armor. Your shield. Your sanctuary. You were good at ignoring things. Better at pretending you didn’t notice them. A masterclass in indifference. Eyes forward. Orders clear. Emotions compartmentalized into labeled folders, each locked tight and shoved to the back of your mind.

So when Rooster stopped talking to you, it was easy to keep your face neutral.

No change. No flicker.

Easy.

Except—

It wasn’t.

Not for long.

Because silence wasn’t supposed to be his thing.

It crept in like a shadow, slow and subtle, soft at first—like background music fading into white noise. But over time, the quiet grew teeth. It sat beside you during briefings. It hung in the air during flights. It clung to your skin like sweat in the summer, thick and uncomfortable and hard to wipe off.

And you started to miss him.

Not that you’d ever say it out loud.

God, no.

You still remembered what you told him. The sharpness in your voice. The finality in your words. “Whatever we had—if we ever had anything—you need to let it go.”

And he had.

He’d let go.

So cleanly, so completely, it stunned you.

No last-ditch effort. No arguments. No begging for one more chance.

Just—absence.

At first, it was peaceful.

You could move through hallways without hearing your name echo off the walls. You could sit through debriefings without a hand-drawn sunbeam doodle sliding toward you on a napkin. You could drink your coffee without seeing another cup next to yours, steaming and silent.

You told yourself you liked it.

You told yourself this was what you wanted.

But then—

Then the questions started.

Subtle things. Quiet realizations.

Like: when did the hangar start feeling so empty, even when it was full?

Why did your coffee taste blander, like something was missing, even though the recipe hadn’t changed?

When did the air feel heavier?

When did you start missing the sound of your name said in that stupid, smug, affectionate tone of his?

Sunbeam.

God, that nickname used to annoy you. Made you feel too bright. Too soft. Like he saw something in you you didn’t believe existed.

Now, no one said it.

And the silence in its place was unbearable.

You didn’t admit it at first.

Not when he walked past you without a glance.

Not when you caught him on the runway, talking quietly to Bob—quietly, not performing, not grinning, not telling stories—just nodding, listening.

Not when he sat across the room at the Hard Deck, not even bothering to try for your attention anymore.

It hit worst during flight drills.

You were paired with Hangman again. He was efficient. Skilled. He never overstepped.

But it wasn’t the same.

There was no rhythm. No instinctive trust. No push and pull that kept your pulse alive. No corny commentary over the comms. No soft-spoken “you good?” after a sharp turn. No whisper of “nice flying” when your boots hit the ground.

Just Hangman.

Just silence.

And the empty echo of someone who used to be in sync with you without even trying.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #top gun maverick #top gun fandom #jake seresin #bob floyd #natasha trace #phoenix #avengxrz #pete maverick mitchell #glen powell

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raven-dor · 1 day ago

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when i look at you

in which loki laufeyson takes his brother’s advice: be brave

PAIRING: loki laufeyson x fem!reader, platonic!thor odinson x reader

WARNINGS: fluff, jealousy, hurt/comfort, Thor interrupting, slight angst ig, FLUFF ENDING!!

WORD COUNT: 4.1k

🎶 : i hear a symphony - cody fry

AN: 🩵💗💛 - imagine loki's looks are like 'the dark world' era!! eeeeeek i loved writing this so so much!! enjoy!!

“I still don’t understand how you convinced Odin to release you.” You called over your shoulder. “Your attack on Earth was but a month ago.”

“I assume my mother had something to do with it. Odin himself seemed rather set on allowing me to rot.”

“I’m sure he loves you…” You muttered under your breath so his ravens would not catch you. “In his own demented way.”

Loki laughed, really laughed for the first time since his return. “He has allowed me to be released under the condition that I could not leave the castle grounds.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the woods around you. “And just what would you call this?”

“The Royal Wood, which is an extension of the grounds,” Loki smirked. “I would never break my vow to my father.”

You scoffed, your hands resting on your hips. “Do not lie to me, Loki Odinson. If you recall, we have a vow of our own.”

“How could I forget?” You were children when you made him swear to never trick you. He had held strong, for the most part. “You are possibly the only person I would never lie to. Well…” He leaned against a tree, leaning his head back to take in the summer sun. “You and my mother.”

“If you say so.” You hated when he did this, when he made you feel special. It was horrible, the worst trick of all, mainly because he had no idea what he was doing to you. “I have to bring your mother these ingredients.”

“Allow me to accompany you.”

Your cheeks felt hot, and you shook your head, flustered yet again by his chivalrous behavior. “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” He took the basket out of your arms, beckoning you to follow after him. “My mother would have my head if she saw a lady carrying such a load, let alone her favorite lady.”

“Loki.” You scolded, reaching out to take the basket back. “I am not a lady.”

“This again.” He sighed. “You are quite stubborn.”

“You’re one to talk.” You laughed, cowering under the judgmental looks of the nobility you passed.

“Must you deny me this one kind act?”

“It is not proper-”

“You must be the only servant who complains when someone helps you.”

“I take pride in my work, Loki.”

“An admirable quality.” The guards in front of his mother’s suite bowed their heads, opening the doors. “Still, you are stubborn.”

“Loki-” You scowled, curtsying before the queen. “Your Majesty, the ingredients you requested.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Frigga was the very picture of elegance. Not only was she elegant, but she was also kind to everyone regardless of rank. You had no issue carrying out trivial tasks for the queen, because the queen never treated you as lesser than; she treated you as she would treat her own sons. “Did you have any trouble?”

“Not at all, my lady.”

“Mother.” Loki approached the golden-haired woman, kissing her cheek. “Tell your lady she must not bow when she greets you.”

“Loki!” You gasped, turning to Frigga like you had been the one to say it. “My lady, I would never-”

“Must you tease the girl so?” Frigga chastised her son.

“I am so sorry, my lady.”

“Do not apologize, my son is a prankster, as we all know.” She smiled warmly, tucking a strand of hair behind Loki’s ear. “Among many other admirable qualities.”

Loki grew shy under his mother’s affection, brushing off her compliments. “We must be going.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow.

“You wished to visit the library, yes?”

“I never-” You tilted your head. “Have you developed mind-reading powers as well?”

He shrugged, kissing his mother’s cheek once more before extending his hand. “Shall we?”

You smacked his hand away, walking out of the queen’s room with Loki trailing behind you. “If you can read minds now, please refrain from reading mine.” He laughed, and you smacked his arm. “I mean it, Loki.”

“I cannot read minds. Remember that we have been friends for quite some time now. I know you perhaps better than I know myself.”

“Well, no wonder. You are such a mystery.” You teased. “The rakish, brooding prince. I am surprised some lady has not taken you into her clutches.”

“You think me rakish?” He raised an eyebrow, holding the library door open.

“One observes things.” You shrugged, gliding over to the fiction section, grabbing the first book that caught your eye. “It is not a bad trait, I assure you.”

“If you say so.” He looked rather disappointed, plopping into his favorite leather chair.

“You are also kind, considerate, even. Loyal to a fault.” Your hand found his, squeezing it. “You are many things, but most of all, you are a wonderful friend.”

“Friend.” He huffed, face scrunched like the word left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Are we not friends?” You sat back, hand pulling away from his. Oh, how you wished you could stay like that forever, his forever-cold hand intertwined with yours.

“Yes, we are.” He almost sounded disappointed. You decided not to dwell on it, immersing yourself in the novel. Loki simply stared, admiring your beauty, the way your eyes scanned the page, the way you smiled to yourself, the way your eyebrows furrowed.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve.” He murmured.

Your eyes did not leave the page. “Oh?”

“It is quite-” He stopped himself. “It is quite humorous.”

“If it is so amusing, then by all means, keep staring.” You teased. You were used to this, the staring, the intense gaze Loki held. He loved to watch people, to observe those around him. At first, you had found it quite overwhelming, especially when you looked up to find him already staring at you. His eyes were beautiful, dangerous as they pulled you in. You shook your head, fighting against your imagination.

“My prince.” You looked up, fighting the urge to groan as the nuisance that was the Lady Ness approached. “I thought I would find you here.”

Loki looked entirely unenthused, but still entertained the woman. “Hello, my lady.”

The Lady Ness was the eldest daughter of one of Odin’s closest advisors. She was what Asgardians considered to be the perfect beauty, with blonde hair bordering on white, and beautiful pale blue eyes. She was tall, the very picture of royalty.

Which is what she desperately wanted to be. She had followed the two princes around since you were children, treating them as if they were idols, gods even.

They were, but still. It became tiresome.

She had her sights set on Thor for eons, but after she learned of his undying love for the Lady Jane, she gave up, switching her sights to Loki.

There was nothing the younger prince hated more than being the second choice.

There was nothing you hated more than the Lady Ness suddenly finding interest in a man you’d loved since age five. You did not attempt to acknowledge the woman, simply looking back down at your book. It was hard to focus, though, with her constant chattering.

“Will I see you at the Summer Solstice Ball, my prince?”

Loki’s gaze fell back to you before responding. “You will indeed.”

“How wonderful. I do love dancing.” You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “Do you enjoy dancing, my prince?”

“With the right lady.” He nodded. “I do.”

“Shall I reserve a place for you on my card?” Your hold on the book tightened. “It would be an immense honor.” A scoff fell from your lips, and your eyes widened. You had meant for that to be in your head.

Loki smiled. “I’m afraid I-”

“Is something the matter?” The Lady Ness interrupted, staring at you. “Have I done something to amuse you?”

You looked up, shaking your head. “No, my lady.”

“Now you remember your manners.” The Lady Ness raised an eyebrow. You simply stared back, your face blank. “When I entered the room, you did not curtsy. Are you manners selective?”

You shut your book, standing up. “You seem rather concerned with my manners. How observant you must be.” The lady proudly nodded. “Allow me to explain, I bow to royalty.” You gestured to Loki before gesturing to her. “Not some common lady with an aptitude for mistreating servants.”

“Why I-” She gasped, stumbling over her words. You made a point to be over the top in your curtsy to the prince, before promptly walking out of the room.

You angrily picked bunches of moss from the forest floor, ripping it from the ground as if it had wronged you.

The Lady Ness annoyed you to no end, with her flirting and her flowy gowns and her touching Loki's arm. It was as if she did it on purpose, as if she amplified her flirting when you were there, like she was trying to tell you he was hers, that you could never have him.

You already knew that, no thanks to her. It was something that kept you up into the late hours of the night, the ‘what-ifs’ haunting you even in sleep.

If you were of some higher standing, you would have smacked her long ago. Unfortunately, you could only verbally attack her.

“Are you quite well?” Loki’s voice broke you from your thoughts. “You did not stop when I called after you yesterday.”

“I cannot stand her.” You complained. “She-she is without a doubt-”

He looked rather amused at your ranting, hands clasped behind his back, his ever-familiar smirk gracing his lips. “I am sorry.”

“Why should you be sorry?” You laughed bitterly. “I’m sure she will mellow with age.”

“Mellow with age?” He raised an eyebrow.

You nodded, going back to your gathering. “Odin must be rather pleased with this match.”

“Match?” It seemed as if Loki was stuck on repeat, parroting you with confusion etched in his tone.

“Between you and Lady Ness.” You grumbled, brushing the dirt off your skirt as you stood. “I’m certain he has arranged for her to be your lady wife.”

“I’m sorry?”

You walked further into the wood, Loki following after you. “She will be a great wife, I’m sure. She seems intelligent enough and could bring you company. Your children-” Your voice broke, and you felt your cheeks grow hot. “They will be menaces, but what child isn’t? I’m sure they will grow out of it, as she will grow out of her rather annoying attributes.” You pulled out your knife, cutting off a section of tree bark, your mind clouded with rage. “She will bring you happiness. I’m excited for you, truly-” You hissed, the knife falling out of your hand as you stared at the stream of blood that ran down your palm. “Ow.”

Loki raced over, taking your hand in his as he observed the wound. “You were being careless.”

“I was not.” Your eyes welled, the pain finally taking hold. “It is just a cut.”

“You are practically crying.” He frowned. “You must be careful.”

“I-” He waved his hand over your injury, the pain subsiding, the cut healing itself. You watched in fascination, the wound glowing green for a mere moment before dissapearing entirely. “How did you-”

“Growing up with Thor meant I had to be prepared for anything.” He smiled, his fingers gently tracing over the once bloody finger. “Does it hurt?”

You shook your head, voice quiet. “It’s like it never even existed.”

“Good.” He looked up, his breath shaky when he met your gaze. “You frightened me.”

“You worry too much.” You hadn’t meant to, truly, but your eyes fell to his lips, heart racing. “I’m sorry.”

His hand found its way to your waist, pulling you close. You gasped, glaring as a smirk grew on the prince’s lips. “Whatever for, my lady?”

“I didn’t mean to-” You swallowed. “I did not mean to insult the Lady-”

“Please, do not speak her name any longer.” He groaned. “She is as tiresome as she is wealthy.”

“She is to be your lady wife, is she not?” You murmured, his hand that had once cradled your injured hand now holding your cheek. “She is quite the match.”

He laughed. “I’m sure she will make some unlucky man rather miserable.”

“Loki-”

“If I have any say-” He whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips momentarily. “I will marry for love, not because my father made some strategic alliance. She is not for me, I assure you.”

“You-” Loki now had your back against the tree, practically pinning you in position. His forehead lay against yours, your breath entwined with his. “You have some other lucky lady in mind?”

He nodded. “I do.”

“Oh?” The reality of the situation hit you like Mjolnir hit its enemies. Hard and true, you accepted that you might just kiss the man you’d loved since before you could remember. “Do I know her?”

He nodded once more, his lips so close they brushed against yours as he spoke. “I believe so-”

“Brother!” Your eyes widened, and you pushed Loki away, cheeks hot as you forced yourself to look as inconspicuous as possible. Thor’s voice rang through the wood. “Brother, where are you?”

“I-” Loki stuttered, hand reaching out to hold you once more. “Just wait one moment-”

“Ah!” Thor’s golden hair came into view, the god haphazardly destroying the forest floor. “My lady, it is wonderful to see you!”

You curtsied, your heart and mind still racing from the moment before. “My prince. I was just leaving.” You couldn’t meet Loki’s eyes, simply nodding. “Loki.”

You raced toward the castle, forgetting your basket full of ingredients.

Loki would bring them to his mother later.

“Have I interrupted something?” Thor’s voice held a certain sort of mischeif that made Loki feel uneasy. “It seems as if I caught the pair of you in a rather intimate moment.”

“I-” Loki could not find the words, something that pleased Thor greatly.

“The great trickster is speechless?” He grinned, patting his little brother on the back. “Oh, Loki, why did you not say something?”

“Like you said. You interrupted.” He was practically glowering, glaring at his brother like it was his life’s purpose. “I-I had almost-”

“Do you want my advice, brother?” Loki continued to glare at him, fighting the urge to stab the golden-haired imbecile in the gut. “You must do something. Be brave, show her you care.”

“I was doing that!” Loki yelled. “You have the worst timing in the world-”

“Calm down, brother.” Thor laughed. “When I first met the Lady Jane-” Oh gods, Loki thought as he rolled his eyes. Once Thor began to talk about Jane, he tended to never stop. “She was rather intimidating, smart, and beautiful. But after I showed her my interest, my-”

Loki walked away, fists clenched tightly as Thor continued, following after him.

You hadn’t seen Loki in days.

You had gone to Frigga’s chambers after the incident, to apologize for leaving the ingredients behind, when you saw Loki just outside her door, the basket in hand.

After that, you’d gone out of your way to avoid him.

It was childish, you knew that, but you couldn’t look at him without transforming into a blabbering mess. You purposely did your chores outside of the castle grounds so he could not follow you or surprise you.

Your room was deep in the ground, chilly from its lack of sunlight and candles. You hadn’t minded before, but now that you were in your self-prescribed isolation, you couldn’t help but wish you had a prettier view.

Just when you thought you’d forgotten, that you’d gotten over your momentary lapse in judgment, it all came rushing back. His hand cradling your cheeks, his lips brushing against yours, his fingertips digging into your hip. A chill ran down your spine, and you shook your head as if that would rid you of the scandalous thoughts.

He was simply being kind, caring for you as you had cared for him.

A handmaiden walked into your room unannounced, gently placing a large box on your simple vanity. You jumped when you saw her. “I did not see you.”

The handmaiden, one of Frigga’s, no doubt, smiled kindly. “I gathered. I was tasked with ensuring you received this package, and was told you must wear it to the Summer Solstice Ball.”

“Wear it?” You tilted your head, rising from your bed to inspect the gift. “Is it a gown?”

“It is indeed, my lady.”

So this had been Loki’s doing.

“You must not call me that.” You smiled. “I am no lady.”

The handmaiden shrugged, glancing over your shoulder curiously as you pulled apart the forest green ribbon that held together the wrappings. “It seems to me that you shall be soon.”

“What-” You choked, shaking your head vehemently. “I- that is-”

“I will take my leave.” She bowed quickly, shutting the door behind her. You cursed the god of Mischief, vowing that when you were done ignoring him, you would scold him for his antics. The wrappings fell away, your eyes welling as you stared at the gown.

After all these years, all this time, he never forgot a single thing you told him, and this gown was proof. It was exactly what you’d described to him two thousand years ago.

You’d been young then, much more naive than now. You and Loki were lounging in the gardens, watching the nobility walk by in their dreamy attire. You sighed, staring down at your robes in embarrassment. “Could you conjure me something?”

“I can try.” Loki nodded, placing his book down beside him. “What is it you wish for?”

“A nicer dress.” You were jealous of their beauty, your simple frock nothing compared to their silky pastel gowns.

“I-” He frowned. “I am sorry. My powers are not-”

You shook your head. “Forget I said anything.”

He nodded, watching you with interest. “What would it look like, your dream gown?”

It would look like this. The gown that he’d sent you, which now hung delicately in your closet, two thousand years later.

You could hear the roar of the partygoers from the end of the hall, your nerves growing more and more the closer you got. You thanked the gods that this was not the kind of ball where attendees were announced, as you would surely faint from the judgmental eyes that fell on you.

The ballroom glowed bright golden, the light the candles provided reflecting off the pure gold walls. Your jaw hung loose, taking in the decorations, the people, the fashion. Your eyes fell to the bottom of the stairs, cheeks growing hot when you met Loki’s gaze.

He was standing by the Lady Ness, who looked livid that you had torn his attention from her.

You couldn’t find it in you to care, not when he was looking at you like that. His smile was bright, and he looked devilishly handsome in his forest green attire, walking up the steps.

You took a deep breath, meeting him in the middle. “My prince.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He spoke plainly, as if it were fact. Technically, it was.

“I-”

“Do not try and deny it.” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”

You gladly complied with his request, cheeks growing hot, from the attention or Loki’s gaze, you couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was both. “You remembered.” You looked over, finding satisfaction in the way your words had caused Loki to turn red. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

He shrugged like what he’d done wasn’t the most romantic thing you’d ever experienced. “Only the best for-”

“My prince.” You clenched your fist when Lady Ness’s grating voice met your ears, turning toward the enemy. “I lost you for a moment.”

Loki laughed. “Yes, you did.” His hand tightened, pulling you closer to his side as if to signal he was occupied. You had felt it was rather obvious, but Lady Ness had a history of feigning ignorance to blatantly obvious rejections.

“Shall we dance?” Lady Ness’s steely blue eyes darted toward you, as if she were trying to scare you off. You were not deterred by her weak attempt at intimidation, your hand still comfortably held in Loki’s. “You did promise me.”

He tilted his head. “Did I?”

You laughed, your hand falling to your side. “It is but one dance.” The Lady Ness let out a gasp that neither of you acknowledged. “I’m quite parched anyhow.”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

The Lady Ness looked entirely displeased at his actions, especially over the phrase ‘as you wish,’ which had been directed toward you, and not her request. You made your way to the drinks, taking a flute of champagne as you found your place in the corner of the room. Leaning against the column, you glared as Lady Ness cackled, downing the flute in one go.

Loki had not planned for this to happen.

He had planned for you to receive the dress, to escort you down the steps. He had also planned to confess his undying love for you, but Lady Ness once again interrupted.

She had the most inconvenient timing.

He led her to the middle of the dance floor, putting as much distance as possible. The Lady Ness kept laughing, which he found odd, as he had not said a single thing since the dance had begun. He kept looking around the edge of the room, searching for your familiar frame.

Ah.

You looked radiant. Positively glowing. He’d always loved you in that color. If he was being honest with himself, he loved you in every color. He frowned, watching as you chewed your nails, something you had the habit of doing when you were anxious.

“My prince?” The Lady Ness called out as he walked away from her in the middle of the dance floor, stalking toward you, the crowd parting as he walked.

“Dance with me.”

You jumped, clutching your heart. “Gods, Loki, you scared me.” You guiltily looked at your fingers before meeting his gaze. “I-”

He waved his hand, all the rips you’d made in your delicate skin gone in an instant. “Dance with me.”

“Loki.” You looked over his shoulder, eyes widening at the sobbing lady he’d left in the middle of the floor. “Have you gone mad?”

“Possibly.”

“You cannot just leave her in the middle of the floor.” You leaned closer, whispering so the many eavesdropping ears around you could not hear. “Even if she is quite annoying.”

“I am the prince. I can do as I wish.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment. “You-” It seemed he took your lack of rejection as a yes, holding your hand firmly in his as he pulled you to the middle of the dance floor, the light waltz playing in the background. “You are the most indignant, prideful, scheming man I have ever known.”

