#things from hell (my camera roll)

[grxtsch]

chris :3

[goldensakuma]

crying over the sunotans jokingly asking Snow Man if they think all their fans are elementary students bc the newly-revealed bonus goods for 『SERIOUS』 apparently look like kindergarten magazine supplements,,,,, i mean Yeah they do but my smol child braim still absolutely wants all of them tho 😭😭😭

[enhani-ki]

my biggest opp - reader x ni-ki

warnings : smut, nsfw, cursing, etc.

read part two

"suck my dick." "eat my ass."

you and ni-ki exchanged filthy words to each other at the same time, your voices were sharp and loud enough to turn your other coworkers heads. and even though they had long grown accustomed to your rivalry, they always still look at the two of you in shock.

it's like the office practically lived in fear whenever the two of you were around,

and it got to a point where the HR was already forced to intervene.

you both found yourselves sitting across from a visibly exhausted HR rep after a particularly heated argument during a department-wide meeting.

"l/n, nishimura... this is really out of control." they said while rubbing their temples. "you're sabotaging projects, disrupting meetings, and making the workplace hostile."

"tell her that. she started it." ni-ki pointed out.

you rolled your eyes.

"effective immediately, you're being reassigned to different departments."

and it should've ended there but somehow, despite being on separate teams, you both still found ways to make each other's lives miserable. you found loopholes and more ways to sabotage each other without making it obvious.

ni-ki took every ounce of restraint not to strangle you, and you might've run him over in the parking lot already if it weren't for security cameras around the building.

that late night, the office was already empty. you thought everyone had clocked out except for you.

you were also ready to leave, your bag is already over your shoulder but something was missing.

the important file, you knew you had just printed it.

"looking for this?"

it was the first time you saw ni-ki again. he's standing across the room, holding the folder between his fingers with a serious expression.

your stomach dropped. no fucking way.

"you're so fucking dead," he shook his head. "say goodbye to your career."

"gi-give me that!"

he held it high, stepping back when you tried to take it.

you almost had it but he made it more out of reach.

the folder has the confidential criteria of the next manager promotion, he knew you're a bad person but he didn't know that you'll just fucking cheat.

"yes, i'll give this back," he scoffed and nodded. "right to our manager."

your desperation turned to rage, that paper would literally ruin you. your eyes landed on a thick book sitting on a nearby desk, and you could've just explained and asked nicely to give it back but hell no, so you grabbed the hard thick book and threatened to swing.

ni-ki panicked, he looked around for a weapon of his own and in a split-second decision, he grabbed a cup off the desk and threw it at you...

very cold water splashed all over you and your clothes.

your jaw dropped. "you-"

"i- i didn't-"

then your foot slipped on the wet floor, ni-ki reacted fast, catching your head before you could crash to the ground but the momentum sent him stumbling too.

you groaned, his hands braced against the floor to keep himself from completely crushing you and next thing you knew, you were on the floor, your back against the cold tiles, and ni-ki was right on top of you, with his face buried on your tits.

he slowly moved, his eyes locked onto the view in front of him... your soaked blouse sticking to your skin, making your black bra and cleavage very much visible.

ni-ki cleared his throat before turning his head away from you. he was about to grab the scattered papers but you were quicker, you grabbed onto his collar, pulling him before he could escape.

"let go!"

"not a chance."

he struggled, trying to push you off but you were holding onto him so hard that the buttons of his shirt ripped, exposing his toned chest and abs.

you smirked slightly when you noticed ni-ki stopped pushing you away and his breaths became heavier.

he's still a guy after all.

your fingers roamed around his exposed chest, teasing him just to test something, to see if you could turn the tables,

you could feel his muscles tensed under your touch and ni-ki closed his eyes when you leaned close to give him a soft kiss on the lips.

the sound your lips made as they parted was too sexy so he leaned in to kiss you just to hear it again.

the kiss deepened, it became hurried, hard, aggressive, and messy.

like all his hate had nowhere else to go except right here.

ni-ki groaned against your lips, hands gripping on your waist.

you fingers slid down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin more beneath the open shirt again and before you knew it, you were helping him remove his shirt off completely, tossing it aside like it meant nothing.

"this is unbelievable." he thought, while his fingers worked hastily, unbuttoning each one from your blouse with urgency, making your heart race even more.

"you're impatient." you whispered, breathless.

"just wanna get this over with." he said before his lips crashed into yours to shut your annoying voice.

you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he easily lifted you, his other hand sliding down your back to remove your bra.

ni-ki watched the way your boobs bounce and spread free right in front of his eyes.

he lay you down on a nearby couch, removing your skirt and stockings so he can have you naked completely.

you arched on his touch but ni-ki grabbed your wrist and pulled you on top of him with no effort.

and even though you won't openly admit or say it, you knew everyone found your coworker is attractive but damn, he's this big too?

so now it made it harder to stop all this and it's been so long too since you had sex, you already forgot how it felt.

you watched ni-ki slicked himself with his own spit, barely easing what was about to come because just as you suspected, the stretch really hurts.

maybe it just the tip but it was already too much. your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto.

ni-ki started moaning, his entire body tensing as he felt the way your walls squeezed around him. it's so tight, so impossibly hot too like you were already milking him for everything he had and his cock's not even fully inside yet.

"fuck," he groaned, "you're sucking me in."

yes, ni-ki hates you and even though he wanted you to suffer for everything you did to him, he would never be cruel when it came to sex. his own self-control was also hanging by a thread, yet he still moved carefully, pushing in slow and deep, letting you feel every inch of him.

your head tipped back, moaning too as you adjusted to his size, tightening more around him involuntarily.

ni-ki smiled, probably the first time he did. "there you go," he thought, watching your reaction as he rolled his hips up to meet yours, slow while keeping your legs in it's place.

you couldn't even think now already, the way he filled you up, the way his body pressed against yours, it was overwhelming. your nails raked down his back as he picked up the pace, going deeper, and deeper that you just might pass out.

and when the pain faded into pleasure, your body moved on its own, you rolled your hips until you found a good rhythm, lifting yourself slightly before sinking back down, to take his dick even deeper inside you.

ni-ki threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut as you rode him with no mercy, your warm, soaked walls dragging over his cock at a pace that was too much. it felt like he had no control anymore, he could barely think.

"y/n, slow down-" his voice broke, desperate and strained but you ignored him, rolling your hips even more fast because then maybe you'll get to see him snap.

his whole body was trembling beneath you, muscles tensed as his breath came out in sharp, ragged gasps. he already came once, and it had already been so deep inside you but you just wouldn't stop.

"you wanted to fuck me, right?" you taunted, your thighs were shaking from how much pleasure was coursing through your overstimulated body. "then just take it."

ni-ki buckled up into you too, he's so close again, teetering on the edge, but he refused to give in to your words.

"you- you're one to talk," he rasped, "when you're so fucking soaked."

and he was right, you could feel how drenched you were, could hear how messy and filthy it sounded every time your hips met his.

the pleasure became too much again, unbearable ache building deep inside you it felt like you're going to pee anytime soon, you pulled his hair for support as your rhythm started slowing down.

ni-ki noticed even through his dazed, wrecked state before smirking again. "gonna fall apart on me?"

his hands held your hips down, forcing his cock so deep inside you that your vision blurred, a sob tore from your throat as the pressure snapped, crashing through your body so intense that you couldn't even moan.

your lips parted, body trembling uncontrollably as you came hard on his lap.

you didn't know how but somehow now, he had you on your hands and knees, chest pressing against your back as he drove into you, relentless, unforgiving.

"n-no, fuck!" you sobbed, your arms nearly giving out as he buried himself inside you again and again, ni-ki's lips trailing over your shoulder, hot and ragged.

and your pussy clenched around him again, he started losing it.

his fingers tangled in your hair, pulling it to where your back can press against his chest, his other hand gripping on your throat.

he cupped your tits, you could feel his cock twitch inside you, the thrusts of his hips turned frantic as he chased his own release.

...now the office fell silent but the reality of what just happened started creeping in slowly between the two of you.

you reached for your discarded clothes, your limbs were feeling heavy as you clumsily pulled your skirt back on. ni-ki, still catching his breath, sat up to and started buttoning his ruined shirt though half the buttons were missing, making it completely useless.

then, he held something up between his fingers.

"can i keep these?"

your head turned towards him, eyes widening when you realized he was holding your panties.

you snatched it from his grip. "are you fucking sick in the head?" you hissed, slipping them back on as quickly as possible.

he just laughed and shook his head.

maybe he's sick, after all, he just slept with the worst person he ever knew.

next day you and ni-ki sat across from each other in the office, both unusually quiet. no bickering, no scheming, everything was just... gone.

your coworkers noticed but ignored it, just enjoying while it's happening.

ni-ki exchanged awkward glances with you before quickly looking away.

your lips were still tingling from last night. you swore that your body still felt him, and every time you move in your chair, the memories just keeps on flooding back to your head. "stop... please... oh, my god."

he wasn't doing any better too, he can't stop smiling and running a hand through his hair, his knee were bouncing under the desk every time his eyes landed on you.

then he caught you alone.

you were at the copy room, trying to focus on literally anything else when suddenly, you felt him.

ni-ki pressed up behind you, my dick misses you, is what he wanted to say. "what the fuck are you doing here?"

you blushed, your fingers were curling into the edge of the machine. "p- printing, what else?" you stuttered.

"y/n..." his hands found your waist, squeezing lightly. "you don't miss it?"

you swallowed hard before turning around to face him, "keep dreaming, psycho."

liar.

the asshole ni-ki you know would never say these things and if he did, the old you would've punch his mouth and punching it once once so you'd make sure it'll bleed.

so what happened?

"remember, i still got the files."

you hushed him, "give that shit back," you whispered.

he hummed, tilting his head. "it's at my house. you can come get it."

"just bring it here!"

"like i said," he dragged the word out, stepping closer, "come get it."

you still found yourself standing outside his apartment later that night even though knew it was probably a trap.

ni-ki opened the door, leaning against it with that same smug expression like he knew you'd be here... he's wearing nothing but a loose bathrobe.

you looked down. is he naked underneath? he's this pervert? then you quickly shook your head, forcing yourself to look back up. "where is it?"

he sighed, stepping aside to let you in. "hmm, i put it somewhere over there," he murmured.

you shoved him away before he could try anything, making him chuckle.

so you started searching, bending down to check under his sofa and through the mess on his coffee table.

ni-ki stood behind you, watching. no, he was checking you out.

his tongue slipped to wet his lips, looking at your ass and if he stared any longer, he knew his dick will get hard.

you stood and stomped your foot. "just give it back!"

ni-ki sighed and fixed his hair. "okay, fine!" he said, "i already shredded it. you don't have to worry."

"how do i know you're not lying?"

he didn't answer right away. instead, he leaned back against the armrest of the sofa, legs spreading slightly as he pulled you closer between them.

"because... you fucked me so good, i destroyed every single thing i have that could ruin you."

you swallowed hard, chest rising and falling hard as you look into his eyes then you looked down, and... oh.

his cock twitched beneath the thin fabric of his robe, already straining against it, making his arousal painfully obvious.

the air grew heavier as you both watched him get harder, completely shameless.

your lips parted slightly, heat creeping up your neck, but then you shot him a glare. "can you put some damn clothes on?"

ni-ki smirked, playing with the belt of his robe. "but you came all the way here…" he said. looking at you with his needy eyes.

he didn't finish his words, you just reached forward, curling your fingers around the soft fabric, and dragged it off his shoulders, inch by inch.

your eyes followed every reveal, his sharp collarbones, the defined lines of his shoulders, the smooth, lean muscle of his chest.

his eyes were locked onto your lips, red, and swollen from the night before. that's his doing and it looked so good.

his fingers traced along your jaw, his other hand gripping your waist as he captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss. his body was already hot beneath your touch, tense, waiting for you to take control and do him however you wanted.

you knelt between his spread legs, dragging your hand over his thighs, watching the way his muscles flexed under your touch.

you wrapped your fingers around his cock first, stroking him slow, letting your palm glide smoothly over him. his cock twitched in response with a shaky breath slipping past his lips.

you leaned in and pressed a slow, wet kiss to his tip. ni-ki's grip in your hair tightened but not pulling, just holding, like he needed something to ground him.

and when your lips wrapped around him, he lost all of his sense of control. you took him deeply that your cheeks were hollowing while letting your tongue glide over every inch of his dick.

you pushed even lower, forcing him down your throat, stretching yourself around him until your throat clenched, gagging as you choked when he hit the back of your mouth,

"more, more... more..." ni-ki bit his lip.

and you let yourself struggle, deep throathing his cock that spit started pooling at the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin, and all over your hands.

you heard him swore in Japanese under his breath so you can't help but chuckle, vibration sent another set of pleasure through him before you pulled away, letting his cock slip from your lips with a pop, thin strand of spit still connecting your mouth to his tip.

ni-ki's hips bucked, desperate for your mouth again but you just smirked, dragging your tongue along the side of his cock, slow and teasing, before wrapping your lips around him again... only to pull away the second he's about to cum.

"y/n- stop... that." he warned but you ignored it. instead, you just wrapped your hands around him, stroking him slow and lazy.

"you were close, right?"

"you think you're funny?" he panted.

you started sucking his dick passionately again, enough to make him think you were finally giving in but only to pull away again at the last second, lips barely brushing his tip, making him fucking ache.

his voice cracked, "you're so fucking evil-"

"you sound so desperate right now." you teased, dragging a single finger along his length, feeling how hot and hard he was in your grasp.

"you're not gonna make me cum?" ni-ki asked before pining your hands above your head, he had you completely spread out beneath him,

he's too far gone to even remember why he hated you in the first place.

and he went on you so hard that night, you couldn't even move the next day. you would fall the second you tried to stand, and the soreness between your thighs made you collapse back with a frustrated whimper.

a deep chuckle rumbled beside you, raspy from hours of groaning, moaning, and going crazy.

you glared at him weakly, when you tried again and failed, ni-ki carried you in his arms. you yelped, clinging to his shoulders as he carried you towards the bathroom.

he really did a number on you.

"think we can handle another round here?"

now he had your cheek pressed up against the cool, fogged-up glass of the shower. ni-ki's hands were everywhere, his large palms gripped the soft flesh of your tits, squeezing, pulling, and rolling your nipples between his finger, making your body arch back into him.

you just hoped that it wouldn't leave bruising prints on your skin.

you breathed hard, fogging up the mirror. ni-ki groaned against your shoulder, your fingers kept slipping against the tile for balance, wet slap echoing through the steam-filled bathroom.

"i could fuck you for days..." he declared, his teeth grazing your shoulder before he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His fingers dug into your hips, pressing you harder against the glass.

the water kept shifting from icy cold to blistering hot, and it's so hard to breath, like you were both drowning.

next morning, your body ached in ways you didn't think were possible, ni-ki groaned into the pillow beside you, his arm draped over your waist, refusing to move.

your phone buzzed on the nightstand, probably an alarm or a message about work. you glanced at the time, then at ni-ki, who peeked at you with a smile.

"we're not going in, are we?" he asked, still sleepy.

you sighed, already knowing the answer. "nope, i can't."

he grinned and rolled over, grabbing his phone to call in sick.

"i gotta go home."

he hummed, nuzzling against your neck. "mm. or you could just stay here with me."

his hand slid over your thigh.

"i'm so sleepy," you mumbled, voice muffled against the pillow.

ni-ki's fingers were already trailing down your side so you hissed.

"what?" he murmured against your shoulder, pressing a warm kiss there. "i'm just holding you."

"you're not."

sighed, eyes fluttering shut. "i need sleep."

...but he can fuck you back to sleep.

ni-ki hummed, pretending to think. he rolled on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight.

"just five minutes." he agreed, lips brushing your ear. "if not, i'm waking you up my way."

later, just as you were drifting into actual sleep, something heavy landed on the bed, startling you both awake.

your eyes snapped open, only to be met with a pair of little eyes glaring at you.

a dog.

a small, fluffy thing that was currently growling at you like you had personally offended it.

"what the?" he muttered, scrambling back. "oh, bisco..."

"your dog?"

"that's my child."

you blinked at him. "i didn't know you we-"

"yes," he replied, reaching to ruffle the dog's fur. "i'm a single father."

you squinted at him, then at the dog, who was still very much growling at you.

"oh, come on," you huffed, sitting up. "what's your problem?"

the dog barked in response, stepping protectively over ni-ki's chest. "bisco thought you were hurting me last night."

"excuse me?"

the dog growled again, and you shot ni-ki a glare. "are you gonna stop it?"

ni-ki reached out and pulled you against him, ignoring the dog's outrage.

