#day 1: tuxedo

[orange-artblog]

dark cream week - day 1: tuxedo

shattered dream by galacii-gallery

cross!sans by jakei95

dark cream week by @zu-is-here

[garpond]

rotates 3d model of rick in my mind

[alg3a]

auspicious (pt. 1)

jayce x f!reader x viktor / jayvik x f!reader

4k, sfw for now, no use of y/n

description: Viktor and Jayce’s new lab assistant is the hottest topic at a council gala. After defending herself all night, an accidental confession leads to tension in the workplace.

warnings: suggestive content, brief and light misogyny (don’t worry), manipulative reader, lab assistant dynamic, basically the last third is foreplay.

a/n: This is my first ever tumblr fic! If you guys would like, i will add an nsfw second part.

Update: second part added!

Say what you will about Councilor Salo, but his galas never disappointed. There must have been three hundred of the city’s most influential people scattered about the grand ballroom, which stretched further than you could see with your naked eye. It was the first you’d ever seen of these exquisite parties, and you silently hoped that it wouldn’t be the last.

You’d been the lab assistant of the two Hextech partners for around three months now. With the public eye being enthralled with the activities of the two intelligent scientists, it wasn’t long before the spectacle included you, their pretty new lab assistant. You were in your final year in the academy’s undergraduate program and had been a promising enough engineering student to be hired by Viktor and Jayce. Your name was a prevalent one in every inventor’s competition and innovator’s fair, so naturally they had heard of you before your interview. From what you heard, there were nearly fifty other applicants (mostly girls) and yet they hired you on the spot. Naturally, once this story aired, the press was obsessed with you. Piltover Gazette did an entire piece on you about a month into your employment.

With all the attention, Jayce thought it might be a good idea for you to tag along at galas and parties as the plus-one of both men. They never brought dates, so the position was always wide open. Although, Jayce did usually leave with a plus-one.

You wore a deep red sleek gown with a plunging neckline and an absent back. The men matched their ties to your dress, but the rest of their outfits were mostly black and ivory. It wasn’t long before you were whisked away to the dancefloor by influential older men, who talked your ear off about how lucky you must find yourself to be shadowing two promising young inventors. You cringed each time you heard it. You were certainly lucky to have landed the position, but the way they phrased it made it seem like you were some teenage girl who was asked to the school dance by the two cutest boys in school. It wasn’t as trivial as that. Each day, you worked tirelessly alongside their genius minds to find solutions to real world problems using Hextech. You and Viktor spent countless nights asleep on opposite ends of the worn lab couch so that you could continue working at any hour.

Eventually, you grew tired of the misogyny from older male benefactors. You’d done enough socializing for the night, now it was time to patronize the open bar.

You found a spot between a woman in a gold dress and a man in a white tuxedo and asked the bartender politely for a whiskey sour. Once you finished speaking, the man in the white tuxedo turned to you.

“I recognize you,” he said, the scent of his aftershave mixing with the alcohol on his breath. “You’re the Hextech girl, aren’t you? I read your article in the Gazette.”

You sighed as the bartender handed you your drink, pressing a polite smile to your lips with the exhale. “Yes, that’s me. It’s a pleasure.” You hold out your hand and he brings it to his lips with a kiss longer than you would have liked.

“The pleasure is all mine, dear,” he said, setting his glass down. “You know, it’s very uncommon for an undergraduate girl to land such an auspicious spot amongst lead researchers at the academy.”

Here we go again. In the time it takes for him to finish the same spiel you’d heard all night, you finish your drink in one continuous sip. You punctuate the end of his sentence by putting your glass down roughly on the counter.

“Yes, I’m incredibly lucky,” you say, your polite smile turning vaguely murderous. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jayce and Viktor approaching the bar.

“Enough prattle from me,” the man says and holds out his pasty hand once more. “I think it’s time for a dance.”

“Are we interrupting?” Jayce asks, his usual charming smile adorning his chiseled face.

“Not at all!” The man in white says, jovially. No doubt feeling blessed to speak to the men whose egos he spent the last five minutes stroking.

“In fact you came at the perfect time,” you say, smushing yourself between Jayce and Viktor, and wrapping your arms around their arms, emboldened by the alcohol and desperate for a way out of this conversation. “We were just discussing how positively fortunate I am to be working for two accomplished, ambitious, handsome young inventors.”

Viktor furrows his eyebrows at you, then looks back up at Jayce. “Is that so?” He asks, suspicion dancing in his eyes.

“Yes,” you nod emphatically, then bring your attention back to the man in white. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry I’ll have to decline your offer to dance. But I’m sure you understand. When a young woman like myself is called upon by men so far above my humble station, I simply must recognize how—what was the word you used earlier—how auspicious my position is.”

The man seems lost in your rambling, but you notice Jayce and Viktor smiling at one another and avoiding the man’s gaze.

“Ehem, well alright,” the man says, finally. “You three have a pleasant night.”

“Thank you,” Jayce says, his smile becoming a smirk. “We will.”

Jayce places his hand on your lower back and guides you away as Viktor follows, now placing his weight on his cane.

“Are we missing something?” Viktor asks.

“We came to check up on you,” Jayce said. “That guy at the bar was eyeing you like you were his next cocktail.”

“Gross,” you shudder at the thought. Jayce’s hand rubs the exposed skin of your lower back gently. Your eyes dart toward the ground at the sudden awareness of the intimacy of the touch. You shrug off the chill heading up your spine. “Please, never invite me to one of these again. I’ve heard enough old men insinuating that I’m the lab’s little piece of ass.”

“They’re saying that?” Viktor said sharply, stopping in his path as he turned to face you, his hand on your shoulder.

“Well, not exactly that, but practically every conversation is monopolized by my male counterpart lecturing me on what a privilege it is to spend my days ogling at you two.”

Jayce snickers a bit, but Viktor shoots him a stern look.

“That’s highly inappropriate. I’m terribly sorry you experienced such a blatant display of the antiquated beliefs these upper houses hold.” Viktor shakes his head as if he is shaking off the experience like a dog drying off.

“Vik and I were just talking about leaving, anyway,” Jayce says, his hand resuming its ministrations on your back. “We can call a car and go, just say the word.”

You look around the room and remember the reason you’re here in the first place. Galas are the primary way for the two inventors at either side of you to network and receive funding for their projects. Jayce abhorred the politics and the whole reason exhausted, introverted Viktor even bears the social tedium of these parties when he’d rather be slaving away in the lab is because he knows none of their ventures can be broadened without doing the dance. In a singular moment you realize that if they can stomach the routine dreariness of the social game that these parties provide, so can you. You are their prized assistant after all.

“It's okay,” you shake your head. “It’s really not that bad.”

“Are you sure?” Viktor asks, his head tilting.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nod. “I just have to get used to the manner at which these sorts of events go on. But I can do it. If you’ll recall, adaptability was a strength on my resume.”

This earns a laugh from both of the men. Jayce removes his hand from your lower back to rub your shoulder softly. “I think we glossed over that part.”

Viktor stops laughing suddenly, which elicits a raised eyebrow from you.

“What?” You ask, your eyes darting between Viktor and Jayce. Jayce’s lips press together in a tight seal as if he caught himself letting something slip. “What do you mean?”

Just in time to save them from the obviously impending awkward situation, a man in an all black suit approaches.

“Gentlemen, if I may borrow your lovely assistant for a dance–”

You felt your cheeks growing hot with every word he spoke. You were so incredibly tired of old men here thinking they could just ask politely and receive your body to use in whatever stupid waltz they wanted to try their hand at. “Gods, I don’t–”

“My apologies,” Jayce said, interrupting what he was sure would be an outburst on your part. “I’m afraid our lovely assistant is spoken for, for the rest of the night.”

Viktor punctuated his sentence with a nod and a gentle squeeze of your upper arm.

“I see,” the man said, his face betraying his civility. “Well, find me if that changes.”

As soon as the man was out of earshot, Viktor released your arm. “Call that car, Jayce.”

“On it,” he said, already beginning to make his way to the front of the ballroom.

“I’ve been where you are,” Viktor said, his nimble fingers trailing downward from where he had been squeezing your arm. He lifts your hand and places it on his wrist so that you cling to him as the two of you walk toward the exit together. “When I was Heimerdinger’s assistant, I was often undermined. Although, I had the distinct privilege of not being a beautiful young woman. While I can relate to your frustration, the misogyny and objectification you’re experiencing aren’t exactly things Jayce and I have experienced. But we’re going to do our best to quell it for you.”

You look up at him and find his hardened expression fixed on the door. “Thank you.” Those two words will suffice for now, but Viktor’s promise warms your heart in ways that a simple thank you cannot express.

Jayce finds the two of you as you exit into the grand hallway. “Car’s waiting outside.” He takes his coat off and drapes it over your shoulders, not paying much attention to your hand on Viktor’s arm.

The three of you pile in the back of the limousine. You sit sandwiched between the two men, relishing in the warmth radiating from their bodies after the few steps outside in the cold night. Viktor stretches his leg outward in the spacious backseat while Jayce leans back and groans. Clearly you aren’t the only one exhausted from the antics of the night.

“Where will I be taking you three?” The driver asks, his eyes visible in the rearview mirror.

“Two stops, if possible,” Jayce speaks up, leaning forward once more to be heard better. “The laboratory block of the academy and the East Dormitories.”

“You guys are going to the lab? It’s almost midnight.” You ask, turning to Jayce before realizing how the proximity of the backseat brings your face so close to his.

“Always work to be done,” Jayce says, glancing over your face before giving you a little more space. “But don’t worry, you’ve had a long night. You don’t need to do any assisting again until tomorrow morning.”

You look over at Viktor momentarily, to see him staring out the window as the car begins to move.

“If it’s alright, I think I’d like to go to the lab, too,” you say, softly. You can’t help but feel as though you’re inviting yourself to some clandestine meeting, as if you don’t have as much of a reason to be at the lab as they do.

Jayce looks over at Viktor, not for confirmation but for something else. Humor, maybe?

“Of course,” Jayce smiles softly. He shifts his attention to the driver again. “On second thought, just take us to the labs, please.”

The driver nods as he picks up speed and peels out of the driveway. For some reason, your heart pounds. It isn’t abnormal for you and the two men to stay ridiculously late at the lab. In fact, it’s more common than leaving before midnight.

You become suddenly aware of the long slit that opens your deep red dress, and you cross your legs.

“Jayce I wanted to ask you something,” you say, mustering up the courage to recall the slip-up from earlier. “What did you mean when you said you glossed over my resume?”

“Well…” Jayce looks over at Viktor, which makes you do the same. Now he’s definitely paying attention, his eyebrows two firm lines scrunched above his angular nose.

Viktor finally decides to chime in, and you know exactly why: Jayce isn’t a good liar.

“We had lots of applications,” Viktor said. “You know that.”

“Yeah, but…then why did you hire me?”

“You had a very promising interview,” Viktor says, now avoiding eye contact.

“You’re lying to me,” you say, more accusatory than you meant it to be.

“We should just tell her, Vik,” Jayce mutters, almost under his breath. In response, Viktor’s hard expression softens. Perhaps out of relief?

“Tell me what?”

“Fine,” Viktor says, finally, with an exhausted sigh. “I’m too tired to persuade you against it.”

Jayce puts a hand so low on your thigh that it’s almost on your knee. “First, it’s important that you know that we would have hired you regardless. You’re so incredibly talented and you’ve been such a good assistant; we have no doubt in our minds that you’re the perfect person for this job.”

“Regardless of what, Jayce?”

“A little help, Vik?” Jayce asks after a sigh of helpless frustration.

“We sent everyone else home after your interview,” Viktor said, still looking out of the window, his arm resting on the ledge of the door, fidgeting with the handle. “When we saw you for the first time, we decided we wanted to see you more often.”

“What?” You feel your face growing hot. Anger? Something else entirely?

“The first note I wrote during your interview just said ‘beautiful,’ and I don’t think I wrote anything down after that,” Jayce admitted.

“You can’t be serious,” you say at a volume so low it might be a whisper. Anger. Definitely anger. “All night…all night I was swatting away guys who were objectifying me…accusing me of just being your pretty little assistant. I thought it was just misogyny. I thought they just couldn’t believe a girl was capable of keeping up with you two…but apparently they were right.”

“That’s not the case, at all,” Viktor said, louder than you’d ever heard him. “It couldn’t be further from the truth. We weren’t objectifying you. You deserve respect for your accomplishments, and those accomplishments are numerous.”

“He’s right, it’s not like we just hired you to look at,” Jayce said, trying to reconcile the situation. “And it’s not like I didn’t write notes during your interview because there wasn’t anything to write. I stopped writing because I was captivated by you.”

Suddenly the weight of the situation falls onto you, all at once. These men, your bosses, your best friends, the two smartest, most accomplished scientists in Piltover…they were attracted to you.

“For three months?” You ask, softly, more to yourself than to them.

“Yes,” Viktor answered. “We understand if you’re upset with us.”

The car slowed to a stop against the curb of the laboratory building of the academy.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go into the lab anymore,” Jayce said, beginning to lean forward and opening his mouth to address the driver. “Hey, sorry, could you–”

“No,” you say, your words final. “I’m going into the lab with you.”

Your lips are a deep red firm line. Your eyes are unreadable, and neither of the boys can tell what you’re thinking. Even you hardly know, but one thing is certain: you find yourself in an auspicious position. You didn’t need the two boys to validate you for everything listed on your resume. They knew you were intelligent, and more importantly, you knew. What you didn’t know is that they found you beautiful. So much so that they hired you just to see you more often.

You’d spent the whole night trying to defend your own honor, being shaken by men with accusatory, wandering hands. More than that, you’d spent the night wandering awkwardly for the benefit of your bosses. Now, it was time to return the favor.

“If you’re sure,” Jayce said, pushing open the car door and stepping out onto the curb, holding it open for you as Viktor exited through the other door. As you brushed past Jayce, you let his coat fall delicately down your shoulders, revealing the deep backline of the dress.

You turn over your right shoulder, just enough for your face to be past profile, and narrow your eyes at him. “I’m sure.”

Once Viktor is out of the car, the three of you walk toward the large glass doors that lead to the lobby of the laboratory building. You stop in front of the keycard sensor and watch as Viktor pats down his pant pockets in search of his key card.

“Sorry, one second,” he says.

You approach him, with no sound but the clicking of your heels on the cold pavement below, and slide your hand into his coat pocket. You watch his jaw clench, never taking your eyes off his face as you pinch the plastic card between your pointer and middle finger. You pull it out like a cigarette before waving it in front the boys’ faces and tapping it against the small metal sensor. It beeps with a green flash and you hand the card back to Viktor. Neither of them says a word.

You enter through the glass doors, but at the lack of footsteps behind you, you turn around. The men still stand, staring at you, mouths slightly agape.

“What?” You ask. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jayce coughs, as if fighting something in his throat, then takes a few steps forward and follows you.

You press the call button on the elevator and wait as the boys stand on either side of you.

“If you’re upset with us, please say so,” Viktor said, his voice bordering pleading.

“Upset?” You tilt your head to look up at the man beside you. Even in heels they were both taller than you. “Do I look upset?”

“I–uh well, I am not sure. You look…focused.”

You were definitely focused. Yes, you were playing with them. Wasn’t it only fair that you return a bit of the awkwardness provided by their sudden confession in the car? This was you getting even for that embarrassment, and you’d soon be getting even for the long-kept secret, as well.

“Strange,” you say as the elevator door opens before you. You step in and turn to face the door. “Jayce, press four.”

He does as you say.

“And how do you think I look, Jayce?” You ask, your eyes shifting toward him in the confined space of the elevator. He repeats that same little choked cough from before, except now it sounds closer to him clearing his throat.

“I think you look very good.”

You smile at him. Not a kind one, but the sort of condescending smile one gives a child who gave the wrong answer. A cute answer, though.

“Thanks,” you say, your eyes returning back to the door. “But I was asking if you thought I looked angry.”

The door beeps open and you are the first to leave. As you walk down the long hallway, you hear the boys walking a yard behind you. They’re nervous, that much you can sense on the cold bare skin of your back.

You stop at the lab door at the end of the hall and wait for the boys to catch up. It’s the biggest lab on the fourth floor.

Viktor now has his keys at the ready and unlocks the large wooden door, then holds it open for you to enter before the two boys. How spoiled you are.

You saunter into the lab, letting Jayce’s coat fall all the way down your shoulders before draping it on a stool next to the counter. They attempt to ignore you, bee-lining toward their desks in the lab but you catch each time their eye wanders to you on the opposite side of the room. Often they alternate, glancing over while the other is talking about the equations they're working through or the tools they need to assemble something. Every so often, they look over at you at the exact same time, following whispers you can’t quite make out, and when they do it is absolutely silent.

Meanwhile, you’re pouring the wine that you’ve been stashing in the cabinet meant for volatile chemical solutions. You’ve laid out three glasses, but you only fill the one in the middle. You sip from it slowly, your eyes peeking out from above the glass rim so you can catch them every time they look over at you.

“What are you doing?” Jayce asks, exasperatedly, finally.

“What do you mean?” You ask, and continue to sip your wine.

“We said we were sorry–”

“No, actually you didn’t.” You finish your glass and set it back down between the two empty glasses. “You said you understood if I was mad. And you tried to explain yourselves.”

“We are sorry,” Viktor said. “Terribly sorry. For lying, and for…objectifying you.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t objectification?” You said, still bitter despite the joy you extracted from teasing these poor boys.

“It doesn’t matter what we think we did or did not do,” Viktor said, the thickness of his accent swallowing his nervous words. “What matters is that you are hurt, and that we are terribly sorry.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“Eh…you’re not?” It wasn’t often that Viktor sounded confused, so you relished the question.

“No.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Jayce asked.

You poured wine into the two glasses on either side of your own and smiled as you looked down at the liquid filling them. You pushed the glasses toward them and raised your eyebrows expectantly. As if well trained, they walked over to you at the counter and picked up their glasses, taking small sips each.

“You could call it disbelief,” you said. “Or plain shock.”

“I understand that we sprung a lot on you all at once–” Viktor started to say, but you raised your hand.

“I’m not in disbelief because you’re attracted to me, Viktor, I’m far too self-assured for that.”

Jayce stifles a laugh.

“I’m in disbelief because I’ve wasted three months pretending not to be attracted to either of you,” you say, coming out from behind the counter and going to sit on the couch in the center of the room. You’d done an excellent job decorating their lab and had managed to make it feel like a home rather than a detention room.

“What are you saying?” Jayce asks, setting his glass down and stepping toward you. Viktor follows his example.

“I’m saying that if you had just told me ages ago that you two felt that way, I’d be laughing at the men who asked to dance with me tonight instead of clenching my fists. I’ve spent three months pushing aside any thought of you two outside of professional settings because I didn’t want to be the naive little lab assistant fawning over her bosses.”

A strap of your dress slips off of your left shoulder, and you let it.

“What a waste,” you scoff as you lean back into the cushions of the couch. You pick your hair up so that it falls over the cushions and cascades like a waterfall.

“So…” you watch as the gears in Jayce’s genius brain turn, “if we had told you sooner then–”

“Then you could have had me sooner.”

NSFW PART TWO????

[hamilton-here]

𝒯𝒶𝒾𝓁𝑜𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜

Authors Note: Hi All! Wow. Lewis Hamilton absolutely slayed this look! I should be studying for an exam right now but I couldn’t help but write something for the Met Gala 2025. I hope you all enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton and his girlfriend share an intimate reveal of their outfits before making a stunning entrance at the Met Gala, capturing the spotlight with their love and style.

Warnings: mentions of sexual content

Taglist: @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun filtered through sheer curtains, casting warm golden streaks across the hotel room. The air was still quiet, humming softly with the calm before chaos.

You stirred awake to the steady rhythm of Lewis’s breathing, his body curled behind yours, arm slung over your waist, holding you like something he couldn’t afford to lose.

You didn’t move for a long time. Just laying there, pressed against him, listening to the world spin slowly outside while his presence grounded you. In these rare hushed moments, Lewis wasn’t the 7x Formula 1 World Champion, the activist, the fashion icon. He was just yours. And you were his.

A sleepy kiss pressed to your bare shoulder made you smile.

“You’re awake,” you whispered.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Been awake. Just didn’t want to let go.”

You rolled over gently to face him, fingers sliding between his multiple braids that framed his face. His eyes blinked open, warm and full of something deeper than just affection. Something heavier, quieter.

"Big day," you said, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone caressing it.

"Biggest," he replied. “But not because of the carpet. It’s because I get to walk in with you.”

He said it so casually, but the words hit you like a warm wave. You kissed him, soft and unhurried. Your hand sliding to rest on his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm. He rolled over you delicately, pinning you beneath him with a smile that was both teasing and reverent.

“Do we have time for” he trailed off, nuzzling into your neck, “just a little more?”

You laughed, pulling him down into another kiss, slow and languid. Time stretched and folded into itself. Even if the world outside demanded perfectly tailored tuxedos and curated appearances.

This moment was gloriously undone, just the two of you tangled up in sheets and skin. Whispering promises and breathless giggles between kisses that lasted too long.

When the knock at the suite door finally broke the spell, it was with an audible sigh that Lewis rolled away, mumbling, “Why can’t the Met Gala be tomorrow?”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The room buzzed with an intensity that almost felt electric. Stylists, assistants, and fashion press worked tirelessly to prepare the final touches for the Gala.

A mix of anticipation and excitement filled the air, but amid the controlled chaos, there was a quiet understanding between you and Lewis.

Both of you had decided to get ready separately, not out of superstition but because you wanted to preserve the sacredness of the moment when you saw each other for the first time. Fully dressed, in your Gala attire. No cameras, no flashes just the two of you. In a private world of your own. It would be a reveal just for you.

Your dressing room was a sanctuary of elegance. Soft, golden light filtered through the windows. Bathing the room in a warm, almost ethereal glow. The air was thick with the scent of perfume, freshly pressed fabric, and the soft sound of music playing in the background - classical, yet full of emotion.

You stood in front of a full-length mirror, a whirlwind of stylists and assistants working around you, their hands moving in rhythm as they made their final adjustments.

Your gown was custom, of course. It was everything you had imagined and more. The color was a stunning shade of bronze silk, so rich it almost seemed to glow under the lights. The fabric shimmered with every subtle movement, as though it had a life of its own. The corseted bodice fit your frame perfectly, hugging your figure with a sculpted precision that felt like second skin. The waist was cinched in just enough to create an hourglass silhouette, while the skirt billowed outward, its shape reminiscent of the regal gowns worn by queens of centuries past. The way it moved, catching the light and swaying ever so slightly made you feel like royalty.

But what truly set the gown apart were the intricate details. Geometric embroidery, inspired by African diasporic design, was woven into the fabric in rich metallic threads, glistening with every angle. The embroidery wasn’t just a decorative touch.

It was a bold statement, a celebration of culture, history, and tradition. It felt like the very embodiment of power and beauty, as if you were wearing not just a piece of art though a piece of your own heritage.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror and for a moment, you almost didn’t recognise the woman staring back. There was something about the attire that transformed you. It wasn’t just the design or the craftsmanship, it was the way it made you feel. Empowered. Strong. Confident.

Lewis had introduced you to the designer and you could see now why he had been so adamant about this specific choice. He wanted you to feel more than beautiful. He wanted you to wear something that spoke to your strength, to your identity and to who you were at your core. The designer had crafted a piece that was a perfect blend of tradition and rebellion, history and modernity, just like you.

"He's going to lose it when he sees you," your stylist whispered, her voice filled with admiration as she pinned the final piece of fabric into place. "You’re going to take his breath away."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a flutter of nerves mixed with excitement. The idea of revealing yourself to Lewis, of showing him what he had helped create felt almost surreal.

You could already picture his reaction. The way his eyes would light up when he saw you, the soft intake of breath, the way he always looked at you like you were the only person in the room. But most of all, how everything else fell away when he focused on you.

For just a moment, the world outside your dressing room seemed to disappear. The buzz of the fashion press, the voices of assistants in the hallway and the chaotic energy of the event. Everything was muted. It was just you, this gown, and the promise of a moment that would belong only to the two of you.

You ran your fingers over the delicate fabric one last time, feeling the weight of its significance. It was the culmination of your journey with Lewis, of the moments you had shared, of the power and love you had found together.

And in that quiet sacred moment, as you prepared to step into the world of the Met Gala. You couldn’t help but think that this moment would be one you’d carry with you forever.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The moment finally arrived.

You knocked softly on the adjoining door between your suites. “Ready?”

There was a brief pause, then Lewis’s voice, warm yet playful, “Only if you are.”

You smiled to yourself and pushed open your door just as he opened his, and time seemed to stop.

There he stood, every inch the vision of class and style. He was dressed in a bespoke cream suit designed by Wales Bonner, tailored to perfection. The suit clung to his form with a sharpness that seemed almost sculpted, its rich texture telling stories of past generations while pointing toward the future. His accessories - gold pins gleaming against the cream fabric, stacked rings that caught the light, delicate chain links that added an elegant rebellion to the whole ensemble came together like a quiet revolution in fashion. It was a bold statement, one that demanded attention without shouting.

He looked like the future, wrapped in the finest memories of the past.

And there you were, standing before him in your custom bronze silk dress, glowing with an ethereal radiance. The gown hugged your figure and billowed elegantly, the intricate embroidery shimmering with a life of its own. The light caught your skin and for a fleeting moment, you were both in a world of your own an artwork brought to life.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath blinking rapidly, as though he’d forgotten how to breathe in the face of such beauty.

You couldn’t help but smile, your steps slow and deliberate as you walked toward him, savoring the moment. “Good wow, or too much?”

He laughed, his voice full of disbelief, still unable to tear his eyes away from you. “There’s not enough language in the world for what kind of wow this is.”

Your arms slid gently around his neck, drawing him closer as you leaned into him, your body fitting seamlessly against his. “You clean up pretty well too, Mr. Hamilton,” you teased softly, your lips brushing against his ear.

He grinned, his hands finding their way to your waist as he tilted his forehead against yours. The quiet intimacy of the moment hung between you two like a secret, just the two of you in this space. “You make me wanna skip the carpet, you know that?”

Your heart swelled at his words, a rush of warmth and affection flooding through you. You kissed him softly, lips lingering as if savoring the moment. The taste of him lingering on your tongue. “Let’s give them something to talk about first,” you whispered against his mouth.

And with that, you pulled back the connection lingering between you even as you straightened. The anticipation of what was to come humming in the air. Together, hand in hand you stepped into the world awaiting you - ready to turn heads and ready to be unforgettable.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The limo ride was a soft, velvet pocket of quiet between the chaos. You sat beside him hand resting on his thigh, your fingers intertwined.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, unable to stop himself. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”

You turned to face him, blushing. “You say that now.”