He smiled, a squeak leaving your lips when he pulled you much closer than a waltz called for. “Tell me what else I am.”

“You-” You gulped, growing nervous under his ever attentive eye. “You are-”

“It seems you are at a loss for words.” He whispered in your ear, a chill running down your spine from the proximity of it all. “Is that a recent development, my lady?”

“You are arrogant.” You hissed.

He grinned. “I am.”

“You are marvelous.”

“I am.” His reaction was delayed, caught off guard by your sudden compliment.

“It seems you are at a loss for words.” You parroted his words from just a moment ago. “Is that a recent development, my prince?”

“You are a wonder.” He held your gaze so beautifully that any innocent bystander would assume you were both deeply in love. “You look divine, a goddess in your own right.”

“Loki.” You felt as if you could melt, the music slowing to a stop before you could respond. The crowd around you clapped wildly, obviously invested in the show you two had put on.

Loki bowed, his brother catching his gaze. Thor was practically jumping, mouthing the words he had said days before.

Be brave.

It was so unfortunate when his brother was right. You stood upright, following Loki’s gaze to see Thor grinning like a buffoon. “What is he-”

Loki’s hands grabbed your face, pulling your lips to his. Your eyes widened at the action, weak from his touch. Your hands found their way around his neck, pulling him closer. He grinned, a hand falling to your hips, squeezing.

You gasped, your knees weakening. “Loki-”

“Is all that you can say my name?” He whispered, his forehead once again lying against yours.

“You are a-” He leaned down, kissing your lips once more.

“I love you…” His breath was heavy, pupils blown as he stared at you. “Most ardently.”

A tear fell down your cheek, and you grinned. “Most ardently?”

He nodded, voice wavering. “I assume you love me as well?”

“I do.” You kissed the corner of his mouth softly, so softly he had barely felt it. “With my whole being."

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cheshireliam · 2 days ago

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"A Wicked Proposal To You" Collection Event Story: Liam Evans

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

Wedding Event [2024]

I received a ticket to a play from Liam, and so I made my way to the theatre.

(There’s no one here…)

There were no other audience members present. It was just me.

When I went to my designated seat, I found a bouquet of modern roses placed on the seat.

(This must be a gift from Liam.)

A message card was tucked between the pink modern roses.

Kate: “Welcome to a special performance by Liam Evans”...?

As I titled my head in confusion at the message, the curtains rose.

I quickly sat down, and there he was—

Liam: Thank you for attending this special performance by Liam Evans.

He bowed and raised his head.

Liam: Today’s play was made for one audience only.

His words took me by surprise.

(A special performance… is this a play specially for me?)

Liam looked in my direction and gave a small nod.

Liam: Right now, there’s only one actor and one audience member in this theatre.

Liam: You can cry, laugh, or even shout— enjoy this performance however you want.

He winked, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

Liam looked somewhat relieved and clapped his hands.

Liam: Well then, I hope you enjoy to your heart’s content.

And so, with only one pair of hands giving him a round of applause, the play began.

(I’m so excited. I wonder what kind of play it’ll be.)

Liam: One night, a beautiful woman appeared before a young man.

A young man met a beautiful woman and gradually closed the distance between them,

(Wait, huh…?)

Liam: Worried about her, the young man turned himself invisible and entered her room—

Something about it felt familiar.

Liam: It’s Showtime! I’ll make you forget all about those frightening and unpleasant things.

And then it hit me.

This was a one-of-a-kind play telling the story of Liam and me.

The young man shining brightly up on stage captivated the hearts of countless women.

But behind that brilliance, he carried the burden of a painful, sorrowful past and lacked confidence in himself.

Liam: Gone were his miserable days of hurting himself, suffering, and struggling. All thanks to one woman.

His days that once seemed gray began to gain colour, because of that beautiful woman.

Then came the scene at the Tower of London.

Liam: Before he fell off the edge, the man spoke these words.

Liam: In my next life, I want to be someone who’s loved by everyone.

Liam: I want to be someone who can truly bring a smile to her face.

Liam: … I wish I could meet her again once more.

A single teardrop slid down my cheek.

(Oh, no, no… I have to watch this properly.)

Through my vision blurred with tears, I saw Liam shining even brighter than before.

I found myself drawn in by that brilliance and reflexively reached my hand toward the stage.

I still remember it till this day.

— How he was like a star that fell from the sky without warning.

Bathed in the dazzling spotlight, Liam always stood tall, soaking in the rounds of applause.

— He was my brightest star.

The pair met, fell in love, and wedded.

After putting in his best performance to showcase those days of pure bliss, Liam stood tall and looked straight at me.

Liam: The young man was always uneasy thinking he might never be able to make the woman happy.

Liam: But all the time they spent together and the endless love she poured into him gave the young man courage.

Liam got down on one knee and beckoned me to approach the stage.

Liam: Kate.

In Liam’s hand was— a ring.

Liam: Will you marry me?

The purpose of that play, created for only one audience member, was to propose to me.

I noticed his hand was trembling, and tears spilled from my eyes.

I took his hand, and he pulled me up onto the stage.

Kate: Yes. I will marry you, Liam.

As I gave my answer with teary eyes under the spotlight, tears started streaming down his cheeks too.

He pulled me into a tight embrace and we shared that moment of joy between us.

Kate: With this, you are my one and only first magnitude star.

Liam chuckled.

Liam: That’s my line.

We let go and gazed into each others’ eyes.

Standing there under the spotlight, he shined brightly as always like a first magnitude star.

Liam: Let us continue shining together, from now on.

His lips drew closer, and I gave him a small nod before closing my eyes.

We were stars that fell into each other’s lives without warning— we were each other’s one and only beloved star of the greatest magnitude.

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #ikevil translations #liam evans #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome #ikevil collection event

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sheerfreesia007 · 15 hours ago

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Grabby Hands & Donut Demands

Pairing: Seungmin x Reader

Word count: 2,187

Content warnings: Fluff, suggestive

Summary: During a sun-drenched summer BBQ with friends, Seungmin finds himself completely smitten all over again as he watches his girlfriend—his best friend turned lover—glow in the golden light. What starts as a lazy float on a donut ends in grabby hands, shameless flirting, and the kind of love that feels like forever, even in front of an audience.

SKZ Taglist: @kayleefriedchicken, @babigriin, @inlovewithstraykids, @channiesrightasscheek, @kaiyaba

@bookswillfindyouaway, @m-325

Naekkeo: My Sweetheart/Mine

Part One: Protective, Part Three: You, Me & the Floating Donut

Summer had finally descended on Seoul and to celebrate Chan had rented out a vacation home so that he, the boys, and their girlfriends would be able to have a little fun in the sun to celebrate together before their schedules became busy once more. The scent of grilled meat and sunscreen filled the air, laughter and music weaving through the lazy hum of cicadas and summer heat. The backyard of the rented vacation home looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine, a rented house with a massive patio, full outdoor kitchen, and a sparkling pool that reflected the gold of the afternoon sun.

Everyone was here. The guys, their girlfriends, and a few close friends. Food sizzled on the grill while ice clinked in tumblers as everyone was spread out around the patio and in the pool. Minho was lounging on a chaise lounge tangled up with his girlfriend both dozing in the sun like sun bathing cats. Jeongin was having a water balloon fight with his girlfriend, Jisung, his girlfriend and Felix along with his girlfriend. Hyunjin was sitting at the edge of the pool next to his girlfriend talking quietly together.

Seungmin however, was on a donut. An inflatable pink sprinkle-dotted donut float, lazily drifting along the calm pool, his sunglasses perched on his nose and an arm hanging loosely in the water. He looked every bit the picture of contentment…until his eyes landed on you.

You were standing near the grill with Chan, Changbin and their girlfriends, helping with the food. Your gauzy wrap fluttered gently around your hips as you laughed and moved around the grill with the girlfriends, golden threads catching the sun and matching the embellishments on your white bikini. You tossed your hair over your shoulder, laughing at something Chan’s girlfriend said and Seungmin’s breath caught in his throat.

”You alright there Seungmin-ah?” Called out Hyunjin pulling Seungmin’s attention from you for a brief moment as he turned to look at his friend who was smirking at him along with his girlfriend as they watched Seungmin turn back to look at you with a grumble. He normally was so nonchalant about things when hanging around the guys, but when it came to you? His carefree, nonchalant, unbothered attitude completely gone, flown out the window much to his embarrassment. And it normally happens when you smile that special little smile that you had just for him.

It’s been a year since you and Seungmin took your friendship to a whole other level and he would never admit it out loud to anyone but he was so glad for that day at the pool. It not only gained him a girlfriend who he loved dearly but it had strengthened your relationship even more. And for a year he had happily explored your new relationship together. Since you had been best friends even before he had figured out his true feelings for you there was already that strong foundation between the two of you but now as your relationship evolved into something more romantic it seemed to only enhance your strong friendship. You both were still best friends but there was a deeper connection now that easily complimented your bond. It was easy, soft and loving, something that he was both in awe of and found absolutely fascinating.

Suddenly your laughter rang out loudly over the pool water and Seungmin was jolted back to the present after losing himself in those quiet thoughts he usually had when thinking about your relationship. As his eyes focused back on you as he lay on the donut his breath caught in his throat. God, you were glowing. And entirely too far away from him.

Blinking behind his sunglasses, he began to paddle the donut closer to the pool’s edge, where you stood just a few feet away with Chan and Changbin’s girlfriends talking about something he couldn’t hear. When he was close enough to be heard over the music by you he called out to you.

”Hey, Naekkeo.” He called out, his voice smooth and lazy as he still reclined on the donut. You turned immediately upon hearing his voice, the bright happy smile of yours hitting him square in the eyes like a second sun.

”Hey, baby.” You cooed at him as you moved toward the edge of the pool and then squatted down so that you were closer to him and neither of you had to yell to be heard over the music and chatter from everyone else. Seungmin smiled softly as he watched you from behind his sunglasses just taking in your pretty form. He was always stunned silent when you were this close, you were just too pretty and especially in that bikini that you were wearing. He was sure one of these days that you’d confess to him that you were a witch and had been putting him under a spell ever since you met him. It was the only explanation for how affected he was by your beauty. “You good Seung?” You asked softly as you tilted your head to the side at him curiously.

”Would be better if you were over here.” He blurted out honestly and frowned softly to himself realizing that he had said that out loud sounding like a lovesick fool. But when you laughed softly at his honest words his stomach flipped and he figured he could be a lovesick fool for you if this would be your reaction to it.

”Oh really?” You asked him sweetly and he lifted his arms out to you before he clenched and unclenched his finger at you in a dramatic grabby-hands gesture, you rolled your eyes at him but a sweet soft adoring smile slipped across your mouth which let him know that you weren’t actually annoyed with him. “You’re so needy.” You told him fondly and he grinned up at you knowing that he managed to convince you to join him.

”Only for you.” He muttered under his breath, not caring if you heard him. And when he saw your eyes soften as they gazed at him he knew you had heard him.

Suddenly you stood from your crouched positions and Seungmin watched as you untied your wrap slowly, probably not intentionally seductive, but to Seungmin’s eyes, it was the slowest, most torturous thing you’d ever done. His breath caught in his throat and began to pant out of his open mouth that dropped open without a thought from him. His gaze dropped shamelessly to your legs, the way your hips shifted as you walked toward the pool, the golden gleam of the rings on your bikini catching the light.

He watched you with a slow grin as you slipped into the water, graceful and glistening. After slipping into the water you swam to him with a coy smile on your lips looking like a sexy mermaid as you moved easily through the water.

”You summoned me?” You asked him teasingly. He didn’t answer, just reached out, grabbed your waist, and pulled you up onto the float with him like it was nothing. You landed with a soft laugh as he shifted until you were pressed against his chest, both of you lounging in a tangle of limbs. The donut bobbed slightly with the added weight, but it held and your laughter petered off into a cozy quiet between the two of you that made Seungmin’s heart flutter in his chest.

”Much better.” He murmured, nosing at your temple.

”Comfy?” You asked softly, and he felt the words against his skin more than heard them as your voice was half-muffled by his collarbone.

”Mm-hm.” He dipped his fingers lazily up and down your spine, tracing sun-warmed skin in slow lines. “You smell like coconuts.” He mumbles as his body begins to melt under yours. He feels you happy smile against his neck before hearing your answer.

”It’s the sunscreen.” You tell him and he nods his head lazily. He hummed again, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The two of you drifted slowly in the water, the chatter and laughter of your friends blurring into background noise. With the sun soaking into your skin and Seungmin’s arms wrapped tightly around you, you felt like you could float there forever. His hand drifted up and down your spine, fingers playing with the ties of your top. The sun warmed your skin, and the world around you faded until it was just the two of you, floating together in lazy, summer-stained silence.

Time passed. You weren’t sure how long. You were dozing, maybe, lulled by the quiet swaying of the water and the steady rhythm of Seungmin’s fingers dancing along you back. Then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you shifted and pressed a kiss against his chest right over his heart. Seungmin who had been half conscious underneath you looked down at you, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

”Sap.” He said softly, his voice a few octaves lower due to sleep.

”Can’t help it,” you murmured softly as you felt your heart rate pick up slight. “Not when the boyfriend makes grabby hands at me to join him on his inflatable donut.” You told him honestly.

The term boyfriend wasn’t new but even a year later he was still soft for it. And hearing it roll off your tongue so easily, so fondly, still made his ears burn bright red. He cleared his throat trying to curb the fluttering of his heart in his chest at your sweet words.

”You can’t just say stuff like that in public.” He scolds you gently as his arms tighten around you as you shift over him to rest your chin on his chest and look up at him.

”What, the word boyfriend?” You asked teasingly, peeking up at him through your lashes. The look in your eyes made his stomach tighten with understanding and his breath escaped through his opened lips in a slow exhale. You were riling him up. But you seemed to forget once again that he was better at this game. He huffed softly before striking quickly.

”Better watch that mouth, or I’m going to have to wife you up.” He said lowly only loud enough for your ears only as the donut bobbed further along the pool length. You blinked, frozen for a second as the moment stretched quietly between the two of you.

”You-what?!” You stuttered in shock and Seungmin smirked down at you as his eyes gleamed triumphantly with pride at your reaction.

”What, I can’t flirt with my future wife?” He asked innocently as his smirk stayed firmly in place.

”Seungmin,” you whined out to him as you buried your face in his neck as your heart stuttered wildly. “You can’t say things like that. My heart can’t take it.” You whined once again and he laughed low in his chest, warm and smug, before wrapping his arms tighter around you.

”Too bad,” he whispered to you, still proud of his triumph. “Shouldn’t look so good in that bikini if you didn’t want me imagining ten years down the line.” He teased you. You gasped, smacking his chest lightly before resting your face against his chest once more.

”You’re the worst.” You mumbled out to him and he chuckled at your grumbled words.

”I’m the best,” he countered, dipping his fingers under the hem of your bikini bottoms, just brushing your skin in a way that made you tremble slightly. “And you’re in trouble.” He said knowingly in a low heated tone that had you trembling once more against him before you glanced up at him wide-eyed.

”Are you seriously teasing me like this at a public BBQ?” You asked incredulously trying to get ahead of his teasing and get it to stop before he started.

”Not my fault you look like you were hand-crafted by the sun gods,” he replied, nuzzling into your cheek with a soft kiss. “And besides, this is your punishment for making me fall in love with you once again.” He said honestly. You melted into him with a groan, half flustered, half dizzy with affection.

”You’re such a menace.” You groaned out softly and he smirked, victorious.

”Yeah, but I’m your menace.” He said smugly. From the side of the pool Hyunjin whistled startling you and causing you to gasp loudly against Seungmin’s chest.

“Get a room, lovebirds!” He shouted and Seungmin smirked while waving him off without even looking over at him.

”We did. It’s shaped like a donut.” Seungmin argued back at Hyunjin. You cracked up at that, burying your burning face deeper into his chest, both of you warm with laughter and sun and something deeper, something that felt like the real thing. The forever kind of thing.

The float turned slightly in the water, gentle and slow, and the world outside of your little bubble drifted further away as the sun began to make it’s descent in the sky. And Seungmin? He just held you tighter feeling the love grow three sizes larger between the two of you.

#my writing #stray kids #skz #skz x reader #kim seungmin x reader #kim seungmim #seungmin x reader #seungmin

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ikwon1c · 2 days ago

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Oh Mom

my entry for the gd & top writing event! oh mom has always had that soft tug on my heart, so i wanted to write something angsty and a little aching TT

make sure to read all the other amazing works too!

pairing: choi seunghyun x y/n

summary: an overworked idol meets a quiet girl at the park. he doesn’t know she’s running out of time — only that being with her feels like breathing again.

tags and warnings: idol x reader, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual grief, mention of terminal illness, quiet intimacy, unspoken feelings

The rain had stopped, but the world hadn’t noticed yet. A soft sheen still covered the sidewalks like a second skin. Drops clung to the underside of tree branches, fell in lazy intervals from the eaves of the park’s old stone gazebo, and pooled in forgotten corners of concrete where the city always seemed to sag.

Choi Seunghyun walked with his hood up, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles. It was the kind of day that didn’t ask anything of you. No expectations. No noise. Just gray skies and the sharp, clean scent of petrichor that made it easier to breathe than usual.

He liked that — the quiet. Lately, life didn’t give it to him much. As he turned a corner along the park’s edge, he caught sight of someone.

At first, she blended in. Just another figure on a bench, head bent low, still as the stone behind her. She was hunched over a thick sketchbook, one leg drawn up, the other dangling. Her hoodie was oversized and soaked at the hem, black cotton heavy with dampness. Wisps of hair clung to the sides of her face, and her sneakers — cheap ones, canvas and torn were darkened by water. She looked… tired. But not in a fragile way.

In a fierce way. Like someone who didn’t care what the day had done to her, so long as she got to finish her drawing.

He passed her once.

Slowed, glanced back.

Something in her stillness pulled at him.

The second time he walked by, she still hadn’t moved, but her pencil had. He could hear the faint scratch of graphite even through the hush of the park. No music, no phone, no distractions. Just focus. He stopped without thinking.

“You’re blocking my light.”

The voice was soft, flat, and low. The kind that didn’t rise just because someone else was nearby. She didn’t look up, didn’t even pause her hand.

“I—sorry,” he said quickly, taking a half-step to the side.

She added something to the page, then finally lifted her head. She looked right at him. There was no recognition in her eyes. Or maybe there was but not the kind he was used to. Not the flare of excitement, the gasp, the scramble for a phone.

Just… calm. Cool, clear eyes taking him in like a stranger on the street. Like he was nothing special. This caught him off guard.

“You always draw in the rain?” he asked, glancing at the soaked sketchbook.

“You always interrupt strangers?” she countered, deadpan. He blinked then let out a short laugh. It sounded too loud in the stillness.

“Touché,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I was just curious.”

“That’s dangerous,” she said, closing the book slowly and resting it in her lap. “Curiosity.”

There was a strange steadiness to her. The kind people usually lost by adulthood, if they ever had it to begin with. Something quiet but sharp, like glass that hadn’t shattered yet. He gestured vaguely toward the sketchbook. “Was that supposed to be me?”

Her mouth tugged at the corner. “If it was, you wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“That bad, huh?”

“That abstract,” she corrected. “But your nose is interesting. I might use it later.”

He laughed again — for real, this time. “Thanks, I think?”

Her smile was faint. Faint, but real. He watched her for a moment.The way she sat like she belonged to the space around her. Not claiming it. Just existing in it without asking permission. There was something rare in that. Something oddly comforting.

Most people in his life demanded something. A reaction. A performance. Even when they didn’t realize it. But she didn’t ask for anything. Not even his name.

“Do you draw often?” he asked, still standing a few feet away.

“Only when I feel something,” she said, running her thumb along the edge of the page.

He hesitated, then dropped onto the far side of the bench, keeping a respectful distance. She didn’t seem surprised. Or bothered.

“And what were you feeling today?” he asked.

She looked up — not at him, but at the canopy of blossoms overhead, petals trembling with the occasional gust of wind.

“Like something’s ending,” she said after a moment. “Even if no one else knows it yet.”

The words settled into him, low and quiet. He didn’t know why, but they stuck.

They didn’t speak much after that. A few murmured observations. A moment of laughter that lasted half a second longer than it should have. But mostly, they shared a silence. The kind that lets itself in like an old friend. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

Time worked in a different way, as if passing slow ripples.

Quietly, she closed her sketchbook. She tucked it into a worn canvas bag, pulling the strap over her shoulder with the practiced motion of someone used to leaving.

Seunghyun sat forward slightly before he could stop himself.

“…Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked. He didn’t mean for it to sound like it mattered. But it did.

She looked at him then and her eyes softened, just a little. “Maybe,” she said.

And then she walked away, her wet sneakers slapping softly against the pavement, leaving him there beneath the tree.

Still seated.

Still wondering who she was.

The next day, he didn’t come looking for her. Not exactly. He told himself it was just another walk. The same park, the same path, same need to breathe without being recognized. The same pull to silence the world inside his own head.

But his steps led him back to that bench — the one beneath the tree, half-wilted now, its petals losing their grip on the branch.

She was already there, wearing the same hoodie. Holding the same sketchbook. Same stormy sort of stillness that made her look like she belonged to the rain.