"bisco," he called out, "you'll get used to her."

bisco did not look convinced. "i think it can sense your evil attitude," he teased, rubbing the dog's ears.

ni-ki looked completely at ease... messy hair, lips still a little swollen from earlier, and worst of all, smiling.

like actually smiling.

you swallowed hard, your face heating up.

was this really the same guy who had spent months making your life a living hell? the same guy who stole your reports, sabotaged your presentations, and threw every possible insult your way?

the same guy you swore you'd never tolerate, let alone you expect to wake up next to?

it really doesn't feel real.

you sat there feeling like your whole world just tilted sideways and yet, here he was, laughing softly as bisco licked his face, as if he wasn't the biggest opp you have.

ni-ki looked at you, "what?"

you scoffed, grabbing the blanket and pulling it over your head. "nothing..."

ni-ki only chuckled, moving closer, "tsk, don't tell me..."

and you kicked him under the blanket, smiling like an idiot.

a/n: i need to write smut better omfg, thank you @greenparties for this request. and if you're a MOA and BEOMGYU is your bias here's another coworker/enemies to lovers fic of mine: coworker || c. beomgyu x reader

masterlist: マスターリストm.list || my biggest opp part ii

taglist 𖤘: @dolliewon @ziiao

[choerrypuffs]

red velvet hearts.

pairing: bad boy!donghyuck x baker!reader

genre: fluff, slight angst

word count: 7.7k

synopsis: you patch up a boy with a bloody nose and bruised knuckles, only to find out that he has quite the sweet tooth.

author’s note: why do i keep injuring hyuck in all my fics lmao??? anyways i tried to write his character a bit differently than i usually do to challenge myself so please let me know how you guys like it! also remember, ladies: this is fiction. you cannot fix him <3

warning(s): brief description of injuries, mentions of violence, maximum amounts of cringe and melodrama

playlist: all my ghosts by lizzy mcalpine ― heart eyes by coin ― close to you by gracie abrams ― sidelines by phoebe bridgers ― the alchemy by taylor swift

RECIPE 1. TIRAMISU

“This is not what I meant when I said you need your back blown out.” 

“Not funny. I almost died,” you grumble as you wrap the back brace around your torso. You hate the immediate relief you feel from the support it provides, no longer able to tell yourself that it’s really not as bad as it seems―which only makes you angrier. 

“Throwing your back out while lifting a giant bag of flour and nearly getting crushed to death by said flour is genuinely the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Yeri, your best friend (derogatory), snorts as she shakes her head. “I wish you had cameras in the storage room because I want to see that shit so bad.”

“Thank you for the brace. You can get the hell out now.” You roll your eyes. 

“So, what are you going to do now? Aren’t you swamped with orders?” Yeri asks, ignoring you completely. 

You have no clue what you’re going to do now. It isn’t just orders you have to worry about fulfilling; it’s also the freshly baked pastries that you have to sell every morning. After a year of blood, sweat, and tears, the bakery that you built from the ground up is finally starting to gain some stable business. So, of course, you chose now of all times to try to lift a bag of flour over your shoulder like you were Dwayne The Rock Johnson. 

“I think I’ll have to hire some temporary help,” you answer begrudgingly. 

“You could sound less like someone is holding you at gunpoint,” Yeri snorts, “Come on. It had to happen sooner or later anyway.” 

“I was handling things just fine on my own.”

“Were you, though?” Yeri raises an eyebrow, gesturing to your current state. 

You fear you walked right into that one. “Shut up and help me make some posters.” 

The two of you eventually manage to whip up some haphazard “Help Wanted” posters, the letters written in glitter pen and Yeri’s clumsy bubble text. You tried your best to fill in the empty gaps on the construction paper by placing Pompompurin stickers that you normally give to customers’ kids all over it. The posters look like a nine-year-old girl’s school project gone wrong, but you hope it’s charming enough to catch some attention. 

By the time you and Yeri finish hanging up all the posters, the sun is already starting to set, and all you want to do is go home and put a heating pad on your back. After saying bye to Yeri, you start making your way back to the bakery to lock up. Once you arrive, you notice a figure dressed in black slumped over in front of the door. You can see their shoulders rise up and down as they take in labored breaths, leaning against the glass door for support. 

Every rational fiber in your being screams at you to not approach the stranger alone, but it’s not like you can just leave this person at the front of your place of business. Cautiously taking a step forward, you squat down to eye level with the stranger, wincing slightly from back pain. Through the sweaty and matted mess of his brown fringe, you can see that the stranger is a young man around your age. However, his face is absolutely battered: bloody (and almost certainly broken) nose, split lip, black eye swollen shut, and a jagged cut on his cheek. If he notices your presence, he doesn’t show it, keeping his head hung down.

Gingerly placing a hand on his arm, you give him a small shake. “Excuse me? Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?” 

His brows furrow, and he opens an eye (the only one he’s probably able to open) with a wince before lifting a finger and putting it against his lips. You notice that his knuckles are completely scraped raw. 

“Not so loud. I’m okay,” he answers. 

“You don’t look―” 

As if on cue, his stomach rumbles with a guttural growl that slowly drawls into a sputtering gurgle before dying out all together―leaving a long silence to hang between the two of you.

After another beat, he gives you a sheepish smile. “You got anything to eat?” 

You stare at him for a moment; his face is flushed, pink all the way down to his neck. 

And like a stupid horror movie character who opens the door to a room that clearly screams danger, you nod. 

.

.

.

Fortunately, he―Donghyuck, as he introduced himself―ends up not being a crazy ax murderer. 

Unfortunately, you find yourself awkwardly sitting in your closed bakery with a virtual stranger, fiddling with a first aid kit while watching him absolutely devour a piece of leftover tiramisu that you had in your fridge. If the situation wasn’t so insane, you might actually think it was pretty funny. For someone who looks the way he does, this current picture of Donghyuck absolutely doesn’t suit him―bruised chipmunk cheeks stuffed with ladyfingers and cocoa powder stuck on his split lip. 

When he’s finished, Donghyuck looks over at you with a mesmerized expression on his face, as if you just fed him ambrosia. There’s a softness to his face that you didn’t think could exist underneath all that grime and dried blood. 

“That was…delicious,” he breathes. 

“Thanks,” you snort, pushing a glass of water towards him. Unsurprisingly, he chugs it in the blink of an eye. “I still think you should get those injuries checked out, though.” 

“Nah, I’ll rub a little spit in them and it’ll be fine,” he shrugs. 

“Don’t be gross,” you sigh, scooting your chair closer to him as you set the first aid kit on the table. “Now, come here.” 

Donghyuck reluctantly dips his head, and you carefully cup his jaw for support, disinfecting and applying ointment on the cuts and scrapes on his face. You also clean up the dried blood near his nostrils and on his bottom lip, and he doesn’t flinch even when you accidentally brush tender areas like his broken nose or the gash on his mouth. Instead, he stays perfectly still, leaned back in the chair with his forearms resting on his thighs and fingers nonchalantly laced together. 

He keeps his gaze trained on something past your shoulder, and you also try your best to focus, but it’s hard to keep yourself from staring―especially when his demeanor has changed so much. He’s so calm and quiet in such a cold, ruthless manner, as if he’s physically steeling himself from pain―like he’s done this a million times before. Occasionally, you feel his eyes swipe across your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and it occurs to you how close the two of you are. Suddenly, you’re acutely aware of the heat of his skin against your palm and fingertips, and you rip your hand away from his jaw. 

Clearing your throat, you move onto his hands, dabbing his raw knuckles with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol before placing large band-aids on them. Despite your best efforts, it’s hard not to notice how slim his long fingers are or how surprisingly clean his nail beds are for someone who’s covered in blood. You keep your head completely bent, fighting the urge of looking up and possibly meeting his eyes. 

“There, all done,” you announce a little too loudly. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for the cake and for this. For helping me.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t do much,” you blurt, still avoiding eye contact as you clean up the table. However, you notice in your peripheral that his gaze follows your movements, almost hesitantly, before he asks: 

“So, you’re hiring?” 

You click the first-aid kit shut, blinking a few times before turning back to him. He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

“I―yeah. How did you know that?” you ask, puzzled by such a random question. 

Donghyuck points at a poster that you didn’t even know you left here, sitting on the table right behind you. You realize that he was probably looking at it while you were patching him up. 

“That poster that says ‘help wanted.’ With the Pompompurin stickers. I’m actually in between jobs right now, so if you would have me―”

“You know Pompompurin?” you interrupt him. It’s not that important and should not stand out to you as much as it does. Yet, you can’t help but grin at the fact that someone like him knows about a tubby Golden Retriever character with a name that sounds like a mashup of the English language’s most adorable onomatopeias. 

Donghyuck trails off, stiffening as if you just found out his deepest, darkest secret. He opens his mouth slightly, trying to speak but unable to formulate a response―an excuse, rather. Instead, he just lets out an airy cough, putting a hand over his mouth and turning away from you in an attempt to obscure his face. Despite his best efforts, he can’t hide his glowing red ears and the way his earlier coldness melts away.

“I―yeah,” he responds, words slightly muffled by his hand. 

You struggle to maintain your composure as you gnaw on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. Fighting a smile in your voice, you finally say: 

“The pay won’t be that much, but you’ll get a bunch of free desserts at the end of the day. Are you okay with that?” 

It takes him a moment to process that you’re offering him the job, and you watch his eyes light up and a warm smile overtake his face. There’s still a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks, clashing with the purple bruising and swelling of his injuries. 

“I’d love nothing more.”

Suddenly, it occurs to you that Donghyuck somewhat reminds you of a tiramisu. 

He may look a bit rugged and grimey, bitter like coffee, but in actuality, underneath it all, he’s soft and fluffy (but not too sweet) like a mascarpone filling. 

RECIPE 2. BLUEBERRY PIE

“Are you out of your mind?”

You cringe away from your phone, hurriedly turning the volume down. “Damn, you don’t have to scream like that.” 

“You should be the one screaming,” Yeri hollers. “I better not come over one day and find your body stuffed in the freezer or something.”

“I thought you wanted me to hire someone!” 

“Not some random dude off the side of the street who was covered in injuries and doesn’t even have any baking experience,” Yeri hisses. 

“I don’t need him to bake. I just have him working the front counter and doing all the heavy lifting when I get my ingredient shipments,” you protest. “Did you think I would really just hand over all my orders to some random dude and go party it up in Cancún or something?” 

Yeri is silent for several seconds before asking, “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“What?”

“So you did know what I meant when I said you needed your back blown out.” You can hear the smugness in her voice. 

“Yeri,” you say tiredly, “please be serious.”

“I am serious. You’re the one being unserious,” she retorts. “Yesterday, you acted like you would rather sacrifice your firstborn child before hiring a part-timer, and now look at you. Dickmatized.�� 

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“So, when do I get to meet him―”

You quickly hit the button to end the call and shove your phone into your pocket, letting out an exasperated sigh. You definitely won’t be hearing the end of that for a while. Your face feels warm for some reason, and you decide that you need a coffee break. After you finish making it, you pour yourself and Donghyuck a cup. 

You peek your head out from the curtain that separates the kitchen and the front counter to see if Donghyuck is busy. He’s politely chatting with an elderly woman, and your eyes nearly pop out of your head when he takes out the entire tray of egg tarts in the glass display and wraps it up for her. The woman happily hands him a wad of bills and waves him goodbye. After putting the cash in the register, Donghyuck turns around and catches you in the middle of gawking. 

“Oh, Y/N. I was actually just about to head back there. We’re out of egg tarts for the display,” he says nonchalantly. 

“Uh, yeah, I can see that,” you whisper loudly, “Was that Mrs. Kim? Why the hell did she order a dozen egg tarts? That woman can barely finish a single cookie.” 

Donghyuck blinks, clearly confused, whispering back, “She asked for my recommendation, so I said egg tarts since no one had bought any yet, and she said she would take all of them.” 

You pause, things finally clicking. Grinning knowingly, you say, “You know, having you work the front is doing wonders for sales.” 

“I don’t understand.” He furrows his brows. 

You laugh, handing him his cup of coffee. “I’m talking about your face card, Donghyuck. You’re too handsome, so you’re flustering the customers.” 

“Are we not whispering anymore?” he asks awkwardly. “Besides, that’s not true. Look at the state of my face right now.” 

His injuries have faded significantly, but the bruising and cuts are still there. You want to tell him that superficial wounds can’t mask the warmth in his caramel-brown eyes, the fullness of his cheeks and the sharp jawline, and the air of mystery that enshrouds him and draws people in. 

But you don’t. 

“Well, for someone who’s only been working here for two weeks, you’re doing superb. Injuries or not.” 

And it’s true. You’ve always preferred to work alone because you’re the only one who understands how you want things done. You naturally assumed it would be a hassle and a waste of time to try to explain to someone else when you could just do it yourself, but Donghyuck never seems to need an explanation. In fact, he knows before even you. 

He gets to the bakery three hours before you, cleans and preps all the equipment you need for the day, unloads the ingredient shipments, and is already manning the front counter by the time you arrive like it was no big deal at all. He also seems to have a sixth sense of knowing when you’re about to do something you shouldn’t be, even though you downplayed your back injury. He’s somehow always there―moving all the stuff you keep on the top shelf to somewhere within your reach even though you insisted that the rickety wooden step stool you use is perfectly safe, cleaning up a glass beaker that you accidentally shattered, taking out the trash during his breaks, checking in on you when you skip lunch. He even turned down his first paycheck, saying it’s repayment for patching him up and feeding him. 

Donghyuck is so perfect that sometimes you wonder if you’re being set up, like maybe he’s secretly embezzling money from the cash register―which would be a more viable theory if he didn’t drive an Audi to work everyday. 

“Thanks for the compliment. And the coffee,” Donghyuck says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He gingerly takes a sip and makes a strangled noise, a mixture being choking and retching, before slapping a hand over his mouth. 

“Are you okay? Was it too hot?” you ask worriedly. 

“No, it’s just…really bitter,” he mumbles, words muffled in his hand. 

“Oh,” you blink, “Sorry. I drink black coffee, so I forgot to ask if you wanted creamer and sugar. Come on, there’s some in the back.” 

The two of you head to the kitchen, and you watch him dump an exorbitant amount of creamer and sugar in his coffee, the dark roast swirling into something more akin to milk tea.

“You know, there might be some chocolate milk in the fridge if you’d rather that,” you tease. 

His head shoots up, those doe eyes lighting up. “Really?” 

“No,” you trail off awkwardly, “Sorry, I'm just messing with you.” 

It’s a bit adorable that you can visibly see him being disappointed in there not being chocolate milk before growing embarrassed, looking down at his cup. He turns away from you, but you can see the flush on the back of his neck. 

“You really have a sweet tooth, huh?” you laugh. 

“Pretty lame, right?” 

“Why would that be lame? You’re talking to someone who owns a bakery, in case you forgot.” 

Donghyuck smiles at you, and it’s sugary sweet like buttercream frosting. He looks at you like you just said the most wonderful thing in the world; in fact, he always makes you feel like that, no matter what you say or do. “I guess you’re right.” 

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you blurt, needing a distraction urgently. 

He pauses briefly. “I don’t think I have one.”

That actually surprises you. “You don’t? Even though you love sweets so much?” 

He laughs, the sound harsh and rough, and it almost makes you flinch. “I’ve never really had an opportunity to have many until now.” 

There’s clearly weight behind his words, but you know you’re not in a position to ask any further. A selfish part of you wants to be important enough to him that you are in a position to know more, but you’re all too aware about him very purposefully keeping you at arm’s length. 

“Well, you have plenty of time to find out,” you quickly continue, pretending not to notice. “Actually, I’m going to a blueberry farm tomorrow because I’m thinking about adding blueberry pie to the menu. When I get back, I’ll bake one for you, and you can be the first to taste test it!” 

“You’re going by yourself?” Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. 

“Of course. Who else would I go with?” 

“Me. I’ll go with you,” he replies immediately. 

“But it’s, like, a forty-five-minute bus ride to the farm. Plus, coming with me to get ingredients isn’t part of your job description anyway,” you explain. 

“I can’t come with you on my own free time?” he asks, tilting his head. “Besides, I’m worried about you overexerting yourself with that back injury. A bumpy bus ride definitely isn’t going to help, so I’ll drive us there.” 

“You’re going to drive that fancy ass car to a farm? You do realize it’s going to be dirt roads, right?” You cross your arms. 

“I think I’ll live. Besides, what makes you think this is the only fancy ass car I own?” He gives you an amused smile. 

“You’re joking, right?” You stare at him. 

He hesitates for a moment. “Yes.” 

“That doesn’t sound―”

“What time are we leaving tomorrow morning?” 

“...Seven.”

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, Donghyuck picks you up right on time, not a minute too early or late. As the universe would have it, it rained the night prior―meaning all the dirt roads are now rivers of mud. You wince every time you heard a splat of mud hit Donghyuck’s pristine white car, but he seems to pay no mind to it. The two of you arrive at the farm within twenty minutes (he found a shortcut), and because you came so early, you get the entire farm to yourselves. The staff arms both of you with a large wicker basket each before setting you loose onto the massive property. 

“Okay, make sure to pick the fat ones. The small ones are super tart, so avoid those,” you instruct Donghyuck. “We’re going to fill these baskets to the brim and get our money’s worth.” 

“You got it, Captain.” He salutes. 