“No, I’ve seen podiums, wins, thousand camera flashes. But this?” He lifted your hand to his lips. “This is everything.”

Your gaze softened. “I know tonight is huge for you. I just want you to be proud.”

He leaned in and kissed you. Deep, grounding. “I already am.”

Loud yells and cameras clicking could be heard outside the limo. The slick black car rolled up to the Met Gala before stopping.

When you stepped out of the car, the world erupted.

Flashes exploded like fireworks. Reporters screamed your names. The red carpet was transformed into a living runway, but you two walked it like you owned it.

Lewis kept you close, one hand on the small of your back with an expression proud and protective.

Everywhere you looked, people stared. Some with admiration while some with envy. You weren’t just guests. You were the couple. The moment.

@NYCFashionWatch: “Lewis Hamilton and his stunning girlfriend are the blueprint tonight. Tailored excellence and bronze royalty. #MetGala2025”

@F1InsiderBuzz: “They said power couple, and they meant it. Lewis Hamilton serving cream couture, his partner redefining grace.”

@BlackStyleArchives: “Lewis and his partner pay homage to Black elegance through tailoring and textile. This is more than fashion. This is narrative.”

@VogueOfficial: “We have to talk about the chemistry. The styling. The hands never letting go. The looks exchanged. The whispering smiles. It’s romance, but it’s also power.”

Backstage, stylists and other guests approached the two of you with warm smiles and hushed compliments.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” one editor whispered to you as Lewis stepped away to speak to a designer. “He’s softer. Brighter.”

You glanced toward him, watching as he laughed warmly with one hand still subtly reaching for you.

“He’s just himself,” you said. “All of him.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The theme Lewis had co-chaired “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”, was alive in every curated corner of the Met.

Lewis walked you through the exhibition with the quiet awe of someone who had helped build it from concept to creation. His hand rarely left yours, his voice dipping to a near whisper when he leaned in to share details about specific pieces.

“That one’s inspired by Dapper Dan’s original Harlem cuts,” he said, nodding toward a sharply shouldered double breasted jacket displayed in a glass case. “No label. No runway. But it turned the world upside down.”

He paused at a minimalist charcoal suit designed by Bianca Saunders. “She’s the future,” he said. “Structure, soul and softness too. I love how it folds, almost like origami.”

You looked at him then, not just at his words but the way he stood. Shoulders straight, fingers gently brushing the edge of a plinth like he was touching memory itself. His passion for what this night meant was written in the way he held space for each garment, each stitch.

Every few moments, he turned to you, eyes warm. “This one,” he murmured once, standing before a velvet frock coat hand embroidered with ancestral symbols, “this one I want to show my mum. She’d cry.”

People floated by, murmuring greetings and admiration. Journalists, designers, museum curators. But you and Lewis moved like the eye of the storm still, centred and deeply connected in the whirl of celebration.

And then came the cameras again.

Not the frenzied clicks of paparazzi, but the poised intentional elegance of Vogue, Getty and Vanity Fair. Followed by the host of other publications capturing the official portraits inside the Met.

“May we get the two of you here?” someone from the Cut asked politely, gesturing toward a marbled archway beneath soft amber light.

Lewis glanced at you with a subtle nod. “Let’s give them a show.”

He pulled you gently to him, one hand settling on your waist, the other holding yours just so elegant and firm. You tilted your head slightly toward him, the curve of your lips soft but confident. As the camera clicked, your eyes found his.

And that’s when it happened, the moment.

A brief flicker of something unspoken passed between you. Love, pride, history, maybe even a quiet rebellion. And the photographers caught it.

Lewis with his jaw slightly clenched, standing tall in his cream suit. You regal and glowing in bronze beside him, your hands perfectly clasped between you.

The next shot was a little more relaxed. You turned to him with a smirk as he dipped his head to whisper something only you could hear. You laughed softly, leaning into him.

Click. Flash.

You posed for more, shifting from classic to casual. One photo had you seated beside each other on a velvet ottoman. His hand resting on your thigh, your fingers loosely laced with his, your gown cascading in a pool of silk. Another showed Lewis fixing the single curl that had fallen near your eye while you watched him with visible affection.

@VogueRunway: “Tailored storytelling. Hamilton and his partner exemplify everything the 2025 Met Gala aimed to celebrate: legacy, craftsmanship, and unmistakable connection.”

@Essence: “The intimacy. The elegance. The statement. Lewis Hamilton and his partner didn’t just arrive. THEY embodied.”

As the Met wore on, the gala unfolded in waves of live performances, curated cocktails and speeches about representation in fashion. But no matter where you moved, Lewis always found you in the crowd.

Between poses, he kissed your knuckles. Between conversations, he leaned close to ask if you were okay. During the speeches, his fingers remained gently curled around yours.

At one point, a photographer caught you two standing alone in front of a towering black and gold tapestry that mirrored the patterns embroidered into your gown. The lighting framed you like royalty with Lewis whispering something in your ear, your eyes crinkled in laughter, the champagne in your hand forgotten.

That image would later go viral, dubbed by Twitter as - “The Met’s most iconic candid. Not just a look. A love story in motion.”

The rest of the evening blurred in art and elegance, but the thread never snapped between you. You were each other's constant, each other's mirror, muse and memory.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Back at the hotel room, the atmosphere shifted. The bustling energy of the Gala had given way to a soft, intimate quiet moment of just the two of you in a world of your own. The luxury of the night was still present, but now it felt like a backdrop. Almost like a memory waiting to be tucked away as you peeled away the layers of opulence.

You started with your dress, slowly unzipping it. The fabric, once fitted perfectly to your body now slipped from your skin with a soft sigh. Pooling onto the floor in a heap of bronze silk and intricate lace.

The contrast between the elegant exterior and the warmth of your bare skin was almost poetic. You felt an overwhelming sense of freedom. No cameras, no lights, just you and him, as raw as it could get.

Lewis stood behind you, watching every movement. His eyes filled with a quiet admiration that made your chest tighten. As your gown fell, you turned to him, your gaze locking for a moment. His hands moved toward you, fingers grazing the curve of your waist.

He stepped closer, eyes never leaving you. Delicate lingerie covered you and that felt like the only real thing in the room, Lewis’s gaze never wavered. His breath caught in his throat as he took you in, your bare skin and every curve. He looked at you like he was seeing the most breathtaking masterpiece, yet with so much admiration and tenderness that it made your heart flutter.

You reached for him, gently slipping his tuxedo jacket from his shoulders, fingers grazing the smoothness of his suit. The material felt cool beneath your fingertips as you undid his cufflinks one by one before finally removing the shirt that clung to his body like a second skin. When it fell to the floor, revealing the taut muscles beneath, you couldn’t help but admire the quiet strength in him. Everyone about him so sculpted, yet so unassuming.

With a soft gasp, you leaned forward your lips brushing against the smoothness of his collarbone, feeling the heat radiating from his body. His hands cupped your face, guiding you back to meet his gaze. His eyes were darker now, focused only on you, though softness was there, an affection so deep it made you melt inside.

He kissed you then, slow and deep. Lips moving against yours like they had all the time in the world. The kiss was full of everything you had shared tonight, the glamour, the adrenaline and the electric energy of the world watching. But it was also full of something so personal, something between the two of you that no one else could touch.

“I know we were dressed for the cameras tonight,” Lewis whispered between kisses, his voice rough with his lips trailing across your jaw and down your neck. “But every time I looked at you, I forgot the world was watching.”

His words sent a shiver through you, making your heart race. You pulled him closer, your bodies pressed together now. Fingers threading through his braided hair. You didn’t need to say it, but you felt the truth of it in every inch of your skin. Here, in this moment it was just you and him. No one else.

You smiled against his lips, your fingers trailing down his tattooed chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. “That’s okay,” you murmured softly. “I only saw you too.”

He paused for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against yours as if absorbing the weight of your words. The quiet tenderness in the space between you was so palpable. But Lewis’s hands began to roam over your back gently guiding you toward the bed, where the sheets awaited soft and inviting.

As you lay down together, everything in the room felt suspended. Like time had decided to slow down just for the two of you. Lewis’s lips found yours again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t rushed or eager, it was a slow lingering kiss, as though he was savoring every moment.

Your hands roamed over him, tracing the familiar yet always thrilling planes of his body. Feeling the heat radiating from his skin as if he was a flame that you couldn’t stay away from. The air around you was thick with the electricity of desire, but it wasn’t just physical it was the culmination of every glance, every smile, every word you’d shared. It was the connection, the intimacy that no spotlight or flashing camera could capture.

His lips trailed down your neck, pausing over your pulse point, kissing softly before moving lower, drawing delicate patterns on your skin. Your breath caught as his hands caressed your sides, pulling you even closer as his body hovered above yours. His warmth enveloping you completely.

In this space, there were no barriers. There were no cameras flashing. Just the two of you, skin and heart tangled in a dance that was yours alone.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Lewis whispered against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. His forehead resting against yours as his hand caressed your cheek. “No matter what the world thinks, it’s just us.”

The words felt like a promise, a quiet vow. And in that intimate silence as his hands traced the lines of your body with so much care and love. You knew this was real. This moment, this connection, nothing else mattered.

Your hands tugged at his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the warmth of his skin and steady rhythm of his breath. The space between you didn’t exist anymore. It was only love.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Choose One (Chapter 1) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Characters: Elijah "Smoke" Moore and Elias "Stack" Moore (characters in the Michael B. Jordan movie "Sinners"). Lena Blackwell (OC).

Warning(s): Adult language, Angst, Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Lena Blackwell works in an illegal after-hours Black & Tan club in Bronzeville where she seduces twin brothers Smoke and Stack. Each brother has qualities she likes and she embarks on an illicit affair with both. All is well until one of the twins starts catching feelings.

Word Count: 3.8K

Masterlist HERE.

"See-line woman (see-line)

Dressed in red (see-line)

Make a man (see-line)

Lose his head (see-line)"

Nina Simone – "See-Line Woman"

She fucked them both.

Smoke and Stack.

Seducing the twin brothers was easy, but confusing at the start.

She met Stack first. The gold in his teeth gleamed in the light of the Sunset Café, one of the most popular Black and Tan clubs in the Bronzeville section of Chicago. Lena Blackwell worked behind the bar instead of the floor, where jam packed circular tables faced an at capacity dance floor moving to the sounds of the latest jazz band snazzed up in tuxedos.

Although the Sunset Café advertised itself as a supper club and a popular music venue, people along the stroll knew it was a higher class speakeasy. Unlike other clandestine establishments with secret code words whispered to get in and concealed entrances to deceive law enforcement and politicians, the Sunset owners paid off low-salaried policeman to look away. Their mob ties kept money in the right pockets to warn of raids and shakedowns from other gangsters. People wanted liquor and any other spirits they could get their hands on in a city that was supposed to be as dry as the Sahara.

Stack slithered over to the far end of the long polished mahogany table with a toothpick wedged between his gums. For over twenty minutes, he rapped to her while she tried to keep the prohibited drinks flowing.

"You should come work for me," he said, sizing her up with blatant lust in his bold brown eyes.

"I'm not a whore for you to put on the stroll, mister. Order another drink or leave me be."

He gave her a crooked grin with his sexy lips, then admired her perfectly coiffed hairdo styled with pin curls and slathered in Sweet Honey Brown pomade. Lena cut him to the quick.

"I know a pimp when I see one," she snapped, mixing drinks for one of the female servers.

"I ain't mean it like that baby. This is a legit business proposition. I'ma go back home and open a juke. I need a talented drink mixer such as yoself."

His delta accent was raspy and thick like overcooked grits. He was one of them sorry souls who migrated from the dirty south. She wondered if his feelings got hurt when he discovered the north was no different than the low down redneck peckerwoods he ran away from.

"Mmm hmm," she said, rolling her eyes.

"I'm serious. Think about it. Lemme have some cold water," he said.

Lena reached down into a false shelf and poured Stack some high grade illegal moonshine. She slid the glass to him and he guzzled it down.

"Stack!"

Lena tilted her head to see the caller.

Well, damn.

The head of the Bronzeville syndicate gestured toward Stack. Ernie Miller, the Black godfather of the south side, was wide in the gut and built low to the ground like a bulldog. A dangerous cat, who carried a switchblade known to cut throats on a whim.

Stack slid a fat wad of cash out of his pocket and laid a crisp twenty on the counter.

"Keep the change for your tip," he said, winking at her.

The change from his tab would cover her rent for two months.

He stuffed the rest of his money in his pocket where a shiny set of brass knuckles dangled, and left the bar to join Ernie. For the first time, Lena took notice of Stack's finely tailored brown suit and the sharp creases in his pants. He had syndicate connections. A gangster. And a good tipper. She watched him enter a secret door in the back and never saw him again that night.

Two days later, as she started work at the bar, she spotted Stack nursing a drink at the far end, listening to an older barfly chat away to him. He drained the last of what was in his glass and Lena offered him some cold water.

Stack looked at her in confusion and shook his head in the negative.

She worked her shift, expecting Stack to hit on her at the bar again, like most men did.

He didn't.

"Cat got your tongue tonight, mister?" she teased, wiping down a spill near his arm from another patron.

He stared at her and then turned away to watch chorus girls tear up the Black Bottom dance in short dresses. Maybe she'd been too curt for him last time, and he took the hint. Ironically, that made her take a sudden interest.

He was tall, fine-looking, and a sharp dresser. She wondered if he smelled as good as he looked. Her eyes stayed on him until he wandered off to take an empty seat next to Ernie in a far left corner with some other broad-shouldered men.

"What was he drinking?" she asked another bartender.

Max, a reed-thin high yella man with a nasally voice, glanced at her.

"A South Side and the last glass was some Smoke."

"Eww, he likes that Smoke shit? That could kill him," she said, crinkling her nose.

"Them ex soldiers like that cloudy fuel alcohol."

"How you know he's an ex soldier?"

Max held out his hand and wiggled it.

"His hands. They shake a little bit. Lotta them war boys came back messed up."

Lena couldn't imagine the jovial man she met the other night acting shell-shocked. She reached under the bar and grabbed some gin. Adding some lime, sugar, and a bit of mint, she made a fresh glass of South Side.

"I'll be right back," she said.

Her heels click-clacked on the floor and she passed several raucous tables enjoying the floor show. Ernie had stepped away to talk to some people two tables over. She placed the South Side in front of the ex soldier.

"Thought you might enjoy this better than that rot gut you were drinking earlier," she said.

He glanced down at the drink and a slow smile raised the corners of his lips. No gold on his teeth. She studied his features, his hair, and the large build of his body. This had to be the same man.

"What they call you around here?" she asked.

"Smoke."

"Not Stack?"

He showed more teeth and some dimples.

"No. Just Smoke."

He had a twinkle in his eye and he chuckled softly.

"Where you from?" she asked.

"Mississippi."

"You really opening a juke down there?"

He squinted at her, but before he could answer, Ernie returned.

"Let's go," Ernie said, grabbing his coat.

The soldier stood and brushed against her. She looked up into his eyes and shivered. He reached down for the drink she prepared for him and sipped it down in front of her.

"Thank you," he said, handing the glass back to her.

She clasped it with both hands, feeling woozy by the scent of his cologne. He grabbed his suit coat, and she glimpsed the gun in a holster strapped to him.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft like cotton.

Lena stepped aside and touched her forehead. The man had her breaking out in a sweat.

Two more men caught up to them near the bar and that's when she gasped, seeing double. The man who called himself Smoke greeted his twin brother Stack. Lena returned to her post and Stack peeled back his lips, showing her gold in his mouth. She ended up grinning, and he leaned an elbow on the bar.

"You look even more beautiful when you smile," Stack said.

Staring at them both, she could tell they were physically identical, but the personalities, their auras…so opposite.

One thing was for sure, seeing them together…she was smitten.

And she wanted them both.

Stack usually showed up at the Sunset around nine.

Lena figured out his routine quickly because out of the two twins, Stack liked to party and be around the nightlife the most. He stood out in a crowd of men and the ladies loved him.

The Sunset Café started advertising to lure more women into the place for capitalistic gain. Originally the owners created it as a gentlemen's club, but in order to stay lucrative during prohibition, they had to open up the market to new customers, and women loved to drink.

To hide the odorous stench of bootleg hard liquor that could turn female customers away, new cocktails were created adding syrups and various fruit juices to sweeten the bitter taste. The club manager ordered all bartenders to add more cherries, orange slices, and canned chucks of pineapples in the drinks to appeal to the good-time girls who sought excitement. Especially the white ones.

White women loved the Sunset.

White men loved it too, and the forbidden allure of rubbing shoulders with negroes brought out their lascivious side. Everyone in Chicago knew that colored folks couldn't have their own entertainment spaces without white folks sniffing for some action in the mix. As much as they pretended to hate negro people, they sure couldn't stay away from them. Colored patrons and performers tickled their libidinous fantasies. The best music, the best food, and the best dancing happened on the south side where negroes were crowded together. They didn't call it Bronzeville for nothing.

Lena eyed the entrance. Stack was due to swagger through any minute.

The supper hour kept the bar less hectic as folks ate garnished devilled eggs, green beans, steaks, fried catfish, buttermilk-dipped fried chicken, with the added sides of creamy macaroni and cheese with generous slices of honey cornbread.

Max flipped through his tattered, olive-colored copy of the H.P. Dreambook. A man wearing a turban in front of a crystal ball illustrated the cover. He pestered busboys, servers, and Lena about their dreams so he could search them up in his book and find the corresponding numerical interpretation to play the numbers. Another bartender named Frank polished glasses and worked the other end of the counter.

"C'mon Lena, your turn, what you dream last night?" Max asked.

"I don't really have dreams."

"Everybody dreams. Bernice, what about you?"

Bernice scratched an itch on her prominent nose and thought about her answer while she waited for Lena to pour whiskey into three tumbler glasses.

"The night before, I dreamed about going to Paris and seeing Josephine Baker," Bernice said.

She spun around and shook her hips.

"Y'all think she really dances over there naked wearing bananas?" Bernice asked.

"Lemme see, travel… bananas…dancing…" Max murmured.

He circled numbers in his book with a stubby pencil. Lena placed the drinks on Bernice's tray and tapped her foot waiting for Max. Two other female servers went to Frank to fill their orders.

"Okay…two…twenty-nine…seventeen," Max said.

He reached into his tip pocket and pulled out a coin, handing it to Bernice.

"Give that to Melvin and tell him to combinate my numbers," he said.

"You give your own money to the numbers man," Bernice said.

She flounced away from the bar, and Max sucked his teeth.

Stack strolled in and took off his hat and coat, leaving it with the coat check girl. He surveyed the room and two gleeful white women sauntered over to him.

"Them ofays sure do love them some Big Stack," Max said.

Bernice returned with another drink order. She glanced at Stack, too.

"Can you blame them? Look at him…just a big stiff drink I'd love to pour down my throat."

"Man can't even get into the club without women flocking to him," Max said.

"Those two wait to see him every week. They reserve the table closest to the door to catch him," Bernice added. "I ain't never seen him with anything darker than a paper bag, though."

"That's cuz you and those ladies are at the top of the hierarchy."

"What are you bumping your gums about now, Max?" Bernice sighed.

"Niggas out here go for color first, hair texture second, and shape last. Listen to me…don't roll your eyes…white girls and you lightskins…that would be you Bernice with your mixed ass…are at the top. If a woman ain't that, they'll take a brownskin, like Lena, if they have good hair. But if they can't have number one or two, a woman has to at least have a good shape. See, Bernice here, she only got one and two—"

"I got a cute shape, too! I'm all three!" Bernice protested.

"Not with those knock knees and small tits…anyway, like I was saying…you gotta have what's on that list or you won't get no attention in this club. That's why Lena is behind the bar and not on the floor with you all night getting the fat tips. Facts is facts, and that man over there likes to have all three."

They watched Stack as he charmed the women blocking him from the rest of the club.

"Hmmph. Men are stupid," Bernice huffed. "Miss Two-out-of-three, can I get three shots of rum?"

"Coming right up, Miss Three-out-of-three," Lena said.

Bernice cackled, then took the drinks away.

"I never noticed she had knock knees," Lena whispered to Max.

Stack sauntered over with the women and their loud chatter livened up the counter.

"Hey Max," Stack said.

"Good to see you this evening, Mr. Moore," Max said, taking on his polished bartender voice.

He dropped his dream book under the counter.

"What can I fix for you tonight, sir?"

Max waited for the order. Lena headed over to another patron who wanted hooch.

"Ladies, what would you like to drink?" Stack asked.

The first woman, a shapely red head with narrow features asked for a Sidecar, and the second woman, a wide-eyed brunette, requested a Malört.

"You like that bitter stuff?" Stack asked.

Lena clocked the brunette's curling edges from perspiration, and the slight roundness of her nose. To a regular white person, she could pass as Italian or even a Jewish Russian. However, the hair, the extra curve in her ass, and the nervous fluttery eyes told the truth to Lena. The woman glanced at her; a mutual understanding passed between them that she would be treated as a white woman. Who was she to judge what people had to do to survive a depression?

If Stack knew, he didn't let on. Max gave them their drinks and Stack turned his steady focus on Lena.

"You look real nice tonight, Lena."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," she said.

"When you wear all those curls, it makes your pretty eyes look mysterious—"

"Stack," the redhead interjected.

Her tone came out sharply, saying his name.

"I'm talking, baby, give me a minute," he said.

The bass in his voice caused her lips to bunch up. Her brunette friend sipped the Malört and looked away.

"I didn't come down here to watch you talk to a bartender," the redhead whined.

"Bitch, I don't care what you came here to do."

Max stepped in to de-escalate.

"Mr. Moore, what would you like to have?"

Lena left them to serve other people, and Stack dismissed the two women. He conferred with Max and the floor show began, capturing his attention. Stack loved watching the dancers. He probably ran through most of them based on his reputation. Irritation stretched across his face and Lena served him the moonshine he loved.

"Those girls don't know how to act when you talk to other women," she said.

"I'm tired of them dingy broads anyway. They both have dry coochie and bad attitudes. White bitches love slumming with dark dick, but act all bent outta shape if a colored woman gets a tiny bit of attention."

"You do know one of them is colored, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

He grinned and looked deep into Lena's eyes. She gave him a sly smirk and his eyes drank her in.

"You want some more?" she asked, enunciating each word.

Stack watched her succulent red lips and his gaze dipped to the top of her white blouse, eyeballing the outline of her breasts.

"You undressing me with those eyes, Mr. Moore?"

Dimples.

"I think you're undressing me," he said.

"I been did that," she teased, and sashayed away to serve a counter rush of older men with their mistresses.

She knew he kept his eyes on her ass the way she intended by swinging her hips extra hard.

He loved watching her.

For weeks she acted coquettish and purred his last name any time she served him. Ernie treated him and Smoke as his most trusted muscle men. If he needed an enemy whacked, he sent the Smoke Stack twins with the chopper to deliver a Chicago overcoat first class. Stack strutted around the club with a dominance that aroused her. Most tough guys annoyed her, their performative masculinity a tremendous joke to her.

Not Stack.

He oozed overt power, and she wanted a taste of that in her bed.

"Be careful, Lena, being a gangster's woman ain't the life you want," Max warned on a different night.

He caught her ogling Stack. Lena loved the way his thighs stretched the material of his pants, and she licked her lips at the heavy bulge in the crotch. What she would give to sit on all that hefty weight. She flirted with the gangster using long unblinking stares on him, and lightly touched his hand whenever she served glasses of rum, gin, or the moonshine he liked to call dog soup. Eventually, he would just beeline to the bar to greet her the moment he walked into the club. He only had eyes for her.

Women were easy for Stack to catch because they threw themselves at him. She lured him in night by night, forcing him to chase her, keeping him expectant, and on his toes. The man hadn't chased a woman for a long time and it showed.

Her calculated seduction worked.

He started bringing her things. Diamond earrings. Real ones. Fancy gold hair clips and chocolate candy in heart boxes. He asked around and found out her favorite snack was the roasted peanuts sold a block away on the street from an old German man. He left her small warm bags at the bar before her shift started on Fridays to last her all weekend. She showed up to work one night and Max could barely contain himself. He handed her a large box with a knee-length fur coat inside.

He asked her out a few times, but she played demure, citing the rules of employees not fraternizing with employers.

"Aw Lena. I don't own this place…I work for the man who does. He pays your checks, not me."

"The other girls will be mad if they see me with you."

"Fuck 'em."

"I'll think about it."

He floated for a week after she said that. Like most men, he wanted a slut to fuck in private, but a good girl to woo in public.

A month later, Lena had a rough night with some rowdy patrons. Lower-level men of Ernie's syndicate. Stack had been out of town on business, and she missed interacting with him. His flirty nature kept her work nights fun, and they flew by fast. Without him, they dragged on for hours.

After Lena helped clean the bar area and counted money at closing, the numbers man slid over to Max and handed him a fifteen dollar win.

"Holy shit!" Max shouted.

He turned to Lena, his eyes shiny with joy.

"I'm taking you to Al's Diner for steak and eggs!"

Lena grabbed her coat and purse and walked out of the club with Max. Bernice joined them. They caught a cab to Al's Diner in a seedier area, but the food was delicious. Lena ate her fill and listened to Max make plans to buy his girlfriend new dresses, and a new tailored suit with nice dress shoes to replace the clodhoppers he wore outside of work. Bernice planned a rent party and Lena promised to spread the word and address to their shared apartment building. Max offered to pay for all the food at her party so she could sell dinner plates and keep all the proceeds.

After Max splurged on chocolate malts, she shared another cab ride with Bernice to her second-floor walk-up.

Another week passed, and Stack didn't come to the Sunset. Lena worried that the Italian mafia under Al Capone's orders gunned him down in the windy city or Bugs Moran and the Irish mob caught him slipping and threw him in Lake Michigan. Smoke huddled with Ernie and the other men in their crew, talking animatedly. She made her way around the bar counter. Tensions around the city had been thick among the immigrant groups, but colored folks kept on striving for better. Tempted to ask the other twin about his brother, she felt two muscular arms lift her up when she headed to the secret storage room to retrieve more spirits.

"Stack!"

Her heart triple-thumped in her chest like a train roaring down an uneven track. She turned and threw her arms around his neck instinctively.

"You missed me," he whispered in her ear.

The vibration of his voice along the delicate skin on her neck thrilled her. The breathiness in the shell of her ear heated the blood in her veins.

She kissed him.

Smashed her plump wanton lips across his fuller ones and slipped her tongue past the seam, tasting the strong whiskey on his breath. Their heads slanted for the proper angle to slide warm tongues together. His deep kisses sent love pulses straight down to her toes. Stack tongued her breathless hidden behind an alcove. He cradled her face before pulling away first.

"Damn. I ain't been kissed like that before," he drawled out in his delta accent.