He approached without speaking. Let the moment fill itself. This time, she didn’t pretend not to see him. She looked up briefly, gave the smallest nod — just enough to say yes, you can sit here again and returned to her sketching.

He eased onto the bench beside her, keeping that same polite distance. A stretch of space between them, like an invisible line neither had acknowledged yet.

“I didn’t think you’d be back,” he said quietly.

She smirked. “Why not?”

“You seem like someone who disappears.”

She paused her pencil mid-line.

“I do,” she said. “Sometimes.”

There was no apology in her tone. Just truth. She wasn’t trying to be cryptic but there was a weight behind those words. A hint of something he didn’t know how to name yet. He nodded slowly and looked away.

The breeze picked up. A few loose petals drifted between them, catching in the folds of her hoodie. She didn’t brush them off.

“What are you drawing today?” he asked.

She tilted her sketchbook slightly, just enough for him to see. The page was rough — pencil strokes layered like noise, almost angry, like she hadn’t decided what she was trying to capture yet. Shapes, shadows, no center.

“It’s… complicated,” she said.

He studied it. “Looks like a brain.”

She let out a surprised laugh — short and soft, the sound catching like a hiccup.

“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of does.”

They sat with that for a moment. His eyes drifted to her hands. Stained faintly with graphite, nails bitten short. Her knuckles were pale, a little too bony, but steady.

“You’re an artist?”

She hesitated.

“Sometimes,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m good. Doesn’t really matter anymore.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

Another pause. She turned a page in her sketchbook, blank again. Her fingers hovered over it but didn’t move.

“I guess I’m just… drawing for now. Not for later.”

He glanced at her. She didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared down at the empty page like it might judge her. She talked like someone who wasn’t planning too far ahead.

Not in the dreamy, poetic way artists sometimes did. No — hers felt different. Like she was making peace with the fact that ahead wasn’t guaranteed. And something in his chest twisted.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t pry.

She didn’t owe him anything, and he wasn’t sure he could handle the answer if she gave it. So instead, he said, “I get that.”

Her eyes flicked sideways, curious.

“Drawing for now,” he repeated. “I used to write music like that.”

“Used to?” she echoed.

He leaned back against the bench. “It got harder once it became about everyone else.”

She studied him for a beat. “Then write something for no one.”

“I don’t think I remember how.”

She looked down, brushed a petal off her knee.

“Maybe you’re supposed to forget. So it hurts when you remember.”

The words were quiet but they hit something raw. He stared at her, unsure what to say. She didn’t look at him. Just turned the page again. Back to a blank canvas. And then, “What’s your real name?”

He blinked. “You don’t know it?”

“I do,” she said. “But I want the one you give when you’re not onstage.”

“…Seunghyun.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you, Seunghyun.”

Silence followed. She didn’t give hers.

Their quiet afternoon stretched in silence.They didn’t leave together. Didn’t trade phone numbers. Didn’t promise to see each other again.

But as he walked away, he realized something strange. He hadn’t thought about his schedule in over an hour. Not the next appearance. Not the next shoot. Not the pressure. Not the noise.

Just her voice.

Her laugh.

And the way she said “drawing for now.”

Like now was all she had.

It was a Tuesday again. No rain this time. Just the heat of an early spring sun breaking shyly through leftover clouds. The park looked different in the light. Too green, too alive but the bench remained the same. Same cracks in the wood, same old cherry tree losing its last few petals like secrets slipping through time.

Seunghyun sat there before she did. He arrived ten minutes early, not that he told himself he was waiting. Just that he needed air. Space. Something that wasn’t polished white floors or fake laughter echoing through dressing rooms.

His manager had called him three times before noon. He didn’t answer. They were on break between schedules — technically just forty minutes. Enough time to eat. To rest. To reply to three weeks’ worth of ignored messages from label execs. Instead, he asked to be dropped off on a corner near the park and walked the rest of the way.

He checked the time again.

Twelve past.

He wasn’t anxious.

Not really.

Just…

Waiting.

And then, there she was.

Same hoodie, sleeves fraying more than before. Her walk was slow today — not limping, exactly, but careful. Measured. He noticed it right away. How she paused just before sitting. How she exhaled like gravity hit her harder than it should.

“Hey,” she said, offering him a tired half-smile.

“You okay?”

“Just late,” she said. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “You’re the only thing I’m not late for these days.”

That surprised her. She blinked, then turned her head to look at him more directly. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching a little boy chase pigeons across the path until they scattered in a flurry of feathers.

“Busy day?” she asked.

He nodded. “Always.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I kept the hour for myself.”

She smiled — not wide, not bright, but soft. Like something inside her had been reassured. “That’s rare, huh?”

“Rare as peace.”

She leaned forward, pulling her sketchbook from her bag. The cover was more bent now, the corners softening from wear. She didn’t open it right away. Instead, she said, “You don’t talk like the person people think you are.”

He turned to her, curious. “What do they think I am?”

She tapped the pencil against her lower lip in thought. “I don’t know. Controlled. Sharp. Cold, maybe.”

He raised a brow. “And what am I really?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “you’re just… tired of pretending you aren’t soft.”

His mouth parted slightly — a breath, a blink and he found himself laughing, low and honest. “You always say things like that?”

She just shook her head, smiling. Instead, she opened her sketchbook and started drawing — right there beside him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand moved slowly today. Less certainty. He could see the effort it took in her wrist, the faint tremor at the edge of each line.

He wanted to ask if she was sick. Wanted to say, Tell me what you’re not telling me.

But he didn’t.

Because the way she leaned into the moment like every minute was already borrowed made him afraid of what she might confirm if he asked.

So instead, he leaned back against the bench, let the wind stir his coat, and sat beside the girl who wouldn’t give him her name.

And for the first time in months, maybe years…

He didn’t feel like T.O.P.

He felt like himself.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything waiting for him outside the park.

They didn’t mean to meet every day.

It just happened.

The way light finds the same windows every afternoon. The way two songs accidentally harmonize when played too close together. Familiar without intention. Constant without promise.

For weeks, the park bench beneath the cherry blossom tree became their quiet little world.

Seunghyun started rearranging everything for it, subtly at first. Pushing back a meeting by thirty minutes. Skipping lunch breaks. Telling his manager he needed “a walk” whenever he felt his chest tighten too much under the weight of appearances.

He didn’t tell anyone about her.

Not because it was a secret.

Because it was his.

Some days, she brought tea in a little thermos, still warm. Other days, she brought music, an old cassette player with only one working speaker. They would sit, knees not quite touching, listening to lo-fi jazz while she drew and he watched clouds pass between buildings.

One time, he showed up in sunglasses and a mask, breathing heavily from running across town.

“You’re late,” she teased without looking up.

“I’m early everywhere else,” he muttered, collapsing beside her.

She reached into her bag, handed him half a sandwich. “Then this is your reward.”

He ate it without question.

Another time, it was raining again — light and misty. She showed up anyway, even though he didn’t expect her to.

“Thought you hated getting wet,” she said as she shook out her damp hair and sat beside him.

“I hate missing things more.”

She swallowed.

Didn’t know what to say to that.

So he just leaned back and let the light mist of water run down his face, pretending he didn’t hear the way his voice cracked a little when he said it.

Instead, he filled in the blanks with quiet hopes he didn’t dare say out loud.

He started writing again. Lyrics he wouldn’t show anyone. Scribbled lines in a notebook she once teased him for carrying. He didn’t care.

It was the first time music made him feel something since… he couldn’t remember when.

Days passed when the rhythm changed. It started with a missed day. She wasn’t there. He waited for an hour, walked a slow lap around the park, and left.

The next day, she came. Apologized softly. Said she had an appointment that ran long.

He didn’t ask what kind. He wanted to but something in the way she clutched her sketchbook tighter than usual told him not to.

The meetings became more spaced. Every other day. Then every three. Then silence.

He started getting pushback from his team.

“Hyung, you can’t just disappear during press season.”

“We’re about to finalize the comeback schedule. You need to be in the room.”

“Where the hell are you always going in the afternoons?”

He argued. Loud. Frustrated.

He didn’t even try to explain it to them. They wouldn’t understand.

It wasn’t a girlfriend.

Wasn’t a scandal.

It was… her.

And he was afraid if he didn’t see her, she might vanish completely.

One day, he stood in the hallway outside the meeting room, fingers clenched so tightly around a coffee cup it cracked.

“I need an hour,” he said.

“You need to be here,” his manager snapped. “Just one hour — then the press call, the shoot, and the label dinner. Please, hyung.”

He almost walked out anyway. But he didn’t and he hated himself for it.

Weeks followed. No more walks. No more sandwiches wrapped in napkins, still warm from her hands. No more laughter soft enough to make the world feel gentle again — laughter that came not from his stage persona, not from a punchline, but from those tiny, in-between moments when her guard dropped and her eyes sparkled.

Just gone.

It wasn’t loud. There was no final goodbye, no moment where he could say, Please stay. Please wait. It was just absence.

That slow, unbearable silence that creeps in when something sacred vanishes before you even realized it mattered that much.

He stopped writing.

Stopped sketching, too. He hadn’t picked up a pen in days. Every page he touched ended up torn or thrown. The notebook in his bag was bent and water-stained, warped with effort and failure. The words came wrong now. Hollow. Like echoes in an empty room.

All that remained — all that he could hold was a folded piece of paper tucked behind his ID in his wallet.

The sketch.

She gave it to him the last time they saw each other, nonchalantly, like it was nothing. “You’ll hate it,” she’d said, pressing it into his hand with a smile too wide to be casual. “Don’t unfold it until you’re alone. Promise?”

He took it out more than he should’ve. Late at night. Between interviews. In cars. In green rooms where the lights were too bright and the silence too sharp.

The paper had softened along the folds. A corner was beginning to curl.

The drawing itself was done in pencil, clean and textured — more detailed than any of the sketches he’d seen from her before. Not rushed. Not abstract.

It was him.

Not T.O.P, not the performer but him. Hair tucked under a beanie, eyes cast downward, lips just slightly parted. Caught mid-thought. His own gaze looking past the viewer, like he wasn’t sure where he was anymore.

It was how he looked when she saw him.

And now, all he had was the version of himself she left behind. He stared at it for what felt like hours. So long he forgot to blink. His eyes burned, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not while something so real stared back at him. Something that remembered. Something that looked at him the way she did without asking for anything.

A sound rose in his throat — tight and unfamiliar.

It wasn’t quite a sob. Not yet. But it cracked something open in his chest. A seam that had been splitting slowly ever since the first day she didn’t come.

The ache became a flood. And before he even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet.

He didn’t take a car.

Didn’t grab a coat.

Didn’t tell anyone.

He just ran.

Out the studio doors, down concrete alleys and dim-lit sidewalks. The city blurred. Cars honked. Strangers turned to watch the man in the hoodie sprint across a crosswalk with panic in his eyes and no destination on his lips except one.

The park.

The goddamn bench.

Their bench.

His lungs burned by the time he got there. He stumbled across the worn path, gravel crunching under his shoes, heart thudding louder than the wind through the trees.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

She hadn’t been there for weeks.

Someone else was.

An older woman sat in her place, knees close together, fingers folded around the strap of a plain black shoulder bag. She looked like she’d been waiting — not for him, but for something quieter. The kind of waiting that knows it won’t be answered.

She turned when she saw him approach.

And he knew.

He knew.

She had her eyes but it was softer, worn by grief.

But her eyes.

The breath rushed from his lungs before she even opened her mouth.

“You’re Seunghyun,” she said softly.

He nodded once. He couldn’t speak.

“She talked about you,” she said. “A lot.” Her voice was warm. Gentle but unbearably tired.

He blinked fast. The sketch in his wallet felt heavier than ever before.

“She waited here for you… for days. She really believed you’d come back.”

A tremor started in his fingers. He curled them into fists.

“I wanted to. I—I tried—”

The woman smiled faintly. Not with blame. But with that tragic kind of kindness only grieving mothers seem to know how to give.

“She knew,” she said. “She never held it against you.”

From her bag, she pulled out a small envelope. It was soft at the edges, slightly yellowed, with a faint bend down the middle like it had been opened and read over and over.

“She wrote this in case she… left before you came back. She asked me to give it to you.”

She pressed it into his palm. Her hand lingered there for a moment — a squeeze, light and trembling.

“She wanted you to know,” she said, voice breaking for the first time, “that meeting you made her feel like she was still living.”

And then she walked away, one hand pressed to her chest, the other wiping her cheek as she turned and disappeared down the path where cherry blossoms had already begun to fall again.

He sat on the cold bench.

Alone.

The envelope was warm from her hand, but it chilled the moment he opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, carefully folded. And a pressed cherry blossom — browned now, but still intact tucked gently inside the crease.

He opened the letter with trembling fingers.

Her handwriting.

Small. Neat. Certain.

“Seunghyun,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if time will let me see you again. But if you’re holding this… then I guess I already know.

You made the time I had feel like it mattered. Even if you didn’t know the whole truth.

His throat closed, a knot forming in the space between his heart and his breath.

I didn’t tell you I was sick because I didn’t want that to be what you saw. I didn’t want to become a ticking clock in your eyes. I didn’t want your kindness to come from pity. I just… I wanted to be soft. I wanted to be seen the way you saw me, a stranger with messy sketches and too many opinions about clouds.

You always showed up like you didn’t even realize you were saving me. Every time you sat beside me, every time you took that hour… you gave me life I didn’t think I could still feel. And then one day… you stopped. And I understood. But I still waited. Every day. Because even if you didn’t come, you gave me something worth waiting for.

The ink was smudged in one place — a water stain, or maybe a tear, now dried into the fibers of the page.

Don’t blame yourself. Please. I didn’t need you to fix anything. I just needed to feel like I was part of the world again.

And you gave me that. For a little while, I forgot I was dying.

His hands began to shake, the letter trembling like it carried the weight of her voice.

I hope that someday, in some corner of your heart, you’ll remember me as something light — not heavy.

That would be enough.”

Love,

Y/N

Below the signature was a second sheet, tucked gently behind the letter.

A portrait.

The same one she once gave him — unfinished then, just a sketch of outlines and beginnings, barely enough for him to recognize himself.

But now…

Now it was complete.

She’d drawn him with such unbearable softness. Shading carefully along his jaw, his cheekbones. His mouth was curved into that faint smile he only wore around her — the one that happened when silence felt safe. His eyes were darker in the portrait, shadowed, thoughtful. Alive in a way he hadn’t realized she’d memorized.

She’d finished it.

Even knowing she’d never get to hand it to him.

Even knowing she wouldn’t see how his breath would hitch. How his hands would tremble.

How his heart would shatter.

Seunghyun didn’t cry the way people do in films. No fists pounding against walls. No dramatic gasps.

He just sat there.

Completely still.

Hands curled tightly around the paper, fingertips pressing too hard, as if the more he held it, the more it might undo time.

His throat burned.

His chest felt hollow like something vital had been scooped out and nothing was left to keep him upright but grief. The ache that had been building for weeks finally gave in. Broke.

Tears slipped from his eyes — quietly, steadily without effort or warning. They fell onto the paper. Onto her lines. Onto her name.

He bowed his head, pulled the drawing gently to his chest, and held it there like it was the last warmth left in the world. And he whispered something, not to himself, not to the sky, but to her. To Y/N, who had been gone longer than he realized.

“I’m sorry I was late.”

His voice cracked like a violin string pulled too tight.

“I should’ve come back sooner.”

The wind blew softly through the trees, catching the edge of her sketch and fluttering it like breath. The sun dipped low enough to spill gold across the pavement, warming the very bench where she once sat, knee drawn up, sketching him like a secret.

Seunghyun closed his eyes.

He saw her there. Just for a second.

That faint smile. That stupid hoodie. That softness she never let the world take from her.

He opened his eyes again. Through everything trembling inside him, he made her a promise. A real one.

“I’ll write it for you,” And this time… he meant it with everything he had left.

#choi seunghyun #t.o.p x reader #t.o.p #t.o.p fanfic #t.o.p bigbang #bigbang fanfic #bigbang x reader #bigbang #bigbang scenario #angst #t.o.p x you

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habitant · 3 days ago

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Excerpt from Nicole Gosling's interview with RDS. On similarities with Erin Ambrose [2:05 to 3:56]

REPORTER: You know a lot of the players on this team, also Kori Cheverie with team Canada, so, is it kind of nice? And maybe, can help your transition, being in a familiar environment in Montreal?

GOSLING: No, yeah, for sure, just the familiarity with them is definitely gonna make the transition easier, and um, Erin Ambrose drove me up here and was already being like "I'm gonna be the best teammate for you," and just like, honestly, learning from them, I'm really looking forward to.

REPORTER: Yeah, you talk about Erin Ambrose, she drove you here, right? After the draft?

GOSLING: Yeah.

REPORTER: Okay, do you sleep at her—

GOSLING: No, no, no.

REPORTER: Okay, but like. What is your relationship with her? Because you've talked a lot about Erin Ambrose, and you know, during the draft, but I mean, what is your relationship on a daily basis with Erin Ambrose?

GOSLING: Yeah, well, I mean, her being a Clarkson alumn, and myself now a Clarkson alumn. Um, just that connection, it's, it's been special, um, over the past couple of years, we definitely have gotten a lot closer. Me, playing at Worlds two years ago, um, but even before the draft, like in seeing the draft order, she was like, "I really hope you're at Montreal." Like, she was texting me, like, to leading up, and right when I got drafted, she was one of the first people to even like, blow up my phone, so um. Honestly, it's growing and I think, like, obviously, it's just a beginning. Now we're gonna be teammates full-time so, looking forward to what that has in store.

REPORTER: Do you think that your game is similar to the one that Erin Ambrose has? In which way maybe that you have a similar game to Erin Ambrose, and you can be paired with her maybe, so it could be quite nice, right?

GOSLING: Yeah, no, yeah. Definitely, I've been compared to her a little bit growing up and everything. Just like her offensive ability, I like to be offensive as well. But I think just from, coming from Clarkson, both of us understanding that defense leads to offense, and it's kind of what our Clarkson coach has engraved in our brain a little bit. Like, taking care of the d-side first. So, I think we do definitely have some similarities in that aspect.

#kr.transcript #nicole gosling #erin ambrose #victoire de montréal #i think it's rlly cute that erin was blowing up her phone and texting her about being in montreal before she even got drafted #cute little mentorship! erin's truly collecting children lol like cayla and jenn and now nicole

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conclover · 10 hours ago

Text

Mr. Tenna x GN! Reader | Static Hearts Part 7

Previous chapter

Summary: It’s official now. You and Tenna are dating!

Warnings: +18, big dick (that’s a warning, yeah), Tenna being Tenna, references to suicide, yandere man.

Notes: Chapter 7 already... This man has got me obsessed.

Word count: 4,7 K

It wasn’t a fucking joke.

Tenna was serious. Terrifyingly, obsessively, let’s-write-our-names-in-blood serious. More serious than he’d ever been about anything in his life.

He said it. Out loud. In public. Loud and clear. Grinning like a madman on live television, arm wrapped tight around you.

“We’re together!”

But it sounded less like a love confession and more like a declaration of war.

And now?

Everyone in the whole fucking Dark World knows.

…

“WE’RE TOGETHER!”: TENNA’S LIVE MELTDOWN MASKED AS A RELATIONSHIP ANNOUNCEMENT

That’s right. Tenna, who’s graced our screens for decades (yes, that Tenna) is back in headlines but not for a ratings spike. Ha!

The semi-retired star, best known for quiz shows that only your grandma still watches and cooking segments that make even microwave meals look exciting has declared:

“Single life? Out. Being in love? In.”

We’re still trying to figure out who asked…

Tenna has been locking eyes (though let’s be real, he doesn’t have any!) with a not so known but suddenly everywhere on-air personality who’s managed to steal both the spotlight and Tenna’s robotic heart.

The rumors started during a late night special, where the two couldn’t stop exchanging flirty banter, whispering inside jokes, and building the kind of on-air tension so thick it should’ve come with a PG-18 warning.

Viewers (all 7 of them) couldn’t help but notice. Yes, he’s apparently glowing now, though some say that’s just his TV head overheating.

Tenna’s life hasn’t exactly been a fairytale. Two divorces, the slow fading out of traditional TV, and let’s not forget about the ever expanding list of industry rivals and critics who mysteriously disappear.

Somehow, this new connection seems to be rebooting him. Crew members say he’s humming in the hallways again. Friends are saying… oh wait he doesn’t have any. And industry insiders? They’re saying they haven’t seen him this emotionally stable since TV guide was still a thing.

The big question is: can this so-called star survive Tenna’s cringeworthy punchlines or will they be the next to get a taste of his explosive temper? Just like his employees!

One thing’s certain… Even if no one’s watching the shows anymore, everyone is dying to see this trainwreck of a love story unfold.

…

So it’s official now.

Hm. Interesting.

You thought you wanted this. You really thought being Tenna’s lover was what you needed. Ugh. Had lust completely taken over your mind?

“Oh, people are just mean sometimes…” Tenna said, trying to sound unaffected by the newest gossip magazine. “Good thing is we’re on the cover.”

If he had been alone, he might have started tearing apart his bedroom in a fit of frustration, hurling things across the room, calling Mike to drown out the gnawing thoughts that urged him to throw himself out of the window.

But not now. Not after the chaotic and desperate way you’d clung to each other. It was surprising how hours blurred together in a collision of moans and skin, until your bodies were slick with sweat and your lungs begged for air.