You give him a determined nod and a thumbs up before turning to your respective side and beginning to pick the blueberries. The two of you work without much fanfare or conversation, and it’s a silence that lingers between you comfortably. It reassures you to hear the sound of the bushes rustling from Donghyuck working; his companionship alone relaxes you. 

Eventually, when the sun starts peeking through and the weather grows warmer, both of you decide to take a break. You find a spot in the shade before sitting down, pulling out snacks and bottles of water from a backpack Donghyuck brought along. 

“I have a surprise for you,” you tell him, trying to hide a smile. “Close your eyes.” 

He eyes you suspiciously but does so anyway. You fish out a handful of unripe blueberries wrapped in a handkerchief from your pocket and feed some to him. His reaction is nearly instant the moment he starts chewing them; you watch as his face puckers up from how sour they are and his entire body shrivels into itself, a shudder running through him. He’s polite enough to not spit them out, but you’re not polite enough to resist pointing and laughing at him. Throwing your head back, you laugh so hard that your stomach starts to hurt. 

“Oh my God, your face!” 

“Ugh,” Donghyuck groans, taking a big gulp of his water. “I should’ve known you had sinister intentions from the start.” 

“I didn’t think you’d react like that,” you finally manage to say after catching your breath. “You really can’t handle anything except for sweet stuff.” 

“Are you having fun bullying me?” He rolls his eyes. 

“So much fun,” you say in a sing-song voice. 

Donghyuck tries to continue feigning annoyance, but he can’t help the low chuckle that rumbles in his chest. His eyes always soften when he looks at you, and his gaze is intimate like a lover’s―gentle, tender, unwavering, and vulnerable. But his warmth is always fleeting, and he only allows you glimpses of it through the unmoving walls that he’s erected around himself. 

You wish he wouldn’t indulge you so, terrified you’ll try to cross the line he’s drawn between the two of you. 

“What are you thinking about?” Donghyuck asks, trying to read your expression

“About the delicious pie I’m about to make when we get back,” you smile. 

“I see,” he responds, though it’s clear he isn’t convinced. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You better be. This is how I’m paying you back for driving me here,” you nod. 

“Instead of that, pay me back by telling me what your favorite dessert is,” he suddenly says. “I do still want the pie, though.” 

“That was random,” you snort. “Why do you want to know my favorite dessert?”

“Because you asked me, but you never told me yours.” 

You suppose he has a point, but you find it ironic that he wants to know more about you when he refuses to offer you even a modicum of information about himself. Despite this, you tell him anyway because you are obviously the fool here. 

“If you must know, it’s red velvet cake,” you sigh. 

“Why?” 

You don’t answer at first, carefully thinking about if you’re ready to be vulnerable in front of him―still a virtual stranger. A virtual stranger who loves sweets. A virtual stranger who is a bit of a messy eater. A virtual stranger who knows Pompompurin. A virtual stranger who worries about you even when he’s not on the clock. A virtual stranger who gently tells you to be careful whenever you try to do something dangerous, whispering, “I’ll do it instead.” A virtual stranger who allows his luxury car to be caked in mud for you. 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life,” you finally say. “I baked it for my mom’s birthday, and I think I ended up being more excited than her.” 

Donghyuck stays quiet, gauging your reaction. 

“I was in college, studying to be a doctor like everyone else in my family. So, like a dumb young person who thought that dreams were more important than money, I dropped out of college and went to culinary school. My parents told me I was ruining mine and their lives, disowned me, yada-yada―a bunch of depressing stuff, you know. Eventually, I graduated, took out a huge loan, and opened up my own bakery. Worked a bunch of part-time jobs until my business could stand on its own. Now here I am. Still in debt, though,” you laugh awkwardly. “But I’m not doing too shabby. I was able to hire you, so at least I have a little cash to spare.” 

He still doesn’t say anything, so you find yourself starting to ramble. You’re really not sure what possessed you to trauma dump on him like that. 

“You know, a lot of people talk shit about red velvet cake because they say the only thing that makes it special is the red food coloring,” you hurriedly explain, “but that’s not true. The cream cheese frosting is super important too. Also, I always say love is the most important ingredient of all. As a baker, you’re kind of baring your heart to the customer, and isn’t it kind of cute that red velvet cake is red like a heart? Okay, please say something now or else I think I’m going to projectile vomit.” 

Donghyuck reaches over and brushes a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. His fingers brush over your temple, which makes you sharply suck in a breath. You almost lean into his touch, but you catch yourself. His hand slightly lingers on the side of your neck, like he wants to bring your face closer, but he eventually pulls away. 

He searches your face, and you’re not sure what he’s looking for―if anything. Rather, perhaps he’s not searching. Perhaps he’s committing your features to his memory, as if the way you look right now is something he wants to remember forever. 

“You’ve worked hard, Y/N,” he says softly, voice slightly hoarse. “This is long overdue, but congratulations. You achieved your dream, and don’t let anyone ever discount that. Not even yourself.” 

You wonder how long you’ve waited to hear that. You’re not even sure you knew you needed to hear that. But when Donghyuck says it, it hits you just how long and hard you’ve worked all on your own without a single break. Throughout the years, you’ve really only ever heard, “I’m sorry that happened.” When was the last time someone congratulated you? When was the last time you congratulated yourself? 

You surge forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face in his shoulder. Donghyuck cradles you against him, one hand wound tightly around your waist while the other is tangled in your hair. You can feel his chest rise up and down as he holds you. He smells like lavender soap and a bit earthy from being outside, and the warmth of his skin against your cheek makes you want to close your eyes and fall asleep in his arms. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“No, thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. 

You’re not sure why he’s thanking you instead, but what you are sure of is that you’re crossing the line, taking a step towards him and wondering if he’ll meet you halfway. 

.

.

.

“Tada!” you announce cheerfully, setting down the freshly baked blueberry pie onto the table. 

Donghyuck claps excitedly. “Holy shit, it looks amazing.” 

“I’m still trying to figure out the right portions for the filling, so let me know if you think there’s too much or little,” you tell him as you hand him a slice. 

Without even answering you, he stabs his fork into the pie and almost eats the entire slice in one bite, seemingly unbothered by the steam still rising from it. 

“Be careful. You’re going to burn your tastebuds off. I’m not letting you eat it for shits and giggles, you know. This is for research purposes.” You cross your arms. 

“It’s perfect, Y/N. I’m serious,” Donghyuck says after swallowing. “The filling isn’t too sweet, and the crust is airy and light.” 

“Well, alright, Gordon Ramsay. I think we’re going to be adding a new menu item then,” you smile. “Think you can get Mrs. Kim to buy a dozen of these?”

“I don’t think she’ll need much convincing with how good these taste.” 

“You’re so easy,” you tease. “All I need to do is feed you. Anyways, I’m going to clean up here, but you should head home. It’s getting late, and you wake up way earlier than me.” 

“I’ll help,” he insists. 

“Go,” you order, pointing at the door. “I can handle it.” 

He looks conflicted but eventually relents when you threaten to physically kick him out. Before he leaves, he turns back to you and says, “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Why do you keep thanking me?” you laugh. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had this.”

“What? A blueberry pie?”

Donghyuck pauses, a slight wonder in his expression, as if he’s realizing his answer for the first time as well.

“Peace.” 

And you think maybe this is a step forward for him too. 

RECIPE 3. CREAM PUFF

It’s quite surreal how easily and naturally you and Donghyuck fall into a routine together. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, two weeks becomes two months. You’ve learned the little things about him, like how he always swipes some icing before you can fill up the piping bag or that he’s not a coffee drinker at all (more of a hot cocoa person) or that he purses his lips when a dessert he’s testing tastes off (no matter how hard he tries to hide it) or that he involuntarily sticks his arm out in front of you when he wants to stop you from doing something you shouldn’t. 

You also notice that he sometimes comes into work with injuries. They’re not nearly as bad as the first time you met him, but it’s hard to ignore a bruised cheek or bloodied knuckles. He always has a reason for them, whether it’s tripping down the stairs or accidentally falling down and scraping his hands on the concrete. You can tell by the way he laughs it off that he doesn’t plan on telling you the truth, so you laugh with him. The two of you, having taken only a step towards one another, find yourselves completely immobile now. 

He always does this: envelops you like a cloud but disappears the moment you reach out for him. 

You’re honestly not sure why he’s still here. Your injury has long healed, and he clearly doesn’t need the abysmal pay you’re giving him. He feels like he’ll slip away at any moment, fleeting like a warm spring breeze, and you suppose time flies by when you know it’s limited. Despite knowing that, you can’t help but desperately want him to stay. 

“I think it’s cute how hard he’s working,” Yeri randomly says one day as she eyes Donghyuck prepare orders in the front. He’s in the middle of a lunchtime rush, so he doesn’t even notice the two of you watching him like weirdos.

“Well, that’s what I’m paying him to do,” you reply, rolling his eyes. 

“Oh, I think the money is the least of his worries here,” she hums, taking a sip of her coffee. 

She has a point, but you’re pretty sure she’s implying something else as well. Just as you go to ask her what exactly she means, you hear a loud clatter. Flinching, you turn your attention back to Donghyuck and realize that he’s dropped a tray on the floor. However, the tray is the last thing on your mind when you see the expression on his face. It’s a mixture of horror, anger, and almost sadness―like he’s finally come face-to-face with whatever he’s been running from. It makes your blood run cold. 

Donghyuck is looking at a boy around his age; the boy has dark hair, a mole under his eye, and a grim expression. More importantly, he’s covered in injuries too. 

“Who is that?” Yeri whispers. “Why does Donghyuck look like he’s seen a ghost?” 

Maybe because he has, you want to tell her. 

Donghyuck grabs the boy's arm, squeezing so tightly that his knuckles turn white, and mumbles something to him. When he turns around and meets your eyes, he looks pained and fearful as if you witnessed something you shouldn’t have.

“Is it okay if I take my break early today?” he asks calmly, though the tremor in his voice gives him away. 

You nod hesitantly, unable to force yourself to speak. You watch him as he drags the boy out; when he passes you, you can tell how tightly his body is wound right now. His jaw is clenched, a muscle spasming as he tries to control himself, and every step he takes seems labored. He’s running on pure adrenaline right now, like he’s physically steeling himself. 

However, you don’t think he’s ever appeared so incredibly alone before. As you watch his back disappear further and further from your view, you’re unsure if he’ll ever return, and you never imagined how terrifying that would be. 

.

.

.

The cream puffs aren’t rising.

You’re crouched in front of the oven, watching the dough remain flat and lifeless. You should’ve known better than to attempt to make cream puffs on such a shitty day, especially when pastries like these are so sensitive to the environment and atmosphere. Even though you know you should probably just scrap them and try again, you wait for just a little longer, hoping that maybe if you wish hard enough that they’ll magically start to rise. 

But then again you suppose that no matter how hard you try, no matter how careful you are, no matter how perfect the batter is, no matter how much time you spend time piping them, no matter how much you want them to rise, they won’t. 

You decide that Donghyuck isn’t like a tiramisu at all; he’s sensitive and delicate and elusive and frustrating like a cream puff. 

“Y/N, they’re burning.” 

Losing your balance and nearly falling over, you gasp loudly. You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t even hear Donghyuck walk into the kitchen, nor did you smell the undeniable scent of something being burnt to a crisp. 

“Oh, fu―!” you curse, hurriedly opening the oven and casually suffocating both you and Donghyuck with a hot plume of air. Sputtering, you look around and grab a random rag from the sink before reaching for the cream puffs. 

“Wait, stop!” Donghyuck stops you with an outstretched arm, his hand pressed to your side. “Let me do it.” 

He gently takes the rag from your hand and removes the tray of charred cream puffs from the oven, dumping them into the trash before putting the tray in the sink and running some water on it―just how you like it. 

Letting out a relieved sigh, he turns back to you and asks, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to make a mistake like that. You didn’t get burned anywhere, did you?” 

When you don’t answer immediately, Donghyuck rushes forward and grabs your hands, carefully examining your fingers and arms. “Wait, are you hurt? Where? Tell me where you got burned. We have to cool it down with some lukewarm water. And don’t just say you’re fine. Burns are not a joke, Y/N―why are you looking at me like that?” 

His hands are calloused and rough, and you can still see scabs from where he tore his knuckles, yet he touches you like you’re the delicate one. He’s covered in fresh and old wounds, yet he looks so panicked at the thought of you having a scratch. 

“Shut up,” you whisper furiously, ripping your hands away from him. “From now on, don’t ask me another question. It’s my turn to ask you questions.” 

He blinks, a bit stunned by your reaction, but it’s clear he knows what you’re about to say. He goes to reach for you again but decides against it. “Okay.” 

“Who was that guy?” you demand. “Why are you always covered in injuries? Why did you lie to me? Who are you?” 

“He’s an old friend,” Donghyuck starts quietly. 

“Do you treat all your friends like that?” 

“When I don’t want to see them.” 

You wait for him to continue.

“Before I met you, he and I and a few of our other friends worked…odd jobs for cash,” he explains, and he looks like he’s choking on every word. “The jobs usually entailed us hurting people and also getting hurt. I did a lot of shit I wasn’t proud of. At the time, I didn’t really care. It was just nice to feel something, whether it was the adrenaline rush from doing the punching or the pain from being punched. I got a bunch of money, bought a bunch of expensive stuff, but none of it mattered. Eventually, I just felt nothing again. I didn’t even have the energy to loathe myself anymore. So, I took one last job, got the shit kicked out of me, and then I left. That’s when you found me―”

He inhales, and his eyes flicker towards you. He gazes at you so longingly, as if you were impossibly out of his reach, that you can’t help but involuntarily take a step towards him. 

But he steps back. 

“I thought that working here would make me feel like a human being again, but I didn’t realize how much I would―” He pauses again. “I thought working here would be a nice reset for me, but I naively thought that I could completely leave my past behind. My friends eventually found me, and I guess I care about those reckless assholes more than I thought because they managed to convince me to take on a few more jobs with them. That’s why I’ve been coming to work with injuries. But I’m done. I cut them off for good when they walked into this bakery. I don’t want…I don’t want our past to tarnish this place. I want to keep this place a beautiful, warm, and pure safe haven that you worked so hard for it to be. That’s why I lied to you, Y/N. I’m a coward to the bone, and I was envious of you. I was ashamed to admit it to you. You, who had the courage to chase after your dream. You, who had the kindness to help a good-for-nothing asshole like me. I only want you to have happy memories from now on, and I am not one of them.” 

“Are you going to leave?” you ask softly. 

“I probably should,” he answers shakily. 

“What’s stopping you?” 

“Just…one reason.” 

“When you say it like that, it makes it sound like the reason is me.” 

Donghyuck laughs bitterly, and his eyes drag across your face like every movement hurts him.

“You know it’s you. It’s always been you.” 

When you reach for his hand, he turns away like just the warmth from your body heat burns him. So instead, you take a step back. 

“I won’t ask you to stay, Donghyuck, I won’t chase you. I’m going to wait right here, and it’s up to you if you're going to meet me halfway.” 

RECIPE 4. RED VELVET CAKE

When your alarm clock goes off the next morning, you seriously consider just not showing up to work. It’s not like you can be fired for being a no-show when you’re your own boss, after all. 

And it’s not like you have any employees who will be expecting you. 

You’ll just apologize to Mrs. Kim and your other regulars later. You’re allowed to have a day where you just rot in bed and feel sorry for yourself. 

However, no matter how much you tell yourself that, you find yourself crawling out of bed and getting ready anyway. You can’t seem to brutally crush that small glimmer of hope that Donghyuck might still be there, no matter how hard you try. When you see yourself in the mirror, you recoil in horror. Your eyes are almost swollen shut from the amount of crying you did last night, and your face is sallow and lifeless. 

So much for putting on a brave face, you think wryly to yourself. You tried so hard to look tough, when in reality, you bawled your eyes out and even considered praying to God for Donghyuck to stay. It’s a humiliating and humbling reality check. 

“Stand up right now,” you sharply tell yourself in the mirror. “He’s just some guy. Get it together.” 

You do your best to clean up your appearance and make the trek over to the bakery. It takes another internal pep talk before you can make your way to the door. After you finally walk up, you see that the lights inside are off. Your stomach sinks, and your eyes start to burn. Even though you’re holding the handle, you can’t bring yourself to open the door. It’s an outcome that you expected, yet you wonder why it hurts so badly. 

“You liar,” you mumble to yourself, “You said you only wanted me to have happy memories.” 

Once you make your way inside, you numbly head towards the kitchen, trying to remember what exactly you have to do today. Oh right, now that he’s not here, you also have to make sure all the ingredients are prepped first. 

When you walk into the kitchen, you do a double-take. 

The whole place looks like it’s been completely ransacked: used pans and utensils piled up in the sink, two opened boxes of cake mix, containers of ingredients without lids on on the tables, random lumps of flour and egg shells strewn about― 

And right in front of the oven is Donghyuck, flour in his hair and frosting on his nose. He’s holding a cake stand with…you think it’s supposed to be a cake on it? The shape is mangled and haphazardly cut, but it has echoes of a heart. The frosting is a hot mess, as if a bird with diarrhea shat all over the cake. The batter is clearly underbaked and makes the cake look gooey in a bad way. 