She held his longing gaze in the yellow light of the hanging lamp that dangled above them. As tough as he was, his face looked so gentle and pure up close. Like a big ole puppy that just wanted to play fetch with her heart.

"Go out with me tonight," he asked.

She tickled the facial hair on his chin, then ran a slender finger down the part in his hair.

"How 'bout you go out with me?"

He grinned.

"Where?"

"It won't be nowhere high class like you're used to, but you'll have a good time. Promise."

He lunged for her mouth again, wrapping his beefy arms around her waist, lifting her off her feet.

"Oh, no wonder it's taking you so long to bring those bottles out," her co-worker Frank said.

Lena jerked away from Stack and grabbed the bottles she came for. She rushed past Frank, beaming all the way back to the bar.

Chapter 2 HERE.

A.N.:

Thanks for your patience! It's easier to do little chapters to buy me time to finish it. But y'all read so darn fast though!

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[momo-yandere-writings]

1/2 10k follower special. I just wanted to treat all of you to a taste of what I may or may not continue.

Yandere Batman Shorts: Torn Between Two

Yandere Jason Todd x Fem Reader x Yandere Dick Grayson

TW: light yandere

Jason’s fingers ghosted over the scarred flesh of his face as a low sigh escaped his lips. Why wasn’t (your name) here today? She always swung by at five in the afternoon with a freshly made meal. Right before the sun began to blink its tired eyes and settle in the horizon for the night.

Yet it was now dusk. The pink and orange hues have long faded into violet blankets of color in the sky and the crickets began to create their serenades in the smoggy Gotham air.

Jason knew he often pushed her away, he just wished to keep her safe was all… he didn’t live a very safe or stable life. He was constantly in a deadly dance with danger. He never knew if she’d be swept up in the arms of his enemies and swallowed whole…

Yet his prickly mannerisms didn’t equate to him not caring for her. Jason did care! He just had never been taught how to show it. He’s never felt love all his life, how could he return the warm feelings she made bloom in his chest like the first flowers of spring?

Jason kept watch throughout the night, just in case she’d appear. He didn’t want to miss (your name) for the world…

He would give her two days. If she didn’t come before then, then he’d pursue her.

.

.

.

Dick felt his heart break as (your name) softly cried in his chest. His arms wrapped firmly around her as his fingers ran shapeless, yet soothing, patterns on her back.

“Shh. It’s okay…” He whispered in her ear as she shed a few more tears. Dick had no idea who this man was, but he wanted to beat the snot out of him.

Dick has had a crush on her for years and yet she began to crush on some delinquent? When he was right there?! It wasn’t fair!

(Your name) had been there for him through every failed romantic endeavor he ever had. She always picked him up and wiped away his tears with her thumbs. And somewhere along the way, he fell utterly, and hopelessly in love with her.

She was a perfect woman in his eyes. She was patient, kind, and filled with as much warmth as the first ray of sun in spring. Yet some random man in Gotham was making her cry like this? Unbelievable! How could anyone make her cry and live with themselves?! If he was the man who held her heart, he would cherish her and love her like the princess she was.

“I’m sorry, Dick. I didn’t mean to get your shirt all wet.” Dick didn’t care about the shirt, he would preserve it after this in his collection. He cared more about why she was crying and he wanted to know who made her cry.

“Don’t apologize for this. It barely fits me anyways.” He flexed his bicep which made (your name) explode in a fit of giggles. A big grin spread on his face from her reaction. There she was, there was his happy girl.

(Your name) covered her mouth to try to stop the giggles from their escape as he made his pecs dance for her. “Stop that, you’re so goofy.”

“But you’re smiling, aren’t you? You’re so much prettier when you smile.”

(Your name) rested her head on Dick’s chest as his heart thrummed like a snare drum. Her cheeks rosy from the small fit of laughter he had drawn out from her.

If only the desires of the heart were as simple as breathing… otherwise she would have yearned for a fairytale prince like Dick.

Yet she couldn’t help but be drawn like a moth to a flame to Jason’s story instead.

Jason’s jet black hair with the white streak in the front reminded her of a tuxedo cat at times. Yet he had the prickly mannerisms of a cantankerous stray… a true alley cat.

Jason Todd was a man with physical and mental scars that dug deep into his very soul, he had trauma (your name) could never hope to understand. He had a painful existence, and yet she wished to be a soothing balm to his constant torment.

(Your name) knew he was terrified of vulnerability. Yet she couldn’t help but desire to be the one to get him to open up. To take that violent stray into her warm arms and pepper his head with kisses.

Yet she needed to be patient… she needed to let him come to her this time. And she would give him that space. The final nudge to get him to enter solace for the first time in decades.

(Your name) smiled up at Dick who kissed the crown of her head. He was always so sweet… like a Labrador retriever.

While Jason was apprehensive yet forlorn, Dick was friendly and affectionate. (Your name) had no doubt that Dick would violently wag his tail if he had one. He was such a loving man… she often felt like an awful person whenever he’d comfort all her frustrations away.

“Thank you, Dick. I feel better.” She smiled warmly at her best friend.

(Your name) wasn’t aware that these two men were brothers nor did she know of the frayed and fragile bond they had.

Both Jason and Dick would now stop at nothing to have her to themselves. She was torn between the two in a dangerous game of tug-o-war.

[halsteadlover]

𝐀𝐧 𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐞

*Pics not mine credits to the owner*

• Pairing: Jay Halstead x Fem!Reader.

• Requested by @hart-kinsella: Basically, the fan fic could be set at one of Jay's Intelligence colleagues' wedding and mc is one of the bride's closest friends; the bride wants to set her up with one hot cop (could also be one who works on patrol). It could either be that the 'chosen' guy is not Jay, but then mc and Jay naturally connect at the reception (maybe through her wanting to avoid the guy she's set up with) or Jay being the 'set up' guy from minute 1 and them just meeting there (with the usual embaressement that comes from friends insisting you should get together) and hitting it off immediately.

• Warnings: curse words/strong language, mention of alcohol consumption, lots of tension and physical contact, heavy making out, suggestive at the end.

• Word count: 8.8k

• A/N: PLEASE READ ONLY IF YOU’RE 18+ DUE TO SUGGESTIVE THEMES. The way I was so excited about this fic but I reread it and now I hate it why am I like this 😭 Let me know in the comments what do you think about this one, I love you all ❤️

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you said to Kim as you watched her sip the champagne from her glass, her huge ring shining against the lights of the room.

She was radiant, a smile plastered on her lips as wide as you had ever seen her in all the time you were friends. She was happy and your heart exploded with joy seeing her finally have her happy ending with Adam, especially after everything they’ve been through.

She looked beautiful in her white wedding dress and you couldn’t hide the tears of happiness you shed when you saw her walk down the aisle, a radiant smile on her lips. Adam looked at her with eyes so bright and full of love it made you wonder if there’d ever be someone who’d look at you like that, as if you were the only person who mattered, as if without you he couldn’t even breathe.

“Of course it’s a good idea! There’s nothing better than a blind date with a hot cop,” she finished sipping her champagne and set it down on the tray as a waiter walked by, thanking him immediately after. “You don’t trust me? Have I ever let you down on the men front?”

You didn’t respond, just looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Okay there might’ve been some unfortunate meetings but this won’t be the case. Please, please, please. I swear he’s a really cute and good guy!” She begged, putting on her cute puppy face that not even the devil could resist.

Little bitch.

You sighed and rolled your eyes and that was enough to make her clap her hands with joy. “Only because it’s your day.”

“You won’t regret it, I promise.”

The fact was you were already regretting it.

You had never been very good at blind dates, you hated not knowing who you were going to talk to and spend the evening with, you wanted to be able to decide first if you liked that person. What if you didn’t like him, or if he didn’t like you? It would’ve been very awkward.

Actually, it was. It was definitely awkward.

Kim had pointed out from afar a man who was talking to Adam—ignoring how the latter was watching Kim without ever taking his eyes off her even while talking to other people—and you took your time to observe him.

He was a tall man, from behind you noticed his ash blonde hair and a statuesque body that was embraced by a tuxedo. Without even saying anything, Kim grabbed your hand and dragged you towards them, ignoring your signs of protest.

You were so nervous and you hated it.

And it certainly didn’t help that Kim had made it her mission to pair you up with someone, since you were the only single girl in your group of friends.

But you were happy, you weren’t lonely, you were fine being alone and that was important, you didn’t need a man by your side to determine your happiness. You defined your own happiness.

“Hi babe,” Kim greeted her husband, who smiled before sliding his arm around her hips and kissing her. The two of them were so in love it was almost disgusting. “Sorry I was rude. Caleb, I wanted you to meet my friend.”

Your cheeks flushed red as you felt the man’s gaze on you. “Oh so you’re the famous Y/n right? I’ve heard so much about you.”

God please have mercy.

“I hope only good things,” you replied with a smile and offered him your hand, which he immediately shook. The way his eyes moved up and down your body made your skin crawl, and the smirk he had plastered across his lips as he looked at you didn’t suggest anything good.

You pulled your hand away, forcing a smile as he started to speak, and cursed both Kim and Adam when you saw them sneak away, both giggling as they left you alone with that guy.

As they say, a woman’s sixth sense is like a gift, it never fails.

And it didn’t even take half an hour of talking to Caleb to realize he was self-centered and you’d never see him again. He talked your ear off as if you’d known each other your whole life, focusing mostly on him, his work, the gym, his exploits. You nodded every now and then, just to give him the impression you were listening when in reality your mind had dissociated after the first ten minutes of conversation.

And by conversation you obviously meant monologue.

He didn’t ask you anything, and by nothing you really meant nothing, not how old you were, your job, your hobbies, in short the simple questions one asks when one is getting to know another.

You looked around bored, cursing Kim and yourself with every fiber of your being for letting yourself being dragged—for the million time— in a situation you didn’t want to be in.

You decided you’d never take a single piece of her advice about men ever again.

“Once, when I was still on patrol, there was a robbery a few blocks away. I was alone and when I got there the thief was already running. I’ll make this short but even the commander congratulated me…”

You were trying really hard to listen to him but every time you tried to pay attention, he was still talking about himself. It was hard to follow his conversation/monologue without being fascinated by some random spot in the room like the chandelier.

Caleb was a beautiful man, that was objective. He was tall, broad-shouldered, he had a sculpted physique, defined jaw, eyes as blue as the sky. But beauty wasn’t everything, not when his character was similar to a mollusk.

“Hey baby, here you are, I’ve been looking for you for a while,” a male voice reached your ears from behind and you almost had a heart attack when you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. You snapped your head towards the man, finding yourself in front of one of the most beautiful man you’d ever see.

Forget Caleb, who the hell was this man?

You froze, having no idea what to say or do. Who the hell was he? What did he want?

“Sorry it took so long but the line for the bathroom was endless,” the stranger continued and you tried with every fiber of your being to remain impassive. Your body was tense as a violin string as you tried to subtly move away from his grasp.

Breathtaking or not, you didn’t know him.

“Baby? You have a boyfriend? Kim told me you were single,” Caleb exclaimed almost indignantly, alternating his gaze between you and the stranger. You thanked God he was a second-rate cop and had the detective skills of a hamster or he would’ve seen from a mile away this was the first time you’d seen that man around you.

“Oh, well this is pretty new not many people know about us, but we’ve been seeing each other for a while. Thanks for keeping my girlfriend company—”

“Caleb.”

“Carl. Thanks,” the stranger held out a hand and Caleb looked at it before looking back at you and walking away without a word, a furious expression on his face.

You didn’t even bother following him because damn, you were so relieved you got him out of the way.

The stranger’s gaze was on you even though he had removed his arm from around you.

“Well, I guess you need to work on your acting skills but it went well right?”

You widened your eyes, still confused about what the hell was going on. “Who are you?”

“Oh you’re welcome, I didn’t just save you from the most boring date of your life,” he smirked.

You continued to look at him, confused, embarrassed and unable to form a coherent sentence. Who the hell was this man? And why was he so breathtakingly handsome? And why did he just pretend to be your boyfriend?

He held out a hand towards you, a smirk plastered across his lips, acting like he hadn’t just pretended to be in a relationship with a stranger. “I’m Jay Halstead. You must be Y/n right? It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Jay? Why does this sound familiar?

You widened your eyes, not even trying to hide your expression of fear and shock. “How do you know my name?” You asked, taking a step back, ready to run away.

His gaze softened, understanding he must’ve really looked like a stalker. “Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you, I work with Kim in Intelligence. She mentioned you a couple of times and I assumed it was you since you’re the only one of her friends I’ve never met.”

Then you realized why his name was familiar to you. Kim—when talking about her job—had sometimes mentioned a ‘Jay’ and it was nice to finally be able to associate the face with that name, especially if the face was that one.

God he’s so hot.

“Listen,” he continued, raising his hands in surrender, a drink in the left one, “I’m not a stalker I swear—I came off in the wrong way. I just saw you from afar while you were talking to Carl, and you seemed to be in trouble so I thought I’d help. Let’s start over, shall we?”

You tried not to chuckle at the way he got Caleb’s name wrong and stared at him for a moment. He maintained eye contact, his irises locked on yours with no sign of changing direction. You had only just noticed how green his eyes were and you didn’t know why, but something inside you made you no longer want to run away.

You nodded and he smiled triumphantly and, God, he had one of the most beautiful smiles you had ever seen. He held out a hand to you again. “I’m Jay, nice to meet you.”

You tried to suppress a smile of your own and you clasped his hand. “It’s Y/n, the pleasure is mine.”

That handshake sent a spark up your entire arm, not in the cliché kind of way, but in the way that made you feel your body suddenly enveloped in a wave of heat.

He didn’t let go of your hand right away, but you didn’t care. You liked it, you liked the way his grip was strong, firm, confident, but his touch soft at the same time. You liked how his palm felt rough against yours but his skin was warm, a stark contrast to yours.

His thumb skimmed against the back of your hand before he pulled it away, bringing the glass to his lips with his other hand and taking a sip of his drink. All without him ever breaking eye contact with you.

This single innocent gesture left you breathless.

Did I mention he’s so damn hot and sexy?

He looked at you with curiosity, as if he had already decided that from now on his attention would be solely on you.

“This is the part where I have to thank you for saving me from an embarrassing date, isn’t it?”

His eyes flickered for a second on your lips as you spoke and he subtly took a deep breath, taking another sip of his drink. You pretended it didn’t affect you in the slightest even though your stomach had just flipped.

“You not filing a complaint against me is a great thank you,” Jay replied making you laugh, “and besides, I should be the one thanking Kim.”

You tilted your head slightly to the side, looking at him with a questioning expression. “Kim? Why?”

“For setting you up with the wrong guy, might’ve missed my shot otherwise.”

You burst out laughing again and rolled your eyes. “C’mon Jay, is that the best you can do?”

“Ouch,” he put his hand to his chest as if he was in pain. “That really hurt, I may be rusty but I’m not that bad c’mon.”

You smirked. “You’ll survive officer.”

“Nuh, uh. It’s detective, please.”

“My bad, I apologize Detective,” it was your turn to raise your hands in surrender. “But seriously, thank you for saving me from whatever that was.”

He smiled softly at you. “It was a pleasure. You were a couple seconds away from pulling the fire alarm to escape, I couldn’t just stay there and do nothing.”

“Oh, so you make a habit of being a knight and saving damsels in distress?”

“Nah, only the ones that are worth saving,” he replied, and you laughed, feeling that anxious and nervous feeling fade away as you continued to converse—for real this time—with Jay.

“I could’ve gotten away with it, you know,” you crossed your arms and Jay’s eyes flickered, for a millisecond, to your chest, specifically the neckline of your dress.

“Please,” he raised an eyebrow, “if he had kept talking any longer you would’ve ripped your hair out.”

“Stop you’re so dramatic, that’s not true at all,” you rolled your eyes—even though it was the truest thing you had ever heard—making him chuckle. “What’s your poison?” You nodded to his drink as he brought it to his lips and took a sip.

A teasing smile caressed his lips and then it was your turn flicking your gaze to his mouth. You had tried to resist but damn it was so hard. “Bourbon, neat. Effective right?”

You raised an eyebrow, mirroring his playful energy. “Is efficient a new fancy way of saying banal and predictable?”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound so low and warm it made your insides squirm. “Probably,” he countered, “but it’s still a classic.” He slightly tilted his head to the side as his green eyes roamed along your body, lingering for a moment on your dress before meeting your gaze again. You felt every inch of your skin catch fire under his eyes and you couldn’t help but compare Jay’s gaze to Caleb’s, which only made your skin crawl instead. “But it’s not for you. I think you’re more of a champagne kind of woman.”

At that same moment, by pure coincidence, a waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses passed not far from you. Jay stopped him and took it, before offering it to you. You blushed, before taking it, your fingers brushing against him. “Thank you.”

You lifted your glass towards him, a quiet smile playing on your lips. “To Kim and Adam,” you said.

“To Kim and Adam,” he repeated voice low and smooth. He raised his glass to meet you, the soft clink echoing between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke—his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. It was just a toast, simple and harmless, but the way he was looking at you? Nothing about it felt simple.

“So, you’re a champagne type of woman,” he smirked.

“Guilty,” you shrugged your shoulders. “But what can I say? I like little sparkle in my life.”

You took another sip of champagne and that time it was your gaze that roamed along his body, perfectly wrapped in the tux he was wearing—over the broad lines of his shoulders, the way his dress shirt stretched just right across his chest.

Man, he looked so good it had to be illegal.

When your eyes returned to his you noticed the way he clenched his jaw and the slightest twitch of his lips as he looked at you, as if he knew exactly what you were doing but didn’t mind a bit.

His fingers flexed around his glass and a sexy smirk appeared on his lips, his eyes shining like the moon in the night. He slightly tilted his head to the side, his index finger brushing along the rim of his glass in a slow, absent-minded motion—like he was thinking about something he probably shouldn’t say out loud. “A little spark huh? And here I thought I was bringing the spark.”

You giggled. Yep, actually giggled. “Oh yeah? So that’s what you’re doing?”

“If you’re asking me then I’m not doing a good job,” he retorted, with a fake sad expression acting like he just wiped a tear, “you’re hurting me so much tonight.”

“Oh, you poor thing, I’d hate to bruise that big ego of yours.” You placed a hand on his bicep and caressed it in mock comfort and, fuck, you had to use every fiber of your body to not squeeze and feel up his muscles.

He tensed under your touch, his breath hitching in his throat feeling of your hand on him.

His lips curved into a slow, lazy smile—the kind that sent a shiver down your spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he drew, his voice dropping just a notch lower. “I can take a hit. Besides…” His gaze swept over you again, slower this time—unapologetic. “Something tells me it’s worth it.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop the smile threatening to break free, but to no avail. He was too good at this—too smooth, too charming, but damn if it wasn’t working.

“Careful Detective Halstead someone might think you’re flirting with me,” you smirked, taking another sip of your champagne.

He shortened the distance between you, subtly and not too noticeably, but you felt his presence, his scent enveloping you fully, more than it had done so far. “Luckily I don’t care about anyone but the person I’m talking to right now,” he replied, “and they’d be right because that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

The air between you grew heavier—not uncomfortable but charged with something unspoken. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the noise of the wedding reception fading into a distant hum. You should’ve looked away, said something to break the tension, but you didn’t want to.

You’ve never felt anything like this, being so damn attracted to a man you were dying to kiss him, to touch him.

“So confident,” you murmured. You tried to keep your eyes on his, but you couldn’t, not when his mouth was not too far from yours. “And here I thought you were just being nice.”

He chuckled, his voice low and deep. “Trust me sweetheart, there’s nothing nice about what I’m thinking right now.”

You took another sip, hoping to steady the warmth curling low in your stomach. Why were your legs suddenly turning to jelly?

“So…” you started, arching a brow in an attempt to shift the focus back on him, “do you flirt like this with every girl you save, or am I just special?”

Jay’s smile widened and he took a slow sip of his bourbon before answering. “You tell me,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Do you feel special?”

Damn him.

You laughed softly, shaking your head and taking a deep breath at the same time. “You’re trouble, Halstead.”

He didn’t deny it. “And yet, you’re still talking to me,” he pointed out, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What does that say about you?”

“That I make questionable decisions?”

Jay let out another quiet laugh, but this one felt different—lower, warmer. “Or maybe,” he murmured, leaning in a bit towards you, “you’re exactly where you want to be.”

And the truth? You weren’t sure you could argue with that because he was right, you were where you wanted to be.

You finished the rest of your glass in a single sip because there were two possibilities, this or jump on him and you couldn’t already do that considering you had just met him.

He was throwing you off so much it left you speechless and it wasn’t like you. You didn’t know if you loved it or hated it.

He chuckled as he continued to look at you, as if he had just read your mind.

Your guardian angel, Kim—who you’d thank for the rest of your life from that moment on—appeared at that exact moment, interrupting the game of glances between you and Jay that was becoming too intense for your own good.

“Jay! Y/n? Where’s Caleb?” She asked, visibly excited and smiling.

“I have no idea, courtesy of my fake boyfriend here,” you nodded at Jay who chuckled sexily.

How could laughter be so sexy?

“We need to talk about your questionable taste in men Kim, what kind of rat did you want her to be paired with?” He joked one hand shoved into his pants pocket while the other held his almost empty glass.

“Hey, don’t talk to my wife like that, I’d say she made a good choice in men,” Adam suddenly intervened, wrapping his arm around Kim’s hips and pressing a kiss to her temple. The sight warmed your heart, making you smile like an idiot.

“So, you’ve already introduced yourselves,” Kim continued, alternating her gaze between you and Jay but with a sinister smirk on her lips.

You and Jay exchanged a quick knowing look. “Yeah, he saved me from the mess that was Caleb. And by the way, I’m never listening to you ever again Kim, don’t do that to me again.”

“You two look so good together,” Kim blurted out and giggled, visibly tipsy. “Don’t you think they look hot together honey?”

“Okay that’s enough, let’s get back to dancing,” Adam chimed in again, struggling to contain his laughter, before dragging his wife away.

Before she left though Kim came back to you and whispered, “I was watching you two from afar there’s so much sexual tension between you two that even I got turned on.”

Your cheeks turned on fire but before you could respond Adam finally dragged her away, leaving you alone with Jay again.

He let out a light laugh, and you turned your head towards him. “Do I want to ask you what she said?”

You shook your head, taking another sip of champagne as you still heard her words echoing in your head. “Nope.”

He looked at you for a moment, his eyebrow raised. “Kim really does have questionable matching skills, I take it this isn’t the first time with Carl,” he said, changing the subject.

“You have no idea,” you rolled your eyes, “my brain can’t comprehend how she managed to match me with these men and not one of them was normal.”

“Well, have you thought that maybe they weren’t the problem?”

You gasped in fake shock and elbowed him in the side, and he pretended to be in excruciating pain, making you laugh at the show he was putting on. “I could arrest you for assault on a police officer you know that right? You’d look really pretty in a prison uniform.”

“You think I’ll look cute in handcuffs too?”

What the fuck?! Where the hell did that come from?

Jay, who was taking his last sip of bourbon, chocked on it and started coughing after the liquor went down the wrong way and, although you were embarrassed by the stupidity of that statement, the scene was pretty hilarious.

“You good? Should I call a doctor? What happened?” You teased him, trying to hold back your laughter but failing miserably.

“You know damn well what happened,” he retorted with mock annoyance even as the smile on his lips belatedly came. “And pretty wouldn’t even come close to how good you’d look in handcuffs if you really wanted an answer, but that’s something we’ll talk about later.”

You blushed, once again, from head to toe and hated yourself for this reaction and how easily he could see it. “Later? Who says there’s gonna be a ‘later’?”

He smirked down at you, and it was so sexy it made your head spin. “Trust me there will be.”

“You’re so cocky detective.”

Jay leaned in just a fraction, enough that the faint scent of his cologne wrapped around you—something warm and woodsy, with a hint of spice. “Only when I’m sure about something,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less intense.

His words hung in the air, thick and heavy, and you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. You could've played it cool, thrown back a quip, but the way he was looking at you made your pulse skip in a way that was impossible to ignore.

His gaze dropped to your lips again—just for a second—but it was enough to send a fresh wave of heat curling through your body.

“C’mon,” he said suddenly, holding out a hand towards you. “You owe me a dance.”

You lifted a brow. “Do I?”

Jay shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I did save you from Carl. Seems only fair.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile that broke free as you slipped your hand into his. “Alright, Detective,” you quipped, “but only because you asked so nicely.”

His fingers curled around yours—firm, warm, just the right amount of possessive. And as he led you toward the dance floor, you realized something else: you didn’t want to let go.

The music shifted as you reached the edge of the dance floor—something slower, smoother, the kind of song that practically begged for two people to be just a little too close.

Exactly what you wanted.

Jay didn’t hesitate. His hand slid easily to your waist, fingers splayed warm and wide on the small of your back as he pulled you against him, close enough to send all your senses into a tizzy.

It had been hard until now, but this? Being so close to him that you could even count his eyelashes? It was devastating.

You couldn’t even recognize yourself, you’d never found yourself craving a man’s touch so badly, like you needed it to breathe, and in that moment you realized you’d only met the wrong people because, fuck, you were missing out.

“You good with this?” he murmured in your ear, his voice just for you. Low. Intimate. And there was something in the way he asked—like he cared, but also like he already knew your answer.

You nodded, hoping he didn’t feel the way your heart was beating against his chest. Your bodies began to sway in time to the slow music, like you’d done it a million times, like he wasn’t a stranger to you and you a stranger to him.

You didn’t know anything about the man, and he didn’t know anything about you, but you were so drawn to each other it almost drove you crazy.

As you engaged in small talk, you tried not to focus on how close he was—on how his thumb brushed against your back every time he shifted—but it was impossible. Especially when every slight movement seemed to make the space between you shrink.

He asked about you, what do you do for a job or in your free time, how old were you, how long have you known Kim, you asked about him and his life, and it was crazy how, even though you had known each other for literally a short time, you both felt comfortable talking to each other, joking and laughing when you both made terrible jokes.

“You’re really giving me a hard time,” he said, his fingers flexing on your hip.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, realizing how he was already looking at you. There wasn’t any trace of humor left, his eyes were staring at you, but they weren’t focused on yours exactly, they traveled along your face as if he was analyzing you, memorizing every feature and detail.

“Why?” You asked and his eyes flickered on your lips. He continued to caress your hip unconsciously, your bodies pressed against each other and with every slight movement you could feel the heat between you intensifying.

“Because I’m trying so hard to behave and be a gentleman but it’s getting really hard,” he answered softly, his voice raspy, his breath an inch from your lips. “And I hate not being in control.”

You stopped breathing for a second and a shiver ran down your spine. It would’ve been so easy to break that distance, it would’ve only taken a couple of inches and his mouth would’ve been on yours to finally satisfy that visceral attraction that was pulling you towards each other.