That same wild energy that once threatened to unmake him now left you both breathless, tangled in the aftermath. You were curled up in his arms, your naked body pressed against his, the warmth of your touch grounding more than anything ever could. Nothing else mattered, no dark thoughts, no past mistakes, no fear of the future. Just you.

You watched as he rummaged through the nearby drawer, finally pulling out a pair of scissors far too small for hands like his. He stuck his tongue out and began cutting with ridiculous focus, carefully avoiding cutting your head in the photo like it was some delicate operation.

“Look how pretty you look, sweetheart!” he said, holding up the poorly cropped photo from the tasteless tabloid.

“Not my best shot, but hey… it’s a gossip magazine. Can’t expect much,” you muttered, watching as he gently traced a finger across your face in the photo.

Tenna froze once he processed what you said, then turned sharply in his pillow.

“What are you saying?” His voice cracked slightly, trembling under the weight of something deeper than offense.

He gripped your shoulder tightly, like he needed you to feel what he felt. His other hand held the photo so close to your face you could almost smell the paper.

“This!... This photo is everything to me. Look at you.” His breath hitched, as if even speaking the words made his chest tighten. “You look like something I don’t even have words for…”

He slowly moved the photo away from your face and brought it closer to his own, his expression softening. His thumb brushed lightly over the image, eyes fixed on that candid shot of the two of you chatting on a late night show, laughing, leaning close, like no one else in the world existed.

“Hey,” you said gently, nudging his arm and slipping the photo from his hands. “You know you don’t need a photo when you’ve got the real thing right here…”

You moved over him with ease, straddling him as you reached toward the nightstand. Tenna’s hands didn’t waste the opportunity and he gave your ass a slow and appreciative squeeze, fingers pressing hard enough to make you shiver.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about...” he murmured, his voice dropping low in a seductive way, his smile curling into something devilishly confident. “Why settle for a picture when I’ve got the whole damn show right here?”

You shot him a teasing look over your shoulder, your body already warming with the anticipation and his low, knowing laugh confirmed he knew exactly where this was going.

“You sure you can handle another round?” he teased, though his smile twitched with uncertainty as he leaned in, almost as if he was asking himself the same question.

But just as you reached to slide the drawer shut and brace yourself for the warmth of his erection already pressing into your backside, your hand stilled and your eyes fell inside.

A chaos waited there, random at first glance. However, the longer you looked, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just a junk drawer. It was a shrine.

Scraps of paper with your name and his scribbled over and over with hearts all around it, as if the very act of writing it could make you stay.

A napkin from a fancy café you’d visited weeks ago with him, its corners creased and stained, a forgotten lovely moment now turned strange.

A crumpled post-it note with your handwriting, one you’d left for him days ago. It said “Back in 5 ;)” but reading it now, it felt wrong.

And tucked in the corner, several VHS tapes, each labeled with stickers though the handwriting was messy, almost impossible to read.

You should have been scared. This man had a really creepy side and he didn’t even care to hide it. But there was a reason as to why you didn’t run for your life. Somehow, you felt a pull toward something in the drawer.

Your eyes were drawn to a strange object nestled among the altar of obsession. It was a capsule toy, half orange, half translucent. It seemed so out of place, absurd even amid the carefully arranged objects of devotion.

That thing inside seemed to be alive and it was calling to you. You couldn’t quite explain it, but your hand moved as if it belonged to someone else, reaching for the capsule as though something inside it had once been part of you.

“Hey, t-that’s quite private, actually…” Tenna’s voice broke through, suddenly too alert, like he wasn’t expecting you to get that close.

Without waiting for your reaction, he leaned over and slammed the drawer shut, cutting off the pull you felt. There was something almost unnatural about the force he used to shut it, heightening your suspicion about what he was trying to hide.

“I like you. A lot,” he said with a forced nonchalance, his tone light, but his posture was tense, his hand still resting against the nightstand. “Sue me, sweetheart.”

And suddenly, Tenna’s soft laughter wasn’t as harmless as it had seemed before. He was really nervous, as if you had seen something you weren’t ever meant to.

What is that thing, Tenna?

“It’s fine, I won’t sue you. You’ve already got enough problems,” you said smoothly, letting a little smile curl at the edge of your lips, as if you hadn’t just seen something that should’ve sent you running. “Besides… can’t really blame you for going a little crazy over me.”

Tenna laughed, but the sound didn’t quite match how he was feeling. His posture was still rigid, like he wanted you out of this room before you asked too many questions. But what gave him away wasn’t the laugh or the silence that followed, it was his hand, still resting on the nightstand like a reflex.

I’m not going to jump, Tenna. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do that in front of you.

You tilted your head, eyes drifting over him with curiosity, already mapping out exactly how to melt the tension from his body.

“Actually… I think it’s kind of cute,” you said, your voice dipping into a teasing softness, coaxing him back into ease and into you.

Still straddling him, you shifted your hips forward and back in a slow, almost lazy rhythm, just enough to draw his focus away from whatever shadows were still clinging to his thoughts.

And you smiled, because he didn’t even realize you were already disarming him.

It was almost too easy. So easy in fact, it barely felt satisfying.

The way his breath caught like he was barely holding himself together. The way his fingers finally slid from the nightstand, abandoning the need to guard whatever was hidden inside. Instead, his hands found your hips, gripping with a kind of desperate insistence, as if his body had chosen for him.

You let your hand drift slowly down the center of his chest panels, your touch softening to distract him further. You still needed his mind somewhere else. Even though you had him all hard beneath you, his guard wasn’t fully down. Not yet.

“I mean, I can’t judge you,” you added, smirking now as the perfect lie came to your mind. “I’ve got one of those love shrines too.”

Tenna’s mouth fell open in cartoonish disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if you were serious or worse… if you were actually just like him.

“R-Really?” he asked, his hands tightening around your hips, holding you there like he needed to make sure you weren’t just teasing him.

“Mm-hmm…” You nodded, watching as his wary surprise softened into something more open and trusting. “Remember that coffee we had before our first kiss?”

“Yes, how could I forget?” he said, completely invested.

“Well…” You leaned closer, letting your words fall like a secret between the two of you. “I kept the straw from your cup.”

You really prayed he wouldn’t remember that he’d thrown the cups away himself. But judging by the way Tenna let out a stunned little laugh that quickly dissolved into a shaky breath, he was too far gone to question the details. Too turned on by the idea of you being just as obsessive and unhinged like he was. He exhaled like he couldn’t hold it in anymore, his body shifting against you almost mindlessly. You could feel the change in the air around him, the way something in him unraveled, just a little.

Without another word, he pushed you away, pinning you to the bed with more force than the moment seemed to call for. It wasn’t exactly violent but there was urgency in his touch.

He hovered over you quickly, his screen casting an intense glow as his expression twisted with hunger for you. You looked down, trying not to react to his size, but it was difficult to ignore just how imposing he felt when he was hard, like every inch of him was designed to overwhelm you.

“I didn’t think you had that kind of naughty in you…” he murmured, his voice lowering as he caught the way your eyes lingered on his hard cock. He tilted your chin up gently, guiding your gaze to meet his face, now burning with desire. “But I must admit… I’m entirely captivated, sweetheart.”

“Can’t help the nasty thoughts that run through my head every time I see you,” you said, each word dripping with intent.

You breathed deeply, already hoping that your plan would go accordingly. And as he looked at you with something between wonder and obsession, you smiled, because you had just turned the game in your favor.

Slowly, you lifted your legs and draped them over his shoulders, making the color bar blush on his screen flicker into a wild pattern.

“My love,” he said, voice low and aching as he turned his head to press a tender kiss to your ankle, his hand trailing slowly along your leg. “What is it you do to me, that I’m always falling harder than the last time? I mean it. You drive me out of my mind. Every. Damn. Time.”

He leaned in closer, crowding into your space. Your legs stretched a bit awkwardly from his nearness, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t care. He just wanted to be close to you. To keep you there, in his orbit, where you couldn’t slip away.

“I’m going to make love to you so sweet, you’ll be calling my name like it’s the only thing you remember,” he murmured, his voice rich with desire.

His hand moved down instinctively, pulling his cock closer to you. But as he pressed in, your body tensed at the contact, a shiver of discomfort passing through you.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked quickly, panic threading through the words as he fumbled for the right thing to say. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t want to hurt you. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

His hand brushed your cheek with nervous tenderness, but he immediately pulled it back, uncertain where to touch you or if he should touch you at all.

“Maybe… maybe we should just... stop, huh? After all the... well, you know, the whole night of... this,” he laughed nervously, the sound a bit shaky and forced. “I think I’ve done enough damage here, sweetheart.”

The vulnerability in his voice was unmistakable, a soft ache lingering behind the question, as though he couldn’t bear to hurt you, not even by mistake.

“And I’m completely fine with cuddling or, uh… doing other stuff!” he added quickly, his voice turning a little sheepish as his grin faltered, clearly trying to keep things light.

“No,” you said firmly, your body betraying the frustration you were trying to mask. “Just… get the lube.”

“A-Are you sure?” he stammered, completely taken aback by your directness, his brow furrowing in surprise.

You nodded, and as he moved to open the drawer, he turned to you with an eyebrow slightly raised, as if still uncertain you wanted this. When his back was to you, his hands trembled ever so slightly, betraying the tension he was trying to conceal. In that brief moment, you felt the pull again. It was the same sensation from earlier, the same subtle but undeniable call. But before you could act on it, he closed the drawer.

“Tenna, please, hurry. I need you,” you urged, your leg brushing gently against his bare back as if to provoke him, to make him move faster.

That was really your plan, letting yourself be used by him and playing your part in his game. Moaning, screaming his name, all to push him to the edge. Maybe even touch his antennae to get him off easily. Once he was done, he’d go off to clean himself, giving you just enough time to act and see what the hell was going on in that drawer.

“You do?” he asked, his back still turned to you, his voice dropping lower.

He slowly stood from the bed, avoiding your gaze as he casually pulled on a pair of funky, colorful pajama pants, clearly not in a rush.

Without looking at you, he rummaged through his closet with deliberate movements, pulling out a red dressing gown.

Each action seemed too calm, almost as if he knew something you hadn’t figured out yet. And there you were, still naked and confused by the sudden change in his demeanor.

“I’ll be in the kitchen, waiting for you for breakfast,” he said, turning towards you with a casual grin, though his lips twitched slightly, as if he was trying to mask the shift in his mood.

He paused at the doorframe before leaving, one hand resting on the door handle and the other clutching his dressing gown closed over his chest plates.

“But if you really want to open that drawer,” he added, his voice dropping lower, the tone now laced with something darker, almost like a dare. “Go ahead. See where that gets you.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, you were left exactly where you wanted to be. Alone with the chance to explore. To finally see what was hidden in that drawer. But as your hand hovered over the handle, doubt crept in. Was it really worth it? Would Tenna hear you rummaging through his forbidden stash?

No. You couldn’t back down now. This was your shot. The closest you’d been to getting real answers, to finally confronting the things that had been weighing on your mind. You weren’t going to let him threaten you again.

As you threw open the drawer, your heart raced, panic flooding your chest. Your hands trembled as you yanked at the scattered items, each one slipping through your fingers. You didn’t care what else was in there, just that stupid capsule toy. Your fingers brushed against VHS tapes, a gross feeling crawling up your spine as you pushed them aside.

Where is it?

The capsule had to be in here, but the longer you searched, the more suffocating the silence became. Each tape you moved only seemed to add to the fear, the unfamiliar weight of them heightening your anxiety.

“You want to see those?” Tenna’s voice cut through your frantic search, his tone laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

You froze, turning to him. He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but something about his presence sent a chill down your spine.

He played with the belt of his dressing gown like nothing had happened, fingers looping it lazily as he started walking toward you. Your heart pounded faster with every inch he closed, his calmness only making your panic worse.

“Ohhh, you weren’t just rummaging for nostalgia… You were treasure hunting!” he said, drawing out the words like a punchline. “Yeah… can’t let you do that, sweetie.”

His words lingered in the air as he settled beside you, his presence crawling under your skin. And when his hand landed on your thigh, you didn’t need him to say another word. You already knew you were completely and undeniably fucked.

“Look,” he said, his voice unnervingly soft as he pulled one of the VHS tapes from the drawer. “This one’s one of my favorites!”

He handed it to you, his smile never wavering as you read the label.

“It’s from our first quiz show…” he began, his tone far too casual, “...you were so confused back then. Didn’t have a clue what was going on. And all your answers? Adorable! Like you had a little crush on me, hmmm?”

You could feel the weight of his words and they didn’t feel innocent. They felt like a subtle reminder of how much he’d been watching, how much he knew about you.

“What I’d give to go back then… to the beginning. Before you wanted to leave me…”

I wanted to leave back then too, Tenna.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice smooth as his hand trailed upward. “What do I have to do to make you feel right at home here, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t want to tell some words that would just fall flat.

“Do I need to turn it up a notch, huh? Get a little rougher? Play the sad, angry guy?” he asked, his voice smooth yet laced with something darker. His grip tightened as his hand moved up your chest, the touch oddly detached from the fact you were still naked. “Is that what you’re looking for, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. You simply curled in on yourself, knees drawn tight to your chest, your face buried between your legs as if it could shield you from the overwhelming exposure. Not just nakedness, but your true intentions laid bare for him to see.

A sob escaped before you could stop it, the weight of everything choking you. You didn’t know how you were ever going to leave this place. And the thought of being bound to this TV freak for what felt like eternity…

No…

Tenna froze for a moment, caught between guilt and concern. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t try to fix it. Instead, he placed a hand gently on your back, his fingers massaging softly, as if trying to soothe the pain he had caused.

The silence between you stretched, until eventually, you lifted your head hesitantly until your eyes met his screen, now filled with genuine worry. But as soon as he saw your face, his face brightened. That spark of hope was visible in the way he smiled, like he thought things might turn out okay after all.

But then, your voice shattered the silence.

“I just want to go back…”

The light in his expression dimmed. And for a moment, neither of you said anything. The truth sat between you, louder than any scream.

Now that you’d been so close to the truth, you couldn’t help but think about going home. About leaving this whole bizarre chapter behind. At least it would give the gossip magazines something to talk about you for once, something besides their usual hobby of dragging Tenna through the mud.

“No.”

The word came out sharp, cutting through the silence like shattered glass.

“What, Te—” You flinched as his hand reached for yours and gripped it tightly.

“No!” he snapped, louder this time, his voice cracking at the edges, already fraying with panic.

You sat up straighter, startled, your heart beginning to pound.

“I want to go, I’m sorry…” you said carefully, trying to ground your voice, to keep the emotion from shaking it apart. “I don’t belong here.”

“I said no!” he shouted, and this time he stood abruptly.

His shadow seemed to stretch with him, filling the room in a way that made the walls feel smaller. His body expanded, towering over you, his form becoming more monstrous with each passing second. His brows burned with fury, and as he opened his mouth, sharp fangs glistened in the dim light of the bedroom. The air crackled with a terrifying static sound, and there was a flash in his face, not anger exactly, but something worse. Desperation. The kind that doesn’t care who it breaks to keep what it wants.

Your breath caught and you swore you could already see yourself dead, but instead of savagely mauling you apart with those pointy fangs, he curled over you, wrapping you in a fierce and trembling embrace, as if terrified you might slip away.

“Don’t say that… You belong here with me,” he whispered, his voice softer now, quivering on the edge of tears. “You always have!”

He cradled your face, desperate to draw a smile from between his hands, but your expression stayed frozen and unreadable. So he pressed his thumb gently against the corner of your lips, trying to force a hint of happiness where there was none.

“Please, my love,” he murmured, pressing his face against yours, blocking out everything else for a moment. “Tell me what you need. Anything, you hear me? Anything to see you smile again,” he said, voice rising sharply into your ear, loud enough to make you flinch.

He was truly desperate, willing to do anything just to keep you by his side. But even through that desperation, he clung to the hope that it wouldn’t have to be forced. Though, by now, you both knew you didn’t really have a choice.

“You know what I want, Tenna…” you said coldly, unmoved by how frantic he was becoming.

“Listen!” He leaned back just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face again, trying to pull off that charm with exaggerated expressions and theatrical gestures. “I know… I know I’m not the best… But I’m trying here, sweetheart. I’m trying my darnedest to make this right! Just for you! For us!”

His voice cracked. He was crying. You could hear it in every word and in the trembling rasp of his breath, even if there were no tears on his screen.

“You used to see me almost every day. You made me feel so special.” His voice dropped as he finally moved away, sitting beside you. “I remember the first time you laid eyes on me… though maybe you don’t. Because… heh…” he let out a shaky breath, “...you didn’t even know me back then.”

He pressed his hands against his screen, partially hiding his face from view.

“And I loved the way you looked at me. The way I made you laugh. The way you’d almost come running after work, just to watch me…” His voice faltered, a deep sigh dragging his words into unevenness.

“I don’t think I’m getting you…” you said, confusion creeping into your voice. You had no idea why he was speaking as if he’d known you for a lifetime.

“You don’t have to…” he said quietly, looking at you as he gently took your hand, pressing it close to the smooth surface of his screen. “What matters is that you’re here…with me, sweetie. And w-we can be closer than we’ve ever been.”

You blinked, still not understanding. None of it made sense.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, his voice cracking as if each word physically hurt. “You don’t even know how hard it was, love. Watching you lose interest in me... slowly… like I was fading out of your world.”

He turned his head away, as if even facing you made the pain worse.

“I know I’m irrelevant. I’m junk. And maybe you don’t want me… not the way you used to or the way I want you… but…” His voice began to stammer, barely holding itself together. “But I didn’t have another choice. I didn’t know what else to do. I just... couldn’t lose you. And... and... I didn’t want to be thrown away. Not by you… no… If y-you did that, I… I wouldn’t know how to go on…”

“How would I do that?” you asked, partly to reassure him, partly because you genuinely wanted to know how to do it, how to throw him away.

He looked at you, a faint smile curling at the edges of his screen as if your words had sparked something deep inside him.

“You get it, right? As long as we’re here together in this world… we can make it work. I don’t have to be alone!”

His hands gripped your arms suddenly, much firmer than before, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessiveness that sent a chill down your spine.

“And I can show you why you don’t have to throw me away, sweetheart. I’ll prove it to you. Just you see, I can still be fun!” His smile twitched as he clung to you, his grip tightening with each word, desperate for you to believe him.

He stood up with a dramatic sweep, his sorrow vanishing almost instantly, as if your one small question had been enough to ignite a spark of hope or… delusion.

Yeah. That sounds more like it.

If he hadn’t already made you feel trapped in this suffocating world, he was sure as hell finding new ways to tighten the noose. Now, on top of it all, you felt guilty too. Hurray!

But hey, it’s not like you could leave. Not that he’d ever let you, even if you tried. He didn’t just want you here. He needed you here. All to himself. No one else, just him.

#deltarune #deltarune x reader #deltarune chapter 3 #mr tenna #tenna x reader #utdr #undertale

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wanderlustinwonderland18 · 2 days ago

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Turkkila & Versluis: Looking Ahead To The Olympics

The conclusion of the 2024-2025 season for Juulia Turkkila and Matthias Versluis was more dramatic than they planned. As they look ahead to the Olympic season, the Finns aim to channel the passion that has brought them success in their partnership.

When Turkkila and Versluis opened the penultimate rhythm dance group at the World Championships back in March, nobody watching thought there was even the slightest possibility that they will not perform in the following day’s free dance. However, Versluis tumbled right at the end of their midline step sequence and for a while, it looked like they would miss the free. Unbeknownst to a disappointed Turkkila and Versluis, they would benefit from the misfortune that befell Lithuania’s Allison Reed and Saulius Ambrulevicius. In the end, Turkkila and Versluis advanced by 0.01 points.

“After the tears and disappointment, it was a rollercoaster of emotions in the locker room understanding that we have a chance to show the free,” Turkkila expressed.

“We’re good friends and also training mates at one point. We get along very well with them, so we shared the disappointment together,” Versluis said about the Lithuanians.

Despite performing first in the free, the 2023 European bronze medallists posted the seventh highest score of the day and leapt in the final standings, helping secure two Olympic spots for Finland. It was a fitting way to say farewell to their iconic tango.

“We gave everything out there. I think it was one of the best free dances we did,” Turkkila said.

“Getting those scores despite skating first was great. We’re going to miss it a lot. It has been a special program for us,” Versluis added.

“The tango, the style, is somehow inside us and we truly enjoy skating the program every time. The first thought in the Kiss and Cry at Worlds was: ‘Oh no, we’re not going to skate it anymore.’ But for sure, there is also excitement for the new programs,” Turkkila stated.

“We’re looking forward to doing something new. The creative process is always a nice time,” Versluis said.

Turkkila and Versluis formed their partnership around the time Boston hosted the 2016 World Championships. Even with the disappointing result, participating at this year’s event in the same venue offered them an opportunity to look back at how far they’ve come.

“Our tryout happened around the same time as Boston Worlds in 2016. It’s kind of a full circle moment. We had many goals from the very beginning, but we didn’t know what to expect coming from single skating,” Turkkila said.

In singles, Turkkila had competed four times at both the World and European Championships, while Versluis was the first Finnish man to land a quad in competition. Their skating idols were Mao Asada and Daisuke Takahashi respectively. At Turkkila’s final Worlds in Saitama, she had the opportunity to share the ice with Asada.