“Um, I promise I’ll clean all of this up in a second, but I wanted to surprise you,” Donghyuck starts awkwardly. “It’s not perfect, but I tried making a red velvet cake for you.” 

You stare at him, still not sure how to react. 

“You once said that baking is like baring your heart to the customer and that love is the most important ingredient of all,” he laughs softly to himself. “I think love is the only ingredient I managed to get right, but I’m baring my heart to you now, Y/N. I’m sorry I hid everything and lied to you, but I’m in love with you. Hopelessly so. All my life, I’ve chased a feeling, not knowing what it was. But now I do. I don’t think I knew how to feel until I met you. I never once thought I would ever have a purpose in my life, but you make me want to be a normal, proper member of society. Your dream is my dream. I want to wake up at 5AM and sell egg tarts with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.” 

Donghyuck sets the cake down on a table in front of you, and you notice that his fingers are dyed red from the food coloring. It almost reminds you of when you first met him, except his injuries have been replaced with red food coloring, flour, and cream cheese frosting. 

“This cake is terrible,” you smile, “how did you butcher it that badly when you used cake mix?” 

You watch him blush all the way down to his neck, as he sheepishly looks away. “Don’t make fun of me. I really tried my best. I stayed up watching tutorials―” 

Leaning across the table, you cup his face with both hands and kiss him, brushing your thumbs across his cheekbones. He tastes like frosting, hot cocoa, and your prayers being answered. The way he kisses you back is bruising, dizzying and knocking any coherent thought out of your head, his hands finding your hips and anchoring you to him. He kisses you like you’re the sweetest and most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted.

When you finally pull away, it takes you a moment to regain feeling in your legs. Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, lips brushing against yours once again as the two of you try to catch your breath. 

“I think I’m going to have to fire you, though,” you whisper. “You know, with me being your boss and all. The power dynamic is too weird.” 

He hums, pausing for thought. “Then how about I become your business partner?” 

“What?”

Donghyuck reaches into his pocket and fishes out his wallet, pulling out a shiny and fancy-looking credit card. He hands it to you without much fanfare. 

“I have a lot of money, you know. So I’m going to invest in your business. Use it as you’d like,” he casually announces.

You stare at him, your jaw hanging wide open. He never tried to hide from you that he was rich, but he never told you that he was rich rich. 

“Well, damn! Why didn’t you show me this earlier? I would have forgiven you a lot sooner,” you tease, slapping him on the arm. “Are you sure you want to give this to me? I’m quite the gold-digger, you know.”

“When I told you to use it as you’d like, I meant me as well,” Donghyuck replies, shrugging.

“You’re insane.” You hope he can’t tell how much your face is burning up. 

“I guess I am,” he laughs, and you don’t think he’s ever looked so free. You want to tell him that you hope he only has happy memories from now on too. You want to tell him that you’ll rewrite all of his scars with sugary and fluffy desserts so that they won’t ever hurt again. 

And for the first time in your life, you feel it too.

Peace. 

EXTRA

“So, have you figured out what your favorite dessert is?” 

Donghyuck stirs slightly, groaning, as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He slips his hand under your shirt (well, technically it’s his shirt) and rests it on your bare hip bone. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?” 

“Because I’m curious.” 

“If I answer, will you let me rest?”

“Depends on how good your answer is.” 

“Blueberry pie. That’s my answer.” 

You smile against the crook of his neck. 

“Why?” 

“Because it’s the dessert that made me realize I want to do this for the rest of my life.” 

[cameronsbabydoll]

drew starkey and younger!ditzy!reader going to coachella part two!

wc: 1,047 — a/n: part one is here!

you find it by accident.

you’re lying belly-down on the hotel bed post-coachella, legs kicking lazily in the air, your hair still braided and a tiny smudge of glitter stuck to your temple. drew’s in the shower. you’re just scrolling—mindlessly tapping through stories—when you see it.

deuxmoi: SPOTTED—drew starkey’s “barely legal” girlfriend causes a scene at coachella. sources say drew was “visibly annoyed” with her the entire time. still cute though?

and then:

“she looks like she needs a babysitter, not a boyfriend.” “imagine being drew starkey and ending up with THAT.” “she probably thinks coachella is a drink.”

your stomach sinks. it feels like you’re watching your reflection crack. like your glitter’s turned into something ugly. your chest gets tight and your eyes sting before you even realize why.

the thing is, they’re not saying anything new. you know what people think. that you're young, ditzy, clingy. that you're not smart enough. that you just float around in your own little world, and drew.. drew is too calm, too serious, too grown for you.

and now you think—maybe they’re right.

you slip off the bed quietly, wipe your eyes, and grab your bag.

you’re halfway out the door when he calls out, towel around his waist, wet hair dripping onto his chest. “where are you going?”

you freeze.

“back to home,” you mumble, not turning around.

he’s behind you in two seconds. “what? why?”

“i’m just… i’m tired,” you lie, fingers curling tight around the strap of your purse. “and i don’t wanna keep embarrassing you.”

“embarrassing me?” his voice drops. “where the hell is this coming from?”

you turn slowly, eyes red and puffy. “i saw the tweet.”

his jaw flexes.

“they’re right,” you whisper. “you’re always fixing my top, or babysitting me, or explaining things, or covering for me, and i—i’m just... too dumb for you.”

he exhales sharply, stepping closer. “don’t you ever say that.”

“i don’t want you to feel stuck with someone who’s always messing things up,” you say, swallowing a sob. “and i don’t want you to hate me one day because i’m not good enough.”

his hands are on your cheeks before you can run, before you can hide. “you think i’m stuck with you?” his voice is low, but you know. “you think i cover you because i’m ashamed?”

you sniff. “aren’t you?”

he kisses you. hard.

you’re breathless when he pulls back, his forehead pressed against yours.

“i cover you because i want to protect you,” he says, voice rough. “because i know how soft you are. and i’d rather the whole world see me as annoyed than ever see you cry.”

you hiccup softly. “but you were annoyed…”

he chuckles—gently this time. “yeah, because you were about to flash a crowd full of dudes with their phones out. not because you’re dumb. you’re not dumb. you’re just... you. you’re soft, and sparkly, and ask me what time zone we’re in at least twice a day—"

“i-i get confused!” you whimper.

“—and i love that about you,” he cuts in, brushing a tear off your cheek. “you’re not too much. you’re mine.”

you crumple into him, burying your face in his chest. “i thought you didn’t love me.”

“i’ve been in love with you since you asked if hummus was dairy.”

“…it’s not?”

“baby…”

you’re curled into his lap like a kitten, legs draped over his thighs, your cheek pressed against his chest. one of his hoodies is swallowing you whole, sleeves dangling past your fingers. you haven’t said much since you cried—just little sniffles, pouty silence, and an occasional “mmh” when he kissed the top of your head.

he knows you’re still hurting. so he pulls out his phone and opens his camera roll.

“wanna see something?” he murmurs.

you peek up at him, lips still trembling. “what?”

he swipes once, then flips the screen so you can see.

it’s a video of you from earlier that day—standing in the middle of the grass at coachella, sun blaring, flower crown crooked, and you’re bouncing on your toes with a popsicle in one hand and your tongue bright red. you’re yelling over the music, trying to get his attention:

“drewwww! babe! look at me, i match the popsicle! i am the popsicle!”

he snorts, and so do you, just a little.

you let out a small, wobbly giggle, cheeks heating up. “i sound so dumb.”

he presses a kiss to your temple. “you sound adorable.”

then he swipes again—another photo. this time it’s the two of you backstage, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carries you because your sandals “felt like knives.” your lips are pressed to his cheek, and you look like you don’t have a care in the world.

he shows you more—candid shots of you twirling in your sparkly skirt, one where your sunglasses are way too big for your face, another where you’re mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut. and then a video from the hotel that morning, you dancing while brushing your teeth, hair all crazy.

“you took that?” you whisper.

“yup,” he says, scrolling. “you don’t even know how much i take.”

you peek up at him, bottom lip still a little pouty. “because you’re trying to collect evidence of how annoying i am?”

he gives you a look. “no, baby. because i don’t ever wanna forget how happy you make me.���

you blink. your lip trembles again—but this time it’s not from sadness. “you’re so mean to me,” you whisper dramatically, flopping against his chest.

he grins. “mean?”

“you make me cry, and then show me cute pictures of myself and kiss me on the forehead, and now i feel dumb for being sad.”

he shifts, laying back with you still curled into his arms. “you’re not dumb for being sad. but i’m gonna remind you every time that i don’t care what deuxmoi or whatever the hell it’s called or twitter or some troll behind a screen says.”

you nuzzle into him. “even if i say things like... are cucumbers baby pickles?”

he sighs playfully, tightening his arms around you. “especially then.”

you grin into his chest. “and you still wanna be my boyfriend?”

“i still wanna marry you.”

you freeze.

“w-what?”

“nothing,” he says quickly, kissing your forehead. “eat your gummy bears, baby.”

“drew?!”

[theonottsbxtch]

SOMETHING LIKE LOVE | OP81

an: to all of those who believe you aren't worthy of love. you truly are, it'll come xx this is apart of my 2k celly, requested!!

wc: 5.3k

summary: she’s f1’s rising star. fierce, fast, and convinced she’s not made for love. oscar is the sarcastic softie who's been falling for her since day one. when one press conference cracks her walls, he makes it his mission to prove her wrong.

THE PADDOCK WASN'T BUILT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. It reeked of burnt rubber, adrenaline, and the sort of manufactured glamour that barely hid the pressure underneath. Flashing cameras. PR smiles. Men in pristine team gear pretending the world didn’t hang on lap times and tenths of a second.

She walked through it like she belonged, because she did, but never without the weight of proving it.

Two seasons in Formula 1 hadn’t made things easier. If anything, the stares lingered longer, the whispers just quiet enough to still be heard. Her VCARB rarely made it to the top ten unless she dragged it there herself. But she didn’t complain. She drove. She fought. And when they underestimated her, she made them regret it.

She was sharp. Quick-witted. Sassy, some said. A “media darling” with a bite. The kind who could deliver a one-liner that left even the most seasoned interviewer blinking.

And Oscar knew it from the start.

Oscar Piastri, McLaren’s golden boy, all easy charm and restless ambition. Three years into his career and finally, finally, he looked like he might be on track for a proper championship run. Two wins in four races, and the papaya car was back in the fight.

To the public, he was the perfect mix of cheeky and clean-cut, messy brown hair that refused to stay slicked back, a soft Australian accent that turned heads in press conferences, and eyes that didn’t give much away unless he wanted them to.

But around her, he never quite managed to keep his composure.

They were the same age. Entered F1 within a year of each other. She arrived a storm; he remembered watching her first race from the McLaren garage, muttering “bloody hell” under his breath when she overtook three cars in two laps like it was nothing.

He’d been intrigued ever since.

But she didn’t let people in. Not really. She joked, flirted, rolled her eyes at dumb questions, but the walls stayed up. And Oscar couldn’t help but want to know what was behind them.

He didn’t push. Not yet.

Until that interview.

The sun beat down on the pit lane, heat shimmering off the tarmac as engineers scurried and photographers prowled like vultures with lanyards. Just another Saturday. Quali was done, data collected, and everyone was pretending to be relaxed when they were actually wound tighter than the bolts on the front wing.

She was sitting on the edge of her garage wall, swinging one leg like a schoolgirl on break, water bottle tucked between her hands. Her helmet sat beside her, visor up, reflecting the bustle. She watched it all with that same expression she always had post-session. Ccalm, but calculating. Like she’d already rewound and replayed every corner in her head.

Oscar spotted her before she saw him. Not that he was looking. Not exactly.

He’d just finished his debrief, race suit zipped halfway, hair doing its usual floppy rebellion. He could’ve turned into hospitality. Could’ve headed for the ice bath. But instead, his feet took him across the paddock, like they always did when she was around.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked, voice casual as he stopped beside her.

She glanced up, squinting into the sun. "If by ‘view’ you mean watching your pit crew nearly drop your front jack, then yeah. Thrilling stuff."

Oscar smirked, teeth flashing. “It’s all part of the drama. Keeps the fans on their toes.”

“Right. That, or McLaren’s just allergic to calm pit stops.”

She said it with a grin, but Oscar swore there was something else behind it — amusement, yeah, but also that spark she always had when she was comfortable. Which wasn’t often. Not properly. Not unless she trusted someone.

He perched on the wall next to her, not too close. Just enough. She didn’t move away.

"You were quick today," he said, more genuine now.

"So were you," she replied. "P2 in Quali? Showing off for the cameras?"

Oscar shrugged. "Just trying to impress the VCARB girl."

She arched a brow, smile twitching like she was trying not to let it grow. "You’re three years too late for that.”

“Reckon I’ve still got time,” he said lightly, but it landed heavier between them.

She didn’t reply, just took a sip from her bottle, eyes on the track. A mechanic shouted something in Italian nearby. Her leg kept swinging.

"Tell me something, Piastri," she said eventually. "Do you ever get tired of being the fan favourite?"

He looked at her then. Really looked. “Do you ever get tired of proving everyone wrong?”

That made her go still for a beat. Then she exhaled, soft and slow.

“All the time.”

Before he could decipher what she meant, a voice cut through the buzz of the pit lane, clipped, PR-perfect, and far too chipper for the afternoon.

“Right, you two. They’re ready for you in the media pen. Sofa set-up. You know the drill.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she stood, twisting the top back on her bottle.

Oscar stood too, brushing imaginary dust off his fireproofs. “Do I at least get to sit next to you?”

She gave him a look, all raised brows and mock pity. “That desperate for moral support?”

“Obviously.”

They walked side by side, weaving through crew and cables, eventually emerging into the small, overly lit press area. The sofa, that cursed faux-leather monstrosity in sponsor-friendly grey, sat in front of a wall plastered with logos. Lance was already sitting there, on the edge, smiling at them when they walked past.

Oscar dropped onto one end, she slid into the middle, Lance on her other side. The flashes started immediately.

Questions came quick. Routine stuff. Lance was asked about his lap time, Oscar about the McLaren upgrades.

Then, someone aimed their mic toward her.

“Question for you,” the reporter said, polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You’ve had a strong start to the season considering the car you’re in. P7 in the standings. You seem sharper than ever. Do you think that drive, that edge, comes from not having distractions? You’ve said before you keep your circle tight.”

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, fingers laced in her lap. “If by distractions you mean relationships, then yeah. Probably.”

The reporter pushed, as they always did. “So... nothing on the horizon? Love life completely off the table?”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that hung too long to be comfortable. Her eyes flicked briefly to the floor, then back up.

“I don’t think I’m made for love,” she said, simply. Like it was a fact. “Not the way people want it. Doesn’t really fit with everything else.”

A few awkward chuckles. Lance looked down at his shoes. The journalist nodded, clearly satisfied with his viral soundbite.

But Oscar?

Oscar hadn’t moved. He was still angled slightly toward her, lips parted just a little. Because something about the way she’d said it. Not bitter, not flippant, just... tired, it punched the air clean out of his lungs.

Not made for love?

He wanted to shake her. Tell her she was wrong. That whoever made her feel that way had clearly been a coward, because she was all sharp edges and fire, yeah but there was something soft in her, too. Something no one had ever bothered to stay long enough to understand.

He didn’t say anything. Not there. Not with a dozen cameras on them.

But inside, something locked into place.

He was going to prove her wrong.

The thing about F1 was that it never slowed down. Not really.

One weekend blurred into the next, a constant carousel of countries, circuits, press calls, qualifying stress and race-day nerves. But somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah, something shifted.

It started with a cup of tea in Jeddah.

She’d had a hellish day, the VCARB car twitchy as hell through sector two, her engineer frustrated, and the media already foaming at the mouth for something to twist. By the time she stalked into hospitality, she barely noticed the cup waiting for her on the table.

Two sugars. Splash of milk. Her kind of tea, the sort no one in the team ever seemed to get quite right.

She paused.

Then saw the note, scribbled on a napkin in slanted handwriting:

Figured you’d need this after that press conference. — O

No fanfare. No performance.

Just… thoughtfulness. Simple and grounding.

She never mentioned it. But she started noticing things after that.

Miami was blistering.

Drivers’ parade meant being carted around the circuit in the back of an open-top truck like they were part of a royal procession. She hated it, the awkward wave, the sun in her eyes, and today, the fact she’d left her sunglasses back in the garage like an idiot, made it worse.

“Looking for these?” a voice said beside her.

Oscar, of course. Holding her black framed sunglasses by one arm, a smug little smirk on his face.

She stared. “Why do you have those?”

“Saw you left them by your bag. Figured I’d rescue them before someone else claimed them.”

She snatched them, slipping them on with a scoff. “Stalker.”

“Public service,” he replied, resting an arm casually behind her as the truck started to roll. “You’d owe me a favour, if you weren’t so stubborn.”