And you most likely would’ve let him do it if it hadn’t been for Kim who, with her usual perfect timing, had grabbed your arm, totally drunk and with a beaming smile.

“C’mon Y/n, we have to dance together!” she exclaimed loudly, jumping up and down with an enthusiasm you had never seen in her as she continued to pull on your arm without even leaving you room to protest.

Jay’s arm was still around your hip, though his grip wasn’t as firm as it had been before, and you hated to admit it, but you already missed that touch.

It seemed mutual because you felt him tense for a moment, his fingers reluctant to release their grip on you, as if he also hated the idea of letting you go. But eventually he did, slowly, the heat of his hand still burning through your dress and against your skin even after you’d pulled away.

“Don’t go too far,” he whispered in your ear, quiet enough to make it seem like a secret between the two of you.

And as Kim dragged you through the crowd to the beat of a more upbeat song, you turned to him and gave him one last look. Jay was still there, standing at the edge of the dance floor, his hands stuffed in his pockets, that intense gaze still fixed on you. He winked at you before you disappeared into the crowd and you almost tripped on your own feet.

Oh my fucking god.

Jay leaned against a wall, his hands still in his pockets, one foot placed in front of the other. In other moments he wouldn’t have waited to take another drink, but that night he wanted to be as sober as possible.

His gaze was fixed on the crowd of people dancing on the dance floor, but not on everyone, his eyes scanned the people only for one person in particular. He cursed those disco strobe lights because, in those dim lights, it was not easy to find you.

But when he finally did, his attention was focused only and solely on you, not on the music, not on the world around him.

You were laughing now, spinning with Kim on the dance floor, some strands of your hair coming out of your hairstyle as you moved to the music. He should’ve backed away. Hell, he’d spent years perfecting that skill, knowing when to pull back, where to avoid getting too close, perceive when there was danger. But with you? It wasn’t that easy.

It hadn’t been from the second he laid eyes on you, when he saw you enter the wedding venue with some of your friends.

He didn’t know what kind of witchcraft you had performed on him but he seemed to not be able to stop looking at you. His gaze tracked the curve of your smile and the movement of your lips as you sang along the song, the flush on your skin from the warmth of the room, and the way your dress hugged your figure just enough to make his thoughts stray somewhere they shouldn’t.

He told himself to get it together—to stop looking at you like a creepy stalker—but it was a losing battle, he seemed hypnotized.

And when you tipped your head back, laughing at something Kim said, Jay swore under his breath.

He was in trouble.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just the way you looked—although you were one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—it was the way you felt. Warm and soft against him when you danced, your hand fitting so easily in his. The way you leaned into his touch, like part of you wanted him closer, even when you were pretending otherwise.

It almost scared him how he found himself talking, laughing and joking so easily with a stranger he had just met.

But he wanted more of that. More of you.

And that realization hit him harder than it should’ve.

Jay exhaled slowly, willing the tension in his chest to ease. It didn’t work. Not when you turned your head as you kept dancing, scanning the room as if you were searching for something, or someone.

And when your eyes locked, his heart gave a sharp kick, one he didn’t truly expect. And the way you held his gaze? It did something to him.

Your lips curled into the faintest smile—small, almost shy—and damn if it didn’t make something twist low in his stomach. He should’ve been the one in control here, but with just one look, you had him pinned. And the worst part was that he didn’t mind.

Not even a little.

Your attention was caught again by one of your friends who pulled you towards her as you belted out the song in the background, breaking eye contact.

He tried to look away from you sometimes, focusing his attention on something else but it was as if his eyes were attracted to a magnet, you.

And maybe that was the problem.

He wasn’t supposed to feel this, wasn’t supposed to want someone he’d just met with this kind of heat and desire curling through his veins. But here he was, eyes on you, mind already running a dangerous path of wondering how you’d taste if he let himself get too close.

He was about to move—to do something, anything—but then Kim grabbed your hand again, spinning you around in a dizzy circle. Your laughter rang out, bright and carefree, while Jay just stood there against that wall.

He didn’t belong in this moment. Not really. A guy like him—weighted down by too much baggage, too many mistakes, a very dangerous job—had no business wanting you like this.

But God help him, he did.

When the song shifted to something louder and faster, you finally pulled back from Kim, breathless and glowing in a way that had no right to make his pulse pick up. Kim was already dragging Adam away, leaving you alone again, and for half a second, Jay thought this was his shot.

But then, just as quickly, you disappeared into the crowd.

And that shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. More than it had any right to.

Jay exhaled, dragging a hand through his face. He told himself to play it cool, to just let it go, but the thing was, he didn’t want to let it go. Let you go.

And if he had anything to say about it, this night wasn’t ending until he found you again.

Jay pushed himself off the wall, his pulse thudding a little harder than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t the type to chase after someone, not like this. But that night, he couldn’t seem to help himself. His eyes scanned the room, but the crowd was thicker now, people swaying to the music, bodies pressed too close.

You weren’t on the dance floor anymore. He knew that much. And the longer it took to find you, the harder it became to shake the restless feeling gnawing at the edges of his control.

Get a grip, Halstead.

He could’ve leave you alone. Should’ve, probably. But as he moved through the party he knew nothing would sit right until he saw you again.

And then, just when he started to think he’d lost you for good, he caught a sight of you through the open door leading to the balcony.

Jay hesitated, his hand curling into a fist at his side. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, all he knew was that the moment he saw you again, his mind quieted. And maybe that was reason enough.

Without giving himself time to second-guess, he stepped outside.

You were leaning against the railing, your back to him, the cool night air brushing against your bare shoulders. He let himself take in the sight of you for just a second longer—how the city lights reflected off your skin, how you tilted your head back like you were finally catching your breath.

You were breathtaking. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

“Wasn’t sure if I’d get another chance to steal you away.”

You turned your head at the sound of his voice, and there it was again, that little smile. “Something tells me you love a good challenge Detective.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, nodding. “I feel like the reward will be worthy.”

He moved closer to you as he took off his jacket and placed it on your shoulders, leaving his hands there for a while as he let your scent engulf him. You then turned fully to face him and Jay didn’t miss the way your eyes roamed along his body, focusing for a moment on his chest, his arms, before looking back into his eyes.

“Oh so you really like me,” you joked, eyes still on him, slightly tilting your head but he couldn’t ignore the blush on your cheeks.

“Thought I made that pretty clear by now.”

And just like that, the tension stretched tight again, thicker this time but with the difference that nothing and no one would interrupt this time.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The distant thump of music spilled through the open door, but out here? It felt like the rest of the world had faded away.

He closed the distance between you, never taking his eyes off yours. He tried to pull away, but it was as if he physically couldn’t, as if he needed it.

“And here I thought you’d even left the party.”

“You’re hurting me so much tonight, I’m not that bad at hitting on you c’mon.”

You giggled and bit your bottom lip. He found himself suppressing a groan because, damn, he had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted to bite your lip.

“Well,” you batted your lashes, “you’re definitely making it hard for me to leave now,” your eyes flicked to his lips before returning to his and he told himself to calm down but, God help him, if you did that again he’d lose every ounce of control he had left.

“I guess you found a good reason to stay then,” his tongue flicked across his bottom lip and he couldn’t miss the way your gaze landed on his lips, again. The light was dim, not very bright, but he could see so clearly how dilated your pupils were and it drove him crazy, knowing you felt the same.

“Is that so?” You murmured. He leaned closer to you and placed his hands on the railing at either side of you, trapping you in his arms but not touching you. Your breathing quickened at the closeness, your lips parted slightly as if you needed air, and that was enough to make his pulse quicken and the heat in his blood spike.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he taunted

You let out a quiet laugh, warm and soft, and something about the sound made his fingers itch to touch you again, so much so that he tightened his fingers around the cold metal of the railing.

You took his tie—which had been dangling between you—into your hands, and Jay seriously thought he was going to collapse at your feet at any moment. You hadn’t done anything too dramatic, but he felt like he was going to have an aneurysm. Just seeing your fingers caress the fabric of your tie, how you played with it while you continued to look at him, drove him crazy.

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” you repeated under your breath the words he had said a few hours earlier. His hands were gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles were completely white from trying to vent the frustration he felt.

His fingers inched closer and closer to you, until the sides of his thumbs were brushing against your dress. God, how much he wanted to grab you, hold you and touch you, every inch of your body until the ground disappeared beneath you.

You didn’t pull away, if anything, you shifted closer, your warmth seeping into his skin.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked when he remained silent, staring at you while you continued to play with his tie.

“I think,” he murmured, his thumb sweeping slow circles against your pelvis’ side, “you’re gonna be a problem for me.”

The tension cracked, sharp and electric, and neither of you moved, like you were both waiting to see who’d break first.

“Maybe I want to be,” you admitted quietly.

That was all he needed.

Jay didn’t overthink it, he just moved, closing the last bit of space between you. His hand slid to your waist and made you stand upright, as he tilted his head down, giving you plenty of time to pull back.

But you didn’t.

You stayed right there, your breath warm against his skin as your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

“You’re making this impossible,” he said, his voice rougher now, low enough that only you could hear. His fingers flexed against your waist, dragging you closer without meaning to. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure anymore. “I’m trying so hard to be good, but—fuck.”

“But what?” you interrupted, your tone softer, breathier than before. His eyes snapped to yours, and the challenge in your gaze nearly broke him. “What happens if you stop trying?”

His breath hitched. Jesus Christ.

Jay let out a low, bitter laugh, because you weren’t making this any easier. And the worst part? You knew it. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” he asked, as his fingers trailed up, just slightly, brushing the curve of your ribs. It wasn’t a question. Not really.

Your lips parted, and for a second—just a second—he thought maybe you’d call his bluff. But instead, you tilted your head, eyes fixed on his mouth like you were imagining the same damn thing he was.

“I really, really do,” you murmured. And that was it. That was the crack in the dam.

His other hand came up before he could stop himself, fingers grazing along your jaw, tilting your face toward his as his nose brushed against yours. “You have no idea how much I want you right now,” he admitted, no more games, no more teasing. Just raw, unfiltered truth. His fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “I don’t even know you but you’re driving me crazy. You have to stop me.”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Instead, your lips curled into the faintest smile, bold, knowing, and it only fueled the fire already burning through his veins.

“The thing is, I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, leaning in just enough for your breath to brush against his lips, “I don’t want you to be good or patient.”

The words punched through his last shred of restraint like they were designed to. And for a beat, all he could do was look at you—at the flush on your skin, the way your chest rose and fell a little too fast.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he warned, though it came out rougher than he intended, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, slower than necessary.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” you shot back, quiet but sure—so sure—and, fuck, he was done for.

He wanted to win that little silent race, to see you snap but the truth was that he had lost from the start, he had no chance of winning.

So, when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t an attempt.

It was slow, deliberate, like he wanted to memorize the way you tasted, in case it was the last time. The faintest hint of champagne lingered on your lips, but beneath it was something that made his heart slam harder against his ribs.

You kissed him back like you wanted this just as much as he did, your hands sliding up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deeper, making his jacket fall on the floor.

And Jay? He let himself fall into it. Into you.

Jay’s lips moved against yours, slow and thorough, but nothing about the way he touched you felt careful. His hands slid along your waist, fingers pressing into the curve of your hip, squeezing you like he was memorizing the shape of you. Every brush of his skin against yours sent sparks racing through your body, and the heat pooling low in your stomach only grew stronger with each passing second.

His palms flattened against your lower back, pulling you closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between your bodies, until you could feel how much he really wanted you. He was warm, solid—everywhere—and the way he held you made your breath hitch.

You tugged lightly on the back of his neck. The muscles beneath your fingers were tense, and a shudder ran through him as your nails scraped gently against his skin. His breath hitched in response, and something about knowing you could unravel him like this made the heat in your blood burn hotter.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. His lips brushed over yours again, lingering like he was savoring the taste of you. But his hands, God, his hands, were anything but patient.

His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up your spine, skimming beneath the hem of your dress as he went. The warmth of his touch against your bare skin felt a sharp, delicious shiver curling through you, and when his hand settled at the small of your back again, his grip tightened, so possessive like he wanted to keep you exactly where you were.

And you wanted to stay there.

You wanted more.

Your body arched instinctively into his, and Jay swore softly under his breath, his hold on you turning rougher, like he was losing the battle to keep himself in check. His fingers flexed at your hip, sliding lower, almost touching your ass before skimming back up, as if he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you most.

And when your hand drifted from his neck to the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric, you felt the sharp rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm. His heart was racing and the realization felt another jolt of heat spiraling through you.

“Jay,” you breathed against his mouth, in such an intense and desperate tone, as if you needed him and his distance hurt you, and his response was immediate. His lips crashed back onto yours with a hunger that stole your breath, and the slow, careful rhythm shattered beneath the weight of all that tension.

He kissed you harder now, deeper. His tongue swept along your lower lip, and when you opened up for him, he groaned softly, a low, desperate sound that made your knees go weak.

His hand slid higher, dragging up your side, fingers brushing the sensitive skin beneath your ribs. He didn’t stop there. He traced the outline of your body desperately, knuckles grazing the side of your breast before his palm flattened against your ribcage, holding you firmly against him.

“Is this okay?” He whispered against your lips.

“Yes, god, yes please Jay,” you whispered back and damn, if your breathy voice hadn’t completely destroyed him. He loved seeing you as desperate for him as he was for you.

He kissed you again. “You’re driving me insane,” he murmured against your lips, and there was no teasing left in his voice. Just raw need. “I can’t—If you want me to stop say it because I fucking can’t.”

The response to those words of his was the way you grabbed his face and crashed your lips onto his again. “I don't want you to stop.”

Whatever fragile restraint he’d been clinging to snapped completely.

Jay’s hands tightened on your waist as he backed you against the wall, pressing you there like he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

His lips left yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. He didn’t stop when he reached your neck. Instead, he tilted your head gently to the side, giving himself more access as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat and making you sigh in pleasure.

And when his teeth graced that sensitive spot just below your ear, you couldn’t hold back the soft sound that escaped your lips.

Jay froze at the sound—just for a second to control himself before he’d come in his pants. He groaned low in his throat, his mouth returning to yours in a kiss that was rougher now, messier, hungrier. Like hearing you fall apart pushed him over the edge.

One arm was around your waist as he held you so tightly it was almost impossible to move, while the other hand slid down, fingers spreading wide across your thigh. His thumb brushed slow circles against the sensitive skin there, inching higher with every pass. “Tell me to stop, and I will, okay?” he repeated.

But the way he touched you, the way his mouth lingered on yours, made it painfully clear he didn’t want to stop.

And neither did you.

“If you stop now, I might actually lose my mind.”

He chuckled before kissing you again as you pulled him closer, tilting your head to deepen the kiss even further. Your hands cupped his face, his beard tickling your palms as he took your breath away completely.

He slid his hand up your thigh again, taking advantage of the slit of your dress to touch your skin, to squeeze it, to feel it, to press his fingers so deeply into it until they left their mark. He grabbed your leg and wrapped it around his waist, making his pelvis grind with yours and making you both moan into the kiss.

His lips trailed back down to your neck, licking and sucking every inch of skin he had access to. “I want you so fucking bad.” His breath was hot against your skin, and when he spoke again, his voice was nothing but a rough, desperate whisper.

“Oh my fucking god Jay,” you gasped, trying to keep your voice low as his hand slid on your ass, squeezing it until you almost moaned again. “I want you so much too… Please…”

His lips found yours again, a desperate, greedy kiss that only deepened the ache between you two. There was no hesitation, no slowing down. Every touch, every movement, felt like a need that couldn’t be contained. You could feel the heat rising between you, consuming both of you in a way that made everything else fade.

His hard dick pressed into you, and the pressure made your breath hitch, another moan escaping as you started to grind into him again. His mouth left yours only long enough to whisper your name, low, rough, like a command.

“God, I need to feel you,” he muttered against your skin, like he was about to break. His teeth grazed your ear before his lips closed around the sensitive spot just below it, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped again. It only turned him on even more, his hands moving and exploring every inch of you, as though he couldn’t get enough.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, his back, his chest, pulling him even closer, matching the urgency of his movements. You wanted to rip that shirt off of him, you wanted to feel his skin under your fingers, touch him everywhere.

His lips trailed down to the curve of your shoulder, sucking gently as the strap of your dress slid down. The sensation made you pulse race beyond imagination, and you found yourself tugging at his shirt, eager to feel more of him.

“Jay, fuck,” you breathed again, voice trembling, and you pulled his face back to yours, crashing your lips together with the kind of hunger that mirrored his own. The kiss was messy, full of heat and need, and you lost yourself in it. You bit his lower lip, sucking it and making him groan. And, fucking hell, the sound was so sexy you felt it directly in your lower regions.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck Y/n,” he muttered desperately. His fingers brushing over the lace of your underwear before slipping inside, feeling how wet you were. The contact was electric, and the sharp moan you let out almost made him come in his pants. “Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips.

“Yes, shit… Oh… Oh god Jay you feel so good please don’t stop,” you moaned, your body moving on instinct, a desperate need for more, and the words only seemed to unravel him further.

There was no turning back now, and for once in your life, it felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

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VICTORIA'S SECRET — carlos sainz (fluff)

pairing; victoria's secret angel!reader x carlos sainz summary: when carlos sainz gets the chance to meet his crush at the victoria's secret show, he shoots his shot. warnings: fluff, carlos being an adorable idiot a/n: i feel like whenever carlos has a crush, he's the typa guy to be really nervous and shy around her, so that kinda explains cute awkward carlos in this one.

to say that carlos sainz was jittering with nerves would be an understatement.

he was so nervous that he felt like he might throw up right then and there, and the mere thought of that embarrassment terrified him even more.

although he had met quite a few models in the past, he had never been this nervous around them.

but this time was different.

because this time, it wasn't just a model; it was you.

you—the woman he had always admired from a distance.

the woman of his dreams.

he had had a massive crush on you for the longest time, but he had always been too shy to act on it.

and now, his agent had gotten him a ticket to the first victoria's secret fashion show after the 6-year hiatus, and this time, carlos was determined to shoot his shot.

but now, his agent had gotten him a ticket to the first victoria's secret fashion show after their 6-year hiatus, and this time, carlos was determined to shoot his shot.

he knew you were going to be a part of it. after all, you were considered one of the best supermodels of the current generation.

sp, he had his plan of action written down in his notepad.

step 1: look good.

he wore his best outfit, a simple black tuxedo that made his shoulders look broad and put his biceps on display. his hair looked just like the always did, only a bit curlier (he used lando's curl cream).

step 2: find the perfect opportunity.

he knew that after the show, there would be a party hosted by some models where he planned on 'accidentally' crashing into you.

step 3: talk to you.

this would be the hardest part. obviously, he couldn't just walk onto the stage and kiss you in front of everyone. so, charles helped him write a questionnaire.

he would approach you and ask you questions from the list, which was scribbled on the 12th page of his notepad. then, he would just hope for the best.

step 4: if all else fails, lando.

if things went horribly wrong, carlos could always go cry to him.

however, unbeknownst to the spaniard, he wouldn't have to go through step 4.

you had always fancied the f1 driver; ever since his redbull days, he was your celebrity crush, and seeing him sitting right there in the audience was enough to make you blush a deep crimson red.

the backstage area of the show was buzzing with excitement, with models walking up and down as they put on their outfits and got their makeup done.

you were standing sandwiched between irina shayk and behati prinsloo, fanning yourself as you gave yourself a mental prep talk for your walk.

a designer adjusted the black wings attached to your shoulders as cher's voice echoed through the venue.

behati stepped forward, her presence commanding as she took to the runway. you watched her, admiring her confidence and elegance, and you couldn’t help but feel a little jittery yourself.

you took a deep breath, reminding yourself of the countless hours of practice that had led to this moment.

"three, two, one."

and then you stepped out onto the runway.

you looked straight ahead, walking your signature walk as you followed behind behati.

the lights flashed brightly, temporarily blinding you, but the roar of the crowd washed over you like a wave.

your feet were in sync with the beat of cher's song, the drums matching your steps as you stalked down the runway.

your eyes shifted to the left, and then, among the crowd, you spotted him.

gaze focused solely on you, hair styled perfectly, hands folded in his lap.

carlos sainz was far more beautiful in real life than in any of the paparazzi photos.

your eyes met, and carlos' breath caught in his throat.

smiling to yourself, you winked at him.

and that was enough to make carlos sainz almost faint.

he looked to his left and then to his right. surely, he was dreaming. there was no way the girl of his dreams had winked at him.

and yet, you were still looking at him, your eyes crinkling from a smile as you continued walking.

he cleared his throat and pinched his hand.

yeah, this was not a dream.

you looked away, blowing a kiss to the audience ahead of you.

carlos' phone dinged.

lando getting laid tonight or no?

the room was loud, filled with excited chatter as everyone got their drinks and praised each other about the show. the heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floor, colourful lights reflecting off the walls, casting everything in shades of neon. the scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, and sweat mingled in the air.

carlos stood in the middle of the crowded room, heart pounding in his chest. his mind was racing, every thought crashing into the next. he had waited so long for this moment, and yet now that it was happening, he felt like his legs were made of lead.

each second stretched longer than the last as he scanned the room, hoping to spot you.

every time he spotted hair that looked like yours, he would squint his eyes and do a double take. then, he'd turn back around with a disappointed sigh.

his hand instinctively went to his phone. he wasn’t sure if it was to call lando for a pep talk or simply to distract himself from the anxiety curling in his stomach. his phone dinged again.

lando status update?

carlos rolled his eyes, putting his phone back into his pocket. he didn't have time for this. he had one job, and he was determined to see it through.

"you alright?"

the man stopped in his tracks, eyes wide as he recognised the voice.

he turned around, letting out a small yelp as his eyes met yours.

carlos stood frozen, his mouth slightly open as you smiled at him. he shook his head, realising he hadn't answered your question. he had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head, but now that it was here, all the cool lines vanished.

"i-yeah," he stammered, clearing his throat and trying to regain some composure. "just tired, yeah. the show was...incredible."

his voice sounded small, even to himself. great start, carlos, really smooth.

you chuckled, amused by how flustered he was. "thanks, i'm glad you enjoyed it."

he nodded vigorously, feeling the heat rise to his face. "i-uh-yeah, you were incredible. i couldn’t look away."

he immediately regretted how intense that sounded, but your eyes softened, and you smiled at him.

"thank you, that means a lot. i noticed you too. you were hard to miss in the crowd."

you mentally slapped yourself, realising how stupid you sounded.

carlos' heart raced. maybe this was his chance. he could skip straight to step 3.

"well, i’m not sure if you knew, but i’ve been a fan for a long time," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. you wanted to sound cool, not like the nervous wreck you felt inside. "you're amazing on the track."

carlos blinked, surprised by the compliment. his ego grew just a little. "i could say the same about you on the runway. you were—you are amazing."

he swallowed hard, his mind racing. the party was loud around you both, but it felt like time had slowed, the noise fading into the background. he could smell the soft scent of your perfume, the warmth of your body so close to his that it felt hard to concentrate.

was he hyperventilating?

he looked around, feeling the panic rise in his chest.

"do you want to get a drink?" you asked, noticing how uncomfortable he seemed.

"yeah," carlos nodded, taking a deep breath. "yes, please."

"i've always wanted to meet you," carlos said.

"yeah?" you turned your head towards him, smiling. "why?"

he blushed, his mouth opening and closing, unable to think of anything to say. "i, uh-i don't know."

he looked at the ground, embarrassed by his lack of composure. he felt like a teenager again, stumbling through his words as he tried to impress his crush. his hand instinctively moved to straighten his jacket, as if trying to shield himself from how exposed he felt. his fingers twitched nervously by his sides. he could feel beads of sweat forming at the back of his neck. he took a deep breath, waiting for his heart to slow down, but his body betrayed him.

you smiled at him. "you're cute."

carlos let out a breathy chuckle, looking at you in disbelief.

"you're cute, too," he said.

"i'll take a cosmopolitan, please," you said to the bartender.

"vodka and coke, please," carlos said, looking at the man who nodded and moved away to prepare your drinks.

"so, how has your night been so far?" you asked, leaning against the bar as you looked at carlos.

he smiled at you. "better than expected. you?"

"the same," you said.

"so..." carlos started, taking a deep breath. as soon as the drinks arrived in front of him, he took three large gulps of it. he felt the alcohol kick in, giving him the courage he needed to talk to you, properly.

something unsaid was hanging in the air between you two, something fragile and breakable. his fingers brushed against the edge of his pocket, where the notepad containing his carefully crafted questions sat. he couldn't bring it out without looking like a fool.

suddenly, he was worried about saying something wrong, about ruining the moment.

"do you want to dance?" you asked, biting your lip.

he paused, looking at you. "yes, yes, absolutely."

you led him onto the dance floor, where the music was louder and the people were drunker.

the drinks were abandoned too soon, he thought.

he offered his hand to you, and when you grabbed it, his touch sent a shiver down your spine, skin warm and rough against yours.

and then, he started swaying to the beats of the music.

"i didn't know you liked dancing," you said, laughing.

"i don't, but i like you."

that was cheesy, he thought.

but you grinned, looking away. carlos smiled at the sight of your pink cheeks.

"i like you, too," you replied.

"oh, really?" he teased, spinning you around.

you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. his hands settled on your hips, and you couldn't help but notice the way his thumb rubbed small circles against your waist.

you leaned in slightly, your hair brushing against his arm, and carlos swore he felt actually electricity shoot through him. your proximity set every nerve in his body alight.

the two of you were so close now, it felt like nothing else existed, like you were the only two people in the room.

his breath hitched. he wasn’t sure how this was happening, but it felt like a dream. the woman he’d admired for so long, the same woman he couldn’t stop thinking about, was standing so close he could feel the warmth of her body, hear the soft nervousness in her voice.

carlos had no clue what was going to happen, but he was sure of one thing: whatever did happen, it was going to be incredible.

and lando needed updates.

taking a slight breath in, you mustered courage and gave yourself another prep talk.

and then the distance between you both vanished.

your lips crashed against his, the softness of his mouth catching you by surprise.

carlos felt like his brain short-circuited. his grip on your waist tightened, and he pulled you closer, kissing you back. he had spent so many times imagining kissing you, but never had he expected you to be the one to make the first move.

his hand came up to cup your face, tilting your head slightly, as he deepened the kiss.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering as the two of you moved in sync.

the kiss was everything he had imagined—and more. It was perfect. almost too perfect.

when the two of you pulled apart, the only sounds you could hear were the music and the pounding of your hearts. you stared at him, the world spinning slightly from adrenaline and disbelief.

"i wasn't expecting that," he finally said, his voice soft, a nervous laugh escaping his lips.