“I remember the standing ovation for her short program. It was so beautiful and lyrical. I took a photo with her and I think it’s still on my Instagram. That year, we were in the same practice group, so I experienced training with her,” Turkkila recalled.

Versluis never skated against Takahashi in singles. However, their paths crossed at the 2023 World Championships in Saitama when the Finnish duo placed above Takahashi and his partner Kana Muramoto.

“It felt funny to beat your idol but of course, it was ice dance. I would never have any chance in singles,” Versluis said.

Injury was initially the reason why Turkkila and Versluis formed a partnership. Jumping was no longer possible for Turkkila so that ruled out pair skating.

“Juulia had some injuries before she tried ice dance, and I also had some injuries. I made the decision to fully pursue ice dance after some time. It was just the training environment. When I was in singles, I was training by myself most of the time, so my motivation was down. When I got the chance to try ice dance, we had a nice group and it was really fun. Training was heartwarming and I really enjoyed it,” Versluis said.

“After my injuries, I couldn’t even think about jumping. Doing those throws and lifts would also be impossible, so ice dance was the only option if I wanted to keep skating,” Turkkila stated.

“I actually considered doing pairs because as a single skater, I was quite big and muscular. I lost all my muscles since then, but I’m happy that I went for ice dance. Even now in ice dance, I have had some shoulder injuries, so I can just imagine how bad things could have been if I pursued pairs,” Versluis reflected.

Turkkila and Versluis started skating in the same club and as they progressed through the years, they were acquainted from competitions and national team camps. As they got to know each other better later in life, they were both discovering ice dance for the first time, which they believe was key to building a strong partnership.

“In the beginning, it was really nice to explore something new together. That made it easier for us in a way. I think if one of us had already been in ice dance, there could have been more tension. Our relationship with ice dance has evolved and we really understand each other, so we have a good dynamic,” Versluis said.

While most of the world’s top ice dancers are based in North America, Turkkila and Versluis train in Helsinki with Maurizio Margaglio and Neil Brown with a number of other teams, including Finnish number two Yuka Orihara and Juho Pirinen.

“We have a really good team. All our training mates are very supportive,” Versluis said.

“We couldn’t ask for anything more,” Turkkila added.

“Our coaches push us to do what feels good and what suits us. They’re not trying to mold us into what they think is the best. They want us to make the best version of ourselves and that’s very important. Then of course, we have an amazing choreographer, Massimo Scali, who also sees our vision and pushes for that,” Versluis revealed.

Naturally, their focus will now be on next February as they prepare for their second Olympic trip. They are looking forward to a different experience than what they had in Beijing, with all the restrictions in place due to the pandemic.

“It was still something special. We dreamt for that moment our whole lives so it was amazing to be there. It was a nice experience for us. We were still young and inexperienced. Perhaps, we would have been overwhelmed if there was too much happening around,” Versluis recalled.

There was no audience at the 2022 Olympics so the Finns are looking forward to having some of their loved ones in the venue.

“I have some family members that already got tickets. They were lucky enough to be one of the first to buy tickets,” Versluis said.

While their competitive career has had ups and downs like Boston, Turkkila and Versluis maintain a philosophical outlook.

“At the end of the day, it’s only sport and figure skating. There is good to come for the rest of our lives,” Turkkila said.

#THEM ❤️#Turkkila Versluis #Juulia Turkkila #Matthias Versluis #Ice Dance #Figure Skating #Ice Skating #Skating #Dance #Sport #Art #Olympics #Finland #Finnish #Dreams #Life #Love #Interview

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jandrichov · 9 hours ago

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My deepest thanks to @playpausephoto whose vision captured what Amatores truly means. Not just love — but the weight, the stillness, the gaze.

Weight of a Name Part X

Amatores

Grown-up scenes ahead. Tenderness included.

—

Morning had long since turned to late forenoon. Beyond the window, the rain murmured on—gentle, ceaseless, unbroken by wind or the clatter of shutters. Just a soft, steady hush, like the whole of Foxburrow had been folded into a quiet, velvet-wrapped world.

Neither of them had slept in some time. But there was no need to move. Not today. Not in the hush of this rain-draped morning.

Hans lay bare on his stomach, cheek resting against a bent arm, and gave a pleased little murmur when fingers wandered through his hair.

Henry, just as bare, was stretched out beside him, lying on his side. One hand supported his head. The other drifted slowly over Hans’s crown—light, deliberate, so gentle it scarcely seemed a touch at all.

Hans made a sound again, this time thoughtful rather than drowsy.

“Still trying to decide,” he mumbled into the mattress, “which part of me likes your hands the most. But…” —fingertips slid once more through his hair, and his lashes dipped— “this might be it.”

Henry’s mouth curved faintly. He let his palm trail to the line just above Hans’s ear and lingered there, tracing it like a promise that needed no words.

“If you had ten pairs of hands,” Hans went on, with a sigh that was more longing than complaint, “I could feel you everywhere. All at once. Now wouldn’t that be something.”

Henry chuckled—low and warm—and his hand slid down. From crown to nape, to shoulder, spine, and lower still, until it came to rest with quiet certainty on the firm curve of Hans’s arse, as if it had always meant to be there.

“Like here?”

Hans didn’t even blink. “There most of all.”

Henry’s hand wandered back up, resuming that lazy rhythm through his hair.

“You think you’ll manage, though? With just the two?”

Hans turned over at that, unhurried. He looked up at him—not sleepily, but with that look of his—half wicked, half painfully sincere.

“Fortunately,” he said, reaching to pull him close, “you’ve got more than enough other parts that are perfect.”

And then he kissed him. Long and slow and smiling, close enough to steal the breath between them.

Henry stayed above him, one palm planted softly beside Hans’s head, gazing down with that strange kind of smile that never stopped at the mouth. It lived in his eyes, in the dimples that flickered at his cheeks.

Around his neck hung a pendant on a leather cord—nearly the same, yet not quite—as the one now resting between Hans’s collarbones.

Hans met his gaze with an easy calm, almost lazy, as though time had folded itself away just for this. His fingers wandered slowly over Henry’s back, tracing along the shoulder blades, down to the waist—and then returned, until his hand came to rest on Henry’s shoulder and arm, warm and steady against the solid strength of muscle there.

“These arms of yours…” he breathed, “God must’ve taken special care with those.”

Henry flushed—not deeply, but just enough to show. He dropped his gaze, smiling, and gave a slight shake of his head, as if trying to brush the words aside while secretly tucking them away like something precious.

“In that case…” he murmured, voice low and rough-edged, “…God must’ve worked overtime on your thighs. And your legs. And your backside. And—” he laughed “—front as well. The whole of you, really… like you were carved from stone by a sculptor who didn’t miss a single inch.”

For a while, there was silence.

Hans smiled in it, faintly. His fingers brushed along Henry’s cheek, light as breath.

Henry still looked down at him, close enough to feel every shift of breath, every heartbeat. He said nothing at first, then gave a low, quiet hum.

“If you keep giving me that soft look… I’m not sure how long I’ll manage to stay soft.”

Hans didn’t so much as blink. He lifted a hand, took Henry gently by the chin, and drew him in that last inch closer.

“I reckon I could handle that,” he said with the calm of a man discussing firewood.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched—just enough to betray the grin coming. “I’m a big boy now.”

Henry’s grin came sharp and swift, matching his.

“Oh, you’re big all right.”

And after that, there was no stopping it.

First came the crooked smiles. Then the snorts. And then they were laughing—properly, wickedly, like schoolboys with no care for dignity. The kind of laughter that bubbles up when you're with the one you love and there’s no need to be noble, or brave, or strong— only exactly who you are, because the other already loves you that way.

Before long, they were lying side by side again, the laughter still trailing after them—first as a thrum in the chest, then as a catch in the breath, and finally as nothing more than a twitch at the corners of their mouths that wouldn’t quite fade.

Henry reached for Hans’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. His gaze drifted up to the ceiling. For a moment, he fell quiet—and a faint shadow crossed his face.

“I’ll miss this,” he said softly.

Hans turned to look at him, brows drawn. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Henry shook his head and met his eyes. “When we go back to Rattay. We’ll have to be careful again. Hide. And I…” His voice caught. “I can barely remember what that felt like anymore.”

Hans let out a quiet breath and stared at the ceiling.

“Ay.” His fingers drifted absentmindedly across the pendant lying against his bare chest.

“I can’t imagine how I’m meant to do it, you know. To be near you and not touch you. Not hold you. Not kiss you.”

He turned toward him, their hands still entwined.

“We’ll find a way. I don’t know how yet. But we will.” He smiled—tired, but true. “We always do.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips against Henry’s.

“But—” he added, running a thumb over Henry’s palm, “it seems to me we’re heading into a time when everything will depend on how well we can hold and guard one another.”

Henry’s eyes searched his, quiet and steady. “Because we’ll only have what we fight for.”

“And what we manage to protect,” Hans said quietly. “Because no one’s going to give us a thing.”

Henry closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they found Hans’s without wavering.

“You know what?” he said. “When you say it like that… I don’t doubt it. That we’ll make it through.” And he said it with such certainty, it caught Hans off guard.

He smiled back at him, then glanced around the room.

“And besides—Foxburrow will still be just a few hours’ ride from Rattay, love.”

Henry shifted, settling above him, braced on his elbows. He looked down at him, studying his face, a quiet smile playing at his lips.

“What?” Hans asked, his smile caught between shyness and hope.

Henry said nothing at first. Then, after a beat, he shook his head slightly, the smile deepening.

“Nothing, just—” he said, “I don’t know if there’ll ever be a day when I stop marveling at the fact that I have you, Jendo. That I’m yours.”

Hans gave him the softest look imaginable.

“Then I’ll make sure you know I’m yours, Jindro. Every single day.”

They stayed there, close and quiet, wrapped in warmth and quiet touches. No hurry, no need to speak—only the slow exchange of caresses and kisses, one after another, like breaths taken in perfect rhythm. It wasn’t until sunlight broke through—announcing the rain had passed—that they finally rose. A little while later, they stood in the courtyard, squinting into the brightness of the day. Sunlight sparkled on grass and leaves, every surface slick with rain, and the air was rich with the scent of wet earth and resin.

“I don’t like autumn,” Henry said after a moment. “But today’s beautiful.” A smile tugged at his lips.

“You’re impossibly picky,” Hans snorted and made a half-hearted attempt to swat him on the arse—though it landed more of a fond stroke.

Suddenly, he stilled, head tilted.

A second later, Henry heard it too—distant hoofbeats, muffled by the road but growing nearer.

The horse that broke through the trees was a nervous young bay, and its rider had his hands full keeping him in check as they pulled up to Foxburrow’s gate. The boy—hardly more than a lad—looked like he’d ridden more miles than he had sense, and there was a look in his eyes that said he was trying his best to seem important.

Henry stepped outside just as the rider slid from the saddle. His hair stuck up in damp tufts, his coat was muddied at the hem, and his face was flushed from the road.

“Gentlemen,” he gasped, giving a quick, awkward bow. “Master Herman, the cooper from Zasmuky, sent me with a message. The tub—he says it’s finished. And if it suits you, he can have it delivered and assembled tomorrow morning.”

Hans leaned one shoulder against the gatepost, arms crossed. A glint of amusement sparked in his eyes.

“So it’s done. Those bruises and scrapes were worth it after all,” he muttered, half to Henry.

The boy glanced between them, then added quickly, “And Master Herman says sir Capon has excellent taste. He doesn’t do that kind of work for just anyone.”

“That almost sounds like flattery,” Hans said dryly. “Or a plea for a bonus.”

“I—I’m just the messenger, my lord,” the boy mumbled, red to the ears.

Henry smiled and nodded. “Tell the master we’re grateful. And that we’ll be ready for him in the morning.”

He reached into his pouch, pulled out a few groschen, and pressed them into the boy’s hand.

The lad’s eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected anything at all. “Thank you, sir… truly, thank you.”

He mounted again—more confidently this time—gave one last nod, then turned his horse and trotted off into the trees.

Hans watched him go, then turned back to Henry. His eyes were shining with something close to boyish glee, and a wide grin broke across his face.

“We’re getting a tub!” he crowed.

Henry smiled at him. “And a pile of work,” he said, glancing toward the lean-to beside the forge. “We’ll need to clear it out, get it ready.”

“Luckily,” Hans replied, one brow lifting, “we’ve got those strong arms of yours, love.” He smiled, then added— “And of course I won’t let you do it alone,” and pressed a kiss to Henry’s cheek.

Henry laughed, shook his head, and muttered something under his breath—followed by a theatrical sigh. But his eyes stayed calm, contented.

He headed toward the smithy, walked past its rear wall, and came to a stop by the lean-to. Bracing one arm against the post, he peered inside.

Old timber. Cobwebs in the corners. Empty sacks, one propped-up handle, and a beam that hadn’t served any purpose in years—except as a makeshift bench.

“We’ll need to shift a few things around,” he said. “And maybe level the ground a bit.”

Hans peeked over his shoulder.

“This is where you’re supposed to turn and say: Hans, dearest, you’re excellent at holding things while I do the actual work.”

Henry looked him straight in the eye, deadpan.

“Hans, dearest… take a basket and start with that wood.”

Hans snorted—but obeyed without protest.

They made good progress. Henry stacked the empty sacks by the far wall. Hans set about carrying out the planks—one at a time, slow and steady, pausing now and then to wipe his hands or grumble something under his breath.

“This place hasn’t seen order since the last crusade,” he muttered, bending over a heap of old boards. “Looks like someone laid siege to it.”

“And we’ll make a sanctuary of it,” he added a moment later, straightening up and brushing dust from his sleeve. “If we don’t die of splinter fever first.”

Henry said nothing— but the corners of his mouth twitched all the same.

When he lifted a corner of an old mat, a folded tarp came into view beneath it—warped, grey with dust, but intact and thick and sturdy to the touch. They both crouched, unrolled it over the packed earth.

“This one will do,” Henry said quietly.

“For covering that open side?” Hans nodded. “When the wind picks up. Or… when we’d rather not be seen.”

“So, always,” Henry said with a crooked smile.

Silence fell again for a moment. Behind them, the grass swayed softly in the breeze, and the air smelled of wood.

They spent the afternoon clearing, stacking, flattening earth, and fastening the tarp in place.

When it was finished, they stood side by side, surveying the result of their efforts with quiet pride.

“I can see it now,” Hans murmured. “You, lounging in hot water…” A dreamy pause. “Smelling nice.” Another pause. “Naked.”

Henry burst out laughing. “Well, I hope you won’t leave me all alone like that,” he said— then pulled Hans close, cupped his arse with one hand, and kissed him soundly.

“You’ll see,” Hans smirked.

Then he caught the change in Henry’s face—how his expression suddenly stiffened.

“What is it?”

Henry looked at him, somewhere between concern and amusement. “Hans?”

“Yes?”

“How are we actually going to get the water in there?”

Hans shrugged. “I figured we’d carry it. In buckets.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “How many buckets are we talking about? A hundred? Two?”

Hans dropped onto the bench. “Shit.”

His eyes darted beneath a furrowed brow, deep in thought. And then—something sparked. He straightened.

“There’s a stream!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “Up the slope, just a little ways. More of a ditch, really, but there’s water.”

Henry shrugged. “We’ll still have to bring it down somehow.”

A foxish grin spread across Hans’s face. “Maybe not. Henry—could you build a channel?”

Henry’s mouth curled at once. “Out of pine bark, you mean?”

Hans let out a breath of pure delight. “Well then, my Henry,” he declared, “tomorrow we build a pinewood aqueduct.”

Henry rolled his eyes—but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed just how much he adored Hans’s flair for wild schemes and boundless enthusiasm.

“Come, Henry! I believe we’ve earned ourselves a proper cup of wine.” He beamed. And as he said, so it was.

The crackle of logs in the hearth mixed with laughter. Flames painted their faces in strokes of gold and orange. The heat of the fire melded with the warmth of their arms around one another. Sparks danced in their eyes.

And the wine was vanishing fast.

“Henry!” Hans cried out at one point, now shirtless and attempting—somewhat unsteadily—to climb onto the tabletop.

“Hans!” Henry called back, raising his cup with such flourish that some of the wine splashed over the rim, and he burst out laughing.

Hans struck a triumphant pose atop the table, straightened up, and lifted his own cup high.

“We’re getting our own fucking bathhouse!”

“Fucking ay we are!” Henry whooped, laughter bubbling up again.

“And once we’re in that tub, my beautiful Henry—” Hans wobbled dangerously— “we’re never getting out again.”

“And what will we do in there forever?”

“Fuck!” Hans roared, laughing again—just as his balance gave out.

Henry caught him by the waist at the last possible moment.

“Love, I’m getting you down now before you break something—preferably not your arse—before we’ve even sat in that tub,” he said, laughing.

Hans froze, then looked at him with exaggerated seriousness. He placed both hands solemnly on Henry’s shoulders.

“Carry me to safety, my right hand,” he said—though the serious look didn’t last long before breaking into a grin.

Henry snorted, slipped his arms under Hans’s, and helped him safely down.

“Henry… I m-love you so much,” Hans mumbled into his chest.

“Love you more, my drunken lordship,” Henry smiled, steering him toward the bed.

They fell into it more than lay down.

“We’re going to feel dreadful in the morning,” Henry said through a laugh.

Hans didn’t reply. His breathing was already slowing—wine and weariness had overtaken him.

Henry leaned in and pressed a kiss just above his ear. “I love you too.”

And before long, he was asleep as well. Henry woke, but kept his eyes shut. He had the distinct sense that even the faintest sliver of light might drive the dull ache in his head into something far worse. It felt as though an iron ball had lodged itself in his skull and rolled heavily against the inside of his forehead with every slight movement.

So when he felt the brush of Hans’s lips against his temple, the wave of warmth it brought mingled with the fine, reliable weight of a hangover.

“You’re already up?” he croaked.

“Almost,” came Hans’s voice, close by. “And I must say, you look utterly wretched.”

“I feel great,” Henry mumbled—though the way his words were pressed into the pillow somewhat undermined the claim.

At last, he turned his head and squinted up at Hans, who had tousled hair and eyes that, suspiciously, sparkled.

“How come you don’t look half dead?” Henry asked, eyeing him with deep suspicion.

Hans brushed a hand across his cheek. “Maybe I’ve had more practice. Or maybe I’m just more of a man than you,” he added with a wicked grin.

“Careful, love. I might have to show you who’s more of a man,” Henry muttered into the pillow.

Hans chuckled. “In your current state, I think I’d win by default,” he said, running a hand lightly over Henry’s back.

“Hans?”

“Hm?”

“Could you check the chest? I think there might still be a flask of hangover draught in there.”

Hans let out a sigh, crossed the room, and began rummaging through the chest. “Found it!”

Henry rolled onto his back and pushed himself up on his elbows. He took the bottle from Hans’s hand with a look of deep gratitude. He downed it in one go and promptly flopped back down.

Hans lay back beside him and traced a finger along his arm.

“I can already feel it working,” Henry said after a moment, glancing over at him. “You’ve saved my life again,” he laughed softly.

“Well, I won’t lie,” Hans said, raising one brow, “I had rather practical reasons. I need you back on your feet—for building that channel… and then for the tub.” The grin that followed was nothing short of devilish.

He leapt from the bed and made for the door. “I’ll fix something to eat. A proper breakfast will have you right again,” he called over his shoulder. “Join me once you’ve managed to wake up.” He smiled before vanishing from sight.

Henry stayed in bed a little longer, but with every passing moment he could feel himself returning to life. Eventually, he rose, blinked the sleep from his eyes, and made his way into the main room.

Hans was still busy at the table, arranging something, when Henry came up behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. A shiver passed through Hans’s body.

“You’re absurdly attractive when you’re fixing food,” Henry murmured against his skin.

“Clearly you’re aroused by the sight of a nobleman working like a scullion,” Hans laughed, turning in his arms. “You’ve got thoroughly perverse tastes,” he added, and kissed him.

“Says the man who stood on the table last night shouting that we’d fuck in the tub until the end of days,” Henry smirked.

“That,” Hans replied with a look of utmost innocence, “wasn’t perverse. That was an expression of deep spiritual devotion.”

At that moment, the sound of a cart rumbled in from the courtyard.

“Well,” Hans shrugged, “breakfast will have to wait.” Outside, gravel crunched beneath wheels. A cart rolled in, pulled by a broad-backed bay horse and loaded to the brim: oak planks, bundled hoops, sacks of tools. Seated on the bench was Master Herman the cooper, with two apprentices beside him.

Hans stepped out to greet them. Hands were shaken, a few quiet words exchanged off to the side. Meanwhile, Henry wandered over to the cart, let his fingers run along one of the hoops, and bent closer to breathe in the scent of the wood—it smelled of resin and fire. Then he stepped aside to give the master cooper space to inspect the lean-to beside the forge.

Hans showed him where the tub was to be placed and described how they envisioned the final result.

Master Herman examined the space with care. He checked the slope of the ground, the distance to the hearth, measured out the dimensions. At last, he gave a nod—and with that, the decision was made. His apprentices began unloading the cart, laying out a canvas sheet, and arranging the parts and tools for assembly. The scent of fresh-cut wood and resin drifted on the morning air.

Hans returned to Henry’s side. His gaze lifted toward the slope beyond the forge.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “looks like we’ve got our own bit of work ahead.”

They made their way to the edge of the woods above the yard, where the trees grew thinner and the land sloped gently down toward the stream. There they chose four young, straight pines—sturdy enough to fell and split, long enough to yield proper troughs.