She glanced at him from behind the lenses. “I’ll add it to the imaginary tab you think I have.”

But her voice was softer. Less guarded.

Monaco, as always, was madness. She’d had a surprisingly strong quali.  P7. But the grid was chaos, press everywhere, the tight streets of Monte Carlo offering no room to breathe.

She was trying to centre herself, leaning against her garage, helmet off but earplugs in. She liked that moment, just her and the buzz of a silent track.

Until someone tapped her shoulder.

She turned, expecting her engineer. Instead: Oscar.

He held something out.

Her blue lucky charm. A little rubber tag she’d had since her karting days. She hadn’t even realised it had fallen off.

“You dropped it in the paddock,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t want you going without it.”

She blinked, eyes flicking from his hand to his face. Then took it, fingers brushing his, unintentionally, of course.

“Thanks.”

He gave a half-shrug, stepping back. “Lucky charm for someone who doesn’t need luck.”

She didn’t respond. But she clipped it back onto her necklace and didn’t take it off as she slipped it under the fireproofs.

The pressure always peaked at Silverstone.

Her home race. Headlines were brutal. Fans were louder. Her mum was in the paddock, bless her, nerves practically seeping out of her pores as she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified every time her daughter got in that car.

She was seconds away from getting into her car while her team faffed about with her car when Oscar walked up to her, helmet off.

She turned her head just slightly, visor still up.

He didn’t smile. Just looked at her like he saw her.

“Your mum said you always hated the crowd here,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the roar of the crowds. “So block ‘em out. Just you and the car. Show them why they should’ve put you in that Red Bull seat.”

Her breath caught, a flutter she couldn’t blame on nerves.

He winked, then turned and jogged back to his own car, slotting into P3 like he hadn’t just cracked something open in her chest.

She finished P4, right behind him. Best result of the year.

By Hungary, it wasn’t subtle anymore,  at least not to her.

They were seated beside each other at some PR dinner, everyone playing polite for the cameras. She wore black, sleek and unbothered. He wore a shirt and shorts, as he always did.

Someone made a joke. She barely heard who it came from.

“All that attitude and no man to handle it,” he said to one of the F1 Academy girls, grinning. “You’ll end up like our princess here, all work, no play.”

The table chuckled. She didn’t flinch. She was used to it.

But Oscar leaned forward.

“Yeah,” he said. Calm. Cool. Deadly. “Because having standards is such a crime.”

The room shifted. No one knew what to say.

Except her. She just looked at him, eyes soft.

And he looked back.

Like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone in all this as she thought.

Something had changed.

He wasn’t just trying anymore.

He was showing her — in every touch, every look, every small act of care — that love wasn’t about grand gestures or promises shouted from rooftops. It was quiet. Steady. Gentle hands at your back when the world was shouting. Someone seeing you exactly as you are and staying anyway.

And little by little... she started to believe it.

She told herself she wasn’t keeping track.

Not of the way Oscar always found her in a crowd. Not of how he seemed to know when she needed to be distracted, or when silence was kinder. Not of the brief, shared glances across driver briefings, or how he never once looked at her the way the others sometimes did — like she was a story waiting to be twisted.

But she remembered it all.

Like in Monza, when her DRS failed mid-qualifying and she stormed back to the garage, helmet still on because she didn’t trust her face to hide how gutted she was. No one said a word. Not until she felt something cold press into her hand.

Oscar, offering her a can of apple juice. No words. Just a look as he took a sip out of his can.

“I hate apple juice,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said, sipping his own. “That one’s mine. Yours is in the other hand.”

She glanced down.

Peach iced tea. Her favourite.

She didn’t ask for any of it.

The sunglasses. The drink. The keyring. The silence. The noise.

But it kept coming. Him, quiet in his certainty. Like he’d already decided that she was worth showing up for, even when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

Especially when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

The next time something happened, it was in Singapore.

Hot. Humid. Heavy with expectation.

She’d just come P6 in a brutal race that chewed up tyres like paper and spat out dreams by lap thirty. Her fireproofs were soaked, her head pounding.

And Oscar was waiting by her team’s hospitality exit, arms folded, cap pulled low.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Dinner.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He shrugged. “Then sit with me and don’t eat.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue.

He ordered for her anyway. Didn’t ask what she wanted. Just remembered. Her favourite noodle place two blocks from the paddock.

She ate in silence, and when she finally looked up, he was already looking at her.

Not expecting anything.

Just… there.

Then came Mexico.

Two weeks of media frenzy. The first whispers of contract talks for next season. Her name was in headlines again, her seat not guaranteed, everyone treating her like she was a gamble.

She was pacing in her hotel room, phone in hand, brain buzzing with what-ifs.

A knock pulled her out of it.

She opened the door.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie and trainers. Not his usual post-race gloss.

“Hey,” he said, glancing down the hall. “My sister’s in town. We’re grabbing food. Thought you might wanna come.”

She blinked. “Why?”

He blinked right back. “Because you’ve barely eaten all day and you pace like a lunatic when you overthink.”

She stared at him. Quiet. Still.

Then: “Why do you keep doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

She crossed her arms. Not angry. Just… tired.

“All of it. The tea in Australia. My sunglasses in Miami. The keyring. Silverstone. The way you stood up for me in Silverstone. The ice tea in Monza. Singapore noodles. Now this.”

He said nothing.

She stepped closer.

“You remember everything. You notice everything. You show up like you’ve got something to prove. So tell me, Oscar. What exactly are you trying to prove?”

Silence.

The hotel room was too quiet, just the buzz of a nearby light and the thrum of her heart.

He swallowed. Voice quiet.

“That you’re worthy of love.”

Her breath caught.

He looked at her then, really looked, eyes softer than she’d ever seen them, shoulders loose, like he’d been holding something for too long and was finally letting it drop.

“That day, in the media pen in Bahrain,” he said. “When you said you didn’t think you were made for it… I don’t know. It just stuck with me.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He kept going.

“Not because it was dramatic. You didn’t even say it like that. You just said it like it was true. Like it was fact. And I thought…” He paused. “I don’t know what kind of idiot made you believe that. But they were wrong.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re stubborn. And proud. And you act like you don’t need anyone, which is probably true most of the time. But you’re also… the kindest, most brilliant pain in the arse I’ve ever met.”

A breath. Then:

“And I guess I just wanted you to know you don’t have to go through this alone. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her throat was dry. She blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered, “You’re not very good at playing it cool, are you?”

He laughed — soft and low. “Not when it’s you.”

Oscar’s words had hit too hard, too deep. She couldn’t breathe properly now, couldn’t find her voice.

“Why do you think you’re not worthy?” he asked softly, the words almost lost in the air between them.

She looked at him then, eyes blurry and strained. There was so much she could say, but it was all knotted in her throat. His quiet intensity, the way he stood there with all that sincerity, it made it hard to keep up the walls.

“Because…” She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “Because I’m a woman in motorsport, Oscar. And that’s hard enough on its own. The pressure to prove myself is enough without having to deal with all the other stuff.” She shook her head, her voice faltering. “People don't see me. They see the seat I’m in. They see the fact that I have to fight for everything. And sometimes... sometimes, it feels like it’s never going to be enough. Like I’ll never be enough.”

She was rambling now, the words spilling out faster than she could control. “I’m constantly proving I belong. I have to keep up with men who think they’re better by default. I’ve had to do more, be more, just to be seen as equal. And for what? So some guy can come in, wave a magic wand, and tell me I’m worthy of... what? Love?”

Her voice cracked at the last word.

The silence stretched between them. The tears that had been hanging just behind her eyes finally fell, one by one, streaking down her cheeks.

She felt weak. Like everything she’d fought to protect for years, her confidence, her strength, was slipping away with each tear that fell.

But Oscar... Oscar didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Instead, he took a step closer.

And then another.

She didn’t pull away.

He stopped right in front of her, barely an inch separating them now, the faint heat of his body seeping into hers.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Don’t you ever think that about yourself. You’re so much more than any of those idiots who don’t know what it’s like. You deserve love. Real love. Not the kind they pretend to give you because of your seat or because of how they see you. The kind that just… is. The kind that doesn’t expect anything in return.”

He reached up, his thumb brushing against her cheek, wiping away the tears that hadn’t even stopped falling yet.

Her breath hitched.

And then he did the most Oscar thing he could have done.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the closeness stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Don’t let them tell you you’re anything less than worthy. Don’t let anyone make you think you’re broken because you’ve had to be stronger than anyone else. You’re whole. You’re worth it, always. And if it takes me showing you every day, I’ll do it. I’ll spend every day reminding you.”

Her heart was pounding now, so loud she couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears. She wanted to speak, but she couldn’t, the emotions were too raw, too intense. She could barely comprehend what he was saying, not through the haze of vulnerability that had opened up inside her.

He pulled back slightly, but not enough for their foreheads to part. His eyes were soft, searching hers for something. Maybe for permission. Maybe for the answers she hadn’t given yet.

And then, without warning, his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was... slow. Gentle. His lips brushing against hers in a tender, tentative kiss. A kiss full of everything unsaid, of all the moments he had cared for her in silence, of all the things he’d done and felt that had built up to this point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was him proving, finally, that he’d meant every word.

Her hands moved instinctively, reaching up to touch his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as the kiss deepened. She felt the warmth of his body, the gentle pressure of his lips, the quiet way he held her like he was afraid she might break if he wasn’t careful.

The tears didn’t stop falling, but they were different now. Not from pain, not from frustration, but from something else. Something soft and tender, like she could finally exhale after holding her breath for far too long.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, her forehead leaned against his again. His hands were on her face now, cupping her cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“See?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I told you. You’re worth it.”

She swallowed hard, her chest tight with everything she felt but couldn’t say.

Instead, she just nodded. “I never thought someone could love me for just… me. Not because I’m a driver. Not because of anything other than that.”

“You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always will be.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she believed him.

The kiss lingered in the air between them like a warm, unspoken promise. Neither of them moved. Neither of them needed to.

Her heart was still racing, but now there was a sense of calm, a quiet settling she hadn’t realised she needed until this very moment.

Oscar’s hands were still gently cupping her face, his thumbs brushing softly along her jawline as if he wanted to imprint the feel of her there in his memory. His gaze was soft but intense, still reading her like he’d always done. She could feel the weight of his words pressing against her, even now.

And she knew.

She knew that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment, a one-time gesture. This was something deeper. Something that had been building for a long time, maybe without either of them even realising it.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was just right.

But then Oscar’s phone buzzed.

It broke the stillness, and his gaze shifted, momentarily pulling away from hers.

He glanced down at his screen, his fingers swiping it unlocked before he tapped out a quick reply.

But she couldn’t help herself.

Her eyes drifted to the message on his phone, just barely catching a glimpse of the text that had popped up.

"Did you finally tell her?!"

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard. Her mind immediately started working overtime. Tell her? What did that mean?

She couldn’t stop herself. She leaned in just a little, trying to see if there was more.

Oscar noticed the shift in her attention, his thumb halting mid-type. He looked back up at her, eyes wary, lips pulling into a small, knowing smile.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice teasing but his eyes slightly guarded.

She frowned. “What was that about? ‘Did you finally tell her?’”

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, a small chuckle escaping him.

“Look, I —” He stopped, biting his lip as if trying to find the right words. “I didn’t exactly want you to find out like this.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flicked to the phone again, where the text from his sister still lingered on the screen.

“I’ve... kind of had a thing for you for a while, actually,” he said, his voice sheepish, like it was something that still surprised him. “And I guess, in a way, she’s been... waiting for me to actually do something about it.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed again, trying to process the words as they settled in.

“So, it wasn’t just me imagining all this?” she asked softly, her gaze searching his. “All the little things, it’s not because you wanted to prove a point but because you always liked me.”

He shook his head slowly, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile. “Nah. I’ve been a bit of an idiot, to be honest. She’s been telling me to just... tell you already. To stop being such a coward.”

Her eyes widened as she leaned back slightly, the weight of his confession landing on her.

“How long have you liked me then, Osc?” she asked, the words still foreign on her tongue.

He chuckled, eyes softening. “For a while now. Since we started racing against each other, actually. I just — I don’t know. You’ve always been so... independent. And I didn’t want to mess things up for you, you know? You’ve got enough on your plate without some guy making it more complicated.”

She could feel her chest tightening, her heart swelling with something she couldn’t quite name. “You really thought I wouldn’t want you? With all the times you’ve been there for me?”

He paused, his hand dropping, suddenly unsure. “I didn’t think I was the right kind of guy for you. You deserve someone who can... give you everything. And I didn’t know if I could.”

Her voice dropped to a soft whisper. “But you already have.”

He looked at her, a flicker of hope and disbelief in his eyes. “You mean it?”

She nodded slowly. “I do.”

A silence stretched between them once again. But this time, it was different. There was no more hesitation. No more fear.

She could feel the pull again. The one that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. And this time, she was ready to admit it.

“I never thought anyone could feel this way about me,” she whispered. “I always thought... I was too much. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too everything.”

Oscar’s hand reached out again, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles. “You’re not too much, love. You’re exactly what I’ve wanted.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time, it felt like the weight of everything — all the doubt, the fear, the loneliness — finally melted away.

His phone buzzed again, but this time, he didn’t even glance at it.

He just leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“You’re so worthy,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Before she could say anything, before she could process the feeling overwhelming her, his lips were on hers again. Slow, tender, and full of everything he had been holding back.

This time, the kiss wasn’t just an expression of everything that had been unsaid.

It was a promise. A promise that, for once, she didn’t have to prove herself. Not to him. Not to anyone.

She was enough.

He was more than willing to remind her of that, every single day.

And he did.

He reminded her every day.

Every morning when the sun crept through the hotel curtains, he was the first thing she saw, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached out to pull her closer. Every time they woke up next to each other, whether in a hotel room after a race weekend or their small flat in Monaco in between races, Oscar was there. His hand in hers. His heart in his eyes.

There was no more second-guessing. No more wondering if she was enough. Because with him, she knew.

The world outside the bubble of their love kept moving, of course. The cars kept racing, the fans kept cheering, the pressure kept building. But with Oscar by her side, she felt like she could breathe. Like the weight of the world wasn’t too heavy to bear.

The year she got her promotion to Red Bull, she was already flying high with the confidence that came from the love she hadn’t known she needed.

She remembered how he’d been there, of course, always there. That morning, just before the announcement, she’d been pacing in her garage, waiting for the call. He had leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with that patient, steady smile of his.

“You’ve earned this,” he had said quietly. “You’ve always earned this.”

She hadn’t believed it then, not fully. Not until she got the call. Until she stood in the team office, her name printed on the top of the contract for next season.

Red Bull.

It felt surreal. But when she went to call Oscar, to share the news, he’d already been there, waiting on the other end of the line.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This is just the beginning, love.”

And she knew, right then, that it was.

Because then, there was that moment. The one that everyone had been waiting for.

The moment she became the first woman to win the World Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t easy. It was never easy. The battle with the other teams, the constant questions, the doubts. But through it all, Oscar had been there. Through every late-night debrief, every race weekend, every difficult practice session where she didn’t think she could do it, he had been her quiet strength.

He wasn’t the loudest supporter. He didn’t shout in front of the media. But when it was just the two of them, when they were alone in their little world, he was her unwavering pillar.

After the final race of the season, when she crossed the line and knew it was done, she was overwhelmed by emotion. But when she looked out into the crowd, the first person she saw wasn’t her manager, her family, or her teammates. It was Oscar. Standing in the paddock, arms spread wide as if he had been waiting for this moment just as much as she had.

The podium ceremony was a blur, but when they met backstage, before the interviews and the flashing cameras, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“I told you,” he whispered into her ear. “I told you that you were worthy of everything. You just had to see it for yourself.”

She smiled, tears mixing with the sweat and champagne, and kissed him deeply, because no words could capture what they had between them. She knew he would never stop proving it, that she was worthy of all the love, all the victories, all the happiness in the world.

And he would keep proving it every day.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @luvstappen @obxstiles

[batshit-auspol]

I just spent some time scrolling through this blog and am suffering from sever laughter. Thanks so much for collating the countries craziest moments. One of my favourites is when Scott Morrison was in Hawaii while the bushfires where burning.

December 2019: As Australia's east coast is engulfed in the worst bushfires in living memory, rumours begin to circulate that Australia's Prime Minister Scott Morrison may have secretly fucked off for a holiday in Hawaii.

Keep in mind, this is what is going down in Australia at the time:

The Hawaii rumour is initially written off as a fringe conspiracy, because surely nobody could be that fuckin tonedeaf, and it was quickly forgotten about... until an Australian man visiting Hawaii UPLOADED A SELFIE ON THE BEACH WITH THE PM THROWING A SHAKA.

At which point all hell broke loose.

Overnight the formerly popular "Scomo" became the most despised man in all of Australia. Think "firefighters shouting out of their windows to news cameras" level of despised.