"me neither," you replied, voice cracking slightly.

you wanted to say something, anything, to keep the moment alive. you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

"do you want to get out of here?" carlos asked, looking at you through his lashes.

you looked around, the room spinning from the alcohol and noise overwhelming your ears. "i'd like that."

he smiled and held out his hand, and you took it, following him through the crowd.

carlos sainz swore he was going to die a happy man right then and there.

[avis-writeshq]

pairing: early seasons!spencer reid x sunshine!fem!reader genre: fluff, roommate au warnings: reader is a pretty girl (YOU ARE A PRETTY GIRL !!!!!!) and she wears dresses !! feelings of inadequacy (aka, it’s so hard to find good guys now ☹️☹️☹️) she’s also taking her master’s degree at Georgetown  a/n: i love roommate reader so much guys !!! give me a million requests for them; i will write it ‼️🫶 wc: 936 part 1 | you are on part 2! | part 3

“Date?” Spencer asks despite his knowing, watching as you wrap a cardigan over your shoulders and fix the bracelet on your wrist.

He’s not in denial about how pretty you are. He remembers it, even back when the two of you were younger. Everyone loved you– following you around the playground and doing whatever you ask of them. You’re the sun, he accepted on a hot summer’s day, drowsy from the heatwave while you ate a bright orange popsicle beside him. You’re the sun and I’m one of the planets you allow to be near you. 

He’s not entirely surprised either when he sees you again, as beautiful as he remembered, surrounded by people of all genders with starstruck gazes, all enchanted by your brilliant smile and embellished words. He’s not surprised either when you receive so many propositions of romance. A little jealous, maybe, because sometimes he wishes that you would share an ounce of your sparkle with him. 

“Yeah,” you respond with a soft smile, fixing your shoes. “Going out for dinner. I’ll be home a little late, so don’t wait up, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, fiddling with the ends of his hair. “You’ll call me, right? If you need anything.”

Your smile widens and you nod. “Of course I will. Thanks, Walter, you’re the best.”

His cheeks glow warm at his middle name and he clears her throat. “Good night.”

“Good night!”

Then you’re gone. He doesn’t hear the way you return back to the apartment hours later but earlier than anticipated, or the way you dump your bags at the doorway instead of putting them away in your room as you usually do. He doesn’t notice the way the shower runs longer than usual, or the opening and shutting of the freezer door or the clanging of metal spoons. He wishes he did.

*** 

“I give up.” You grip the phone against your ear tighter, your gaze dark with frustration. “Hah, you’re on to talk! You’re getting married in November! Yeah, well, it doesn’t help. I hear enough of that from everyone. Bye.”

Spencer flinches at the harshness of your tone. He’s even more concerned at your initial words. You’re giving up on something? You’ve never given up on anything. That’s one of your biggest charms; you know exactly what you want and you’ll do anything to get it. Giving up is simply not in your vocabulary. Except for now, he supposes. 

“I am so– so  sick of this,” You huff, slumping onto the couch beside him, hugging a Tuxedo Sam plush toy that he bought you for your birthday a few years ago. “This is so stupid.”

“What’s stupid?” Spencer asks cautiously, placing his book down and turning to you.

“Paget is getting married in November,” you say, half happy but half sullen. 

He nods, perplexed. He knows all about the wedding, especially since you’ve come home after shopping for dresses and decided to get his opinions on all of them. “You’ve been looking forward to it since the beginning of the year.”

“I know,” you insist, frowning. “And I am excited! But lately she’s been pressing me to bring someone as a plus one and when I said that I’d invite one of my friends in my class, she insisted that this is a brilliant time to invite a boyfriend. And she keeps sending me off on blind dates lately and I’m just ugh!”

Spencer pats your shoulder in an effort to be sympathetic. “They haven’t been going well?”

“They suck,” You grumble. “Rude, stupid, inconsiderate– the list goes on and I am sick and tired of being treated like an idiot on every date I go on.”

“I see.”

“I know what I want,” you continue, squeezing the plush toy in your lap. “I see it all the time. With my friends and the people I care about. I know how I want to be loved; I know how I deserve to be loved. I just don’t understand why it’s so difficult to find someone who would love me the way I deserve to be. And I see all these people falling in love and getting married and having these wonderful relationships, I can’t help but wonder if I did something to be so unlikeable.”

“You’re not unlikeable,” Spencer says immediately, frowning. How can you say something like that? “You’re the most likable person I know. There’s just a lot that you’re not willing to put up with, things that a lot of men do that you don’t want to put up with, and they can’t understand that.”

He relishes the way you smile, smaller than your usual ones, before leaning your head onto his shoulder. His heart leaps into his throat at the contact, taking in the sweet smell of your perfume. He doesn’t understand how someone could ever dislike you– you and your brilliant smiles and your sweet disposition. 

“There’s an old Buddhist saying,” he begins slowly, watching as you take to drawing circles against the back of his palm, “that the act of bringing you and your soulmate together was 500 years in the making. So you’ll find someone. Or maybe you’ve already met them.”

“You’re lovely,” you murmur, drawing a heart then a series of squiggles onto his hand. 

His cheeks glow hot. “I could say the same for you.”

He thinks of the letters he’s written for you but never sent, all stored neatly in a box. There’s one envelope that sticks out from the rest– your favourite colour with a heart wax seal. He decides against giving it to you for the thousandth time.

reblogs are always appreciated !!

part 1 | you are on part 2! | part 3

[everyones-berry]

Day 1 - Chivalry!

Day 2 - Tuxedo/Formal wear

Day 3 - Courage!

Afterwards they had Weiss use one of her summons to kill the cockroach

[ni-kism]

Christmas, Airports and Coffee *⁠˘⁠♡◍⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Husband!Scoups x fem!reader

Genre : fluff

Warnings : very fluffy

Leaning on your husband’s shoulder while he finishes some work, for the second time your flight has been delayed. A trip to Norway planned by your husband as a surprise for your 5th anniversary wasn’t going what you’d call smooth. First of all, the roads were jammed with cars even though it was 3am in the morning. After you arrived at the airport with just enough time to eat and check in your bags, your flight has been delayed by a whopping 5 hours.

5 hours.

After that, when you and seungcheol went for some very early breakfast, a kid who was running around had bumped into you and spilled water. Right after that you heard the system's sweet voice stating that your flight will be delayed for another two hours.

And that makes 7 hours.

You considered going back home but calling your sister back to pick you two up again….she wouldn’t be pleased especially when she’s got an early date to prepare for.

So here you are, two hours into the wait while lounging in the waiting area. Seungcheol decided to finish the worked he had planned for after the trip so he doesn’t have to stress about it too much later on. You don’t know how he gets anything done while you pester him and play with his face, but he’s doing it. Man is everything. As your whine about being bored for the nth time, he closes his laptop and takes out his wallet, whips out his very shiny black card and allows you to go buy yourself a set of Lego at the Lego vending machine.

“Go on, I saw the way you looked at that machine sweetheart. Or maybe you want to go on a walk?”

Your luggage wasn’t with you anymore so it’s just a backpack and your handbag. Minutes later you found yourself getting a piggy back ride on your husband’s back while he walks through the airport to pass some time. He was getting tired of staring at an excel sheet anyways.

You met in high school, where seungcheol was the senior you’d sneak upstairs to peek at during lunch break. Safe to say you were caught and successfully married your high school crush. You started a business together, and it got so successful that he’s now the richest 1% in the country. You always tell yourself you did a great job serving as his secretary and wife. Four years of dating and he asked you to marry him, which of course you said yes.

As he approached the Lego vending machine, you jumped off his back and skipped towards the machine, scanning through the items again.

“They’re so expensive…”

Yeah, that’s what you told the man who bought you a Steinway piano on a random day after you mentioned that it looks pretty.

The man- uh, your man scoffed and pressed the button for the biggest set available after swiping his card at the scanner. Your Lego tuxedo cat plopped on the moving surface as it brings down your set. Seeing you happy like a child with a set of toys to play with made him feel something furry inside.

Before he could ask you where you wanted to go, you grabbed his hand and dragged him to a chocolate store nearby. He loves spoiling you, especially when sometimes he can’t spend time with you due to being caught up with work. He buys you things and takes you places while being a great husband ; you make him his favorites meals then help him de-stress after coming home from the very infuriating clients.

After the gift store, the cafe, the clothing store and a cat petting pop up booth that’s at the airport for some reason, you clutched your newly adopted plushie while still holding his hand, walking back to the waiting area as you talked about nothing and everything.

So you burned a few hundred from his card that’s like a few cents to him. He always insisted that you must have everything and got you the fattest diamond ring you’ve ever seen in your life for your wedding.

From your dress, the venue, heck even your eyelashes costed so much. Yet that hardly put a scratch on his account it was like grocery shopping for him.

Deciding that the carpeted floor by the waiting area would be a great place to sit on, you plopped down and started to build your tuxedo cat. How cute it even purrs when you turn the head!

One hour of Lego and few uncomfortable sleeping positions that made you look like a shrimp later, it’s 45 minutes away from boarding. Finally!! You peeked at the large glass windows and saw white spots falling down. Oh yeah…you were supposed to reach by Christmas, but here you are still back home. You two decided that you should eat something before boarding. He went to order while you waited by the windows of the cosy cafe. Coffee, snow, and your husband. What else can be better?

“Sweetheart”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t think he’d pull a move like that. His soft lips now on yours, although you were in a cafe, but of course you kissed back while catching the eyes of the girls in the corner fangirling over the scene. Maybe it was your broad shoulders six pack 180cm rich cold looking CEO who whines and pouts because you didn’t kiss him good morning of a husband? They can’t exactly see his build under his fluffy coat but oh that face card never declines.

Cheesy, but it made the butterflies in your tummy go wild when he kissed you as the clocks struck twelve, signaling the arrival of Christmas.

“Merry Christmas love” you heard as he pulled out a little jewelry box. Upon opening it was the most beautiful necklace you’d ever seen in your life. You knew better than to believe that it was cheap when you asked him. The less you see the logo of the brand the more expensive it is when your santa is seungcheol. Of course you prepared to a surprise for him too, but that’s for when you check into a hotel. (Iykyk)

Your trip to see the northern lights started when you boarded the first class seats with Netflix on the tvs. The divider will not stop your husband from giving you kisses.

It may be simple but everyday with him felt special in its own way even if you just lounged at home lazily while your fluffy cat tried to snuggle between you both for the warmth. This must be what happens when you marry someone who loves you more than anyone, or anything.

An argument breaks out from the couple in front of you, seemingly from money as the air stewardess came and asked them to keep it down.

“Love, I want you to know that even with all the money and power I have, I’d burn it to ashes as if it meant we would stay together forever”

Blushing hard although you’ve heard loving words from your husband on a daily basis

"May I make a Christmas wish?”

“Of course”

“Might I request to be your Mrs.Choi again in the next life, and every life to come even if we were to be rocks?”

Soft laughter swallowed the tense atmosphere the couple infront of you gave off as you two started to look through the free stuff the airline had provided with the first class seats, knowing his answer would always be yes. Yes, anything for his princess.

"you'll always be my girl, okay?"

[aperrywilliams]

If Anything, I Find it Educative (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Part 1: If Anything I Find It Educative

Part 2: It Was Horrible Until It Wasn’t

Part 3: Douchebag Falls Short in This Case

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: Spencer is not happy attending the annual FBI Gala this year. Having to socialize with a woman who only wants to seduce him makes it worse. But one not-so-fortunate incident could improve his night somehow.

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: Awkward Spencer. Morgan is stubborn about Spencer getting 'game.' Spencer spills facts about seafood (oysters), human biting, and cheating. Mention to Spencer's dick (only a phrase). Someone choking on food is described. A toxic relationship and job insecurities are described too. If I forgot something, let me know.

A/N: Okay, people. This is kind of an experiment: I want to know how you think the relationship between Spencer and Reader might evolve (if it evolves at all). Good friends? Romantic relationship rom-com style? An angsty romantic relationship? Friends to lovers? Just lovers? What important things do you imagine could happen to them? (canon or not). What could be the Reader's whole back story?

This is just a one-shot, but I am considering continuing it based on your thoughts and suggestions.

Part 2

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Spencer's POV

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There are few things I hate more than being surrounded by many people at an event. Standing in the middle of a crowded party dressed in formal attire is one of them. 

It is an uncomfortable occasion highlighted by uncomfortable clothes.

And this time, it's Hotch's fault.

Tonight, I should have been at home, wrapped in a cozy blanket and enjoying my new edition of War and Peace. But the annual FBI gala and Hotch's adamant request blew my plans.

"Strauss wants to see the whole team at the venue this year. And we are in a very thin line with her to ignore her wishes."

No one seemed conflicted with the idea of attending this fancy party. Even some of my teammates looked excited about it. While JJ and Garcia chatted animatedly for days about what dress they would choose, Morgan saw it as a chance to get to know the new female agents working at Counterterrorism. Rossi only wanted to know how good the scotch would be this year, and Prentiss took it as an excuse to have free drinks. For his part, Hotch seemed as calm as any day at work.

But me? I wasn't excited at all.

Reluctantly, I purchased a tuxedo for the gala. At first, I thought about renting one since I would hardly use it again. But my germophobic self made me think again, and I decided the expense would at least make me feel less uncomfortable.

Keyword: a little less uncomfortable.

Now, I'm standing at the entrance, scanning the venue, searching for a familiar face. The place is packed with agents from all divisions and their plus ones, so it's hard to find anything at all.

But a familiar voice pulls me from my struggle.

"Boy genius! Over here!"

Penelope is calling my name from a table in the corner. As my gaze lands on her, I can see Morgan, Emily, JJ, and Hotch there too.

A sigh of relief escapes my lips, and quickly, I stroll where my teammates are.

"Spence! You made it!" JJ greets me as I pull a chair next to Morgan to sit.

"We thought you weren't coming," Emily added before sipping her drink.

"I understood it was a requirement," I quipped, looking at Hotch. The aforementioned man nodded in agreement.

"It was, indeed. Have I to remind you Strauss is still mad about the whole ordeal with you stepping into a building with no vest and no gun?"

Hotch is right. Strauss made his life hell for a whole week until he notified my suspension.

I wince, remembering the incident in question.

Self-note: don't leave behind the vest and the gun again.

"You look very handsome, boy wonder," Garcia chimes, waving her hand and pointing at me.

I can't help but blush at the compliment. It's not she hasn't done it before, and I know she means well, but-

"Maybe pretty boy gets some game tonight," Morgan claps his hand on my shoulder, grinning.

That's why I don't like that kind of attention. At every chance, someone pips up and tries to play wingman or wingwoman for me. And although I appreciate their efforts, I like to move at my own pace. Even if some say my pace, it's more like a turtle's speed.

Giving him a tight-lip smile, I reach for a glass of water. I don't know how I'll survive this night.

Surprisingly, it is okay for now. I fall into conversation with Garcia and JJ, although it is more like me listening and them talking. Occasionally, I add some to the topic, and they seem receptive.

But Derek looks impatient to stand and march to a group of women talking on the opposite side of the venue, next to the bar. I don't look much into it until I feel his hand on my shoulder.

"You're oddly quiet tonight, pretty boy. What's up?" My sight darts from JJ and Penelope to Derek.

"Nothing?" I offer. My eyebrows creace. Derek snickers.

"I know what you need! Come on, let's enjoy the party and come with me to chat with those beautiful agents at the bar over there," he proposes. I shake my head.

"No. I'm good. You can go if you want. I don't think you need my help."

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Don't get dismissive with me. It'll help you to lose a little. I promise," he insists. And I know I'm losing my battle with him tonight.

"As if I had something interesting to say to them," I mumble, loud enough for Derek to hear.

"Don't say that. Surely, some would like to hear about, I don't know, oysters? And how they became a symbol of glamor or whatever. Because I'm sure you know that, right?" Derek points, grabbing an oyster from the tray a waiter offers him.

"Actually, oysters were not considered a status symbol until the 11th century, when the Crusades trunked access to seafood in Europe. Some researchers believe that-"

I'm about to explain the whole thing when Morgan cuts me off.

"See? Now, don't waste that knowledge with me, and let's share it with those gorgeous, shall we?"

I'm screwed.

I reluctantly stand to follow Derek. I know he's the best intention even if I won't tell him that. Maybe he's right, and I need to step out of my comfort zone occasionally.

As smoothly as only Morgan can be, he interrupts the conversation between three women by the bar. You would think they would return annoyed looks from the sudden interruption, but they did not. It is everything but that.

"Excuse me, beautiful ladies. Hope you don't mind some company. My friend and I thought it would be an honor to share part of your precious time tonight."

How the fuck can he do that?!

The result shocked me almost more than it impressed me. The three turn to us with flirting smiles flashing to Derek. And me?

That's new. And, of course, I have to blush furiously at that.

"Hey, handsome. Sweet talk, uh?" One of the girls teases Derek while the others giggle.

"I know I can do better, but you make me nervous, sweetheart," Morgan banters as smoothly as the beginning.

And that's it. We have their full attention now. Scratch that; Derek has their full attention now.

He asks for their names, and that's how I know the woman who spoke first is Vivian, and her friends are Julie and Ashley. The three of them work in the Counterterrorism Division.

"And who is your good-looking friend?" Ashley asks, skimming at me.

Why is she looking at me from head to toe?

Derek glances at me, and I understand it's time for me to say something.

"I'm Spencer," I wave.

Short and precise.

"Hi, Spencer. You are cute," Ashley points, and suddenly, my mouth goes dry.

As Emily once said, my IQ slashes to 60 when I'm in front of a beautiful woman. And Ashley is a beautiful woman. Her long, stylish blond hair, blue eyes, tan skin with perfect makeup, gorgeous smile, and a dress that accentuates her body in the right places. It would be stupid to say she is not attractive.

"Why don't we go to the dance floor while Ashley and Spencer get to know each other better, uh?" Derek offers to Julie and Vivian, winking at me.

Oh, Lord. Help me.

I don't think Derek or Ashley would appreciate it if I refused to stay here and run to the nearest exit. So I give Ashley a tight smile and prepare myself for whatever comes now.

"Well...?" she prompts, and I don't know what the fuck she expects me to say.

"Yeah. Nice party," I offer, hoping my attempt to small talk works.

Ashley's smile suggests it does.

"It is. Are you having fun?"

No.

"Yes! A lot! Are you?"

"Yeah. But I think it turns out better now," she says, subtly closing some distance between us with a playful look directed at me.

Is she flirting with me?

I clear my throat to appease some of my nerves. I need to cool off. If Derek can do this, I should try.

A waitress approaches us and offers some drinks. Ashley picks a glass of wine, and I prefer a flute of champagne. I don't usually drink alcohol, but I need it now.

"Slow down, boy. People would think I make you nervous," Ashley points seductively when she notices how I quickly down the liquid.

My eyes widen when she rests a hand on my chest and leans to whisper in my ear.

"I don't bite. Unless you want me to."

Okay. That sounds very straightforward.

I should feel flattered. An attractive woman is more than insinuating me right now; I barely said anything. But it doesn't feel like that.

Derek surely would tell me, 'Take it and play it, pretty boy,' but I don't feel like it. If we could engage in a kind of conversation, I would feel more comfortable. Don't get me wrong. I know what a potential one-night stand means, but I'm not good at it. That's how I am. Sue me.

I want to turn her down gently, so I do what I know to do, and people usually hate me for it: spit information.

"Compared with other mammals, like dogs and bears, humans don't have the strongest bite. Scientists measure the pressure exerted by an animal's bite in pounds per square inch or psi. The human bite force is 162 psi. The bite force of some dogs can reach 250 psi, while some bears have a bite force of over 1,000 psi. It's interesting, actually-"

Ashley is now looking at me, confused. She retreats his hand from my chest and hums, faking interest in what I'm saying.

As I go on with my info dump, I notice how Ashley changes her empty glass of wine to a filled one when a server offers it.

Aside from 'interesting,' 'oh,' and 'uhm,' she doesn't add more to the conversation - or more likely, my rambling - and by now, you would think she's tired of me. But no. For God knows what reason, she is persistent. I give her that.

Typically, I can ramble on and on, which is not the exception. The waiters and waitresses keep coming with drinks and food, and even I pick some for myself.

When they offer us a tray with oysters, I can't help but recall what Morgan told me before.

As I see Ashley ushering one to her mouth, I deliver an exciting fact about it.

"Did you know that raw oysters are still alive? Indeed, some people argue oysters might feel pain, and others say that because they don't have a central nervous system, they don't feel pain like other seafood species might."

Not looking at her, I focus on my oyster, inspecting it before continuing.

"If it's that so, the question is when they die actually. This is likely to happen when they are shucked rather than when they are chewed or swallowed. Scientists think this because an oyster's heart is right next to the bottom adductor muscle, so separating it from the shell kills it."

I should have known the lack of response wasn't due to the interest in the topic, although speaking was impossible for her. Her face's blueness and her hand on her neck now tell me something is wrong.

Fuck. She is choking.

I don't know what to do. She is choking on an oyster, and I'm paralyzed. The people around us start to scream as they see her turning blue. That picks everyone's attention, and I want to dig a hole to get into right now. But first, I should do something to help her. Before I can reach for her, a pair of arms hugs Ashley from behind and applies the Heimlich Maneuver. After a few thrusts into the abdominal area, we see the oyster fly from her mouth to somewhere on the floor.

At the same time, Vivian, Julie, and Derek rush to us to find out what is going on.

Ashley starts coughing, and some of her natural color returns to her face. The arms around her torso loosen, and that's when I notice the woman who just saved her life from choking.

Everything happens so fast that I barely register the slap across my face—Ashley's courtesy.

A collective 'Uhhh' is heard around us.

Before I can say anything, Ashley starts a rant full of anger and frustration toward me.

"Are you fucking crazy? Why would you say something like that? It's disgusting!"

Ironically, I'm speechless now.

What is wrong with talking about oysters?

"You fucking weird!" Ashley continues with her rant. It's like she has been holding it since we were left alone.

The woman who helped Ashley now looks between me and her with her eyebrow creased.

"Hey. You should take it easy. You're just recovering from-" 

She can't finish the sentence since Ashley turned to lash out at her.

"Don't fucking tell me what to do! I almost died because of this pathetic nerd here who can't stop rambling about alive oysters! Just thinking about it makes me sick again!"

"Could it be a hint for not eating them anymore?" I muse, gaining a chuckle from the woman - let's call her the savior - and a deadly glare from Ashley. I recoil from saying anything else, and it is the wiser.

"I should have known better than to engage my time with you. Even if you actually pack a big dick, it doesn't worth it!" she whisper-yell at me, but loud enough for Derek, Vivian, Julie, and the mystery-savior woman to hear.

I'm utterly confused and embarrassed. What have to do my dick with all of this? 

Derek is now dispersing the crowd around us as Vivian and Julie try to soothe her friend's anger, rubbing her back and arm.

I bet they see Ashley's wrath boiling and the high probability of her launching towards me to punch me. Their efforts to subdue her seem to work because, after a loud huff, Ashley only grabs her coat from Vivian's hand and spits at me: "Thanks for ruining my night!"

The three pass by my side to one of the exits venue.

I don't even know how I should feel.

I feel upset because my escape plan didn't go as planned. I feel relieved because Ashley didn't die. Hurt? Yeah, that, too. I didn't deserve a slap on my face. She calling me a pathetic nerd? Sadly, I'm not surprised. And it only confirms my theory I'm not good at this kind of setting.

With the show over and people not focused on me anymore, Derek approaches. I know what he wants to say, but I don't want to hear it. I'm done for tonight.

"Don't say it," I cut him off.

"I wasn't gonna say anything," he tells me with a sympathetic look, holding his hands up in surrender.

"Sure you not," I grumble. "And what was about that comment about my… dick?" I whisper to him.

Derek's face tries to remain neutral, but I know him better.

"What did you do?" I demand to Morgan, and he sighs.

"I may or may not have suggested a rumor about your attributes."

I look at him in disbelief.

"Shut the fuck up! You did not!"

"Come on, pretty boy. It worked! You caught their attention, didn't you?"

I shake my head, trying not to snap at him in public. Morgan can see the distress I'm carrying right now and relents.

"I'm sorry, Reid. I thought it would be a good chance for you to show yourself around. You're a good kid; you deserve to have a good time."

It's useless to engage in this argument again. I understand his good intentions, but like this? No, thanks.

"I better get going," I mumble, walking backward. I'm done for the night.

"Reid..." Morgan starts, but the shake of my head cuts him off. He sighs as I turn to head to one of the exits.

Walking through one of the venue's doors, I find myself on a lateral terrace. I stop for a moment to look around. 

If there were different circumstances, I would be enjoying this view. To the front, you can see a beautiful and thick green shrubbery. Several fountains with little waterfalls and statues recreate a neoclassical garden. It is no coincidence since the property where the venue is located is a typical Jefferson's Neo-Palladian construction with high ceilings and large columns.

My architectural appreciation stops when my eyes land on a woman with her back leaning against one of the columns, her left hand resting on the concrete railing, and her right hand with a glass of wine. Her face is turned to the side, and she is observing the beautiful garden in front of her.

I know her. I've seen her before.

Although it is dark outside, the light from the venue's long windows illuminates the terrace enough.

My brain comes up with the answer in a fraction of a second.

Is the woman who saved Ashley from choking. 

After what she did, nobody even thanked her. The worst part is knowing Ashley behaved that poorly with her. It's not fair. And it's my fault.

With that in mind, I approach her.

She seems too concentrated to register I'm just a foot of distance from her. I clear my throat to call her attention.

She turns her head with a confused look at first. But she offered me a kind smile when she realized who I was.

It's my first chance to look at her; with everything happening so fast, I barely noticed her trying to talk back to Ashley moments ago. 

And now that I'm in front of her, I feel weirdly struck.

Besides her beautiful smile, her eyes hold a piercing gaze, but not the kind that frightens you. It's more like she actually sees you and gives you her undivided attention. With light makeup, her face lets you see some of her freckles. With her hair tied to one side, you can see her neck adorned with a simple gold chain with a compass-shaped pendant.

My not-so-subtle scrutiny is interrupted by her voice.

"Can I help you?" She asks, and my cheeks turn pink. But I'm here for a reason, so I clear my throat before speaking.

"Sorry. I - uh. I'm sorry for bothering you, but I wanted to thank you. For what you did back there," I say, pointing to the inside. "And, well, I want to apologize too. Ashley wasn't very kind to you, considering you mostly saved her life."

She tilts her head slightly, a frown forming, while contemplating what to say.

"Well," she starts. "I'll take the thanks. But I can't take the apologies."

Now, it's my turn to frown.

"Oh, okay. Uh - Why not?"

Not that she should do it. It's her right to do it or not, but I'm curious.

"Because you didn't do anything wrong to me, so you don't have to," she shrugs, like it's obvious.