The work was slow but steady. Henry cut with a blacksmith’s precision, while Hans steadied the trunks, held the branches, and hauled the cuttings aside. The wood cracked and sang with every blow. Sap lent its fresh, bright scent to the air, and tiny needles clung to their hands, their hair. One by one, the pines fell into the grass. And when it was done, they sat a while in the shade.

Their eyes turned back toward the yard— and then down the slope, where the water would soon be running.

Henry smiled faintly. “You won’t want to hear this, Hans— but watching you haul timber like that… you’re utterly irresistible.”

Hans stretched out his legs and wiped his brow. “You’re right, Henry. I don’t want to hear it,” he laughed, and let his hand slide along Henry’s thigh.

Henry placed his palm on Hans’s hand. “All right,” he said in mock surrender, “I’ll drag the logs down myself.”

Hans looked at him—slightly taken aback.

“Well,” Henry went on, with a sheepish smile, “wouldn’t want the common folk to catch a bellator in the act of manual labour.” He nodded toward the yard, where the cooper and his apprentices were hard at work.

Hans rolled his eyes and sighed. “So you’re going to throw those sacks from Troskowitz in my face for the rest of my life?” There wasn’t much bite in it. Just a quiet weariness.

His gaze dropped to the ground.

Henry was silent for a moment. Then he slipped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

“Sorry, Hans. That was stupid of me.” He pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I know I used to be a proper cock,” Hans said softly. “But if there’s one person in this world who I thought would see who I am now… it’s you.”

Henry shifted, cupped his face gently in both hands.

“I do see you. And I was the cock this time. I’m sorry.”

Hans gave a small smile. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

Then he paused, a thought catching hold. “That��s it—”

“What is?” Henry asked.

“More than a bellator… I think I feel like… an amator,” Hans said.

Henry tilted his head, smiling uncertainly. “And that’s meant to mean what, exactly?”

Hans gave a long-suffering sigh and smiled. “I see I’ll have to start teaching you Latin in the evenings instead of making love to you, my Henry.” “Amator,” he added, pulling him close and brushing a kiss across his lips, “is the one who loves.”

“And it seems,” Hans went on, “that’s what best describes who I am with you.”

Henry furrowed his brow. “So… that would make us…” He paused, thinking. “Ama… amatores?”

Hans burst out laughing. “There it is! I knew you had some Latin buried in you somewhere.” He smiled, drew him in again.

“Well then—maybe there’ll still be time for making love after all.” They sat together for a while, listening to the faint hammering from the yard below. Soon enough, they were back to work. They dragged the felled trunks to the edge of the woods and stripped them clean. Then, using knives and chisels, they scored the bark lengthwise and began to peel it off in the longest sheets they could manage. The pine bark cracked and gave off the sharp scent of resin, but it came away well—yielding two long, curved troughs from each trunk.

They laid them out on the ground and began assembling the channel: sliding the narrow end of one trough into the mouth of the next, sealing the joins with moss and smearing them with clay. They supported the length with makeshift tripods of lashed branches. Little by little, a rudimentary conduit took shape—running down the slope, all the way to the yard.

It took several hours, but in the end, water truly began to flow. Some of it was lost along the way, seeping through here and there—but the stream that reached the forge was clear and cool. More than enough to fill buckets — or a bath.

“Look at that,” Hans said, straightening up, hands on hips. “It works.”

Henry dipped his fingers into the stream and wiped them on his dirty shirt.

Master Herman emerged from the lean-to. He dusted off his hands and nodded toward the tub. “All done. You can fill it now. Leave it full overnight—the wood will swell and seal itself.”

Hans stepped closer, running a hand over the rim. He said nothing at first. The surface was smooth, the scent of resin and linseed still fresh in the grain.

“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

Henry came to stand beside him and smiled. “It’ll be a joy to wash the day off our backs in it.”

“Master Herman,” Hans said, turning to the cooper, “you’ve done fine work.”

The cooper gave a modest bow in reply.

“Wait a moment,” Hans added, disappearing into the house. He returned with a pouch of coins, which he handed to Herman.

“You’ve earned more than what we agreed.”

The craftsman accepted it with visible pleasure and thanks—and before long, he and his apprentices had turned their cart toward the gate and were on their way back to Zasmuky.

Henry and Hans fitted the final piece of the channel into place, and cold water began to flow—slowly, but surely—into the tub.

“Shall we go to bed now?” Hans grinned.

“What?” Henry gave him a look. “The sun’s not even down yet.”

Hans ran his hand along the rim of the tub and smiled.

“I just can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Henry wrapped his arms around him from behind and looked into the slowly filling bath.

“You know what I admire about you, Hans? When you set your mind to something—whatever it is—you see it through.”

Hans turned to face him, eyes bright.

“And speaking of things I set my mind to— I decided long ago I’d never let you go, Henry.”

They kissed. Long. Slowly.

Henry glanced around the yard. “It’s a fine evening,” he said with a smile. “Shall we go for a walk?” They left the yard and made their way toward the woods. The sun hung low, and streaks of red dissolved between the branches. Evening light turned the forest to gold. The path wound softly ahead—past ferns, along low shrubs and knotted stumps threaded with strands of moss.

They walked in silence, fingers loosely intertwined.

The air smelled of pine and cool earth. An owl called in the distance. A twig snapped somewhere behind— then nothing again. Just silence, so thick it caught even the smallest shift of fabric against fabric.

When the wind stirred, the leaves lifted slightly— as if the forest had taken a breath.

Somewhere to the right, a quiet gurgling rose and fell. The brook below Foxburrow reached them only faintly here, like a low exhale— a quiet reminder that the world still moved, even when they no longer needed to hurry.

Henry paused for a moment. He dipped his head beneath a slender branch that leaned across the path like a tiny bridge. He held it aside, let Hans pass first, then let it go. It trembled softly behind him, unwilling to settle.

Hans gave his hand a quiet squeeze in answer.

After a while, they stopped at a small hollow between the trees, where the moss was soft underfoot and the light still clung to the last of its colour. They sat down beside each other.

The rays were already beginning to lose their hue— the red fading into grey, the branches darkening. The world around them was growing still.

Before them, the forest slowly melted into twilight. Every motion seemed gentler now. Every sound, quieter.

Henry stretched out his legs, braced himself on his hands, and gazed up at the branches above—now tinted with the warm glow of copper.

“You know,” he said quietly, “Foxburrow’s one of the loveliest places I’ve ever known.”

Hans only smiled. He slipped an arm around Henry’s waist and leaned into him, side to side. His head came to rest on Henry’s shoulder.

Henry tilted his head gently against his. For a while, they simply stayed like that—hand in hand, breath against breath.

“Thank you,” Henry said at last. “For sharing it with me.”

Hans looked up at the branches, where the last flickers of light still clung. He didn’t speak at first—then, in a voice just above a whisper:

“I’m glad to share it with you, Henry. Besides—” He paused, searching for the right shape of thought. “It’s only because of you that this place feels whole to me.”

Henry laid his hand on Hans’s thigh and left it there.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give you as much as you’ve given me, Hans,” he said after a moment.

Hans turned toward him and met his eyes with a quiet smile.

“This isn’t a contest, love.”

He set his hand gently over Henry’s, his thumb moving in slow strokes across his skin.

“This is just us.”

Henry leaned in and kissed him—softly, on the lips.

And the evening around them breathed, quiet and slow.

After a while, Henry brushed the moss from his knees.

“Come on,” he said with a smile. “Let’s go check on our tub.” There was barely two handspans of water in the bottom. Hans bent down and ran his fingers through the surface.

“This will take a while,” he said, pursing his lips.

Henry smiled. “Patience, Hans. Tomorrow it’ll be full—of water… and of us.”

Hans’s gaze travelled from the tub along the pinewood channel, disappearing into darkness at the edge of the trees.

“Fine. I’m going to bed for real this time—so tomorrow shows up faster.”

A short while later, they were lying together in the darkness of their bedroom. Hans on his back, Henry with his head resting on his chest.

Hans shifted slightly.

“Still awake?” Henry murmured.

Hans exhaled slowly. “My head’s just full of things. The tub. Rattay. Us.”

Henry rolled slightly on Hans’s chest. He reached up and touched his cheek.

“Look at it this way, Hans— when it comes to us, the fact is we’re here, naked, lying on top of each other. And as for the tub, well… tomorrow we’ll be sitting in that—naked too.”

Hans burst out laughing. “All right. And Rattay?”

“That’s the furthest away, so let it be,” Henry smiled.

Hans sighed and tightened one arm around him, letting the other drift into his hair.

“I’m asleep. Really,” he mumbled after a moment.

Henry smiled without opening his eyes. “Then sleep, Hans. I’m here.”

He nestled a little closer, eyes still closed, fingers resting lightly on Hans’s chest.

Wood creaked in the cold outside. Then, after a while, rain began to patter on the roof.

It whispered steadily, tapping out its ancient rhythm into the night.

And it did not stop, not even when Hans opened his eyes in the dark. Henry was still pressed close to his chest, breathing slow, snoring faintly.

Hans smiled and brushed his fingers softly through his hair. I love you so much, he thought, and closed his eyes again.

But sleep would not come.

He opened them once more.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, staring into the dark, listening to the rain, and tracing slow lines across Henry’s bare shoulder with the tips of his fingers.

He didn’t fall asleep again until just before dawn. Morning came without colour.

Beyond the linen curtain, the world lay grey and diffuse with light— trees barely hinted at in the distance, then lost again behind the walls of rain. Water slid down the wooden beams, dripped from the edge of the roof, and tapped steadily against the planks beneath the window. Inside, it was warm. Quiet.

Henry lay on his side, his back to Hans. His hair was a little tousled, one shoulder bare. He was breathing evenly—quietly—though not deeply. He was still. As if unsure whether the day deserved to begin yet.

Behind him, Hans shifted. Slowly. Without urgency. He lifted his arm and, without a word, draped it across Henry’s waist. Drew him in close.

Henry didn’t resist. He only closed his eyes and shifted back, until he felt the warmth of Hans’s chest against his bare back. Outside, the wind stirred again, and wet leaves rustled somewhere across the roof.

They stayed like that for a while, unmoving. Only their slow, shared breath — barely distinguishable from the rhythm of the rain.

Hans laid his hand gently on Henry’s belly, just below the navel— not in desire, but for closeness.

“Just a little longer,” Henry whispered, barely aloud. Not as a request— more as a simple truth, spoken because nothing more was needed.

Hans didn’t answer, but drew in a little closer, his chin brushing lightly against Henry’s neck. A deep breath rose from his chest— as if he, too, might be tempted to fall back into sleep, the kind that the night had denied him.

The rain kept falling. Time didn’t move forward so much as dissolve. And the world beyond the window stayed grey—quiet— while within, there was only the warmth of two bodies not moving, because they didn’t have to.

“I thought you’d be out by now,” Henry said after a while, eyes still closed. “Already poking around the forge, checking how the tub’s doing.”

Hans didn’t speak at once. “Ay,” he said at last, and his voice sounded far away.

Henry shifted a little beneath his arm, turned to face him, and reached up to brush his fingers along his cheek.

“Are you all right, love?”

Hans smiled—faintly, not wide, but real.

“I’m all right, Henry. We’ll have a good breakfast… then we’ll check the tub.” He reached up and swept his fingers through Henry’s hair, just above the ear.

“And after that, we’ll see what the rain allows.” The bread smelled rich, and the sausages were slowly browning in their own fat. The room was dim, the fire crackled softly, and outside, the muted hush of rain could still be heard. Henry stood at the hearth, a wooden spoon in hand, watching as the fat hissed softly and gathered at the edges of the pan.

Hans sat at the table, elbows resting, fingers loosely interlaced. He said nothing. His gaze drifted—across the tabletop, the steam rising from the pot, the line of Henry’s shoulders.

“You look like you’re thinking about something,” Henry said quietly, without turning.

“Ay,” Hans replied. Then paused, before adding— “Mostly about how bloody good that smells.”

Henry smiled and took the pan off the hook. He knew there was no use pressing Hans for more. If and when he chose to speak his mind, he would.

He set two plates down on the table. Sausage, a slice of cheese, a piece of bread, a little onion. Simple food. But warm.

Hans pulled one plate toward him. “These days when it just rains… they do something to a man.”

Henry sat across from him and smiled. “Ay. They turn you into a brooding nobleman, sitting at the table and scowling into the plate his man lovingly prepared.”

Hans smiled—just at the corner of his mouth. Henry reached out and brushed his fingers across his forearm.

They ate in silence for a while. Then Hans looked up. “This is really good,” he said with a smile.

Henry reached across the table and lightly touched his fingers. “Keep eating. I won’t be long.”

He rose, drew his hood over his head, and stepped out into the rain.

Hans was finishing the last bites when Henry returned a few minutes later, brushing the rain from his shoulders. He looked at him with a wide grin and gave an exaggerated bow.

“I’m pleased to inform his lordship,” he declared, “that his lordship is now the proud owner of a grand, full-to-the-brim bathing tub!”

Hans jumped to his feet, eyes lighting up. “No!”

He jammed his feet into his boots, threw his hood over his head, and hurried out with Henry to the shed. Rain drummed around them, but inside, all was still.

The tub stood in its place — and it was full, almost to the brim. The water reached the top in a smooth curve, gently spilling over in places, but not leaking. The wood had swelled just right.

Hans stopped in the doorway and let out a laugh. “Well now. Looks like something fit for a king.” He stepped closer and ran his fingers along the rim. “And it’s perfectly clear.”

Henry crouched by the channel and pulled out the section feeding the tub. “Few buckets out and we’ll fit,” he muttered. “Then I’ll heat some in the forge. If I stoke it good, it won’t take long.”

Hans looked around, then turned to him with a conspiratorial smile. “You mean today?”

Henry nodded, smiling back. “I mean this very afternoon.”

Henry stoked the forge and set the large brass cauldron in place. Smoke rose and drifted into the rainy air. He fetched water from the tub in batches, heated it in the cauldron, then carried it back by the bucketful. It took time — but he worked with quiet focus, just the way he liked it.

Hans loitered nearby. For a while he stood by a post, watching. Then he circled the tub, peeking in with the barely contained eagerness of someone who thought he might coax steam from the surface by sheer will alone. His eyes were bright, every movement brimming with anticipation — and Henry couldn’t help but smile when he saw it. When steam finally began to rise from the water and the shed filled with a soft, humid warmth, Hans stepped closer and leaned a hip against the beam.

Henry glanced back at him, sweat trailing down his temple — but his eyes were bright with quiet pleasure. “One last batch.”

Hans lingered a moment, arms folded — then suddenly turned on his heel. “Be right back,” he called over his shoulder and disappeared toward the house.

Henry only smiled, poured the last of the heated water into the tub, and checked the temperature again.

A few minutes later, Hans returned — a wineskin in one hand, two wooden cups in the other. His expression was that familiar one, halfway between smug and delighted.

“What?” he shrugged. “What’s the point of being nobility if you can’t drink in your bath?”

Henry laughed and nodded toward the steaming tub. “Your bath is ready, my beloved lord.”

Hans gave him a slow once-over from head to toe. “It will be ready,” he said with a grin, “once you’re undressed and inside it.”

Henry laughed. “I still remember some drunk nobleman soaking in a bath, saying he had no interest in my hairy arse.”

Hans smirked. “And as I recall, you looked like you’d rather wrestle a bear than get in that tub.”

He paused—just for a beat—then added, with a glint in his eye, “Which means we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Moments later, their bare bodies were wrapped in the embrace of hot water. Henry sat with his back against the side of the tub, Hans resting against him, head on his shoulder, eyes blissfully closed.

Steam hovered low above the surface, clinging to the wooden beams of the shelter. The water was just hot enough to soothe without stinging. The tub around them smelled faintly of timber.

Hans let out a long, contented sigh — the kind that seemed to dissolve not just fatigue, but every last lingering thought. He leaned back more fully against Henry’s chest and tilted his head back.

“This… this is heaven,” he murmured. “Hard-won heaven.”

Henry gave a quiet hum, his hands resting on Hans’s thighs beneath the water. He left them there without intent — simply for the closeness.

“And you know what’s the best part?” Hans went on, voice still heavy with pleasure. “Well — besides you, naked, in this tub,” he grinned. “It’s that we did all this ourselves. Just because we wanted to.”

Henry chuckled softly and kissed his hair.

Hans shifted up a little, reached for the wineskin hanging from a hook above the wooden rim. He poured into two cups, passed one back over his shoulder to Henry, and kept the other for himself. For a while, they drank in silence.

The water moved only gently — with the stir of a limb, or a passing breath of wind that tugged at the canvas wall. Drops trickled from the rim to the ground. Steam drifted slow between the beams.

Henry set the cup aside, bowed his head slightly, and pressed a kiss just above Hans’s collarbone. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver rippling through Hans’s body.

“If I remember right,” Henry said slowly, “you also asked for a good scrubbing. From a blacksmith’s boy.”

Hans smiled without opening his eyes. “You remember bloody well.” His voice was husky and low — like it had risen straight from the steam.

Henry reached for the small linen cloth he’d left on the edge of the tub — half for washing, half because, deep down, he’d known this moment might come.

He dipped it in the water, then laid it gently on Hans’s shoulder.

Hans exhaled softly — not from pleasure, exactly, but something quieter. Like the touch was drawing something out of him that no longer belonged there.

Henry moved the cloth in slow, careful circles. One shoulder first, then the collarbone, then gently across the chest. There was no hurry in it. No show. Just calm, attentive care. The water ran off the fabric in soft trails, rippling the surface before going still again.

Hans’s body tensed slightly under his hands — but didn’t pull away. If anything, it leaned in. Yielding. His breath came deep and steady — until Henry’s strokes moved lower across his chest, and then it caught, just faintly.

Henry paused. Only for a heartbeat. Then carried on — slowly.

Across the ribs. Over the belly.

Hans’s eyes were still closed. His face held that expression people wear only when they’re so close to sleep they could fall — if it weren’t for the touch keeping them right on the edge.

He placed a hand on Henry’s forearm. Held it lightly — just enough to let him know he wanted it there. That he felt him.

Henry lingered a while longer at his belly. Gentle, unhurried. His fingertips traced the skin just below the navel — then he set the cloth aside, with care, without haste.

Hans still said nothing. His hand remained on Henry’s arm, fingers curling just slightly — not to stop him, but to anchor him. To affirm. His eyes stayed closed, but his breath had changed. It was deeper now.

Henry leaned forward, hips close alongside Hans’s, his fingers sliding down his sides to rest at his hips. He pressed his forehead to Hans’s temple — not for long. Just long enough to be near. To be still.

Then his lips touched the side of his neck.

Hans parted his lips. The breath he drew didn’t quite leave him — it hovered between his teeth, raw and quiet.

“If you keep going…” he murmured, “…we’ll never leave this tub again.”

Henry gave a soft laugh and let his lips wander back to Hans’s throat. Slowly, calmly — but with rising certainty. “Well, wasn’t that your plan,” he whispered against his skin.

Then his hand moved lower.

Hans straightened slightly, pressing his back more firmly against Henry’s chest and letting his head fall back. His fingers curled around the edge of the tub, as if he needed to hold on to something. He could feel Henry’s hardness against him — natural, unforced, simply there.

Henry’s hand moved again. Gently, deliberately.

A slight shudder ran through Hans. Not from cold — but from that deep trembling that comes when you let someone touch you wholly. Without armour.

“Love,” he whispered — and in that word was everything. Desire. Trust. Surrender.

Henry leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Hans’s ear. Hans slowly turned his head, until their faces were close — breath-close. Their eyes barely open, their lips damp from the steam gathering in the air. Henry gazed at him from mere inches away — and the moment he felt Hans’s breath on his own, he leaned in.

Their lips met. Slowly, searching — but with no hesitation. The kiss was hot. Deep.

Henry’s hand kept moving in his lap. Gentle. Unwavering. Skilled movements, shifting and sure. Hans melted into the touch piece by piece — his breath quickened, his fingers clutched at Henry’s arm, his hips moved to meet him.

Then he reached for Henry. His hand slid over his hip and found him — wrapped around him with quiet certainty, like it had always belonged there. His fingers curled softly around Henry’s throbbing length, and even with tension coiled tight in his own body, he smiled against Henry’s mouth. Henry gasped — not loud, but sudden, as if Hans had touched the very centre of him. He trembled, a low growl catching in his throat — more exhale than sound. Their kiss broke for a moment, only to let their foreheads meet. Two breaths. Two bodies.

The water around them rippled faintly.

Henry’s hand slid lower. Slowly, deliberately—across Hans’s side, down his thigh—until his palm came to rest on the curve of his arse. No pressure. Just a touch that didn’t take, but said: I’m here. And I want you.

Hans shivered, his back arching slightly.

One hand braced against the rim of the tub, the other came to rest on Henry’s thigh—right beside the hand that touched him. Then he rose. Just a little, just enough for his hips to lift away from Henry’s lap— he drew a breath— and sank back down again, slowly, with a quiet moan that broke somewhere between his throat and lips.

Hans stilled for a moment, just breathing— his head bowed, lips parted, eyes closed. Henry held him. One arm across his chest, the other braced against his thigh. He didn’t urge him. Didn’t move.

Then Hans began to move. Slowly. He rose at the hips, almost pulling away, and sank down again. His whole body moved like a wave—fluid, strong—like a bow drawing back and releasing in a single motion.