After about two days of radio silence and pretending like he was still at home running the country, the Prime Minister's handlers finally dragged him onto call with an Australian radio station, where he pinky promised to return to Australia as fast as he could in an attempt to calm things down.

Unfortunately Scott's empathy consultant (a real job) then had to watch Scott pour more gasoline on the dumpster fire by uttering the now famous phrase "Look I don't hold a hose mate" when asked by the radio interviewer why the fucking fuck the fuckhead wasn't fucking in Australia doing his fucking job during a massive fucking crisis.

Testing just how much worse things could get, Scomo then proceeded to NOT rush back to Australia as promised, instead attempting to complete the rest of his holiday, a fact that was exposed when a passerby snapped a picture of him still lounging on the beach two days later.

Eventually, holiday complete, Morrison did reluctantly slink back to Australia, and in an attempt to calm things down, he decided to pay a visit to a small town that had been destroyed by the fires.

Which was a big mistake.

Scomo still had not registered how absolutely and totally he had screwed the poodle with his Hawaiian beach vacation, and he walks into what is now taught in PR classes as one of the greatest examples of "what not do do in a crisis" in all of history.

Scotty from Marketing, as he is now dubbed by the nation, spends a painfully cringe-inducing hour wandering around a burned down town with TV news cameras in tow, having to FORCE PEOPLE TO SHAKE HIS HAND in what is some of the most awkward footage you will ever see.

At this point it's probably also worth mentioning that, before becoming Prime Minister, Scott Morrison's biggest claim to fame in politics was being the guy that was so far up the coal lobby's arse that he literally brought coal into parliament and waved it around, claiming it doesn't hurt people.

So when a protest was organised it turned out to be one big national fuck you to the Prime Minister, the likes of which the world has never seen before or since.

Needless to say, at this point Scomo's career was dead in the water, but thanks to the rules brought in to stop Australian political parties from knifing their leader every two weeks (a popular Aussie passtime) Morrison basically couldn't get fired until after the next election.

And so, when the election rolled around in 2022, we decided that was an opportune time to travel over to Hawaii to erect this bad boy tribute to the Prime Minister, on the very beach where Scomo had sat and drank margaritas that one fateful week in December as Australia burned (thanks to @chaser for funding the ticket)

[sharlsworld]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ guilty pleasure - 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔 ✴︎

（ 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 ）𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖼 𝗑 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

（ 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒 ）𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉 𝗎𝗉 𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗆

✫ pt. 2 of my best friends brother, this could be read as a stand alone but would make more sense to look at the other smau. the first post is kinda suggestive

🝮

yn

liked by pierregasly and 1,728,306 others

yn was going through my camera roll, i miss summer so bad

charles_leclerc first

charles_leclerc I remember that week was absolute hell I felt like a teenage boy going through puberty

⤷ arthur_leclerc ew is that why you wouldn’t play chicken with us??? y/n wanted to play so bad then you ran away. you sicko what a perv

⤷ charles_leclerc It’s not funny arthur and I don’t know why you would suggest musical chairs on a fucking boat but that was horrible she sat on my lap and I almost creamed my pants right there

⤷ arthur_leclerc No one wants to know that you fuckin perv 🤮🤮 #lockcharlesup

⤷ charles_leclerc stop calling me a sicko and a perv just because she’s younger then me. i’ll purple nurple you arthur.

⤷ arthur_leclerc I’ll shave all your hair off when you’re asleep. You sleep like a rock you won’t feel a thing.

⤷ charles_leclerc I’ll shave your eyebrows off then you cunt

⤷ yn ok let’s stop there 😊

⤷ charles_leclerc Whatever you say bébé

francisca.cgomes hottie 😍😍🤤

carlossainz55 Who’s that cutie in the last slide?

⤷ alex_albon I thought we had a connection…we went on a coffee date carlos 😔

⤷ carlossainz55 Shhh look away baby, he has attachment issues…you’re the one I come home to every day 😘

⤷ yn ally 🏳️‍🌈 now get this gay fest out of my comment section

🝮

charles_leclerc

liked by lewishamilton and 5,544,814 others

charles_leclerc y/n via jade’s instagram story

lorenzotl Wrong account?

arthur_leclerc is this meant for what i think it’s meant for?

jade_distinguinn Ummm???

lando charles marc hervé perceval leclerc do you run a fan page for your little brothers best friend? OMG IM GONNA GO FIND IT SHUT UP

georgerussell63 Ah, you’re one of us

⤷ danielricciardo NO WAY I FUCKING CALLED IT THIS IS SO CRAZY YOU LIAM ALEX AND LANDO OWE ME 300 BUCKS IM GONNA BE RICH

⤷ liamlawson30 you’re already rich?

⤷ danielricciardo Shut up and venmo me my money cunt

danielricciardo THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

arthur_leclerc OMG YOU RUN A FUCKING FAN ACCOUNT FOR Y/N THIS IS SO AMAZING WHATS THE USERNAME PLEASE

alex_albon this is tewww good drop the user king

leclerc_pascale Charles how long has this been going on?

pierregasly NO WAY BRO YOUR LIFE IS OVER

maxverstappen1 Absolute gold, this is pure cinema. Keep it up mate 🥳😂

lando SHUT UP ARE YOU CHARLESLOVESYN???

⤷ liamlawson30 NO WAY I FUCKING LOVE THAT ACCOUNT BRO

⤷ alex_albon I always wondered how they were always so quick to update

⤷ georgerussell63 Omg no way I stalk that account every night before bed

⤷ danielricciardo SHUT UP AND VENMO ME MY MONEY YOU GUYS PLEASUHHHHH

arthur_leclerc CHARLES TELL US YOUR SECRETS HOW DO YOU MANAGE A SUCCESSFUL FANPAGE WHILE BEING A F1 DRIVER??? 🎤🎤🎤

yn awhhh charles baby you’re so sweet

⤷ arthur_leclerc WTF THATS SO CREEPY??? ITS BEEN GOING SINCE 2021 THATS WHEN YOU TURNED 18????

⤷ yn don’t be mean arthur it’s sweet

⤷ arthur_leclerc oh my gosh you poor thing he’s brainwashed you 💔

⤷ yn stop being mean or i’ll post that one picture of you for everyone to see

⤷ arthur_leclerc 🤐

🝮

charleslovesyn

liked by lando and 573,649 others

charleslovesyn l’amour de ma vie ❤️

estiebestie omg she looks so pretty where did you get this from??

⤷ charleslovesyn my camera roll??

⤷ estiebestie oh!

⤷ estiebestie OHHHHHH

lando I FOUND IT IM FASTER THEN THE FUCKING FBI THIS IS THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY LIFE

⤷ danielriccardo Bruh send me my money

⤷ lando are you going broke or something damn

maxverstappen1 How do you have 70k followers

⤷ alex_albon this is THE y/n fan page max

yn sweet babyyy i love you

⤷ pierregasly Wow you two are a different level of down bad for each other

leclerc_pascale Well, at least it’s a successful fan account son ❤️

arthur_leclerc If I speak…

⤷ yn shut up arthur you burned your neck with my curling iron and told everyone it was a hickey

⤷ arthur_leclerc Oh my goshhh why would you say that 😔

⤷ yn quit being mean to charles he’s feeling very overwhelmed right now

⤷ arthur_leclerc sorry i forgot he can’t focus on anything but you anymore 😒

⤷ yn you still watch moana whenever we finish watching a scary movie

⤷ arthur_leclerc y/n stopppppp

lance_stroll Bros really been playing hard to get while he’s been running a fan page since 2021

⤷ yn shut up maple licker go hug a moose or something

⤷ yn omg i’m sorry lance i just wanted to say that but i don’t know anyone else who’s canadian 😿

⤷ lance_stroll you’re gucci queen don’t fret

georgerussell63 What a time to be alive

⤷ danielriccardo Oh so you can comment on charles’ fan page for his gf but not venmo me my money I won fair and square??

⤷ georgerussell63 Give me a minute I’m still riding on the high of this whole thing

🝮

charles_leclerc

liked by arthur_leclerc and 3,381,160 others

charles_leclerc and what about it

francisca.cgomes King behavior honestly

alex_albon period

arthur_leclerc Okay tone the attitude down queen charles

⤷ yn 😐 have you learned nothing or do want me to tell everyone the time you peed yourself cause you got excited when you seen adele…last year

⤷ arthur_leclerc ain’t no way you just said that bruh 😓 i remember when you used to defend me like this when charles would be mean to me 😔

georgerussell63 Don’t ever let them shame the fan girl out of you ✊ we’re in this 4life

carlossainz55 Yesss queen show your true self

lilymhe I wish Alex would make a fan page for me too…guess he doesn’t love me 😔

⤷ alex_albon I literally tried and you told me no.

⤷ lilymhe BECAUSE YOU MADE A GOSSIP PAGE

⤷ alex_albon JUST SAY YOU HATE ME GOSH

danielricciardo i’m still waiting for my money…

⤷ lando we’re sending it damn 😒

⤷ georgerussell63 Do you need it for rent or something?

⤷ alex_albon seriously you already blew through your savings or what??

⤷ liamlawson30 don’t worry bud, i sent you a little extra. get yourself something nice ❤️

⤷ danielricciardo You sent me 1 extra dollar…

⤷ liamlawson30 send that shit back then damn, everyone’s so ungrateful these days 😒

⤷ danielricciardo Hell nah I’m keeping that shit

[mereyapalais]

Hey y’all, just a small fun fic with stack. Based on the tiktok prank “Calling your man your current boyfriend.”

Modern Stack X Reader

Warnings : Slight choking? Fluff?

One thing you loved more than anything was to get on Stacks nerves. It was your duty to keep him on his toes.

Today, you decided to get on his nerves. Why? Because it’s been a long time.

You were taking a video on your phone for your Instagram and tiktok , doing a fit check. You had a date today. After a few days of being busy, you could finally spend an evening together.

“Okay so I got this little dress from a thrift store. Y’all is it me or these thrift stores getting a bit expensive?” You said as you turned around admiring your shape.

You sure were blessed. The dress hugged you in all the right places. The heels you had on made your ass seat real good in the dress.

Hair on point. Makeup on point. You could hear your man coming in the room. Just from his pace your could feel his irritation as he made an entrance in the room

“Yo, what’s taking you so long baby.”

“Almost finished!”

“Damn, you look good mama!”

“Thank you papa.”

“This dress on you..shit”

His hands kept rubbing on the fabric especially on your backside. Fluffing the dress down.

“You sure it’s not too short?”

“Baabee” you whined

“Can you even bend down in this shit?” He was inspecting the dress, tugging at it like someone’s parents.

“Bend down lemme see sum”

“Stack stooopp. The length is fine.” You humoured him though. Turning your back on him.

He pressed in the middle of your back urging you forward. You let out a small giggle before bending down sensually looking back at him.

“Is that okay baby?” You asked batting your eyes at him.

“Yeahh, that’s perfect.” By now, he was palming your ass through your dress. Some sinful thoughts going through his head.

“Lemme throw some one’s on you. You’re so sexy it don’t make any sense!”

As you were down there an idea popped in your head. Your trouble light going ding ding ding.

“Okay now, your turn show us your outfit.” You said getting back up. Trailing your manicured fingers, that he definitely paid for, down his chest. Stack loves him some sexy, well maintained nails. That crimson red with the first letter of his name on your middle finger, he loves that!

“What outfit? Im just wearing a pair of pants and a shirt. You’re the show stoppa with your fine self.”

“Babe come on.” By now your fingers were toying with his chin hairs.

You turned to the camera, “Y’all, look how good my current boyfriend looks. Babe show them the outfit.”

The way his smile dropped had you rolling on the floor laughing in your head.

You had to bite your lip to stay in character.

He stayed silent a few seconds as if to digest the information. He looked at you, the camera, then you again.

“Watchu say?”

“I said you look good baby, matching my-“

“Nah what the fuck is a current boyfriend?”

“Huh?”

“Huh!?” He mocked you “if you can huh you can fucking hear.”

“Babe why you so pressed?”

“Ain’t no current boyfriend shit going on here. I’m yo fuckin husband you hear me?” By now, his hand was wrapped slightly on your neck. His eyes staring down at you with a crease in his forehead. No matter how disturbed he looked you didn’t want to stop.

“I mean, I don’t see no ring on my finger” you said coily. Lips forming a pout.

“Okay.” One minute you were standing on your two feet. The next minute your head was dangling upside down.

“Oh my god Elias put me down!”

He acted as if he couldn’t hear you. Taking long strides outside the bedroom.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“To the jeweller”

“Babe it was a prank! Put me down!” Your hands were hitting his back slightly. Being the trouble maker you are, your hands found their way on his buttocks as you gripped them.

Now in the leaving room, he plopped you on the couch. Good thing the cushions were bouncy.

“Whatever other nigga that’s talking to you right now you better dead that shit. Matter of fact what’s his name?

“W-what? Baby there’s no one else it’s a joke chill.”

“Play too fucking much.” He mumbled as he watched you laugh. “Ain’t shit funny. Imma make this shit hilarious and the only one laughing will be me.”

“Babe, are you angry at me?” He looked big mad. You couldn’t help but bust out laughing even more. That got him even more tight.

He took a seat at the end of the couch as if to get far away from you. Scooting closer to him, you settled yourself in his lap. Throwing your legs on either side of him.

“My big baby. You know I’d never do you like that.” Placing small pecks all over his face. Yiu nestled his head on your chest. He loved that shit, as you rubbed on his head.

You could still hear him mumble about how you like playing too much and you gon make his blood pressure rise with your silly games.

“Imma buy you a necklace with my name on it. Just watch. And you’ll wear it every day.”

“Okay baby.” You said as you kissed his forehead.

“You gon be my wife.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. But you answered anyway.

“Yes baby.”

You stayed put like that a few more minutes, you babying Stack and basking in it before finally heading to your destination.

[queen-of-diamonds-xo]

Qatar Heat (OP81)

Oscar Piastri x female! Driver! Reader

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Summary:

A team rivalry for the world championship always makes for tension in the McLaren garage. But what happens when that tension breaks? An unexpected period and an under filled water supply maybe just the thing to break the tension brewing between teammates and rivals, but at what cost?

‘“What’s going on? Are you okay? Should I get the medic.”

The questions fly from Oscar in a panic strain, his eyes inspecting your hunched frame. Scanning quickly for any visible injuries you may have.

Coming closer to you now he places a soft hand on the swell of your back, gentle movements as he rubs small circles on the area. His face crunched in concern as he squinted down at you.’

Warnings;

Dehydration/ fainting, slow burn, both of you are idiots unaware of your feelings, swearing

A/N: ahhh here it is! By far the longest piece I’ve ever written, I hope y’all enjoy. Thank you guys for the support, please Feel free to sent ideas my way for what you would like to see next!

Masterlist

Word count:

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍

No, no, no.

Not today, now now.

You paced around the drivers room, hands running over your face in frustration. Stomach twisting with the familiar sensation that ran a cold shiver down your spine. This wasn’t just pre-race nerves.

Your face twisted as you felt the first drop of blood, a low spike in anxiety as you scan the room. Gingerly opening drawers and cabinets in search of a tampon.

Drawer after drawer, cabinet after cabinet, your turn up with nothing. A frustrated groan escapes as your movements become frantic, grabbing items from your view and tossing them behind you. Of course, a room full of medical supplies and not a single tampon. You take a mental note to give Zac hell for this after the race. That is, if you can get to the car before the dang event starts.

You bite your lip as frustrated tears fill your eyes. Twenty minutes until lights out and you're stranded in this stupid room.

Of course the room was fitted with just about anything a formula one driver could need, a male formula one driver that was.

You place both hands on the cool counter of the vanity, leaning forward slightly as a wave of cramps wreaks havoc on your insides. A loud shout echoing through the halls of the McLaren garage as your foot collided with the bottom of the cabinet, the force rattling the mirror. Your reflection stares back at you, skin slightly damp and pale. Eyes sunken just enough that the camera will for sure pick up on it. Your mind is swirling with the possible headlines following the race.

The media- a constant criticism of your very existence in f1- not so subtle in their objections to your racing ability, always on the hunt for the next reason why you just aren’t cut out for this sport. (Despite the fact you were currently in position to strip your teammate of his current hold on the championship).

You weren’t about to pull out, that just wasn’t an option.

But the damp sticky feeling of your lower half accompanied with the gut wrenching cramps steadily stabbing your organs weren’t about to make for any easy race.

A soft knock echoes on the door, your ears perking and your heart skipping at the sound. Your head snapping in the direction as a voice spoke, low and controlled, through the wooded blockage.

“Y/n”- it was Oscar.

What did he want? Probably here to play mind games with you. Your eyes rolling at the reminder of the Australians drivers tricks. He barely spoke to you, always a taught and quick exchange between the two McLaren drivers. And when did he speak? A sarcastic response, a witty remark, a comment on your performance not matching up to his. the way he wore that shit eating grin after a good qualifying. The way he flicks his tongue over his lips before he speaks.

God, you hate him.

“I-I heard a shout, are you okay?”