"I kind of did. I mean, Ashley behaved awful, and I didn't -"

Before I can continue, she shakes her head to stop me.

"No. Don't do that. Why on earth do you want to apologize for someone else's bad manners, considering she treated you like garbage?"

She doesn't say it as if she is upset at me, more likely as if she doesn't understand why I would do that. And yes, she has a good point. But someone has to do the right thing, and that's what I say next.

"It's just the right thing to do."

She takes her time, mulling over my words and whether she believes me or not.

"Okay. You're correct. It's the right to do. And it's a shame most people don't do it. But I still believe it is not your responsibility here."

Something is telling me her statement concerns more than Ashley being impolite. But it is not my place to point that.

"But some people do. And that must count as something, I guess. "

It's curious how her look changes from pensive to more light-hearted.

"Okay. You win this time..." she trails off, not knowing how to refer to me.

"Spencer," I supply. She hums.

"You win this time, Spencer. And being that said, I accept your apology too," she added, sipping the remaining wine from her glass.

I smile, nodding appreciatively. It's a little gesture, but I feel better after what happened.

Silence settles between us, and I take that as my cue to leave. I had already taken enough of her time.

"Uh, well. Thank you again..."

I trail off, realizing I don't know her name.

"(Y/N)," she says.

"Thank you again, (Y/N). Hope you enjoy the rest of your night."

With that said, I should get on foot to leave the venue, as I had planned to do ten minutes ago, but for some reason, my feet didn't want to move, and I kept standing there. (Y/N) look at me as if I'm going to say something else due to the lack of movement on my part.

"Are you okay?" she asks, and now I have the same question for myself.

"Yeah. Yeah. Totally okay. Sorry, I'm leaving now."

Turning in my heels, I'm about to walk away when I hear (Y/N) 's voice.

"I didn't know that, you know? And, for the record, I didn't think it was disgusting."

I stop in my tracks to look at her with a raised eyebrow. When I catch what she is referring to, my eyes cast to the floor, and my cheeks turn pink again.

"If anything, I found it educative," she adds. I try to decipher if there is some teasing in her words, but I find none. She's being oddly genuine. Oddly, because I'm not used to people saying that when referring to the things I tend to ramble about.

"Thank you," I sheepishly say, my hands finding home in my pant pockets. "People don't tell me that very often."

A puff leaves (Y/N) 's lips before she says, "Ungrateful fuckers." 

I chuckle at her choice of words.

Weird. It's the first time all night that I don't want to run away from here.

"Yeah. Something like that," I agree, and she smiles. Now I'm comfortable enough to make some conversation.

"Uh, are you from Quantico?"

"Yeah. A very adrenalinal position," she prompts, and I raise an eyebrow. "Finance Division."

I can't help but snort, and she laughs. "I told you. What about you?"

"Behavioral Unit Analysis," I reply. (Y/N)' s eyes wide in recognition.

"Wow. The one and only BAU."

"You know us?"

"Sure. I wouldn't forget a unit that has its own jet. I'm the one who enters the travel expenses from all Quantico," she explains. I hum, trying to figure out the amplitude of that sole task. "Like I told you, very exciting."

She is mocking herself regarding her job. But I find it impressive for a desk job. Not all people have the skills to run financials.

"Well, I agree it is not very adrenaline but very important. I mean, we have to travel around the country all the time. Our job depends on traveling."

(Y/N) has now an amused expression on her face.

"It's nice to know someone truly values what you do. Not even our boss does it," she points before letting a deep sigh escape from her lips. "Gosh, I'm being very judgmental right now. You're going to think I spend my life complaining about everything. I do sometimes, but I'm not always like this," she explains. I shake my head.

"I'm not judging you. Everyone has the right to say what things don't like or would change about their jobs."

"Well, thanks. Although I'm sure you guys have more reasons to be concerned. You risk your life on the field every time. That's huge."

She rests the empty glass on the concrete rail, adjusting her coat around her body. The air is chiller at this time of the night.

"You know? People say that a lot. And I agree. It's a dangerous job, but it's not better than anyone's for that reason, or whatever another reason for that matter.

Her eyes are analyzing me with curiosity. I'm not sure, but it's like she's having difficulty believing what I'm saying.

"Can I ask you something, Spencer?"

"Sure."

"Why are you here tonight?"

My eyes narrow at her question. Isn't the reason obvious?

"What do you mean? It's the FBI annual gala," I point out, knowing she already knows that too. She nods.

"Precisely," she starts. "And at the risk of being impertinent, I can say this environment makes you uncomfortable. When you were with that girl talking - scratch that, when you were talking, and she looked at you, trying to devour you with her eyes - you seemed like you didn't want to be there. Above all, knowing this kind of event is basically to show off to other bureau agents, I don't think is your notion of an ideal night."

If I wasn't impressed when we started talking - which I was - I am now. 

She assumes my awe as discomfort.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to overstep."

"No, no. You are okay. And let me tell you, your observation is completely accurate," I hasten to clarify.

"Yeah?" (Y/N) asks, and I nod earnestly.

"Yeah. Have you not considered applying for a position as a field agent?"

An amused laugh leaves her lips.

"No way! I would be a total disaster! And carrying a gun is not my idea of a dream job anymore," she points out, still laughing. 

I chuckle, but her answer makes me think. Before I can ask for clarification, she calls me out.

"Hey, you didn't answer my question."

I didn't, although the answer is simple.

"My boss made me."

(Y/N) scoff in disbelief.

"What? Did he put a gun against your chest?"

Well, thinking better about it, maybe the answer is not that simple.

"Not quite, but you can say I felt it that way."

I tell (Y/N) how my team always worries about my lack of social interaction, which isn't that accurate if you ask me. However, some of the pressure of doing things that people my age would generally do is finally getting me and pushing me out of my comfort zone.

She listens to me with undivided attention and seems to understand what I'm talking about.

"Peer pressure, uh? I can relate to that to some extent," she agrees.

"That's why are you here tonight, too?"

My question makes her let out a deep sigh as her eyes focus on the garden beside us for a second.

"Not really. Who knows, maybe I do enjoy being here?"

(Y/N) phrases it more like a question than a statement. And I can tell she doesn't believe it either.

"Enjoying being apart from the crowd, in a lateral terrace barely illuminated and exposed to the chilly night air? I can think of several other places to do the same thing without the trouble of a gala environment."

Her cheeks turn a shade of pink, which tells me I'm right.

"Not fair, you are a certified profiler," (Y/N) complains, faking annoyance.

"And you haven't answered my question either," I remind her. She rolls her eyes playfully.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Well, let's say I came here to prove myself something. Spoiler alert: I failed. That's why I have been mostly spending the night here."

I hum, knowing she is vague in explaining, but I'm not in a place to pry.

"Look, I would tell you more about it, but I'm sure you have to return inside. Your teammates are surely wondering where you are."

I can't help but snort, and she raises an eyebrow at my reaction.

"I'm sorry, but your assumption is far from reality. Considering what happened inside, they think I ran home. What I was actually doing before spotting you here," I admit.

"Ha! So it's true I'm holding you back but for a different motive," she triumphantly concludes.

"I didn't say that!" I complain with a hint of exasperation, to which she breathly laughs.

"I know. I know. I'm messing with you. Honestly? There are two reasons why I'm avoiding this topic right now. First, I don't think you want to hear the mess my life is these days, and second, I would kill for a coffee and a sandwich-" she pauses, stifling a chuckle before continuing. "Considering oysters are out of the table."

"Oh, come on!" I groan, seeing how she falls into a fit of laughter, so contagious that I can't help but join her.

"Sorry, sorry. Not very kind of me, I know. But I couldn't help it," she apologizes, still giggling. I bit my lower lip in amusement.

"Alright. It's okay. It's frankly funny," I admit, my words leaving my mouth before I can think of them. "Well, I could tell you more of those moments in my life - many of them - if you let me join you with the coffee and sandwich. I know a good place that is open at this hour. And you can tell me what kind of thing you wanted to prove yourself tonight."

Spencer Reid. Is that you? 

I'm surprised by my sudden confidence, and it seems (Y/N) is, too. She hums, scrubbing her fingers under her chin while contemplating my offer.

"Okay, I'll take it. But don't tell me later that I didn't warn you about the mess of my life," she points her index finger at me.

"I won't. I promise."

-

Grabbing a cab is relatively easy since the FBI considered transportation outside the venue for people who won't be driving.

The fifteen-minute ride allows us to have a light conversation. That's how I know (Y/N) has been in the bureau for almost four years. Being an Accountant by profession and with a Master of Science in Finance from Georgetown, she was recruited for the FBI precisely considering her outstanding skills in the financial department.

She asks me about my trajectory in the FBI as well. I tell her about Gideon and the start of my life at the BAU.

Arriving at our destination, I insist on paying for the ride despite her resistance. I assured her that she could invite me to the coffee.

It must be a curious image for the patrons to see two fully gala-dressed people stepping inside a diner at eleven pm.

We sit on a bench facing each other.

A girl who can't hide her curious expression comes to take our order. As promised, (Y/N) asks for two coffees and two sandwiches.

"So, Agent Gideon recruited you for the FBI. Why did you accept? I would have thought you would be more comfortable in academics," (Y/N) asks, stirring a spoon of sugar in her coffee.

"I thought the same at the time. But Gideon saw something I didn't. He knew I wouldn't settle with learning and teaching for the rest of my life, and I needed it to be useful beyond that environment."

I explain how profiling has helped us to catch unsubs around the country and how worthy it is for me. I can't think of myself doing anything else. (Y/N) listen to me with raptor interest; it is nice to be heard that way.

"You know? I haven't heard someone speak passionately about their work in a long time. It's good you feel that way," she says with a hint of longing that doesn't go unnoticed by me.

"It is bold of me to assume you don't like what you do?"

Maybe I'm overstepping, but I'm curious. And (Y/N) doesn't seem bothered by my question. Shifting in her seat, she leans, resting her elbows on the table.

"Not bold at all, mister profiler," she teases. "But not always has been that way. I would say I started to feel uncomfortable not long ago. A couple of months, perhaps?"

I hum, thinking about what could have made her feel that way.

"It has to do with why you were at the gala tonight?"

She chuckles, nodding.

"Kind of. Remember I told you I wanted to prove myself something? Well, it has to do with what has been bothering me," she prefaces.

(Y/N) relates how things have gone well since she got into the FBI. She felt respected, wanting to do many things and learn everything she could. 

That's how she met her boyfriend.

"I wasn't looking for a romantic relationship, much less at work. I wanted to be professional, separating my private life from my job. But he was so attentive and supportive. He always told me he was happy I felt fulfilled with what I was doing. He was so perfect I thought I had found my soulmate."

I don't know exactly where she is going, but sure as hell, that prick wasn't her soulmate.

"What happened?"

"One day, I wasn't good enough for him anymore. After two years of relationship, he started with harsh comments and criticism about everything I did and didn't do."

A humorless chuckle escapes her lips.

"I should have noticed. By then, he was promoted from desk duty and junior trainee to field agent. He had always wanted it, and I felt so happy for him. But that changed everything."

(Y/N) tells me about how her boyfriend stopped listening to her, and instead, every topic of conversation turned to his job, implying - sometimes saying it explicitly - that it was more important than hers.

"It's not only the fact we stopped communicating; it was realizing how low he thought about me and my accomplishments. At first, I tried to understand. Of course, he was dazed by this new life, full of danger and adrenaline. I could understand it. But when he started comparing me to his female colleagues and the things they were doing, way more important than the ones I was doing, it made me insecure."

(Y/N) takes time to collect her thoughts, sipping the remaining coffee from the cup.

"The insecurities got the best of me. At some point, I just wanted to run away and leave it all behind. I knew it was irrational, but I believed him. I even thought about changing my career and training to be a field agent. Good thing we broke up before I could do that," she admits.

"What stopped you? I mean, like you're telling this, you were going to change for him," I ask. She cast her gaze, averting mine. Her cheeks turn pink.

"I don't like to admit it, but the reason we broke up wasn't because I realized how stupid the situation was. We broke up because he cheated on me. I discovered it two months ago, breaking the camel's back."

Fuck. That prick was not meant to be her soulmate. And I feel the urge to have one or two words with him right now.

"I'm sorry." It's the only thing I manage to say. (Y/N) shakes her head.

"Nah. If anything, I'm glad it happened. Even if it broke my heart."

"He was at the gala, right?" (Y/N) nods.

"With the coworker that he chose to cheat on me. His current girlfriend."

Everything makes perfect sense now. (Y/N) was trying to prove to herself that the wound had healed. And from what she said earlier, it didn't turn that way.

She bitterly chuckles.

"Yeah. It's pathetic, I know."

Spencer, do something.

"No! It's not. Unfortunately, cheating is not uncommon, particularly in men. In 2020, IFS released a report stating that 20% of men have admitted to cheating, and only 10% have. In 2021, the Health Testing Centers asked 441 people who admitted infidelity to their partners and asked how long it took for them to tell their partners about it. 47.7% of the respondents told their partner within a week that they'd cheated. 26.6% of those have waited for a month, and 25.7% took six months or longer to tell their partner about the infidelity. And 60% of them said the affair started in a work environment."

And then again, the rambling. But instead of giving me a blank look, (Y/N) seems to consider what I just said.

"Maybe I shouldn't feel so bad about it then. Anyway, it hasn't been easy to get out of this. I thought going to the gala and forcing myself to see them together would be enough to get a closure," she reflects.

"But it still hurts," I supply, making (Y/N) hum.

"Yeah. I'm not ready, and it sucks. Not for him, but for me. I hate feeling so out of place, so dissatisfied with everything," (Y/N) retorts, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest.

Her eyes look sad, and I want to do something to fix it, although I know that nothing I can say would be enough. Maybe joking will at least get her off the topic.

"And there I was talking about oysters all night," I sigh, feigning disapproval. Genuine laughter escapes her lips.

I didn't know that making her laugh could fill my heart so much with satisfaction.

"That's life," she adds, now checking the time on her cell phone. "I think I'll get going," she announces, collecting her things and preparing to stand.

"Can I walk you home? It's very late already," I ask.

"Oh no, don't worry about me. My building is not far from here."

I know she doesn't want to cause trouble, but it makes me uneasy about what could happen to her walking alone at this hour.

Thank you, BAU.

"Please?" I insist. (Y/N) raises an eyebrow.

"Aren't you already fed up with me?" she asks curiously.

"Non yet," I grin.

Not having the energy to put up a fight, she accepts my offer, and after paying the bill, we leave the restaurant.

The night is colder now, and both of us walk in silence with our hands in our pockets.

I can't know what exactly she's thinking, but at least I can't stop thinking about tonight. For someone like me, it's hard to fall into spontaneity, but with (Y/N), it wasn't a problem. That amazes me, and I like it at the same time.

When she stops walking, I get out of my thoughts.

"Here," she says, looking at the building we are standing by. "Thank you for walking with me," (Y/N) states, smiling. It's the same warm smile she offered when I found her on the venue's terrace a couple of hours ago.

"Of course. It's the less I could do."

And I mean it. She saved my night in so many ways she doesn't even know.

"Well, I need to say it was a pleasure to share this shit of a night with you and turned it less shitty," she says, grinning and satisfied with her remark.

I laugh at her statement. I couldn't have said it better.

"Thank you. It's the best compliment I have had in a long time," I joke, making (Y/N) giggle.

"You are welcome."

I have the question on the tip of my tongue. I would love to see her again, but what if she doesn't think it's worth it? I opt for the vaguest thing that comes to mind.

"See you around?"

(Y/N) thinks about it for a moment. Am I being too obvious? Before falling into a spiral, she smiles at me again.

"Yeah, sure. Why not."

I can't help but feel the excitement pouring from me.

"Great! Well, I - I'll go now. Good night (Y/N)," I say goodbye, slowly walking backward.

"Good night, Spencer," she retorts before entering the building.

I watch her disappear behind the door, and I think that while neither of us got what we wanted, maybe we got what we needed.

-------------

Next -> Part 2: It Was Horrible Until It Wasn’t

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A/N 2: I'm excited to know your thoughts about this!

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Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity

[feinzleclerc]

𝗦𝗧𝗬𝗟𝗘 | CS55

.||✧ pairing ; carlos sainz x journalist!fem! reader

.||✧ summary ; Where you and Carlos have been broken up for more than two years, but suddenly you meet again on a random set to film a perfume commercial. After all, you never go out of style.

.||✧ warnings ; [main warning] English is not my first language

.||✧ word count ; 2.7k word

notes ; masterlist & sportify

Your heart froze, and you could barely believe what you saw before you. The set was chaotic—stylists rushing one way, makeup artists darting another. But the moment you spotted him standing just a few steps away, everything else faded, if only for a second.

Who would’ve thought the star of the commercial you’d been cast in would be Carlos Sainz —your ex-boyfriend, the man you hadn’t seen in two years?

And when he walked onto the set, impeccable in a beige blazer, hair deliberately tousled, gaze sharp yet unsettled, your heart skipped more beats than it already had. You saw the genuine surprise flash across his face, your own breath catching in your throat.

— Hey! — someone from production called out. — (Your name), please! Come with me!

A gentle hand touched your shoulder, guiding you to a nearby dressing room. Inside, a makeup artist waited. Sit down, sweetheart.

— I think I need water. — you muttered, your mouth dry.

— You’re pale! — the makeup artist handed you the bottle you’d asked for.

Then again, who wouldn’t go pale in this situation?

But… how could you even begin to explain your history with Sainz?

[FLASHBACK]

You’d met in Madrid, where you’d gone to interview a French football coach about to take over a major club. Your schedule was tight, your mind focused: interviews, deadlines, coffee, then home. No distractions. Until the Spanish embassy’s PR manager tipped you off:

— There’s a gala tonight. Sports crowd only. Great networking.

You almost said no. High heels sounded exhausting. But you went. After all, a little networking never killed anyone.

And that’s where you saw him for the first time.

Carlos wore a navy-blue tuxedo, his hair slightly messy, a smile that said, I know you recognize me.

You tried to ignore him. Focused on your wine, the menu, small talk with some retired defender-turned-commentator. But he noticed you.

He’d always been good with curves, whether on the track or in conversation.

— You’re the journalist who asked if Mbappé understands Brazilian football, right? — He appeared at your table when you least expected it.

You turned, startled.

— And you’re the driver who’s hopelessly in love with Real Madrid?

His grin was dazzling.

— Exactly, cariño.

That night became a turning point. Between jokes about football and Formula 1, between teasing and lingering glances, something sparked. An electric chemistry. A slow-burning flirtation. He asked you out for coffee the next day. You said it wouldn’t be professional. But Carlos wasn’t the type to give up easily, he spent the rest of the night inventing a thousand reasons why you had to go.

You went. And kept going. Again and again.

The relationship unfolded slowly but intensely. He’d text you right after races:

“Podium today. Would’ve been better if you were there."

You’d pretend not to smile, sitting through yet another press conference with grumpy coaches. He’d call you in the middle of the night, from the other side of the world, just to hear you say he was more than a pretty face and a pole position.

You traveled in secret. Hotel rooms with blackout curtains. Breakfast in bed, muffled laughter, fingers tangled under the sheets. No one could know.

For months, it worked. Then the first leaked photos surfaced, and the fans weren’t kind. The world wasn’t gentle, that much was a fact.

“She doesn’t match him.”

“This is a scam.”

“Carlos, open your eyes.”

You held on. For a while.He swore it would pass. That love was stronger. That it was just noise.

But the noise became silence. He stopped defending you publicly. Stopped including you in his victories.

On your last trip together, you argued in the hotel hallway. You said you were tired of hiding. He said he didn’t know how to handle it.

— I thought I loved you enough to wait for you to grow up. But I’m tired of being invisible.

He lowered his head. Said nothing. That night, you left before his flight. There was no explosive fight. Just a quiet surrender. What was supposed to last forever turned to silence.

Yet the world kept repeating both your names, like an echo that never faded. Because even apart, you never went out of style.

[PRESENT DAY]

Two years without a single message. Not even a sign. And now, you were about to play a couple on camera. A cruel twist of fate, or a tasteless joke by that eccentric director.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the chaos inside. But it was impossible. Every part of you still recognized Carlos, the curve of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed when he was unsettled. And there he was. The makeup artist had just started on your face when you muttered.

— This is a nightmare.

— An ex? — you nodded.

— That’s a problem. A big one.

He kept murmuring, but you barely listened. Your mind had already dragged you back two years, to your last night together. The hotel in Barcelona. The smell of coffee in the room. His suitcase tossed on the sofa. Your toothbrush beside his in the glass.

And then… silence.

The absence.

That breakup wasn’t dramatic. No explosive fights, no words meant to wound. But the pain? That was sharp. Because you’d loved each other.

You just hadn’t known how to handle everything that came with it, the pressure, the fans, the judgment, the distance.

Carlos had pulled away slowly. And you’d retreated, refusing to beg for a place in his life.

Until one day, neither of you called. And no one answered anymore. Now, in the blink of an eye, you were ready—forced to leave the dressing room, step onto the set, and finally face Sainz.

If you’d survived losing him, you’d survive this reunion.

The set lights were brighter than you remembered from any other job. Carlos stood a few feet away, adjusting the collar of his white shirt while a stylist meticulously rolled up his sleeves.

You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Then, the director explained the first shot:

— You’ll meet on the terrace, elegant dinner, warm night, candles lit. The perfume is the invisible thread between you. I want restrained desire. A past that still weighs heavy, but also attraction. Lots of looks, minimal touch.

— Restrained desire. A past that still weighs heavy.

You bit your lip. The irony of this script practically screamed the truth no one here knew. Or maybe they did—and were pretending not to.

Carlos stepped closer. He walked the same way you remembered: confident, but with a hint of laziness.

A charm that always seemed effortless. And that always unraveled you. He stopped inches away.

His cologne invaded your space. But it was him that dominated the air, that mix of leather, wind, and something else you could never name. Only feel.

— I had no idea… — he murmured, barely moving his lips.

You didn’t answer. Just held his gaze. In that brief silence, time seemed to collapse.

Two years condensed into a single second.

— Scene one, take one… Action!

You turned slowly, as the script demanded. Your black dress fluttered slightly in the artificial breeze from the fans. When your eyes met his, as if for the first time, the world blurred around you.

Carlos held your stare, steady. But there was something else there. A faltering breath.

He was supposed to walk to you. Take your hand. Lead you to the table like the gentleman in the commercial. But instead, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. And you saw it.

Carlos still remembered. The way you’d lace your fingers with his when you walked. The way you’d whisper *“good luck”* before his races.

The kiss you’d press to his shoulder when he returned exhausted from a Grand Prix weekend.

He took your hand gently, but his fingers took too long to settle. Like slipping into an old piece of clothing—familiar, but tighter with time.

You followed him to the table. Both of you sat.

Two wine glasses, candles, and the silence of people who’d said everything, yet left everything unfinished.

— Look at each other. — the director instructed.

You turned slowly, meeting Carlos’s gaze with an intensity that wasn’t acting. He matched it. And in that frozen moment, you knew:

He hadn’t moved on either.

And he hated still feeling it.

— Cut! — the director clapped. — Perfect! The tension was palpable. You two have insane chemistry.

“Insane chemistry.” Oh, if only he knew the price that chemistry had cost…

Carlos released your hand almost reverently. But his eyes—those damned brown eyes—didn’t look away. You stood, heat rising to your cheeks.

— Ready for the next scene? — someone from production asked.

But all you wanted was to run. Or maybe… to ask why he left. Why he never reached out.

Why, after all this time, one glance from him could still stop your world.

During the break, you leaned against the dressing room wall, clutching an iced coffee. Your fingers trembled. The scene had been quick, scripted, professional, but none of it felt like acting. And that was the problem.

The door creaked open slowly. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

Carlos closed it quietly. He still wore the beige blazer, sleeves now rolled up, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

— Can I come in? — he asked. You nodded.

Silence.

— I swear I didn’t know. — he finally said.

— Me neither. If I had, I wouldn’t have taken this job. — Your voice was steady but low, a warning disguised as hurt.

— I thought you… didn’t even want to hear my name.

— I didn’t.

Carlos exhaled deeply. He sat across from you but kept his distance. His eyes traced yours, searching for a crack to slip back into.

— Are you still mad at me? — you let out a humorless laugh.

— That was two years ago. I’m not mad. Just… trying not to fall into the same trap.

He looked down.

— We were young. I messed up. You did too.

— You messed up more. — you fired back. — You cut me out like I meant nothing. One day I was the love of your life, the next you were ‘Carlos Sainz, F1’s most eligible bachelor.’ Easy as that.

[FLASHBACK — Monaco]

You were on a balcony overlooking the sea. Grand Prix night. You wore one of his dress shirts, hair damp from the shower, feet in his lap as his fingers traced idle patterns on your calf.

— Do you think the world would ever accept us? — you whispered.

— I don’t care about the world. — he said. — I care about you.

And that night, he made you believe it.

[PRESENT DAY]

You looked away.

— The fans never liked me. Remember? I was ‘the football girl,’ ‘Sainz’s distraction,’ ‘the one who knew nothing about cars.’ I read every comment.

— So did I. — his voice wavered.

You finally met his eyes. For the first time, he looked small. Fragile. Lost. As if only now realizing the depth of the scars.

— I ended it… because I thought I was protecting you. That if you stepped out of my shadow, my world, you could grow on your own. That it’d be better for you.

— You didn’t get to decide that for me.

He had no reply. The silence now was heavier. Not with anger. But with everything that never had the chance to unfold.

The door opened again. A producer glanced between you both with a strained smile.

— Sorry to interrupt, but we need you. Next scene’s the kiss.

Carlos looked at you. And for the first time in two years, asked:

— Can you do this?

— I don’t know.

[FLASHBACK — Six Months Before the Breakup]

You were on a small rooftop, sharing a cheap bottle of wine and laughing about absolutely nothing. Carlos tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

— You know, when I kiss you, it’s like time stops?

You laughed, thinking he was exaggerating. — I’m serious. — he said. — You’re my favorite kind of time.

[ — ]

— You okay? — he whispered, his nose almost brushing yours. You nodded, your throat dry. His hands slid up your back.

— Ready? — the director shouted.

Carlos held your gaze one last time, then slowly pressed his lips to yours. The first touch was cautious, hesitant, like stepping onto cracked ground. But when he felt you respond, the tension shattered. The kiss deepened. Grew urgent. And within seconds, you were just like before: as if you’d never been apart.

His hands gripped your waist like he was memorizing it. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly, something you always did when breathless, something he’d always laugh about afterward. But no one was laughing now.

It was just old desire. Pent-up hurt. Two years of swallowed screams pouring out in the most intimate way possible.

— Cut! — the director yelled. — Yes! Perfect! That was beautiful, that was real!