Henry followed. He tightened his hold, his arm firm around Hans’s waist, and let his hand drift between his thighs again—taking him back into his palm. Slowly. In rhythm. More than a touch— a harmony.

His lips pressed to Hans’s neck. Breathing against his skin. Sometimes a kiss. Sometimes just heat, left behind like memory.

And sometimes Hans turned his face, and found his mouth.

The water around them rippled, lapping softly against the sides of the tub. Droplets ran down their faces—sweat, steam, all of it at once. Their skin glistened. Their bodies spoke without words.

Hans moved steadily, slowly— but as his body strained, the muscles along his back rippled and drew taut beneath his skin. Each motion deeper. Each descent tighter. And then— with a sudden hitch of his hips, he rose, gasped sharply, and gripped Henry’s arm as if he needed something to hold onto when the wave of pleasure surged through him.

A sound tore from his throat— raw, choked, rough. His body arched, and the clench around Henry turned fierce, almost painfully beautiful. A hot rush of release swept through him— spine to fingertips— and he came into Henry’s hand with a stuttering moan that broke into breath.

Henry held him. And didn’t stop.

He moved inside him twice more— deep, firm— without a word. Then he growled low against Hans’s neck, pulled him tight with both arms, and came with a sharp, breathless sound— buried deep, held close— in a moment that belonged to no one else.

Then they collapsed into each other, loose and quiet.

And the water around them finally stilled.

They stayed like that. Not moving. Just breathing slowly, eyes closed, their bodies entwined—still and heavy like after a sleep that had given them everything. The water lapped quietly against the wooden tub, and droplets traced lazy paths down the curved walls, falling back into the surface with soft little taps.

“That was… absolutely…” Hans mumbled, loose-limbed and content.

Henry, his face resting against Hans’s shoulder, smiled. “Exactly,” he finished for him. Then he chuckled under his breath.

Hans turned his head until their faces met. Henry kissed him—long and slow, without urgency. Hans leaned into it, a hand splayed over Henry’s chest. They stayed like that until breath had to win.

Then Hans leaned back against the rim of the tub and let out a sigh, smiling. “I think… we’ll have to change the water tomorrow.”

Henry barked a laugh. “At this rate, we’ll be changing it every day.”

“Good,” Hans grinned, lifting an eyebrow. “And don’t you dare start slacking off.” Eventually, they began to move. Not all at once—more like their bodies gradually waking from the heat of the water still stroking their skin. Hans slowly eased himself out of Henry’s lap. He shivered—not from cold, but in the quiet aftermath.

Together, they climbed out of the tub, water trailing in heavy drops down their skin. Henry reached for a linen cloth hanging from the beam and handed it to Hans— who only smirked and pressed it back into his hand.

Henry smiled and began to dry him, slow and unhurried. Over his shoulders, down his back, across his chest—intimate, but steady. Like each stroke of the fabric was another kiss, spoken in a different tongue.

Then Hans dried him in turn, with the same slow care—fingers and eyes both lingering, savouring every muscle, every freckle, every curve of Henry’s body.

They dressed, then looked at each other. Smiles still ghosting on their lips, soft candlelight flickering in their eyes.

“Shall we?” Hans asked, raising a brow.

Henry nodded.

As soon as they pulled back the canvas flap, the rain hit them like a wave— thick, steady, windless, but everywhere. Their hair was soaked in seconds. They both burst into laughter and jogged across the yard, bare feet squelching in the soft earth, sleeves clinging to their arms.

They hadn’t even reached the door when the sound tore through the dark— a heavy pounding of hooves. Broken. Urgent. And far too close.

Hans and Henry spun around.

Out of the fog and rain came a rider. The horse barreled across the last stretch of the yard and halted just short of them, its flanks lathered with sweat, hooves flinging mud all the way to the threshold.

In the saddle sat Hanush. Soaked to the bone, rain-slicked cloak clinging to his frame, eyes blazing. He dismounted with a thud—solid, heavy. His sword hung at his hip.

He went straight for Hans, like the storm had stepped into the yard with him.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, boy!” he roared. “I’m waiting for you, the Kunstadts are waiting— and you’re holed up in a bloody hunting lodge, for fuck’s sake?!”

Hans didn’t move. His wet hair hung in his eyes.

Then Hanush turned on Henry and pointed a dripping finger.

“And you! I wouldn’t have expected this from you, Henry. You were always the one with at least a scrap of sense. You should’ve kept him in line— not let him laze around, get drunk, whore around, and shirk his damn duty.”

Henry said nothing.

Hans dropped his gaze for a breath— then stepped forward. Slowly. Steadily. And came to stand right beside Henry. Half a step closer than before.

“I needed time. To recover. We were wounded. We’re not forged from steel.”

“No,” Hanush cut in, voice sharp as a blade. “You’re a nobleman. And you’ll damn well start acting like one.”

Silence.

Hans lowered his head. Brows drawn, lips pressed tight.

Hanush drew breath, ready to start shouting again.

“So now—”

“Silence!” Hans cut him off.

It landed like a blow. Hanush froze. Even the rain seemed to pause for half a second.

Hans raised his head. And there was nothing soft in his gaze. Only stone. Steel. A clean fury that didn’t burn— it carved.

“Tomorrow I’ll be in Rattay,” he said. His voice was calm, but each word struck the ground like a nail. “On my estate. I’ll uphold the vow you made against my will. But I’ll honour it—because I am a nobleman.”

Hanush drew in a sharp breath— but Hans lifted a hand.

“I’m not finished.”

His eyes were sharper now than the sword hanging at Hanush’s hip.

“After that, I expect you to finally honour the oath you made, Uncle. To be a nobleman yourself— not just in title, but in conduct.”

Hanush’s mouth opened, but no sound came.

Hans stepped back a pace, as if shutting a gate.

“And now leave my hunting lodge, Hanush of Leipa.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Only the rain.

Then Hanush clenched his jaw. His eyes cracked like lightning.

“Well, well,” he hissed. “Looks like the little bird's spreading his wings.”

He swung into the saddle.

“Careful someone doesn’t clip them,” he spat, and drove his heels in.

The horse reared— then turned into the rain. Its hind hooves kicked up a spray of mud.

And he was gone.

Henry stepped closer to Hans. Stopped just in front of him and looked into his eyes.

Hans slid his arms around his waist and pulled him in. Henry held him. Firmly. Not in haste— but fully, with all of himself.

Rain soaked their hair and ran down their cheeks.

“Hanush won’t forget that,” Henry murmured. “He won’t let it lie.”

Hans didn’t answer at once. He looked past him, into the rain. Then back again.

“Maybe not,” he said quietly.

He met Henry’s eyes. Steady. But with a thread of gentleness.

“But that doesn’t matter anymore, Henry.”

He drew a breath.

“I’m done being pissed on.” ⁂

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arabella0001 · 1 day ago

Note

brattysubbydazai:333

cn: dom/sub undertones (switch), dirty talk, cuff bondage, blowjob, overstimulation, rough fuck

pairing: dazai x reader

fandom: bungou stray dogs

The karakusa pattern on your bookmark had been covered by the other half of the book just as they approached the bar where you were currently working. The Bar Lupin.

Bar Lupin had a cozy, somewhat hidden interior with a counter, stools, and a bartender in a crimson vest. Though, you’d secretly altered that vest; the crimson corset suited you far better. Taneda had no reason to complain.

This bar was a haunt for writers and artists. But not only them. Men with hidden truths gathered here, too. You often wondered if Dazai and his friends had sensed anything about you though.

Still, you’d expected more from Dazai.

The Special Operations Division was an overall mysterious organization, said to be quite powerful and influential. But Dazai’s name wasn’t famous for nothing, was it?

“Hello, darling. What a beautiful sight to behold.”

His bangs framed his face as his narrow, dark brown eyes locked with yours in a moment that felt frozen in time. His smirk mirrored yours, but his gaze alone travelled slowly over your body.

Sakunosuke Oda and Ango Sakaguchi nodded politely, and you returned the gesture.

“Oh, hi Dazai.” You rinsed the whiskey glasses once more, making sure they were spotless. Turning your back to them, you smiled over your shoulder. For now, his attention was only on you, his chin resting in his hands, drinking you in with that excessively unfriendly stare of his. “The usual?”

“You know us well, love.”

“What kind of day is it? Namazaki or Nikka?”

Oda sighed, leaning back in his seat, exhausted.

“Nikka, definitely. Less ice.”

Ango threw him a glance that was nearly approving, while Dazai patted his back sarcastically, his usual smile plastered on his face, eyes still closed in that mischievous way.

Nikka Yoichi whiskey offered a bolder, peatier experience. So their night had been rough. For you? A flavored night, ripe for catching whispers of news.

They often gathered like this to talk, especially during dark times.

Sometimes, it’s hard to be the observer.

A dangerous foreign syndicate called Mimic would soon surface, further complicating things for the Port Mafia. So basically, anything that might sound like a threat to public safety, Taneda would know.

“All three are ready, gentlemen.”

The glasses, two with large king cubes and one with a smaller one, were set in front of them as they continued talking. Your hands moved smoothly, reaching for the book behind the bar, but Dazai caught it before you could slide it under the counter.

An Encouragement of Learning – Fukuzawa Yukichi

⸻

At the end of the evening, as you quietly washed the last round of glasses, Oda and Ango gave Dazai a frowning look but didn’t press him further.

“See ya. I’ll stay for another drink with this wonderful lady. Right, darling?”

Your heart skipped for a second.

Did I miss something? you wondered. But maybe it was just an excuse to sit alone with his thoughts. It was a clever move because once the bar door shut, the rest of the patrons had already disappeared. No noise cluttered the space now. Only the quiet sounds of your every movement remained.

“You alright, Dazai?”

Dazai clasped his hands together, stretching them over his head before letting out a yawn.

“Could be better.” He leaned an elbow on the counter. “Aww, do you actually care how I feel, bella?”

You poured yourself a plain, straight shot and knocked it back, chasing it with water before turning back to him, swallowing fast. When your eyes met, Dazai was almost caught off guard by the fire in your gaze. He didn’t know exactly what you were hiding, or what kind of truth it was. Intriguing.

“Just making conversation.”

He gave you a subtle nod, ignoring the edge in your tone.

“Quite the optimistic book, wouldn’t you say?”Your hesitation wasn’t subtle, nor the way your muscles tensed. “Ordinary people learning and educating themselves to earn autonomy and respect.”

“You don’t agree, Dazai?”

He tapped his lower lip with a finger, stalling. Still, his childish behavior didn’t fool you.

“Oh, but I do, love. Of course I do. Who would I be to argue with hopeful little people?” His gaze grew more serious, though his smirk returned. “I just don’t have that hope anymore.”

“It’s just a reminder to think and act for oneself.”

He took a small sip, then swirled the drink in his glass, letting the liquid roll gently over the still-whole ice cube.

“Don’t you ever want to stop doing that?”

Now you were the one leaning on the counter, resting your chin in your hand.

“And what do you propose?”

⸻

Your plans were on a tight schedule, but I think you still managed to squeeze in a makeout session with Dazai between alleyways, behind the bar.

Dazai was leaning against the wall, head tilted slightly to meet your lips, while his bandaged hands got to work. One lifted your leg, resting it against the right side of his hip, and the other mirrored yours, cupping your cheek.

You could feel his arousal, his cock straining against his black, cloth pants. You pressed into him to give some relief through friction, rolling your hips into his. Dazai moaned into your lips, and the sound sent a thrill straight through your body.

“Tell me, bella,” he dragged his lips over yours before moving to your earlobe, leaving wet kisses down to your neck. “Doesn’t it feel good to lose control?”

Your lips lifted slightly, dragging his between your teeth, kissing him softly like a sweet reward before whispering against him.

“I think you misunderstood me.” Your gaze shattered his unsheathed bravado, punctuated by the way Dazai’s breath hitched when your hands slid down his chest, your fingers brushing the taut skin beneath his elegant shirt until they landed on his bulge, stroking him slowly through the fabric. “I’m not the one who’s going to lose control tonight.”

Dazai’s smile was wicked; tempted to argue, but his curiosity weighed heavier.

The clothes were thrown off quickly once you reached your apartment, and while your fire was focused elsewhere, you missed the subtle way Dazai scanned your room for any trace of spilled information, clues that might support his probably-true theories.

Dazai’s gaze, aside from lustful, was also intensely mysterious like it was warning you that you didn’t really know who you were fucking, and maybe you should be afraid. The bandages hidden beneath the shirt he hadn’t removed were a morbid curiosity of yours that only deepened the fear, but his voice contradicted it all.

“Just as beautiful as I expected, bella.”

Dazai didn’t get much of a chance to touch you though. You let him kiss you again, his mouth soaked in whisky and cigarettes, with a lingering sweetness from the flavored alcohol invading yours. His hands cupped your breasts, fingers pinching your already-hard nipples until he made you moan this time. Your hands found the back of his head, tugging his wavy brown hair until you pushed your palms against his chest and shoved him onto the bed.

He chuckled, sitting up near the edge and spreading his legs to make room for you as you climbed on top of him.

“What are you trying to prove, my darling?”

His hand grabbed your loose hair at the back, tugging until your neck was exposed for him. His bites were exactly the push you needed to flip the dynamic. For now, you let him touch you however he wanted, his other hand slipped between your bodies, and his middle finger began to move over your clit.

You thanked him with a moan, but nothing more. Resisting the urge to ride his hand, you tried to coax him into doing more about the wetness between your legs. You both inhaled sharply, Dazai watching your parted lips as your breathing grew unsteady.

“Mhmm, I’m flattered.” His hand in your hair pushed your face toward his lips, but he didn’t kiss you. His fingers sped up, then stopped suddenly, edging you on purpose before he shifted to your entrance, pressing but not quite punishing. “Now, are you going to stop trying whatever it is you’re doing so poorly?”

He didn’t wait long for a reply, savoring the way your body struggled not to tremble against him. But he was a gentleman, so he couldn’t possibly leave you without his fingers fucking you. You buried your moans into his shoulder as Dazai pulled you closer, holding you steady while his fingers pumped in and out aggressively.

Your sounds distracted him and that was exactly your intention. Your hand slid subtly behind the headboard, retrieving the handcuffs from your improvised stand. You kissed him, keeping him from noticing what you held, though he probably suspected. Your hands moved smoothly, securing his wrists behind him with a soft click once the cuffs locked.

He let you believe you’d done it all on your own, just so he could show you that you weren’t going to get what you wanted. Dazai had it on his bucket list to be tied up by a beautiful lady in this lifetime, especially one as pretty as you. But he’s convinced it’s not going to play out the way you intend.

Your hands moved slowly across his body, yet Dazai didn’t betray himself because not a single sound escaped his lips. Still, you could see his muscles tense beneath your touch, especially between his thighs.

His soft sighs were music to your ears, but the smirk on Dazai’s face needed to be erased.

You gripped his thighs abruptly and pulled him closer, drawing a gasp from him as your hand returned to his cock after you’d undressed him.

“Pretty.”

Dazai smiled through shallow breaths.

“Yeah? It’s all yours, baby.”

“Mhm. I know, Dazai.” Your tongue traced slow, deliberate circles across his abdomen. You exhaled softly against the base of his cock without touching him. “Want me to keep going?”

“Of course, my lady.” He still felt in control. In fact, he even spread his legs a little wider to make it easier for you.

You wrapped your hand around his cock, stroking him languidly up and down. You quickly found the rhythm that made his moans louder, and just when his body began to tense in that delicious way, you pulled away, resuming your slow pace. Dazai let you do as you pleased for now, at least he was being touched by someone as lovely as you.

His hips jerked when your thumb brushed over the tip, smearing the bead of precum that had leaked out. He fought the urge to thrust into your hand, legs trembling from your consistent teasing.

“Y/N.”

Dazai’s voice was strained with irritation, though his moans continued. His eyes told you he could break free whenever he wished. You smiled wide, determined to prove him wrong, then dragged your tongue slowly over the head of his cock. You pressed teasing kisses all over the length of his shaft, then gave a single wet stroke down and back again.

His veins stood out starkly beneath skin that was soft like silk. But what you loved most was the taste—despite the faint hint of cigarettes, he tasted clean, almost deliberately so, as if he’d prepared for this. The thought made you jealous, so your lips finally wrapped around the head of his cock. You pushed forward, taking more of him into your mouth, feeling him slide over your tongue and deep into your throat.

Dazai groaned, resisting the urge to buck his hips because he knew you would stop if he did. That wasn’t obedience, he thought. It was self-interest.

You sucked him for several seconds before pulling away, a thin string of saliva stretching between your lips and his cock. You kept a firm grip on him as you dragged your tongue slowly up the shaft again, teasing, languid. You licked up to the tip, flicking your tongue over his slit, playing with it.

“You’re so talented, bella. The best I’ve had.”

Dazai thought he’d won you over with that, hoping to coax more pleasure from you. But when he realized he’d made a comparison, your look told him he’d fucked up.

Your mouth found his cock again. Halfway up the length, you plunged forward, taking it deep. Again. And again. Using your mouth to stroke him. You settled into a rhythm, gagging yourself slightly as you worked. Dazai’s lips were full of praises and moans, drunk on the sheer ambition with which you sucked him.

Until you stopped.

His eyes widened when you stopped just before he could come. His trembling limbs and whispered pleas were not part of his plan. He twitched and whimpered beneath you, fighting the wave of overstimulation and pleasure. He wanted this, he needed this so badly it drove him mad.

“Would you like to cum now, Dazai? Do you think you’ve earned it?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was primal now, overrun by your control. Your control over his body and his pleasure.

You hummed as you continued stroking him, tightening your hold. Precum dripped steadily from him, slicking your hand as you focused your movements on his sensitive tip.

“Can I finish now?” Your mouth was no longer warming his cock, only your hand stroking him slowly. Exasperated, he gave you what you wanted “Let me cum, sweetheart. I’m a good boy now, aren’t I?”

You smiled darkly at him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Please, bella.”

His toes curled into the sheets, warmth flooding his chest, spreading like fire. You chuckled at the sight of him.

“Aww, poor Dazai finally broken? Please what, baby?”

You’re going to pay for this. That thought bloomed in his mind, but the logical part of him was long gone when he repeated himself.

“Please make me cum, bella.”

You began working your way back up his cock, your lips wrapped tight around it until your nose was pressed to the soft hair at his groin. You looked up at him with tearful eyes.

His face was flushed, hands straining against the restraints, that usual smug smile nowhere to be seen. He throbbed in your mouth from the sheer sight of it. So erotic, so beautiful. That he spilled down your throat within seconds.

The thick head of his cock pulsed against the back of your throat, releasing wave after wave as your nose flared with the effort of sucking and swallowing.

“Ah! Oh my fucking—Bella, it’s enough—”

His cock began to soften as he caught his breath, but you weren’t done. You kept stroking him, overstimulating him until he hardened again.

“Y/N, alright, fine—I’ll do what you want, just stop—”

You rose, settling onto the bed beside him and giving him a short break, until one of your hands locked around his throat. You kissed him, squeezing the air from his lungs as you began to lower yourself onto him, holding his cock in your hand and easing it inside you.

He slid in with little resistance. Both your mouths fell open. His body trembled beneath you from the overstimulation, but Dazai found himself liking it, surprisingly so. And the way you squeezed his throat? It only aroused him more.

You felt so good he lost his filter.

“I want to touch you, my beautiful girl. Let me. I promise I won’t—”

You whispered against his lips while riding him harder and harder.

“Promise?”

His pupils were wild, but they matched yours.

“Yes, bella. I promise—”

You paused your movement, untying his wrists.

Dazai immediately broke his promise.

He leaned over you, darker eyes glinting with threat in the best way. His breath grew heavier as he slotted himself between your legs, raising them and thrusting his cock into you in one swift, punishing stroke.

Finding his rhythm which was slow and deep, yet punishingly hard each time his hips snapped, Dazai slipped his fingers between your lips and dragging it gently. He pulled out completly, but he successfully silencing your mewls as he thrusts his cock back inside of you. You cried out, hands instantly darting out to his shoulders when he leaned over you to hold on for what's to come next. His lips placed to your ear whispering absolute filth just drove you insane. .

“You happy, bella? Happy with what you’ve done to me?”

His fingers found your clit, circling fast enough to steal your breath. His thrusts grew violent, shaking the bed, but Dazai didn’t care anymore.

“Dazai, fuck. You’re so deep—it’s too much—”

He let out a breathless laugh, hot air brushing your face.

“Too much, baby? Funny, it wasn’t too much before.”

His relentless thrusts made your eyes roll back as his fingers moved faster and faster. You came so hard, screaming his name that you barely remembered the moment after. You wrapped your legs around him, desperate to keep him close.

“Dazai, cum in me. I need to feel it.” You groaned. “Pills. I’m on the pills—”

“And how do we say it, bella?”

He sucked on a tender spot of your neck, making you hiss.

“Please, Dazai.”

His wicked smile returne, happy to give you what you asked for.

You locked your legs tighter around his waist as he drove into you harder, grinding deep. You shook beneath him, thighs twitching, hands tugging at his hair like you didn’t know whether to pull him in or push him away.

Dazai held your face still, cupping your cheek, his forehead resting against yours. His jerking as his dick throbs deep inside you, the head swelling just before he spills, moaning into your open mouth like he's losing his mind.