Oscar was shocked as the door to your driver's room flung open, practically flying off its hinges. Your fist collided with his fireproofs- his race suit slung low on his hips- grasping the material before pulling the man inside.

He stood confused as you slammed the door, body whipping around to stare at him- eyes wide in panic as you press your back firm against the wood. Your heart hammering as your mind spirals for ways to ask Oscar what you’re about to. A steady stream of anxiety pulling at your lungs as you fight a losing battle to breath.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

He had never seen you like this. You were always calm, never allowing anyone to see ever the smallest of your cracks. You smiled tight for the cameras, answered questions and criticisms with poise and decorum. Your face on race day never shifts from a hardened stare, a tight line and focused eyes. He respected that about you, never letting anything slip. You never gave anyone the chance to call you emotional, not that they didn’t try.

Now you stood in front of him, shoulders slumped and eyes brimming with tears, heaving heavy breaths. Your driver's room- usually left in a pristine state- ripped apart. Towels and miscellaneous items lay forgotten on the floor, drawers and cabinets left open. Your Face flushed with- anger? Embarrassment?

The Aussie wasn’t too sure, could never get a full read on your emotions.

“What’s goin-“

Oscar was stopped with the raise of your hand, the motion quick as a low groan escaped you again. Your eyes screwing shut tight as you grind your teeth through another shock of cramps.

He couldn’t stop the way he stepped closer to you, hand reaching out slightly as your arms came around your stomach in a tight hold. Your posture hunching over slightly.

“What’s going on? Are you okay? Should I get the medic.”

The questions fly from Oscar in a panic strain, his eyes inspecting your hunched frame. Scanning quickly for any visible injuries you may have.

Coming closer to you now he places a soft hand on the swell of your back, gentle movements as he rubs small circles on the area. His face crunched in concern as he squinted down at you.

Your tensed posture relaxes slightly under his hand, a small smile gracing his lips. This is the closest he’s ever gotten to you, the faint smell of your shampoo, the light bouncing from your shining hair. Even scrunched in pain Oscar took a moment to study your features. Your soft skin dampened with a thin layer of sweat, pretty lips parted just so. His eyes scanning over each line, following the scattered pattern of freckles and moles in a dazed trance.

His heart skipping slightly as another, barely audible, groan fills the room once more.

His stupid cologne fills your senses, making you want to slap him in a hormone filled rage. The very fact that his presence is soothing you, enough of a reason for your anger to spike once more at your teammate.

You scoff at him, rolling your eyes at the pity in his voice. Shoving his hand away from you as your turn to look at the older man in front of you. One hand placed on your hip as your spit;

“Jesus Christ Oscar I’m not dying, I just got my period.”

Oscar blinks, the hand that caressed your back now drawn close to his body. His cheeks flush a deep red as hot embarrassment climbs up his neck. His hand coming up the cup the back of his neck, rubbing over the area bashfully at your words. His biceps flexing under the strain of the action, those godforsaken fireproofs clinging tight to the skin.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’. Can you help me?”

He swallows harsh as he averts his gaze. Eyes casting to the door behind you, seemingly lost in thought. He’s brought back by the clicking of your fingers, hand waving in his face.

“Earth to Oscar are you there? I need a tampon, and I can’t exactly just leave to go and ask for one.”

Oscar nods slow, mind absorbing this information. The frustration in your voice is evident as your bite your lip, willing away the hot tears threatening to spill. Oscars eyes widening slightly before darting around the room, refusing to meet your burning stare. His jaw clenching slight as his eyes flutter closer, a deep breath escaping his nose.

He turns without a word, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Once again leaving you alone in the trashed room.

You sigh as you sink down onto the couch, focusing on your breathing as your attempt to slow your racing thoughts. You allowed the room the blur as your eyes shut, basking in the silence once more.

Little did you know Oscar has prepared for this. Once finding out he had a female teammate at the very start of the season, he recruited the help of sister to create an ‘emergency bag’ for you. One he carried with him to every race, PR event, you name it.

The bag was Stocked with pads, tampons, pain killers, various hair and makeup products his sister picked out. Snacks of various varieties, protein bars and chocolates being the main offenders. Oscar ever going as far to buy fresh pants and undergarments in your size- just incase.

Oscar wasn’t dumb, he saw the way you were treated differently to him as a driver. He also saw that the McLaren management net refused to acknowledge that you didn’t have a penis between your legs. Which usually, is a good thing. The very idea of critiquing your abilities as a driver based on gender has been scared out of the staff by a few (heated) words from Zac in an all employee meeting.

But he also knew the chances of getting you a tampon, without bothering any female employees- was next to none.

Plus, Oscar knew if he did ask a female staff member, you would wring his neck out of embarrassment. He knew you held the weight of the world on your shoulders, the first female to driver a formula one car, the idea of this incident going public enough for the man to cringe.

A soft knock echoes through the room, a simple two strikes.

You opened the door slower this time, your body now hidden behind it. Peaking your head out the gap your eyes meet Oscars back.

Allowing yourself a moment to run your gaze down the rippling curves, hugged taught in his black fireproofs. You don’t register your lip between your teeth as you stare at his waist, a white hot jealousy coming over you as you view the shrunken point of the man’s body. His waist pulled in taught, his broad shoulder extenuating this feature. The race suit hung lowly on his hips, mocking you slightly as it obstructed the perfect view underneath.

He turns to meet you, his biceps tensing slightly as he extends his hand towards you.

Like a shitty drug dealer, Oscar palms a small black makeup bag into your open hand. His face burns red as he scans the hallway.

You can’t help the small chuckle escaping you as you grab the offending item from him. Ignoring the tingling sensation of your skin meeting his, the way his long fingers lingers on yours before pulling away.

“Thanks Osc-“ the new nickname hitting the man like a truck, accompanied with your whispered thanks. Your eyes staring up at him through thick lashes, your head tilted just to view his face.

“I appreciate it, seriously.”

Oscar coughs out a faint reply, something along the lines of “no problem” and “don’t worry about it” escaping him in a rushed string of words. Turning on his heels as he rushes towards the exit, praying nobody will notice the way he has to shift himself in his race suit as he jogs away.

A wide grin spreads across your face as you open the bag, pulling out not only a tampon, but two painkillers, a pair of fresh (tags still on) underwear, a protein bar and a small bottle of water.

Okay maybe Oscar Piastri wasn’t always an asshole.

The roaring groan of engines surrounds you as you pull up to the grid, your car planted in P3. Damp sweat stains your skin from the residual heat emanating off the track, the thick air entering your lungs. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, the blinding lights shining down over the perfect row of cars.

The crackle of your radio rings in your ears as your race engineers announces over the radio

“Piastri and Leclerc ahead. Head down, let’s show them what you're made of.”

A wicked grin creeps onto your face as you shut the visor, hands gripping the wheel tight, your eyes trained on the lights ahead.

The car jolts as the lights go out, your foot planted hard on the floor.

Your reaction was good, getting the jump on leclerc on the first corner. Cars pulling side by side as they speed their way down the track. A quick glimpse in your right mirror tells you Charles is right on your six, a fresh surge of adrenaline courses through your veins.

You're late onto the brakes into turn one, locking up your front left as you squeeze your way past leclerc, his car veering off into the gravel slightly as your escape unscathed. Pushing the car hard as you pull away.

But he’s right on your back, steering his way around your left side through turn two as you go side by side down the straight.

Cars rising to full power as you battle again though turn two, your hands battling with the twitching steering wheel.

You pull ahead of Leclerc once more, revelling as you manage to creep your way out of his DRS zone.

As the race continues you settle into P2. Mind focused on tire management and your strategy in place for the race. Your face is hot as you feel beads of sweat crawl down your skin, mouth drying as you push your car and body to limit. You struggle slightly as another wave of cramps wash over you, teeth biting on the straw of your water supply.

Desperate for relief you try to take a sip- key word here being try.

Nerves spike as nothing comes from your actions. Trying again you pull the straw harder into your mouth, desperate for even a drip of the sweet cool liquid. A frustrated growl rumbles from your chest as your car shifts slightly, a snap of understeer as you speak over the radio, voice harsh as your bite;

“What’s going on with my water supply.”

Your met with silence for a moment, your engineers reasoning;

“Checking now. Head down, let’s catch Oscar.”

Lap after lap you get no update on your water situation, as pit stops come and go the frustration and anger inside you grows. Along with the steady pressure intensifying behind your eyes, your body slumping slightly in the seat.

Your head pounded, your hands had begun to shake. Your breath was coming out in short gasps as you desperately tried to focus on the car in front of you. The shining helmet of Piastri mocking you from P1.

You have given up on the radio, every attempt to get an answer met with a quick dismissal.

“Oscars got the jump on you in sector one, but you're faster in two and three. Overtake is available.”

You can help the words flying from your mouth as you shout over the radio, voice strained with frustration and fatigue, not soaring a thought to anyone who may be listening in;

“Shut up. maybe he’s quicker in sector one because he had a working fucking water supply in his car.”

The words were harsh, spat out between clenched teeth. You can’t help the scoff and roll of yours eyes as the radios crackles again

“Understood.”

Head down. Focus.

You ignore the shaking in your hands, the hot sweat stinging your eyes. The fuzzy feeling in your head and slight blur in your vision. You were not about to let the incompetence of a few shitty engineers ruin your chance of snatching the championship.

Your close being Oscar in the final corner, DRS opens as you scream your way down the main straight. Crowd roaring as the two McLarens come racing side by side down the track, a game of chicken as to who will break first.

A quick glimpse in your mirror shows Oscar taking the inside line, aware of his tricks you go wide around the outside, front wings touching as you cut him off outside of the turn. He breaks hard, both fronts locking as he steers out of your path, a yelp of disbelief escaping the Aussie as you take P1.

You fight Oscar hard through turns two and three, pulling away from him down the next straight.

5 laps to go

Your car veers left into the gravel slightly as the weight of your head strains your neck, your muscles tight as you fight away the ever growing feeling of fatigue. You snap the car back right, body slamming hard against the side of your pod.

You felt heavy, the weight of your body pressed firm in the seat. Your arms burn as you struggle to keep hold of the wheel, not missing the slight snap of the back end. Eyes straining under the weight just to keep them open, knuckled white as you bite back the bile rising in your throat.

Oscar watched from behind you, his heart jumping into his throat as he watched your car closely. Your actions were sloppy, the car slipping and sliding around the track as you battled to keep a straight line.

This wasn’t like you, something had to be wrong.

“What’s up with y/l/n? Something seems off.” He pondered over the radio, voice tight with worry.

“Head down Oscar, focus on the race.” Was the only response granted to him.

His body flushed with anger at the dismissal, his eyes narrowing slightly and jaw clenched tight. He watched your every move closely, not just to find a way around you, but to tame the pit forming in his stomach.

The team hangs from the barriers as you cross the line, cheering loudly at the McLaren win. Their cheers rise as Oscar finishes P2, a picture perfect finish.

You sit in your car as you pull into the pits, lining the car on the P1 position. Your head leans heavily on the steering wheel as shouts echo over the radio.

Something about the championship lead, a race well ran.

A hot and heavy sob ripples through your chest as hot tears stream down your face, your body grown limp in your seat. You couldn’t move, your body muscles screamed with every twitch. Your mind swirled as the noises around you faded into a low whistle in your ears.

Oscar was quick out of his car, ignoring the shouts and yells from the team as he makes a b-line straight to you. His large frame blocking the lights above as he looms over your potions in the car, visor flipped to look at you. His eyes shone with worry and burned with a hint of anger as your head rose, titling up to meet his gaze. His hands tense into a fists as you flip your visor, revealing a rest wave of tears as your hiccup a broken and tired sob.

His voice was cold, dangerous. Disgust filling his words as he forces out a strained whisper. Eyes narrowing as he spoke

“What did they do to you.”

You shiver slightly from his words, his tone dark and eyes darker as the burn into you.

“M-m w-w-water. didn’t ha-have any wa-water.”

Oscar has to fight back the urge to scream at the wall of mechanics behind him. He closes his eyes in frustration as he leans down closer to you. His heart hammered hard in his chest, eyeing your slouched position in your seat.

His now shaking hands making quick work to remove the steering wheel. His frantic movements capturing the attention of everyone around him, the noise quieting into a hush. Cameras flashed as teams look on with worry.

He makes easy work of your helmet, removing the encompassing material of your balaclava as you let out a sharp breath of relief. The slight breeze flowing over your heated and slick skin. Oscars hands come under your shoulders, lifting you with ease out of the car. The sudden movement causes the world to shift, your head leaning heavily on his shoulder as he pulls you from the car, your body practically gone limp.

Charles runs over to the two of you, taking some of your weight from Oscar as the two men steady you.

You were thankful for their driver reaction times as your knees buckle, their arms holding your weight as they lower your gentle to the ground. Oscar kneels beside you, his hand coming to rest on your back for the second time today.

You don’t push him off this time. Too focussed on the tightness in your throat, sobs shaking your frail frame as your gasp to catch your breath.

You feel the burn of bile rise in your throat as you throw up the remaining liquid in your stomach, your hands coming to clench your stomach in a pained cry. Doubling over onto the heated tar of the pits.

Oscar moved quick shouting for a medic, not caring about the flashing cameras or judgmental stares of those around him. His strong arms wind around your waste as he pulls you to sit in his lap, his legs outstretched. His large frame envelopes you as he tightens his hold, his helmet covered head coming to rest on top of yours.

A gloved hand coming up to cup your cheek, holding your gaze firm but gentle as he ran his thumb over the flushed skin of your cheek. Your eyes fluttering closed as you lean heavily into his hold.

“Shh it’s okay. It’s going to be okay, I’ve got you now.”

His voice was a soft whisper, muffled accent thick with emotion as he held your body close.

Your mind a haze of frustration and fatigue as you focus on the steady breathing of your teammate. His soft words the last thing ringing in your ears as your mind goes blank, body succumbing to the heat as you grow limp in Oscars arms.

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Tag list:

@piastri-my-boy @wolfbc97 @presleycaudle @haunteddestinykryptonite @feyrecarol @edgyficuselastica

[grxtsch]

chris squire, i believe in 1971 or 1972 ! 💛

[bangchanwifey]

‘stuck with me’ - choi su-bong (thanos) / player 230 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

not proofread! read at your own risk!! i wanted to put my own spin on thanos bc everyone makes him so mean and aggressive so i hope i did this justice !!

pairing(s): ex bf!choi su-bong (thanos) x female!reader

warnings: femme reader, language, smut, fingering (r!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, normal squid game gore

summary: what happens when you reunite with your ex who did you dirty in a game where everyone is fighting to survive?

it has been almost a year since you and your ex boyfriend choi su-bong had broken up. you would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about him practically everyday since then. but the two of you ended things for a reason and you knew you shouldn’t want him in the way you still do but you can’t help it.

su-bong had gotten caught up in some sort of crypto scam and he made you believe it in so much that he even convinced you to pitch your own money into it. of course it didn’t end up working out so that’s how you got where you are today almost 2 million won in debt.

you hated him for dragging you into this but you hated yourself more for trusting him and getting screwed over yet again.

you had been going about a normal day about to head back home for the night when a strange but attractive looking man approached you with an odd looking briefcase by his side. he made a promise to you that if you could beat him in a couple rounds of a silly game he would simply pay you. you were desperate so you played multiple rounds with him until you were fed up with him slapping you for losing. when you finished the man handed you a strange looking business card that you shoved in your pocket until you made it home.

so that’s how you ended up in a room with 455 other strangers. you were awoken by loud music blaring and lights coming on to see your surroundings. you looked down to see you had been changed into a green tracksuit with a small number ‘240’ in the corner of the jacket.

you had sat in your bunk for a while not sure what to do until finally a herd of guards with masks and pink outfits came through the doors. they had explained the rules to everyone and made you line up to go take photos for whatever reason before the first game begun.

“señorita? oh my god! is that really you?” you heard from a distance. you could recognize that voice anywhere. you turned around so fast you were surprise you didn’t get whiplash. there he was just a couple feet away from you, your ex boyfriend, choi su-bong.

you stared in shock as you took him in. he looked the same except he had gotten more tattoos and had freshly purple hair. you couldn’t deny that he looked good even in that ugly green tracksuit.

“what the the hell are you doing here?” you ask looking him up and down. he does the same back to you, “i could ask you the same.” he replied making you roll your eyes.

“well i’m actually here because someone made me lose all my fucking money for a scam.” you said sending him a glare before looking down at the ground. seeing him again after all this time had you feeling all sorts of emotions at once, especially anger.