You pulled apart slowly. His eyes were red. Yours too. But neither of you spoke. Not yet.

Carlos wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb, a slow, familiar gesture. Something silly and achingly old.

— Didn’t know it’d still hurt this much. — he admitted.

You swallowed hard. — Wait for me in the dressing room after. We need to talk. For real this time.

[4 MONTHS LATER]

The sky was shifting colors, bleeding into burnt gold and orange. The sea breeze tangled your hair and carried that salty scent only the beach could. Carlos sat beside you in the sand, legs stretched out, sunglasses pushed atop his head.

— Thought you’d have left straight for the hotel. —you remarked, tossing a pebble into the water.

— Thought you’d have called a taxi mid-shoot. — he shot back, the ghost of a smirk at his lips. You huffed a laugh.

— Been a while since you’ve been here? — you asked.

— Since last summer. The one with the chaotic race and those terrible tapas.

You side-eyed him. — The one where you swore you spoke Catalan?

Carlos feigned offense. — I do speak Catalan. I just chose not to—to impress you.

You shook your head, grinning.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy. Nostalgic. The kind of quiet you only share with someone you’ve known long enough not to fill every space with words.

— The sunset’s pretty today. — you said, almost to yourself.

— Barcelona does sunsets right. — he agreed. — But you still win.

You scoffed, giving him your most unimpressed look.

— That was terrible, Sainz.

— Still got a smile. Mission accomplished.

The sun dipped lower, kissing the sea. A couple jogged past along the shore. A dog barked in the distance. The city’s lights began flickering to life.

— Y’know… I forget how good this feels. — you murmured, sifting sand through your fingers. — Just sitting here. Watching the water.

Carlos snapped his fingers. — We could make it a habit. Chance reunions, always by the sea. Next time, maybe Rome?

— Maybe. — you said, promising nothing.

As the sun faded, you thought that of all the ways to end a day, this was one of your favorites. Light. Quiet. Almost as if life wasn’t so messy after all.

[literaryavenger]

Careless

Summary: Part 2 of Thoughtful.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avengers!Reader

Warnings: My poor attempts at being funny. No use of Y/N. Fluff. Angst. Tony being kind of an asshole. Bucky's self-deprecating thoughts. Reader being clueless.

Word Count: 1K

A/N: I keep having no idea what this is, I have no endgame but I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | Part 1

Stark parties are a hassle. Tony always insists on the team dressing up, cocktail dresses, tuxedos and all that.

So that’s why you’re all dolled up right now, a black sparkly floor-length gown that highlights your curves perfectly with a slit that goes up your left thigh with black stilettos, your hair curled perfectly and your make-up on point thanks to Natasha and Wanda, gold hoop earrings finishing the ensemble.

The only thing that looks like it doesn’t belong on your right now are Bucky’s dog tags hanging from your neck.

Things with Bucky have been going relatively good, you’re not really dating but neither of you let a moment pass without trying to flirt with each other. You enjoy the attention he only gives you and he enjoys making you flustered.

You’ve even managed to make him blush himself a few times.

You haven’t taken his dog tags off since that morning Bucky put them on you, and that’s not gone unnoticed by the team who have had a field day teasing you about it. Just never enough to bother you and make you want to take them off.

Until now.

“Come on, they look so out of place!” Tony says while chuckling as you roll your eyes, drink in hand while you stand in the middle of the party while talking with Tony, Scott and Maria.

“Leave her alone, Stark.” Maria comes to your defense and you give her a grateful smile. All the girls think it’s adorable that you wear Bucky’s tags.

“He’s not wrong, though.” Scott chimes in. “That’s a beautiful get up, but the tags stand out, and not in a good way.”

Anyone else, you’d be creeped out, but you know Scott is in a happy relationship with Hope and he doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s more of a girlfriend at this point.

“I don’t care.” You say simply, sipping your drink. “I like them, and I’m not taking them off.”

“You haven’t taken them off in weeks.” Tony points out, a dangerous smirk starting to grow on his face. “Could it have anything to do with the particular soldier that gave them to you?”

You roll your eyes, knowing where Tony’s going with this because he’s gone there countless times now.

“It has nothing to do with Bucky, I just like them.” You say causally.

“You like him.” Tony says childishly while the other two snicker at your groan. “Maybe you even love him.”

You scoff and almost glare at Tony. “I don’t love him.”

“Then prove it.” Tony says without missing a beat. Obviously he has you exactly where he wants you. “Take them off.”

“What would that even prove?” You roll your eyes again.

“Prove to me that they don’t mean as much to you as I think they do. Take them off.” He keeps grinning at you, challenging you.

“You’re a child.” You say simply, having no intention to accept this silly challenge.

“Yes, I am.” He says and all four of you chuckle, before Tony takes it one step further. “Take them off for a week and I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”

You give him an unimpressed look. It’s not a surprise, Tony’s known to do this kind of thing all the time. He once bet Sam twenty thousand dollars if he went streaking for at least 4 blocks around the tower.

His ‘falcon’ was on the paper the next day.

“Come on, if you’re so sure I’m wrong, why not make some money off my arrogance.” Tony says with a smirk when you narrow your eyes at him, he knows you’re considering it.

“Fine.” You say after a pause. You hesitantly take the tags off and put them on Tony’s outstretched hand. It’s only a week and it doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself.

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky saw the whole thing from a distance. And it meant plenty to him.

He couldn’t hear what you were saying even with his enhanced hearing because you were far away and the party noise was almost deafening, but Bucky saw you clearly as you took off his tags and gave them to Tony.

To Tony.

Did they not mean as much to you as they did to him? Was this whole thing just a joke to you? Was he making a fool out of himself thinking you liked him as much as he liked you? Maybe you just liked the attention. Maybe you were fucking with him, having fun at his expense because he convinced himself you like him, because how could he even think someone like you actually likes him? Maybe you’ve been laughing behind his back while he’s been falling for yo-

“Hey, Sergeant Grumpy.” His thoughts are interrupted by your playful voice that just a minute ago was the single greatest sound that he wanted as the soundtrack of his existence for the rest of his life.

But right now, it’s making his nostrils flare with barely contained anger while he almost glares at you.

You think nothing of it, convincing yourself that maybe the party is making him anxious like it usually does. After all, Bucky doesn’t do good with strangers.

Or maybe Sam has been getting on his nerves more than usual tonight. Whatever it is, you want to make him feel better.

So you wrap your hand around the tie of his suit and pull him towards you a little, copying the move he’s now done countless times with his dog tags around your neck.

“You wanna hear something funny?” You ask playfully, wanting to tell him about the bet you just made with Tony and thinking Bucky will get a kick out of it and it’ll take his mind off of whatever has him in a bad mood.

But you get no chance to say anything more since he takes your hand away from his tie.

“Leave me alone.” He says with a harsh tone you’ve never heard him use towards anyone, let alone you. “Forever.”

That said, he walks off and out of the room in the direction of his quarters without giving you a second glance, leaving you to look after him, too dumbfounded as your mind tries to play catch-up.

What the hell just happened?

Requested Taglist: @marvelcasey05 @ordelixx @alltoounwellread @capswife @sapphirebarnes @rio-reid-whoreee @theunknownmarveluser @alltoowellread @a-very-fictional-girl @geeky-politics-46 @winters1917 @yujyujj @blackhawkfanatic @hot-cheeto5739 @shortnloud @disneychic8 @unaxv @ziyahs-world

[w1w2]

Messy

Part 1 | Next part

Rosé x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 7k

Rosé - Messy

"Baby, I'm obsessed with you and there's no replica Maybe if it's messy, if it's messy, if it's messy Then you know it's really love.."

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

The Parisian winter had a way of sneaking into your bones, not with brute cold, but with elegance. It whispered through the streets like cigarette smoke, curling around ankles, slipping into the spaces between silk and skin. Outside the Bourse de Commerce, where YSL’s latest collection was set to unveil, the air shimmered with anticipation. Flashbulbs popped in manic rhythm, drivers idled at the curb in sleek black cars, and just beyond the velvet rope, fashion’s elite were already assembling like constellations waiting to align.

The door of a matte black car eased open and Y/N stepped out. One heel touching the wet pavement like a punctuation mark. The moment she rose to full height, the cameras found her. 

All of them.

A wall of sound, shutters, murmurs, her name called in accents that turned her initials into something foreign and reverent.

She wore a tailored black tuxedo with a satin collar, sharp enough to cut through glass. Underneath, no blouse. Just skin, a deep V, and a sliver of gold, a minimalist chain peeking from beneath the lapel. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, soft tendrils framing her face in deliberate chaos. The kind of effort that whispered “I don’t need to try.”

No logos, no team patches, no lanyard with access codes. 

Just YSL and her.

She paused on the carpet, letting them have their shot, her expression unreadable, somewhere between "I know exactly what I’m doing" and "I dare you to ask me why I’m here." Her fingers curled lightly around the small black clutch in her hand. It wasn’t her helmet, but it still felt like armor.

Truthfully, she felt off balance. This wasn’t her track, it wasn’t a grid or a starting line, there was no roar of engines, no headsets crackling in her ear. The adrenaline was different here, more glitter than gasoline.

But it buzzed under her skin just the same.

She inhaled slowly. The air smelled like cold stone, champagne, and something floral, probably whatever the latest YSL fragrance was, misted into the air like a spell.

This world wasn’t unfamiliar, not completely. She’d done press, she’d sat front row at team sponsor events, smiled through awkward interviews in languages she barely understood. But this was the first time she was the guest, no one behind her telling her what to say, no teammate by her side.

And from the looks of it, they were all watching her like she’d already said everything.

Eyes forward, shoulders down. “Don't shrink,” she told herself, repeating the mental drill she'd used since karting days. Confidence wasn't just posture, it was performance.

She stepped off the carpet, into the lobby of the venue, where the lighting dimmed to a moody gold and voices dropped into low murmurs. Stylists, models, celebrities, all dressed like a dream, mingled in loose clusters, too polished to look excited, but not indifferent enough to hide the glances they threw her way.

She didn’t return them, didn’t need to.

Rosé was already there.

Front row, in a strapless white dress with soft ruffled detailing that caught the light when she moved, which wasn’t often. Her heels crossed at the ankle, just visible beneath the hem. A single bold gold bangle wrapped around her wrist, gleaming against her skin. Her posture was relaxed, regal in its simplicity, and her hair, loosely styled, framed her face in soft waves that softened the edges of her presence without diminishing its impact.

Rosé sat with the kind of composure that came not from performance, but from habit. A stillness learned over years of stages, cameras, curated rooms. She didn’t shift, didn’t fidget. Her attention wandered only slightly, glancing across the crowd with the faint smile of someone who had already seen this all before.

Around her, the space murmured with pre-show anticipation. Conversations were soft but pointed, the kind that floated above designer perfumes and the subtle clink of fine glassware. Editors chatted, photographers checked lenses, stylists whispered critiques they’d deny giving later. Rosé had made the rounds already, brief embraces, air kisses, the sort of interactions that skimmed the surface but never dipped deep enough to touch anything real. It was the performance before the performance, and she knew it by heart.

She was smiling politely at someone across the aisle when something shifted, not in the show, which hadn’t yet begun, but in the atmosphere.

A ripple in the room’s composure.

The change came in sound first, the cadence of camera shutters outside the entrance, once scattered and rhythmic, suddenly converged into a staccato burst. Sharper, urgent, like something, or someone, had stepped into the spotlight and turned it all up a notch. Rosé tilted her head toward the source without any real urgency. She’d seen it all before, actors arriving fashionably late, influencers hoping for relevance in someone else’s seat.

But then she saw her.

The entrance was framed by gold doors, and in the center of them stood a woman whose silhouette disrupted the room’s polished sameness with disarming ease. She was tall, dressed in an impeccably cut black suit that defied the standard of overaccessorized drama. There were no obvious designer markers, no sparkle, no embellishment, just clean lines and a presence that didn’t require permission.

Her steps were confident but unhurried, heels tapping against the marble floor in a rhythm that sounded like certainty. She wasn’t looking for cameras or company, she wasn’t smiling to please anyone. She was just moving through the space like she belonged to no one and somehow, that made her belong everywhere.

Rosé’s gaze narrowed slightly, sharpened by something she didn’t yet name. As the woman turned to follow the usher toward her seat, her face caught the light, and in that instant, recognition locked in.

Y/N.

The name came to her before she could stop it. Not because someone said it, but because she’d seen it enough times to memorize the angles. Press coverage, editorial shoots, a campaign with TAG Heuer, and of course, on the track.

On podiums, in motion.

Y/N, the first female driver on the grid. McLaren’s wildcard, a media sensation, a name that had leapt off the sports pages and landed firmly in global culture. Rosé had scrolled past her photos more times than she could admit. But standing here, in person? Y/N was something else entirely, not just beautiful, but arresting, unfiltered and present in a way most people weren’t, especially in rooms like this one.

“She’s the one they’ve been courting,” came a voice behind her, her manager, leaning in with a half smile. “YSL’s trying to lock her down as their next face. Big fanbase, she’s the real deal.”

Rosé didn’t answer right away. Her eyes never left Y/N, who was now settling into her seat with an ease that made her presence feel inevitable. She wasn’t pulling out a phone or adjusting her outfit for attention, she simply crossed one leg over the other, rested her arm along the back of the chair beside her, and took in the space like she was studying it, not trying to impress it.

“I’ve seen her,” Rosé finally murmured, and her voice was quieter than she expected. The syllables felt more like a thought escaping than something she meant to say aloud.

And it was true, she had watched the races, not all of them, but enough to remember Y/N’s name, her driving style, the intensity behind every overtake. There was something cinematic about the way she moved even on a track. Precision layered over instinct, a mind that could calculate risk in real time without flinching.

That same energy lived in her now, only redirected, distilled into stillness instead of speed.

Rosé felt something shift in her chest, subtle but unmistakable. She couldn’t tell if it was admiration or intrigue, maybe both. There was a control in Y/N’s demeanor that Rosé found rare in this world, not the kind that begged for attention, but the kind that drew it naturally. The kind of magnetism that didn’t ask to be noticed but made you look twice anyway.

“She doesn’t look like anyone else in this room,” Rosé said softly.

And that was the truth of it.

Everyone else here had been styled to fit the narrative. Y/N had simply walked in and rewritten it. Rosé adjusted slightly in her seat, her spine straightening just a bit as she studied the other woman from her vantage point. She wasn’t in the habit of pursuing people at events like this, too much effort, too little reward. 

But tonight? Something about Y/N tugged at her attention like a thread waiting to be pulled. She didn’t know yet if it was curiosity, attraction, or something more complicated, but she knew that she wasn’t going to let the night end without at least hearing Y/N speak.

After all, she already knew how the collection would look, Y/N was the only piece in the room she hadn’t seen before.

The afterparty lived in warm shadows and carefully designed indulgence, tucked inside a private venue that didn't need a name. There was no signage outside, no line, no chaos, just a black door on a narrow street near the Seine and a man in a sharply tailored suit who opened it without asking your name if he already knew it.

Inside, the world shifted.

It was like stepping into a secret. The ceilings were low and intimate, designed not to contain but to pull people closer, velvet drapes in deep charcoal lined the walls, muting the outside world entirely. The air carried the scent of something expensive and hard to name, leather, spice, a twist of citrus, mingling with warm skin, champagne, and the ghost of too many designer perfumes.

The lighting was deliberate, as if someone had spent hours perfecting the exact wattage of golden glow, chandelier crystals caught and scattered the light like glass raindrops, casting soft reflections on silk dresses and polished shoes. Pockets of brightness illuminated cheekbones and sequins, but always left enough in shadow to keep a sense of mystery. No one was fully visible, no one wanted to be.

The music pulsed low and slow, the kind of beat designed to settle into your bones without interrupting conversation. It was modern but smooth, vocals buried beneath rhythm, all suggestion and breath. Bass threaded through the floorboards and up your spine, syncing with the tempo of moving bodies and half-formed thoughts.

It was the kind of place where the walls never echoed, where laughter was rich and subdued, and where every movement seemed slightly slowed, like the party was underwater, or maybe underwater in silk. Time didn’t stop here, but it definitely forgot to hurry.

People stood in curated circles, glasses of something amber or clear in hand, sleeves pushed up, collars artfully undone, smiles carefully lazy. Editors with pinched expressions leaned in toward designers with cigarette thin wrists, models draped themselves over the arms of velvet chairs like silk scarves left in passing. You couldn’t always tell who was famous, which was the point.

It smelled like wealth, but not new wealth, old money worn casually, tucked inside vintage leather clutches. The kind of money that didn’t try too hard, the kind that had nothing to prove.

And above it all, a current of performance that no one admitted to. The slow turning of heads when the door opened, the split second judgment behind every glance, the soft war between being seen and seeming untouched by it.

It was beautiful, pretentious and addictive.

And for now? It was Y/N’s stage, whether she wanted it or not.

She stood near the bar, the stem of a glass resting lightly between her fingers, its condensation dripping in slow trails across her knuckles. The chilled glass left a delicate print against the warmth of her skin, something solid to focus on while the noise of the room floated around her like background static.

Someone beside her, tall, wearing something sheer and architectural, was halfway through a story about Milan. A show that ran an hour late, a designer’s tantrum, something about feathers being flown in from Morocco. Y/N nodded along, polite, engaged in the way people are when they’re listening but not really registering. She couldn’t even remember if she’d been introduced to them. Probably a stylist, or maybe a creative director, or just someone with good bone structure and the kind of confidence that didn’t ask questions.

She wasn’t trying to be rude, she was just distracted.

This world, this dim, gilded cocoon of whispered names and calculated nonchalance, wasn’t foreign to her, but it still felt like stepping sideways into someone else’s life. She’d done galas, brand dinners, even one or two campaign shoots where she’d had to learn how to pose without looking like she was trying to win something. But this? The post-show scene, full of microhierarchies and coded glances? Was a different arena altogether.

Still, she could play the part.

Her black shirt was unbuttoned just enough to feel easy, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like she’d done it without a mirror. The collar sat open, relaxed. The leather jacket was draped over one shoulder, not worn, because wearing it would have made it look like she was trying. It wasn’t about warmth anyway, it was armor, a finishing piece. Her dark slacks were pressed and precise, and her sunglasses still rested on the bridge of her nose, low enough to make eye contact optional. A statement, not a shield. Though, maybe both.

She looked the part, more than that, she looked good. She could feel it in the way people glanced at her over their glasses and in the way conversations paused when she passed. But beneath the polish, her pulse stayed steady, unimpressed. Detached in that quiet, centered way she’d learned on racetracks.

What they didn’t know was that she was trained for this kind of pressure, the unsaid kind. The kind that watched and waited for cracks, this wasn’t a circuit, but the tension wasn’t all that different.

There were no screaming fans tonight, no autograph lines or chants of her name. This attention was quieter, sharper, it came in glances that lingered half a second too long, in whispered questions disguised as compliments.

“Is that her?” “She’s even better looking in person.” “I didn’t know she cleaned up like this.”

She felt it. 

The weight of observation, but it didn’t rattle her. Not exactly, it just kept her alert, the way an engine did when it purred beneath her, waiting to launch.

She brought her drink to her lips again, letting the edge of the glass touch her bottom lip before she took a slow sip. The corners of her mouth curled slightly, not into a smile, exactly. Just the hint of one, a flicker of amusement at nothing in particular, or maybe at herself for pretending she didn’t find this all strangely entertaining.

And then something shifted.

Not loud, not visible to anyone else, probably. But to her? Unmistakable.

The music didn’t change, but it felt like the air thinned, like the molecules around her had suddenly been rearranged. Her body responded before her brain caught up, a straightening of the spine, a pause mid-sip, a subtle stillness settling over her limbs.

The room hadn’t changed.

But someone had just walked into it.

Y/N’s attention tilted before she even knew why, a flicker in her periphery, a ripple that moved from one side of the room to the other, like champagne just beginning to fizz.

She turned her head, just slightly, just enough.

And there she was.

Rosé stepped into the room as if she’d always been part of it, not interrupting, not performing, simply becoming the moment without asking for permission. She wasn’t announced, and yet the room realigned around her, people parting like silk drawn through fingers as she moved with quiet command.

She had changed, of course she had.

The soft white of the runway dress was gone, replaced by something sharper, a black off the shoulder dress that clung to her like a second thought sculpted in fabric. It ended mid thigh, leaving just enough to the imagination and nothing to chance. Simple, but deliberate. It didn’t sparkle, it didn’t shout, it whispered luxury, confidence, and precision, the kind of dress that made statements without ever raising its voice.

Her skin glowed under the low light, a soft sheen tracing her collarbones, her shoulders bare and luminous. A single gold bracelet wrapped around her wrist like a signature, her heels made no sound, but the room seemed to know they were there, tracking her movement even if eyes pretended not to.

Her hair fell in gentle waves around her face, a few strands brushing her cheek with every step. She looked like she’d stepped out of a film, not one from this decade, something older, something timeless.

And Y/N watched her without meaning to.

Not staring, just taking her in. Carefully, quietly, like watching a storm roll in from the edge of a calm sea, knowing it wouldn’t touch her yet, but feeling the electricity all the same.

Rosé’s eyes scanned the room, but not with idle interest. She wasn’t grazing, she was searching with intention. She moved past conversations and bodies angled toward her in thinly veiled hope. Past designers in sharp lapels, models laughing too loudly, men and women with eyes too quick to catch.

She didn’t stop for any of them.

And when her gaze finally landed, it did so without hesitation.

On her.

On Y/N.

For the briefest moment, the room disappeared, the crowd, the music, the weight of attention that had been draped across Y/N’s shoulders all night.

It all fell away.

Rosé’s expression didn’t shift, no smile yet, no raised brow, just recognition, like this was exactly where she meant to arrive. Like this was the reason she’d come at all.

And across the space, Y/N’s fingers loosened slightly on the stem of her glass.

Rosé didn’t hesitate.

There was no flicker of doubt in her steps, no glance downward to adjust a hem, no pause for effect. She didn’t reach for her phone, didn’t smooth her hair, she didn’t need to. She crossed the room with the kind of ease that wasn’t learned, it was owned. Like the music had changed tempo just for her, like the floor moved slightly out of respect.

She didn’t walk like someone chasing attention, she walked like someone used to getting it.

Y/N felt her presence before she saw her approach, not because the room noticed, but because the air around her shifted. Subtle, inevitable, like gravity leaning.

She didn’t turn her head right away, she kept her eyes on her glass, fingers tightening just slightly around the cool stem. Not nerves, no, just instinct. The kind that makes your body prepare for something important before your mind admits it.

And then, she looked up.

Rosé was already there, standing beside her at the bar, framed by gold light and shadow. Close, but not crowding. Present and quiet, for a moment.

She didn’t open with the usual. No “Hi, I’m Rosé,” or “Nice to meet you.” No fake surprise at finding her here. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes skimming from Y/N’s rolled sleeves to the leather jacket on her shoulder, to the sunglasses still resting just low enough to half conceal her gaze.

She smiled, slow and deliberate.

“You look better than half the models tonight,” she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around something sharper. “Or me. But I’ll forgive you.”

Y/N blinked once, then let out a short, genuine laugh, one of those caught off guard sounds that slipped through before she could catch it. Not because the line was clever, but because the delivery was effortless. No chase, no try.

She turned toward her fully then, reaching up to slide the sunglasses off her face, slow and natural, not to perform, not to show her eyes, but because she suddenly wanted to see Rosé clearly.

Now that she was here, up close, she looked impossible.

Y/N’s gaze swept from the off the shoulder line of Rosé’s dress to the bare shimmer of her collarbone, to the single gold bangle on her wrist, like everything she wore was chosen with no intention of impressing anyone but herself.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said, her voice low, her eyes steady as she gave her a once over without apology. “That dress is dangerous.”

Rosé smiled at that, not the faint, curated kind worn for photographers or social niceties. This one reached her eyes, it came with a slight tilt of her shoulders, like the compliment settled somewhere warmer than expected.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The music buzzed faintly in the background, steady and slow, and the crowd moved around them like a soft blur, but here, in this small radius of eye contact and shared quiet, the world narrowed.

Rosé leaned in just slightly, not enough to close the space, just enough to let her presence speak louder.

“I was hoping to find you,” she said.

And Y/N, feeling something strange and sharp pulse beneath her ribs, met her gaze with a calm smile of her own.

“Looks like you did.”

The afterparty had thinned without ever truly ending, like a song fading out instead of stopping. The volume dipped, the crowd softened.

Some guests had vanished quietly, slipping into chauffeured cars, their laughter echoing in hallways before the doors even closed behind them. Others were making vague promises about one last drink somewhere deeper in the city, places with red lights and no menus, places they probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

What remained in the room was a curated kind of residue, the ones too wired to sleep but too content to leave. The air was warm with perfume and fatigue, the music now more ambient than beat, a slow pulse of synth and bass barely rising above the whisper of conversation. Ice had melted in glasses, lipstick faded on rims, chairs had been pulled closer together, shoes long since abandoned.

Y/N and Rosé hadn’t moved.

They were still tucked into their corner, perched on a velvet bench half hidden behind a screen of palm fronds and flickering candlelight. Someone had lit votives on the windowsill behind them, and their glow danced across Rosé’s collarbone, catching in the loose strands of her hair and gilding her edges like a Renaissance painting, her heels sat abandoned beneath the bench, one strap trailing like a ribbon.

Y/N had one arm slung along the back of the cushion, her other hand loosely curled around her glass, idly watching the amber liquid shift as she turned it. She wasn’t drinking anymore, just moving, swirling, letting the rhythm of the moment guide her while her eyes drifted back to Rosé.

There was no urgency in the way they spoke now, no need to fill the silence, no fear of it either. Their conversation had slowed into something softer, the kind that didn’t follow a script, the kind that wandered, that paused in places most people would rush through.

They talked about strange things, beautiful things, the moment after a song is finished and before the audience claps. The loneliness of hotel rooms that cost too much, what it means to be watched and still feel unseen. Names came up, old friends, old fears, people they used to be, and people they were still pretending not to outgrow.

They didn’t look at their phones once.

Y/N had learned that Rosé didn’t like long silences in a crowd, said they made her skin crawl but craved them in private. That she felt safest when there was no pressure to perform, no expectation to respond. 

Rosé had learned something too. That Y/N sometimes felt more herself in a helmet at 300 km/h than in a room full of applause, that praise made her feel like a statue, admired, unmoving, held in place.

They’d laughed at that, quietly. Not out of irony, but recognition.

Now, they weren’t really talking anymore, not in full sentences, just letting thoughts drift and land where they wanted to. The party around them existed only in the periphery, the faint hum of a world that felt farther away with every passing minute.

Rosé glanced toward the window, her features bathed in gold and shadow. “It’s almost two,” she said, not moving.

Y/N let her head rest back against the bench, tilting toward her. “Feels earlier.”