And both of you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

His lips brushed yours, wet and messy, then he leaned in again, tongue hungrily invading your mouth after that shattering orgasm. You panted into each other, your bodies trembling.

He pulled back, slowly sliding out until the tip caught at your entrance, slick with your release and his. Dazai exhaled deeply as he lay down beside you on his back.

After a few minutes of silence, Dazai didn’t look at you. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

“I hope you know you’re not leaving this room until you tell me why you’ve been following me.”

You turned your head toward him, studying the seriousness in his eyes.

“What makes you think I’m only following you? Got something to hide?”

He turned his head toward you, his slender fingers gently brushing your cheek.

“We all have something to hide, bella.” His gaze returned to you. Not just any gaze. The kind that made your breath freeze, like one wrong step could kill you. “You’re dear to me. Don’t make me change my mind.”

48 notes · View notes

moonlight-ba3 · 8 hours ago

Note

Hey, would you maybe be up for writing something about Gabe Perreault? Like a little story where he meets someone totally outside the hockey world — and something kind of unexpected develops?

Promise

pairing:gabe perreault x reader

summary:you meet gabe at BC and start dating. it’s great until he says something and you don’t know how to react.

warnings:fluff, angst, mentions of a bad past relationship, not proofread!!!

a/n: thank you sm for the request<3, srry this took me so long to post!!

In your first year of college you met Gabe in your French class. You guys sat next to each other, stealing glances every now and then.

A few months after talking, he built up the courage to ask you out. You guys went to a nice restaurant, dimly lit with a rose and a candle on the table.

You and Gabe have been together for 6 months, and it’s been amazing. Gabe shows up to your apartment with flowers that have a mix of red, pink, and white.

“These are beautiful” you tell him before hugging him. “Wanted them to be special” his voice muffled slightly as his head is rested on top of yours.

“I have another one” He gets something out of his pocket. I pout, feeling bad that he’s spending all his money on me.

It’s a tiny black box with a bow wrapped around it. He opens it, a diamond ring with probably the most shiniest diamond in the store.

“Oh my god, Gabe this is beautiful” He takes it out of the box and hands it me “Look at the inside of it” I look inside of the ring “always n forever”. I stare at it “well…” his voice full of hesitation “I mean it’s a big thing to say only 6 months into a relationship”

Neither of us move.

I fiddle with the ring realizing what I just said. Gabe steps back “Gabe..I’m sorry” I tell him but he’s already walking to the door.

I dread going to class. I can’t see Gabe after what I told him on Friday.

When I walk in I see him sitting somewhere far from where we usually sit. I let out a deep sigh and walk towards my seat. Neither of us have close friends in this class.

The class finally ends after what felt like 5 hours. I start walking towards Gabe, but before I can even get up he bolts out the room.

It’s been a week since I’ve talked to Gabe. I feel so bad for what I said. I’ve talked to Will and Ryan about it both of them saying he hasn’t been talking, playing as good as he usually does.

Can we talk?

Please

sure

ok im coming

read 8:09

I walk towards Gabe’s dorm, wearing his hoodie and a pair of grey sweatpants. I knock on his door, my hands shaking slightly. When he opens the door I can tell he’s been crying.

“I know what I said hurt you. But the last time somebody told me they cheated on me three weeks later.” He doesn’t say anything just stares at the floor. “Gabe, I’m not saying I don’t love you. I love you more than words can describe. Seeing those words just scared me.”

“I know” he finally responds “I just want you to know I’m not like him, and I never will be.”

“You’re still wearing it?”

“Of course I am”

He pulls me by my waist I wrap my arms around his shoulders. He places a kiss on my forehead. “I love you”

#gabe perreault x reader #gabe perreault #new york rangers #will smith hockey #ryan leonard #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #san jose sharks #macklin celebrini

26 notes · View notes

mocharacha · 2 days ago

Text

Iridescent Part 2: Iced Coffee Brown

Summary: Y/N and Hyunjin are back at it again, slinging color palettes and side-eyes as they hate each other like perfectionists hate uneven brushstrokes. But when a project forces them into close quarters for a part-time job, spilled drinks and sharp words might not be the only thing flying. Underneath the sarcasm? Tension. And maybe not just the angry kind. Pairing: Hyunjin x Female Reader Genre: College AU, Academic Rivals to Lovers Warnings: name-calling and mild profanity, verbal conflict, joking fantasy violence Word count: 3,5k

< Previous | Masterlist | Aesthetic | Next Part >

One day, I swear I’m going to strangle you and whip that stupid condescending expression off your face!

You thought as Hwang-Freaking-Hyunjin trotted through the halls of the museum behind you. He easily kept pace with you since his long legs were able to take bigger strides, making him practically breathe down your neck. Of course, you adjusted your pace accordingly and were essentially speed walking through the museum.

Since you had been working here longer and knew all the quirks and happenings backstage, Kim-seonsaengnim had left Hyunjinin your care to get him familiarized with the museum and give him a tour.

Hyunjin looked bored and disinterested. You shortly explained that the break room with the employee bathroom was used by everyone and was a great place to avoid if you wanted peace and quiet. The benefit, however, was that they all took turns getting baked goods and coffee for bi-weekly staff meetings. You showed him the little smoker balcony that had steps leading into a small outdoor rock garden with a bench and an atrium featuring an old, broken water fountain.

Maintenance was informed about it….yeah right….it has been years.

Then you showed him the equipment room, told him how to work the little headsets and audio guides for tours, and explained how to fix the most common issues regarding the manuals and headsets.

“We have tours every other day…the number varies every time, but you’ll be informed about an hour before how many are coming. Regardless,ou have to show up because sometimes there are people who spontaneously decide to stop by,” you explained and hurried along.

The sole of your sneakers made you momentarily slip on the shiny museum floor. You hoped Hyunjin didn’t see that and continued, “In the break room is a red flash drive with the information about the different tours. You can also use the link Kim-seonsaengnim must have to send you already to log into our drop box and download it…Yeah…”

You turned around the corner and used your employee pass to get access to the hallway. You started your tour and returned to the large room used for art classes.

“So here we are again for the room we use for the Little Leo’s art classes…” you said and swung your arms back and forth, hands clutched into little fists as you turned around on the balls of your feet to face him. “We have two days when we offer the art classes and usually have two groups visit each time. Also, just before special holidays…we help them make gifts for their loved ones…kinda obvious, right?.... So on Thursdays we have a regular class…like the one who just left, they made these pictures.”

You pointed towards the corner of the room where several thin canvases were hung up on a string to dry.

“Impressive really,” Hyunjin’s voice was laced with obvious sarcasm as his golden eyes darted over the paintings, assessing each one with a calm and calculating gaze. His eyes stopped at one particular picture, which stood out against the others.

On,e because instead of the simple design of sunflowers in a vase, the painter had drawn a dinosaur eating a sunflower. Second, the said dinosaur was painted using an almost neon green and wearing a big black spot on his eyes that were supposed to be sunglasses.

Hyunjin snorted the corner of his lips twitched, you almost thought that he was amused if he didn’t use words that were obviously meant sarcastically, “Brilliant.”

“Be nice,” you warned, crossing your arms. “They’re kids after all…and Junwon-ah worked really hard on this…”

Indeed, even though little freckled Junwon always managed to include his dinosaurs in his artworks, he always worked on his craft with focus. He never let anyone of his peers distract him and asked questions in a gentle and kind voice.

“He missed the whole point of the picture,” Hyunjin scoffed. “If I’d be their teacher, I’d fail him for that.”

“Excuse a 7-year-old to have fun in a voluntary art class” you rolled your eyes. “Besides, we’re not here to give them grades, Hwang.”

His eyes met yours, and you felt like he wanted to add something but just silently nudged up his chin, urging you to go on with your tour.

“Yeah, so your predecessor and I decided on a curriculum, which is also in the drop box…you can also take a look in my…our…desk over there in the top drawer.

The materials and cleaning supplies are in the backroom, but don’t worry, the teachers and guardians always ensure that they are used and stored neatly. Careful about the door, it often jams, so be sure to have a key on you or have someone outside the supply room to open it up…hold it ”

You thought about the young teacher who chaperoned the class earlier today with a smile, he’d kindly held open the heavy door for you when you rolled out the little trolley with the brushes on it.

Your felt Hyunjins gaze on you, taking in your expression with a calculated expression.

“Sounds like someone has a crush on the teacher,” Hyunjin observed, nothing but his condescending expression told you about a gentle tease.

“I’m not,” huffed you and stated, “He is just a gentleman, unlike someone else…”

He, however, ignored your jab and instead darted his eyes up and down your figure.

“Do I also have to dress in the ridiculous manner you decide to present yourself in.”

You were wearing the same thing this morning: ripped paint-splattered jeans, black Converse, and a white shirt, which you just noticed had some faint splatters of paint on it despite wearing that painter's apron earlier. Your blazer and pullover were draped over the chair at the desk.

“Well, you can dress however you like in here,” you gritted through your teeth. “If you want your fancy pants to be messed up by paint and clay…go on, wear your damn suits.”

“At least I don’t look like I’m the cleaning lady when I work.” Hyunjin shrugged, then went to the desk to review the curriculum and class schedule. Meanwhile, you took off the apron and hung it on a hook in the supply room, checked if you put away the things, then went to the desk to squeeze between Hwang’s back and the wall to get to your bag and the chair.

“Watch it,” he hissed as you pushed him a little.

“Move over, will ya?” you snarled back. You put on the pullover before grabbing the blazer and the bag to check your phone.

“I’ll guess I’ll see you around then...” you gritted once more through your teeth.

“You’re leaving already? Thank goodness, I’d never thought I’d have the peace and quiet,” Hyunjin said, focused on the folder in his hands.

“Then you’ll love the art classes,” you said, rolling your eyes and sliding into the blazer. “Peace and quiet…”

“About that…is there a way to avoid them?” His eyes darted over the information; he had long lashes….pretty you thought. Then shook your head, swatting the thought away and focused on a snarky remark.

“You do realize that this was in your job description…or do you just pretend to be able to read?”

“I can read, but I’m not looking forward to babysitting,” he said and closed the binder in his hands.

“Well,” you muttered, adjusting the cuffs of your sweater. You considered it, the thought in your head. You weren’t fond of the lame old museum tours…this could be a win-win situation, and therefore suggested, “We could come to an arrangement that I do most of the arts classes, and you take over my tours. We have to do both either way…”

“Wow…an actual intelligent idea coming of your bird brain.”

You ignored his jab at you and glanced at your phone; dang it…it was getting late.

“Yes, let’s talk about this on another day,” you said, and started packing your bag.

“Got somewhere else to be?” Hyunjin sneered, “Does the boyfriend of yours?”

“I don’t know how that is any of your business, Hwang, but no…” You sighed. “How about we discuss the schedule somewhere else…um…maybe tomorrow after school.”

Hyunjin considered, then said, “I can't, it's Friday and…”

“Right,” you interrupted, “You have competition and won’t be back until Saturday…”

Hyunjin faltered and raised a brow, wondering how you knew that, but nodded.

“Aight…” you said. “But you’ll be back here Sunday, right?”

He nodded again and watched you scribble something on a notepad with Molang and Piu Piu on it, which you had on the desk, ripped the page off, and handed it to the tall guy.

“Meet me on Sunday at 2 p.m. at this café,” you stated and shouldered your backpack. I think you can see yourself out on your own, right? I really have to get going.”

Hyunjin glanced at the characters on notepad…almost smiling, then nodded.

“Alright, then make sure to check if any windows are open, the radiators are off and that the lights are switched off…also we’re almost the last ones in the break room. You have to check everything in there as well…if anything is wrong with your card, go to the front desk and…”

“Yes, I know,” Hyunjin interrupted. “Stop babbling and get going…. geez I’m not one of these kids.”

“Right, you’re just a rude jackass” you rolled your eyes and spat, “Looking forward to work with you Hwang.”

You hoped that he heard the venom in your tone.

“Tsk…” he said, rummaged in his back, getting out a big sketchpad and coal pencils, “Back at you…..”

________

Hwang Hyunjin had the luxury to sleep in a little on Sunday and was happy to do so. The competition with his Dance Group SKZ out of town was good, though they were the 2nd runner-up overall ,they won a section of the improv battle.

Hyunjin had the time to eat breakfast and work a little on his homework, look over the drop box folder before he got dressed, and went to the little café you had scribbled on the notepad adorned with the small chick and bunny.

Tired eyes behind glasses looked around and saw the little café at the end of a plaza, right opposite the water fountain.

A few chairs and tables were outside, the metal was painted in pastel colors, and the wood had a shabby-rustic design. All in all, cutesy but still a shabby-chic country house aesthetic. Jokjebi-Café was written in cursive over the entrance.

Hyunjin considered waiting outside after taking a look at the café thorugh the window. There weren’t many customers, probably because breakfast and lunchtime were over, and anyway he’d have seen you if you were inside. But no, the only people left were a middle-aged man behind a newspaper and what looked like two boys at the end of the café in a booth.

He glanced at his watch, 2.pm…. you were late. God-damn it you were annoying.

Punctuality was never one of your strong suits, and you always seem to be rushing from one place to another. Preferably fast if your small legs allowed it, a lot of time Hyunjin had seen the blurry of you dash across campus and even more that you had the tendency to spill whatever you were holding onto yourself…or others.

Stupid smoothie, by the time Hyunjin had gone home last week to change out of the stained pants, the color had seeped into the fabric.

Fair….he may have also forgotten to soak the stain, and thus, the pants were unusable, but surely it was all your fault.

Tardiness, you had a blabbermouth, were an insufferable know-it-all all, dressed like a Bohemian dwarf, were annoying, were some of the aspects Hyunjin would use to describe you, and he didn’t even want to start thinking about the glares you send him every time your gazes met.

He didn’t even know why you hated him so much, but so far, he came to the conclusion he hated you too.

The air was chilly today. It seemed like Autumn was announcing its arrival, and so, Hyunjin entered the café without you. It wasn’t his fault that you were late.

“Welcome,” a voice behind the counter greeted him, and he saw a dark-haired girl, the name Tag Rin on her pastel blue apron. She seemed to recognize Hyunjin and nodded, “Ah…right… Hyunjin right? I’ll show you to your seat…”

She smiled and brought him to a booth close to the other side of the café, away from the guy who was reading the newspaper.

“Can I get you started on something?” she asked and gave him the menu.

“I’ll take a coffee… Americano,” Hyunjin said glancing at the menu, then remembered his manners, “Thanks…”

Rin, nodded and went back behind the counter, and was joined by another light brown haired girl who was just tying the bow on her apron around her waist and was glaring at him. Whispering something to Rin behind a hand. Rin looked at the girl and smiled, then shook her head. The other girl groaned and started making the coffee and brought it to him.

Bella, he read on her name tag.

“Y/N will shortly be with you,” Bella gritted under her teeth, “Nice for you to show up tho….”

Hyunjin didn’t know what that was about and ignored it and sipped at his coffee and watched the fountain outside the window. A minute later, he heard the familiar rush of footsteps announce your arrival, and Hyunjin was surprised to see you coming out of the doorway that led to the backside of the café.

He observed your eyes searching for him and lips turning into a smile that reached your eyes when your gaze met.

Momentarily, then you seemed to remember who was sitting there, and the smile disappeared.

Pity, it was a nice smile. He noted, then scoffed, glancing down to pick up the biscotti he had received with his drink.

Sniffing the biscotti with some suspicion, he watched you from the corner of his eyes.

You’d turned to Bella and Rin, probably speaking, but he didn't see because your back was toward him. The two baristas were chatting by the coffee machine and clearing out the dishwasher, and you said something to them. The girls gave a chuckle, and Bella gestured a fist pounding into a hand, to which Rin laughed, and you rolled your eyes and ducked under the lid of the counter and joined him.

“Sorry, I’m late… I was changing” you said, plopping down onto the bench opposite him, “Got some food on my shirt and had to get rid of the stain in the back.”

“You have a habit of spilling stuff all over you” Hyunjin noted.

“Starting with the insults bright and early ay?” you shrugged and took out a folder from your bag, “What a wonderful way to spend your Sunday. Let’s get this over with…”

“Right,” Hyunjin agreed and got out his own planner, “So you mentioned that you prefer the Thursday course.”

“Yes…pretty much, it’s easier for me to work back to back on Thursdays…” you stated, and when Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, you explained “I rather have a full day and have the luxury of having days where I don’t work than work a little every day…”

He still looked confused.

“After the lessons at the museum… I work here…at the café…sometimes even before…depending on the day….” you explained, pointing at the counter.

“Ah…okay…” he shrugged and sipped coffee. He assumed so far, since you came out of the backstage entry and talked about food that was spilled on you. But still…he was curious.

“You work three jobs?” he asked, remembering all three: the museum, the café, and the student assistant position.

“Money,” you shrugged, “The job at the café pays me more than the two others combined, especially when people tip well. I do the student jobs on my off days, it’s really not much work and doesn’t pay well…but I like teacher, and it’s good on applications and stuff and the museum job is for me to have some practical experience in the field…it also helped with getting the internship…that’s why you took the job right?”

Hyunjin nodded, true, he originally wanted to intern solely at the fine arts part of the museum, but they didn’t offer a job there. His thought was that if he worked well in the part-time teaching position at the arts department, the director would eventually offer him a transfer position….if not, he’d get a better chance to get a job after graduation.

“Here your iced coffee Y/N…I also saved you a bagel” the voice of the waitress named Bella made Hyunjin look up from his notes, she was yet again glaring at him.

“Bella…be nice,” you warned and rolled your eyes.

“If he makes you cry…I’ll hurt him,” Bella hissed loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Okay…you will…” you mumbled and gently patted her hip to get her moving.

“What was that about?” Hyunjin asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” you said, waving it of “So about the schedule…Kim-seonsaengnim said that you have to do some classes and I have to do tours…I suggest that I take the Sunday afternoon tours for kids, and you join me on Thursdays…since both are our busier days…”

Hyunjin nodded, “I’ll take the rest of the tours, and you’ll take over the classes on Monday afternoon?”

You nodded,, biting into the bagel. “On days when you have competitions on the weekend…I can take over if you do the same for some of my classes in return. I’ll look at the schedule of your dance practice when I get home and text you.”

Hyunjin hesitated, then smirked, “How do you know my dance practice schedule?”

You rolled your eyes, “I just do…”

“Are you perhaps a fan?” he smirked a little behind his cup.

“Oh yes, clearly” you rolled your eyes “Dumbass, I share a flat with Minho”

That was a shocker, and Hyunjin genuinely looked surprised. He knew that his older teammate Lee Minho, crazy cat dad and dance god, lived with a girl. It was obvious that one time the team had come over for after-practice drinks, and they saw the cosmetics in the bathroom, but the roommate hadn't been there that day.

Minho-hyung had said that his roommate was a year younger than him and attended the same high school, was friends with a few of his younger teammates, and it had just worked out.

“You live with him voluntarily?” Hyunjin shook his head, “And I thought my opinion of you couldn’t sink any lower.”

“Aww…cute…put that comment please into my special cookie jar for I don’t give a fuck” you hissed defensively.

True, Lee Know was a menace, but he was a sweet and thoughtful person. The guy walked around with treats for street cats just in case he encountered one, for goodness' sake.

“I’m surprised that your oh so intelligent brain didn’t connect the dots…”

“Correction…I didn’t think that Minho-Hyung would aim so low and live with you.” Hyunjin countered.

“Once more, I don’t give a fuck…” You rolled your eyes and took a sip of your iced coffee, chocked on a piece of crushed ice, yelped, and cursed as the liquid splashed on your shirt.

“You really are incapable of doing the most mundane of tasks…” Hyunjin assessed, cross-armed and leaning back on the bench

You glared and reached out to grab a napkin to dab at the spot, and realized that there were none left on the table. You turned your head around the booth and said

“Hey, Felix, could you pass me a tissue”?

A snicker was heard from the other booth, where Hyunjin remembered that two males were sitting in. He was surprised to see Lee Felix’s face pop up from there, grinning at the two of them. The other person Seungming nodded “Sup Hyunjin….”

“What are they doing here?” Hyunjin asked, wondering what his team mates were doing here.

“Mooching off” you stated, grabbed the tissues Felix handed you and tried to save your shirt.

“We are regular customers” Seungmin argued.

“You’d be customers if you actually paid for the stuff and don’t let me handle your tab” you rolled your eyes “You got your breakfast and your lunch…so why are you still here.”

“Hanging out with our favorite person in the whole wide world” Seungmin deadpanned.

You sighed and gave up on the spot on your shirt, “The two of you mooch around at my apartment often enough, I don’t need you bugging me at my work place. Get lost”

“Only because you say so princess” Seungmin snickered and got up, he glanced at the end of the café where the man behind the newspaper had been sitting.

He was gone now. Felix nodded at Seungmin, then the two of them waved goodbye at you and Hyunijn.

“Nice of you to show up this time” Seungmin said to Hyunjin and once again, who wondered why this argument came up again.

He glanced at you, who had your face in your palm, groaning.

You looked up as you felt his questioning look on you.

He quirked an eyebrow. Silently urging you to explain.

Your mouth opened in shock, and realization hit you.

Oh…. He didn’t even remember.

One day, I swear I’m going to strangle you and whip that stupid condescending expression off your face!

#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #skz fanfic #academic rivals au #rivals to lovers #enemies to lovers #slow burn #college au #student hyunjin #banter and bickering #stray kids writing

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