Rosé didn’t answer, she just smiled, soft and tired, the kind of smile that came when the walls finally fell. A beat passed, and then she said, “I should probably head up.”

Y/N nodded. 

“Yeah,” she said, though her voice made it clear she didn’t mean it.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé’s gaze flicked toward the ornate clock on the far wall, then back to Y/N. “You heading straight back?”

“Eventually.” Y/N let the word hang. “Didn’t peg you for a party until dawn type.”

“I’m not.” A subtle smirk. “But I was curious.”

Y/N looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement. “About what?”

Rosé didn’t hesitate.

“How long I could talk to you before it felt like too much.”

Y/N smiled, slow, wide, and real. A smile with weight behind it. “Still not there.”

Something softened behind Rosé’s eyes, she exhaled, not a sigh, more like the release of something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Then, without a word, she leaned forward and rose to her feet. Not abruptly, not as a goodbye. Just movement, elegant, deliberate, and unhurried. The hem of her dress swayed around her thighs as she turned back to Y/N. The light caught the edge of her gold bangle as she brushed her hair from her face, now looser than before, undone by the hour, or the conversation, or both.

She didn’t say anything else, she just looked at her.

And Y/N stood too.

No signal, no invitation, no plan.

Just instinct.

The lobby was warm in the way expensive places always were, not just in temperature, but in tone. Soft gold lighting spilled across marble floors, painting everything in a kind of hush. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, citrus oil, and something subtle and floral, like wealth worn quietly.

Sound didn’t echo here, it was absorbed, contained, made gentle.

Behind the sleek marble desk, the concierge was murmuring into a discreet headset in French, his voice low, practiced, perfectly disinterested. A single bellman stood off to the side, arms behind his back, eyes unfocused, the kind of presence that disappeared unless summoned. Even the music, barely audible from the hidden speakers, was designed to be forgotten as soon as it passed through you.

Y/N stepped in from the cold, the glass doors closing quietly behind her with a sigh. She paused just inside, letting the sudden stillness settle around her. It felt like stepping into the end of something, the kind of silence that only exists after a night has burned itself out.

Her jacket was slung over one shoulder, her shirt creased now at the elbows and collar, her hair had fallen from wherever she’d tucked it earlier, soft waves brushing her jaw, a little messier, a little freer, her boots didn’t make much sound on the polished floor, but they still echoed faintly in the corners of the space.

The quiet felt good, earned, but not quite complete.

She was halfway across the lobby, headed toward the elevators, when she heard it, soft, almost cautious.

“Y/N?”

She turned, instantly, like her name had reached her on a different frequency.

Rosé was standing near the elevators, half-shadowed by one of the massive black columns that framed the hallway. Her heels dangled from her right hand, the delicate straps looped loosely around her fingers. On her feet were oversized hotel slippers, the kind too large for her but somehow still graceful, absurdly charming in contrast to the black dress still hugging her frame.

There was something disarmingly human about her now. Her posture had softened, one shoulder dipped slightly as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, and the sharp elegance she’d carried earlier had given way to something quieter. Her makeup had faded at the corners, mascara just smudged enough to make her eyes look sleepier, her hair had come undone in places, a few strands falling forward, catching the light as she brushed them back with the hand not holding her shoes.

She smiled, hesitant but warm, like she wasn’t sure if this was too much or too perfectly timed.

“Same hotel?” Y/N asked, voice low, eyes flicking once from Rosé’s face to her feet, then back.

“Looks like it,” Rosé said, shifting her shoes to her left hand so she could tuck her hair back again, slower this time. Her fingers lingered just a second too long at her temple, a nervous habit, maybe, or a moment of indecision.

Y/N stood still, watching her.

The elevator behind Rosé chimed, a soft, elegant sound, and the doors slid open with a quiet hush.

Neither of them moved.

Rosé glanced over her shoulder at the open elevator, then back at Y/N. She didn’t speak, she didn’t need to.

Y/N crossed the final few steps, her boots whispering across the marble. She reached out to catch the door just as it began to close, holding it with one hand, the other resting lightly on the frame.

She looked back at Rosé, chin tilted slightly, her voice soft but certain.

“Well?” she asked. “You coming?”

Rosé’s smile deepened, and without saying a word, she stepped forward, past the column, past the echo of hesitation, and into the elevator.

The doors slid shut behind them with a soft hiss, and for a moment, everything stilled.

Inside, the light was diffused and warm, the kind that softened edges and made time feel slower. The mirrored walls reflected them in gentle fragments, Y/N’s jacket draped over her shoulder, Rosé’s bare arms crossed loosely at her waist, both of them standing just far enough apart to feel the space between them.

Neither spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because the quiet suddenly felt too deliberate to break.

Y/N stood near the buttons, her reflection catching her from three different angles, chin slightly tilted, mouth neutral, but the faintest flicker of a smirk touching her features, her fingers hovered near the control panel, but she hadn’t pressed anything yet.

Rosé leaned back against the railing on the opposite side, one foot tucked behind the other, the straps of her heels still looped through her fingers, the soles of her slippers were silent against the brushed steel floor. She glanced toward Y/N, not directly, just enough.

“You don’t seem like someone who enjoys small talk,” she said softly, her voice quieter in the enclosed space, made silkier by the stillness around them.

Y/N looked over, one brow arching just slightly, the smirk turned audible.

“Not unless I’m trying to avoid the truth.”

Rosé smiled, the quiet kind that didn’t reach her lips all at once. She didn’t answer right away.

The elevator hummed as it climbed, floor numbers blinking slowly into place.

One. Two. Three.

“I was going to order something,” Rosé said then, glancing sideways, her voice softer now. “Room service, something bad for me, and I still have too many questions I didn’t get to ask you.”

A pause, not long, just long enough for both of them to feel it, that slight checking in, a mutual, silent scan “Is this okay?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate, her hand dropped from the button panel, she turned toward her fully, that smirk still in place, softened now into something more sincere.

“Yeah,” she said. Just that, simple and certain. “Okay.”

The suite was quiet in the way only expensive rooms are, not empty, not hollow, just composed. Like the silence had been designed, not left behind.

It was minimalist, but warm. Deep oak along the built-ins, matte black metal detailing the corners of the room like eyeliner. The floor was covered in a thick, dark rug that muffled even bare feet, floor to ceiling windows framed Paris in sleep, the Seine a slow ribbon of silver, rooftops stacked like memories beneath a misted sky.

Rosé entered first, her steps nearly soundless as she padded across the rug, slipping out of her hotel slippers and placing her heels neatly beside the bed. She didn’t reach for the lights, didn’t turn on music or offer drinks, she simply walked into the space like she knew it didn’t need anything more.

Y/N lingered near the door for a beat, eyes scanning, not because she was uncomfortable, but because she didn’t want to look directly at Rosé too soon. The bed was large, too neatly made, the desk was clean, save for a folded paper bag and a small stack of lyric notebooks. A pair of rings sat on the nightstand, beside a nearly empty glass of water.

Rosé turned toward her then, not from the center of the room, but from beside the bed. Her expression was calm, not inviting, exactly, just open.

“You can sit here,” she said, and the words were softer than they had been in the elevator. “If you want.”

Then, after a small pause “And, please call me Rosie.”

That made something shift.

Y/N let out the faintest breath, one she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and slipped her jacket from her shoulders. She draped it carefully over the armchair near the wall, then walked to the bed and sat, cross legged, near the foot of it. Not far, but not presumptuous.

Rosie climbed up beside her, settling near the center of the mattress, legs tucked up, back resting lightly against the headboard. They weren’t touching, but they were close enough to feel the quiet humming between them.

The suite was still, undisturbed. No food trays, no clutter, just the clean surfaces of a room. The minibar was closed, a single linen napkin sat folded on the desk beside a room service menu, untouched. Everything else was still, like the space had been waiting for them to fill it.

Rosie hadn’t ordered yet, she hadn’t decided whether she was hungry, or just not ready for the night to end. Maybe both.

Y/N didn’t ask.

They just sat, the city glowing outside and the silence between them thickening, not with discomfort, but with possibility.

Y/N leaned back slightly, letting her hands rest on the mattress behind her. Rosie shifted too, drawing one knee up toward her chest. Eventually, without really meaning to, they mirrored each other. Legs bent, bodies angled inward, spines curved like they were leaning toward gravity without falling into it.

And then the words started to come, slowly, at first.

Rosie talked about touring, not the shows, but the days between them. The cities she forgot the names of, the way hotel rooms blurred, how sometimes she didn’t know what time zone her heart was in. She didn’t say it dramatically, just fact, honest.

Y/N nodded, understanding more than she expected to.

Then Y/N talked about race days, about the hours leading up to them, the way the world turned silent just before the engine screamed. How the helmet felt like both armor and silence, how it gave her something no one else could, space and privacy. Even while the whole world watched.

They talked about the pressure of being first at something, what it meant to break through doors you didn’t ask to walk through, how the applause always came with weight, and how no one clapped for you when you needed it most, at 3 am, after the cameras stopped flashing, after the high wore off.

Rosie told her she sometimes wished she could disappear, just for a while. Long enough to hear her own voice again, without thousands of others echoing it back to her.

Y/N looked at her for a long time before replying “I already know how to disappear,” she said. “The helmet helps.”

They sat in silence after that, but it didn’t stretch. It held.

There was no pretense now, no performative comfort. Just two women, stripped of stage and spotlight, sharing the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up on skin, only in the way your shoulders eventually drop when someone finally listens.

Outside the window, the city breathed beneath a blanket of fog and silver.

Inside, two people who’d only just met sat like they hadn’t needed words to understand each other at all.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt the need to be anywhere else.

Time didn’t pass the way it usually did in Rosé’s room, it softened, slowed. Lost the need to be measured.

The conversation had thinned into something quieter, something that didn’t need structure or rhythm anymore. Their words were still there, but they blurred a little at the edges, not slurred, not tired, just hushed, as if the room itself was asking them to speak more gently now.

Rosé had shifted a few inches higher on the bed, her knees drawn up close to her chest, her back resting against the headboard. Y/N stayed cross legged, her weight shifted slightly onto one arm, fingers tangled in the folds of the blanket. The space between them had closed without either of them noticing. Not by design, not by decision. Just slowly, like gravity had pulled them inward until their arms brushed.

Y/N’s voice, once teasing, edged with wit and charm, was quieter now. Less clever, more honest. She wasn’t trying to impress anymore, she was just there.

Rosé tilted her head, resting her cheek on the top of her knees, her eyes half lidded but awake. She listened, not with nods or polite sounds, but with the stillness of someone who genuinely wanted to know, she didn’t interrupt, she didn’t steer the conversation. She just let it breathe.

And when Y/N’s voice eventually faded into silence, Rosé didn’t fill it. She didn’t shift away, instead, she moved just slightly, a soft, instinctive adjustment, and leaned to the side. Not much, just enough that her shoulder touched Y/N’s.

Y/N stilled, but she didn’t tense, her body recognized the gesture before her mind did. It didn’t feel invasive, it didn’t feel sudden, it felt like trust.

Rosé let her head rest there, gently, the weight of it light but real, her hair brushing against Y/N’s collarbone, a single strand clinging to the edge of her open shirt.

Neither of them said anything, they didn’t have to.

Outside, the city hummed in sleep. Inside, the room held its breath. Rosé exhaled softly then, a breath she’d been holding without knowing, like her body had been waiting for permission to finally rest, and as she did, she let herself sink closer, her arm moving in a slow, uncertain arc until it came to rest across Y/N’s stomach.

Light, hesitant, then still.

Her cheek slid down just a little, until it found the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, and stayed there. Y/N blinked once, staring at the ceiling, her eyes adjusting to the dark between the faint halo of the city lights outside. Her body didn’t move, her fingers didn’t twitch.

She wasn’t frozen, she wasn’t shocked, she just breathed. Shallow, careful breaths, not out of fear, but preservation, as if this moment might dissolve if she broke it with too much movement.

Because it had been a long time since something felt this gentle.

There had been touches, sure, there had been noise and tension and want. But this? This was different, this was stillness. The kind that made your bones go quiet, the kind that didn’t want anything from you.

And even though she barely knew her, really, by most standards, barely knew her at all, it didn’t feel like too much, it didn’t feel rushed.

It felt right.

Like their edges recognized each other.

So Y/N let her hand stay where it was, just beside Rosé’s forearm, close enough to touch. But she didn’t move it, not yet. She just closed her eyes, the rhythm of Rosé’s breathing syncing slowly with hers, and let the silence cradle them both.

There was no plan, no promise, just two women, who had nothing left to perform, choosing not to be alone tonight.

And that was enough.

Paris woke first.

Not with color, but with light, the kind that didn’t announce itself, but crept in through glass and space and stillness. A faint silver pressed into the corners of Rosé’s hotel suite, brushing against the walls, making shapes out of shadows. The sky beyond the window was pale and soft, somewhere between grey and blue, the kind of color that only exists when the world is just beginning to exhale.

Inside the room, it was quiet, no city sounds yet. Just the soft, steady hum of distant movement far below, blurred into white noise by double-paned glass.

Y/N opened her eyes slowly, and for a moment, she didn’t remember falling asleep. She just knew she was warm, grounded. Her body hadn’t moved much during the night, one arm curled at her side, the other stretched across the bed in a loose arc. There was weight there now. A head, an arm.

Breath.

She turned slightly, not sharply, not enough to wake the other girl, just enough to see her.

Rosé.

Still asleep, her lashes resting soft against her cheek, her body tucked in close, half-curled into Y/N like they’d done this before, like this was normal. Her dress had slipped up slightly in the night, one bare shoulder catching the soft glow of morning, her arm draped across Y/N’s waist, relaxed and weightless. Her hair was a mess, flattened on one side, tumbling over the other, one strand stuck gently to her cheek.

And still, somehow, she looked completely at peace.

Y/N’s chest tightened at the sight, not in panic, not in fear, no. Just recognition.

She didn’t move, didn’t clear her throat, didn’t try to extract herself from the tangle of limbs. Her hand was resting near the small of Rosé’s back, fingers splayed against the fabric of her dress. She could feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing, soft, rhythmic, real.

For a long time, she just stayed like that.

Listening and feeling.

Trying to hold onto the strange, quiet truth that had settled over them like fog. That this, whatever it was, felt safe. Too safe, maybe, for two people who barely knew each other’s middle names. It should have felt like borrowed time, like something fragile and temporary.

But it didn’t, it felt steady, it felt known.

Rosé shifted in her sleep, a small, unconscious movement. Her hand moved slightly, curling just a little against Y/N’s side, and her head pressed closer, a slow nuzzle, not quite intentional, but familiar in a way that made Y/N’s breath catch.

A soft sound escaped her lips, not words, just a sigh from somewhere deep in her chest. She adjusted again, only barely, and settled once more.

Her face was inches away now, if Y/N looked down, she could see every detail. The curve of her nose, the soft indentation of her bottom lip, the way her brow stayed relaxed, unbothered by whatever world she was dreaming in.

Y/N didn’t know what this was supposed to mean, she only knew that it meant something.

And that for once, in a career full of calculated risks and controlled outcomes, she had absolutely no desire to figure it out, not yet.

She blinked up at the ceiling, then let her head fall gently back onto the pillow, letting the soft, rhythmic weight of Rosé against her chest pull her back toward stillness.

Outside the window, the world began again.

Inside, neither of them had to.

Not yet.

[p1utofairy]

PAC: “i just wanna be your favorite…” ⭐️🎀💍

• which fictional characters is your person most like?

disclaimer ✩: 18+ mature themes. take what resonates, leave what doesn't. i also just wanna say thank y'all from the bottom of my heart for the support <3 it means so much to me. enjoy!

pile 1 💸 —

"i can't wait 'til i get you on the floor, good-looking. hey, going hot, so hot, just like an oven. and ow! burned myself, i just had to touch it. but it's so fire, and it's all mine."

hiii pile 1! let me start off by saying your person is one fineeee m'fer! they look straight out of an old hollywood movie. suit & tie by justin timberlake ft. jay z won't stop playing in my head lol, their vibe is literally that song. they're gonna love taking you out to fun events and showing you off to people hehe i heard "trophy wife." this isn't in a superficial way by any means, they just really love how you look and how bright your personality shines. you have a mesmerizing appearance and an extraordinary personality to match. i feel like your eyes or their eyes is another main focus that will garner lots of compliments. ok, wow. back to the topic at hand! the characters i channeled were jay gatsby from ‘the great gatsby’, lon hammond from ‘the notebook’, and napoleon solo from ‘the man from U.N.C.L.E.’ now of course your person may not exactly look like these characters but the ✨vibes✨ are very much there. you're gonna have the time of your life with this person lol they are so damn fun and charismatic. i can hear them teasing you and and saying "don't be a brat, baby." with a sly smirk on their face LOL they're gonna make you feel so tingly and giddy inside ahhh. i feel like it was hard for them to settle down before you came into their life pile 1. they wanted to have their cake and eat it too. i mean this person could honestly have whatever they want, but you actually make them work for this relationship and they're not used to that. people (romantically and platonically) just fall for them at the drop of a dime because they are just so damn sexy, and it doesn't help that they're good with their words and actions. i just heard smooth operator by sade and ego by beyoncé at the same time lol this person is seriously a charmer! they can't help it though, they just love to socialize and have a good time. on the flip side, this sometimes weighs them down. the constant attention and socializing can make them feel overwhelmed at times. i'm thinking of ‘the great gatsby’ when jay kept throwing elaborate parties and inviting thousands of people to attend them, so that he could eventually catch daisy's attention. i'm hearing "when you're happy, they're happy!" random thought, but for some of you…your person could be from the UK/have a thick british accent. i also feel like your person is funny af, they've got jokes for dayssssss. they honestly take nothing serious…like if either of you had a bad day at work or just in general, TRUST that they will find a way to turn it around. like it'll actually amaze you how they just go through life vibing and you'll just be like how??? and i can hear them saying "i don't know, babe. i just got it like that." lol they're so cocky (but in an annoyingly hot way) you will never be able to stay mad at them. like if you were being petty and giving them the silent treatment for whatever reason…i can see you getting ready and they'd come up all close behind you, arms around your waist, kissing your neck and they'd be like "you still mad at me, baby?" and your brain would literally malfunction like €|>~€\€,\!|!]€]€YESNOYESNO.!:!,&:’ i'm crying this is hilarious. never a dull moment with them, pile 1. i'm telling ya!

other channeled messages:

theme from new york, new york by frank sinatra, gene kelly, tuxedo, her way by partynextdoor, sophisticated, expensive cologne, j'adore dior, pearly white teeth, cartier watch, swarovski crystals, meet me on the dance floor, babydoll by mariah carey, british, sprinter by dave & central cee, love island, damson idris, i'll make it happen, ballin’ by partynextdoor, diamonds are a girl's best friend

pile 2 💣 —

“who wants that perfect love story anyway, anyway. cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché. who wants that hero love that saves the day, anyway cliché, cliché, cliché, cliché.”

okayyyy pile 2, i see y'all with the bonnie and clyde vibes! let's buckle down and get serious though. i already feel like your person is very misunderstood. they might've had a rough childhood growing up or possibly struggled with connecting to their family. they feel like they fuck things up? they kinda think to themselves "why should i even try to be in a relationship, i'm a mess. i mess things up." it's actually sad because i feel like they're a great person (very soft and gentle) and when things go left/don't work out they immediately blame themselves because the blame was always put on them as a child. i'm hearing it's a "trauma response" :( aw pile 2 i feel like crying…your person really takes it on the chin and keeps it pushing. i can see them sitting on porch steps, gazing at the skyline and kinda just shrugging saying "that's just life i guess." they tend to self-sabotage before things even go into motion but before you two meet, they'll be pushed to confront their problems/fears. they have this cool, in-control, idgaf type of vibe on the outside but internally it's the opposite. i'm hearing pretty little fears by 6lack ft. j cole wow pile 2 they'll really have a soft spot for you. the characters i channeled were damon salvatore from ‘the vampire diaries’, luke glanton from ‘the place beyond the pines’ and tyler durden from ‘fight club’ which are some pretty complex personalities whew. your person is a loner by default, they feel like they really can't depend on many people. they've been left out in the cold so many times it's like they had no other choice but to become independent fast. when they meet you, pile 2…you're going to awaken them. i'm hearing j cole's verse in pretty little fears, “i'm loving your light, vulnerable. letting your guard down is honorable. 'specially when the past ain't been that friendly to you, but…there's magic in that.” it's gonna be insane to them how someone like you could display so much love, care and devotion towards them. i can see them keeping a really cute picture of you (or you two together) in their wallet/bag and just staring at it with a small smile on their face. you give them so much hope pile 2. they never knew they were capable of such strong emotions; love, happiness, joy. i can see you two laughing about something…you have this big grin on your face and when you turn your head to look at them, you just see them with a dopey smile on their face and a glint in their eyes just staring at you in awe. and you're just like "what?" but you don't even know how much you really mean to them in that moment. I'M ABOUT TO BURST INTO TEARS PLS I CAN'T. they're not used to anything stable, but you give them hope and anticipation for their future…with you. y'all are going to have to have so many enlightening, deep and forward-thinking conversations. i see them holding your hand and kissing your knuckles, taking random drives at night together while blasting music and going to the movies and talking/debating afterwards about what you hated and what you loved. k i'm crying, bye!

other channeled messages:

west coast by lana del rey, west side, successful relationship, turning tables by adele, cigarettes out the window by tv girl, well my boyfriend's in a band, ultraviolence album, someone like u (interlude) by ariana grande, toxic upbringing, scorpio moon, aries, smoking weed, american psycho, it's a forever thing

pile 3 🐚 —

“every little thing you do got me feeling some type of way. when you gimme that thunder you make my summer rain.”

welcome to your reading pile 3! idk why i wanted to say pile 333 hehe let's take that as a sign that you're about to meet your person soon. your person is so easy-going…like their energy feels so carefree and warm; like a nice summer breeze (i feel like some of you that chose this pile watch/really love the summer i turned pretty) i can see your person adjusting their sunglasses and saying "i'm just happy to be here." they're such a vibe lol. ok and why did i just randomly hear "no you're cute jeans." their sense of humor is so sjhfjdjcjdsn y'all are gonna have a lot of inside jokes together; internet memes especially. that "i'm sorry, i'm just in a silly goofy mood" shemar moore video just popped up in my head LMFAOOOO your person is hilarious pile 3. i channeled johnny storm from ‘fantastic four’, chad meeks-martin from ‘scream vi’, stefan salvatore from ‘the vampire diaries’ and conrad fisher from ‘the summer i turned pretty’ which are all pretty different but i see the vision pile 3…i see the vision. i feel like your person has just gotten back to themselves, because for awhile they weren't this upbeat and silly. i feel like this has to do with a past hurt/betrayal from either a friend or an ex-lover…that person took them for granted and made them feel small. i just randomly heard "katherine pierce" so maybe that person was very sneaky and never had good intentions in the first place. when they're with you though, they feel like a moth drawn to a flame. best friend by 50 cent just came to mind, "if i was your best friend, i want you 'round all the time. (i want you 'round me all the time) girl, i'll be your best friend if you promise you'll be mine (girl, promise you'll be mine)." i see you both posting funny photo dumps of you two together on instagram/instagram stories. i feel like y'all will be a PDA couple, and even if you aren't one of those type of people that likes all that…they're definitely gonna make you so happy that people visibly see the love between the two of you. i can see them kissing the side of your head, you slightly leaning into them…them giving you their hoodie/jacket to wear when you're cold. it's subtle things like that 🥹 so so so cute. you two have a very sacred, beautiful and divinely protected relationship. your person will be very generous with their time, money and love when it comes to you pile 3.

other channeled messages:

there goes my baby by usher, one in a million by ne-yo, connie baby, it's your world i'm just living in it, positions by ariana grande, unlock it by charlie xcx ft. kim petras & jay park, right my side by nicki minaj ft. chris brown, long walks on the beach, forever boy, vintage camera/digital camera, breakin’ my heart (pretty brown eyes) by mint condition, taylor swift, peter parker

pile 4 🌹—

“moment of honesty. someone's gotta take the lead tonight, who's it gonna be? i'm gonna sit right here and tell you all that comes to me. if you have something to say, you should say it right now.”

heyyy pile 4. i'm kinda stunned rn cause your person is sooooooooo captivated by you. like they wanted to skip all the bullshit and get right into it, and honestly…i #respect it. they think you're an absolute badass, you handle tough situations with so much grace. i'm hearing "you're better than me." lol they play no games pile 4, especially when it comes to you! i'm hearing that you've been through a lot, and it hasn't been easy for you to get to the point in your life that you're at now. they just wanna kiss you and make everything better. kiss it better by rihanna just started playing, "kiss it, kiss it, better baby." yeah your person is sensual af pile 4, it's givingggg taurus vibes. this is random af but i feel like they really love your back? if you wear a backless top or a backless dress, they will go absolutely FERAL. like fingers ghosting down your spine, their lips kissing down your neck…and don't get me started on the eye contact. their gaze is INTENSE. i’m hearing lyrics from nobody by selena gomez, "no kiss, no lips, no feel, no rush can keep me high, i swear no one…can love me like you do. can love me like you do, no." the characters i channeled were tobias eaton from ‘divergent’ and anakin skywalker from ‘star wars prequel trilogy’ which is so on brand. those 2 did not play about tris and padmé, ok?! you are their whole world pile 4. if it's not you, they don't want it. they feel so relaxed around you…like they can finally breathe. i can see them standing in a serious stance (obviously tense af) pondering about something and you just come behind them and wrap them in a big bear hug and they just…melt. they finally take that deep breath that they didn't even realize they were holding in for so long. they usually keep their feelings to themselves, but you create such a great safe space for them to be so open, honest and vulnerable; and vice versa. i'm also hearing that they are a very hands-on type of person, so whatever you need done/fixed, they sure as hell will find a way to do it for you. i can also see you two chilling/relaxing together a lot. don't get me wrong this person will always find something for you two to do, but there's something about that downtime (watching a movie while cuddled up with you on the couch, spending time with you and your loved ones/friends or taking a late night drive with you) that makes them think to themselves, "damn i really love life." 😮‍💨 you've got them locked in pile 4. it's so sweet & amazing.

other channeled messages:

1 of 1, peppers by lana del rey ft. tommy genesis, skywalker by miguel ft. travis scott, adore by cashmere cat ft. ariana grande, it's us against the world baby, 90210, pisces, dream guy, sauvage cologne, miss dior, sagittarius rising, virgo's groove by beyoncé, 1:11, best i ever had (remix) by drake & nicki minaj, all i want is you by miguel ft. j cole, bouquet of flowers, tennis bracelet, wild thoughts by dj khaled ft. rihanna & bryson tiller, cpr by summer walker