“oh baby cmon! you’re really still mad about that?” he asked moving closer to you to get a better look. you hesitantly looked back up meeting his eyes once again. “of course I am! do you not understand that you made me go broke? i had to move back in with my parents for fucks sake!”

he just stared at you not knowing what to say next. you took that as an opportunity to get away from him, getting in line to take your photo. you posed for the camera giving a slight smile and throwing up your middle finger. you watched how su-bong practically did the same thing making you remember just how similar the two of you were.

once everyone had finished you were now all walking into a large field that looked like it was outside. the first thing everyone noticed was a giant creepy looking doll on the other side staring back at you.

you heard an automated voice call out to you and explain that you were going to be playing red light, green light. it explained the rules before everyone lined up in front of the starting line. it seemed simple enough. right?

before the game started you all watched how a man with the number ’456’ on his jacket screamed about how if you moved after red light was called you were going to be shot. he had to be crazy right? but his words stuck with you and once the game started and the voice finally called red light you stayed stiller than you ever have before.

everything seemed to be going just fine for a while as the man was guiding everyone and telling us when to go and stop. that was until the woman standing right next to you had a bee land on her neck. you heard her scream and before you could even process what was happening she had been shot, just like the man at the beginning had said.

when the voice called out green light yet again you stayed in your spot too taken aback to even move. you heard su-bong yell out to you, “hey you have to keep going. stay behind me.” so you did just that staying close behind him till you both reached the end.

once the game had concluded you found yourself back in the same bed from before laying down and staring at the ceiling. you had so many thoughts running through your mind. you knew you shouldn’t have come here in the first place. you knew there had to be some sort of catch, and now your life was all the line just to win some fucking money.

you heard footsteps approaching but you didn’t have to look to know who it was. “hey babe. you alright?” you looked over at su-bong wanting to ignore him but instead you sat up and faced him.

“don’t call me that su-bong.” you replied bluntly as you felt his gaze on you. he put his hands up in defense before sitting down next to you. “please stick next to me in here, i wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened to you and i didn’t help.” you heard him say.

it made you smile a little. despite how much you hated his ass you knew deep down he still and always would care for you. he noticed this and it made him smile too. “also i would really like if you called me thanos.”

you scoffed and looked at him with a shocked face realizing that’s why he had the purple hair and colored nails. “you’re serious..? that’s the dumbest fucking rapper name i’ve ever heard.”

he laughed at your response noticing how you did a little too. “oh come on you know you love it.” you just stared at him not really knowing what to say but you honestly loved how he always came up with dumb shit like that and it suited him perfectly.

you two sat there for a while trying to catch up before you were interrupted by the guards once again. they had come in to congratulate the players who were still alive and said we would be holding a vote to stay or leave and split the money that had been accumulated so far.

you watched as the others voted one by one and when it was finally your turn you pressed the red ‘x’ with no hesitation. you watched thanos go shortly after you and to your surprise he had voted to stay. you watched him walk to the other side sighing as he smiled like it was no big deal.

as the voting was nearing an end you were sure you were going to make it out of there until the final voter, player ’001’ had pressed the blue ‘o.’

you stood there in disbelief for a minute before heading back to your bunk not wanting to be apart of the arguments that were already starting. you noticed thanos following close behind and you felt him grab your wrist.

you stared at him and his hand lingered on your arm not wanting to let go. “why did you do that?” you asked gesturing to the blue patch on his jacket. he looked at with an almost hurt expression. “oh come on baby you know i need the money. you do too. if we work through this together we can get that shit and get out of here safely.”

you just rolled your eyes at him trying to explain how putting your lives at risk wasn’t worth it but he didn’t seem to care. instead he pulled you to the bathrooms before you could stop him.

he pulled the two of you into the women’s restroom making you confused. “what the hell are you doing?!” you yelled trying to get out of his grip but he held on stronger.

“baby.. i’ve missed you so fucking much. i hate myself everyday for what i did to you and i know you do too. will you please work through this with me? we only have to do one more game and i promise i will make it up to you when we get that money and get out of here.” you heard him confess.

you wanted to scream at him for what he said. you wanted to tell him no and that he was wrong and you knew he was lying. but you didn’t. no, you couldn’t. instead you found yourself moving closer to him and before you knew it your lips were meeting his for the first time in almost a year.

the feeling made both of you let out soft moans and when you felt him move his hands lower onto your back you couldn’t help the noise that slipped out of you.

you pulled away for a second, your forehead still touching his and looking him in the eyes. “please don’t make me regret this. i want to trust you.” you whispered as he stared at you.

“i promise sweetheart. i want to make it up to you and i want to make you the happiest girl in the world. i will never stop feeling that way.” his words made the two of you smile before your lips met once again.

before you knew it the kiss was becoming more intense and full of need. thanos decided to pull you into a stall just incase someone had decided to walk in on the two of you.

you giggled as you felt him pick you up as if it was nothing. your lips never left his as he pushed you up against the door while holding you. “god i’ve missed this..” he whispered into your ear sending shivers down your spine.

“me too su-bong.” you let out as you felt him start to place kisses down your neck. this made you tilt your head back allowing him more access as you ran your fingers through his purple locks.

“can i take this off?” he asked holding onto your jacket while looking up at you. you nodded quickly and he practically ripped off your jacket as well as the t-shirt underneath.

you moaned softly as he placed kisses to your chest before ripping off your bra as well. he cupped one of your tits in his hand before placing his mouth around the other one.

“please don’t tease me baby.” you whispered which made him only suck harder on your nipple. you could already feel how wet you were becoming as you saw him smirk at your words.

“just wanna take my time with you sweets.” he said before trailing kisses down your stomach. when he got to the waistband of your pants he slipped them off in a matter of seconds leaving you in just your underwear.

“you’re so fucking beautiful.” he moaned as he took in the sight of you that was in front of him. you smiled at him before removing his own shirt and pants so you were now both in the same position. your mouth practically dropped at how good he looked and he couldn’t help but smirk at your reaction.

he removed his boxers before removing your own underwear leaving the two of you naked. it had been so long since you saw each other like this and it made the both of you blush slightly.

he moved closer and placed your lips together yet again. the feeling of your tits pressed up against his bare chest made the two of you moan, aching for more. you felt his hand trail down to your already soaking wet pussy and he stuck a finger in without warning making you moan again.

he kept his eyes on yours as he watched your reaction to his fingers. before you knew it he was adding another before moving his mouth to your tits again. the pleasure was staring to become overwhelming as it had been too long since someone had you like this.

your moans became louder and you knew if anyone walked into the bathroom they would know exactly what was going on. but to be honest, you didn’t care. you yelled out as you felt him pick up his speed encouraging you to cum on his fingers.

you did just that making him smirk at you again before he picked you up once more. he held a firm grip on your sides letting you know he wasn’t going to drop you.

“i love you so much su-bong.. i’m sorry for leaving.” you admitted to him looking into his eyes. “don’t apologize my girl. you had every right to do what you did. i was so shitty to you but i really hope you can forgive me. i just want to move forward with you and give you what you deserve. i love you.” he confessed.

you kissed him again this time a little more aggressive not wanting this moment to end. he held you tight and you could feel his erection against your stomach making you feel even wetter than before. “i need you baby…” you moaned out while looking up at him.

he wasted no time lining his cock up with your entrance. you both moaned before he pushed his length inside of you causing you to throw your head back. he held onto you as he trusted himself up into you never letting go once.

“fuck! you feel so good baby.” he moaned into your ear, resting his head on your shoulder. your nails met his back scratching lightly as he thrusted into you over and over again.

“faster thanos please!” you yelled out wanting more of him. he did what you said thrusting into you even quicker. he would be lying if he said you calling him his nickname didn’t turn on even more. he absolutely loved the effect you had on him.

the speed of his thrusts and the sounds of his soft whimpers in your ear was enough to send you over the edge. you were close and you knew he was too.

“‘m so close baby.” he whispered slamming into you even harder than before.

he wrapped a hand around your throat knowing how much it turned you on. you moaned louder than before at the feeling and you knew you were done for. “i’m gonna cum!” you yelled feeling your orgasm getting closer.

“that’s it baby let it out, cum all over my cock.” he said causing you to do just that. not long after he was releasing inside of you painting your insides white with one last thrust into you.

he pulled out of you before cleaning the two of you up carefully. when the two of you were dressed again you couldn’t help but laugh a little. “what?” he asked looking at you confused. “i can’t believe we just did that here.” you replied smiling big at him causing him to do the same.

“i’d do that with you anywhere!” he said causing you to lightly smack him on the arm. you rolled your eyes before giving him another quick kiss. “i love you.” he said.

“i love you too su-bong.” you replied as you felt him kiss your forehead before opening the stall door for the two of you. he grabbed your hand before heading back to the others.

little did you know what was coming your way.

⇾ be sure to checkout my masterlist if you enjoyed! any type of interaction is appreciated :,)

⇾ thank you for reading all the way through <3 so excited to be posting my first thanos fic!! i want to write for more squid game characters so pls send me requests if you have any!!! i love y’all 💝💝

[orangeblossomsintheair]

HONEY YOU’RE FAMILIAR | MV33

summary : For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

wc : 5k

an : writing this to distract myself from my other wips? ..i would never.. 😦 also i wrote this at 12 am so let this not be a place of judgement :))

Max sometimes forgets how small Monaco is.

It’s easy to do when most of his memories of the place are a blur of fast cars and glittering parties. He spends most of his time racing through the streets during the Grand Prix or holed up in a hotel room overlooking the harbor.

When you’re constantly traveling the world, hopping between paddocks and podiums, the compactness of Monaco barely registers. It’s a speck on the map, a gilded bubble he never really bothers to think about until it’s right in his face.

But sometimes, like tonight, he’s reminded.

Monaco isn’t a city, not really.

It’s a playground. A handful of streets strung together like a necklace, choked with Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and yachts so big they could be small countries. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone.

Or, at the very least, they know of everyone.

The millionaires gossip about the billionaires. The bartenders know who tips in cash and who never tips at all. Even the stray cats probably have dirt on the local royals.

It’s not just small in size. It’s tight.

Wealth wraps around this place like a noose, strangling it into exclusivity.

There are no dark corners to disappear into, no sprawling suburbs to lose yourself in.

Just a few restaurants, a few clubs, and a few streets where the same people circle each other like they’re on a carousel. If you’re here long enough, you’ll eventually run into everyone you’ve ever met.

Even the ones you’ve been trying to avoid.

Max doesn’t think about that when he walks into the bar.

He’s not in the mood for deep reflection or existential dread. He’s here because Daniel said he needed a drink, and when Daniel Ricciardo says you need a drink, you listen.

That’s how Max ends up at some overpriced lounge that smells like vodka and ambition, standing under soft, warm lighting that’s trying too hard to make the place feel classy instead of claustrophobic.

He’s nursing a beer, half-listening to Daniel tell some convoluted story about a failed date and a stolen Vespa, when he hears it.

A voice.

Your voice.

It’s the kind of thing that cuts through the noise without him even realizing why. It’s not loud or particularly distinct; it’s not like you’re screaming or making a scene. But it’s you. The way you talk, your cadence, the rise and fall of your words. It’s all so achingly familiar that it grabs him by the throat and yanks.

Max freezes. His drink doesn’t make it to his lips.

The years fall away in a blink, and suddenly, it’s like no time has passed.

He’s twenty-two again, still figuring out how to smile for cameras, while you’re draped over the back of his couch, talking absolute nonsense about whether or not the cars in Cars have insurance or not.

He doesn’t even realize he’s turned to look until he spots you.

You’re standing at the bar, laughing as you say something to the bartender. It’s loud, and Max can’t hear you properly, but he can feel you.

The way you lean casually on the counter, the tilt of your head, the way you wave your hand to punctuate whatever you’re saying. It’s so painfully, annoyingly you.

And God, you look good.

For a second, all he can do is stare. You haven’t seen him yet, thank God, because Max Verstappen does not know what the hell to do with himself right now.

You look different.

Not in a drastic way, just… grown.

Your edges are sharper, your presence more refined, like a photo that’s come into focus after years of being a little blurry. But the core of you is still the same. It’s in the way you throw your head back when you laugh, like the world isn’t slowly crumbling under the weight of climate change, billionaires, and whatever Kardashian family drama is brewing this week.

And suddenly, Max is thrown back years.

To a time when you were his person. The one he called when things went sideways, or when he won, or when he was just bored and needed someone to hear him rant about understeer.

You were his best friend.

No. The friend. The one. The only one who ever really got him. And then…Well, then he was an asshole.

He tries to tell himself that you two drifted apart.

People do that, right? It’s life. Except that’s a lie, and Max knows it. You didn’t drift; you held on like a freaking tow hook. You tried—texted him, called him, showed up to races, tried to remind him there was a world outside of 300 km/h and tire degradation.

Max doesn’t know what to do with this. With you. He’s not used to seeing ghosts in real life, and you might as well be one now.

Max debates his next move. He could just… not. Pretend he didn’t notice you. Slip out quietly, finish his drink somewhere else, and avoid whatever emotional grenade this is about to be. That would be the smart thing. The logical thing.

But Max has never been great at logic.

For a second, he thinks about turning around. Walking out. Pretending he never saw you, because what’s the point? It’s not like he can just waltz up to you and say, “Hey, sorry I ghosted you for no reason other than I’m emotionally constipated. Want to get a drink?”

But then you glance over your shoulder.

And your eyes lock.

He doesn’t have time to decide whether to stay or bolt

You see him.

And Max realizes he’s fucked.

For a split second, he thinks you might look away, maybe pretend you didn’t see him either.

He’s not sure if he’s hoping for that or dreading it. But then your face lights up, and the look you give him isn’t what he expects.

It’s warm. Familiar. Like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

His chest tightens. Max isn’t sure what he thought he’d see. Resentment, awkwardness, indifference, maybe.

But this? This disarms him completely.

You wave, and before he knows it, his feet are moving.

“Maxy,” you say as he approaches, your voice carrying that teasing lilt that could only ever be you. It knocks the breath out of him, so familiar and effortless it almost hurts. “Long time no see.”

Max freezes for the briefest of moments, the nickname hitting him like a slap and a hug all at once. Maxy. No one’s called him that in years. Not his family. Not his team. Not anyone.

No one except you.

“Yeah, uh, long time,” he manages, scratching the back of his neck in a gesture so awkwardly familiar it almost makes you laugh. He looks like he’s 17 again, shy and unsure.

Before either of you can say more, Daniel sidles up next to him, a beer in hand and an amused eyebrow raised as he glances between the two of you. “Know her?” Daniel asks, his voice dripping with curiosity.

“He does,” you reply smoothly before Max can fumble an answer. Your smirk is playful, but there’s no bite to it, just that same easy warmth Max hasn’t felt in what feels like forever. “I used to keep this one in line. Back when he was all awkward interviews and tragic haircuts.”

Daniel barks out a laugh, glancing at Max’s meticulously styled hair. “Tragic haircuts? Wait, this-” he gestures wildly at Max’s head, like it’s some architectural masterpiece “-is the improved version?”

You’re already laughing, and it’s the kind of laugh Max hasn’t heard in years.

He groans, dragging a hand over his face, though the corners of his mouth are betraying him with a faint smile. “Don’t encourage her,” he mutters to Daniel, but his tone is far too soft to have any weight.

It’s stupid how easy this feels. How natural. Max isn’t used to easy anymore.

Daniel, bless him, is soaking it all in.

“So?” he says, giving Max a teasing nudge. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, or do I have to guess?”

“I was getting there,” Max grumbles, shooting him a half-hearted glare before looking at you. For a moment, he falters. He doesn’t know what to call you. Acquaintance feels too cold. Stranger would be a lie. And friend? That feels like stepping too far into a past he’s not sure he’s ready to face.

“An old friend,” you offer, saving him effortlessly, like you always did. “And you must be the famous Daniel Ricciardo.”

Daniel grins, full of boyish charm. “Guilty as charged,” he says, tipping his beer in a mock toast. “And let me just say, I already like you. Great taste in insults.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Ricciardo,” you say, though your smirk says otherwise.

The three of you fall into an almost absurdly natural rhythm, as though you’ve all been doing this for years. Daniel’s effortless charisma bounces off your sharp wit, and Max finds himself smiling more in five minutes than he has in weeks.

Maybe months.

It’s like the weight on his shoulders has lifted, just for a moment, and he can breathe again.

You’re mid-story when he realizes he hasn’t felt this light in ages.

“So there I was,” you’re saying to Daniel, gesturing dramatically, “dragging Max out of his hotel room because he was refusing to face the world after a bad race.”

“I wasn’t refusing to face the world,” Max interjects, but there’s no real heat in his voice.

You give him a look that could level a building. “You were lying on the floor eating Haribo like it was your last meal,” you say, deadpan. “It was tragic. Genuinely tragic.”

Daniel’s cackling now, nearly spilling his beer. “Please tell me there are photos of this.”

“Sadly, no,” you reply with mock disappointment. “But the image is burned into my brain forever. It was that bad.”

Max groans, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips is impossible to hide. “Why did I ever let you into my life?”

“Because no one else could handle you,” you fire back, and it’s so quick, so natural, it makes his chest ache.

Daniel takes a step back, still laughing. “You two are too much,” he says, pointing at the two of you like you’ve just performed a comedy sketch. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t get too emotional without me, okay? I’m going to find another beer. Or maybe a Vespa to steal. Who knows?”

You watch him disappear into the crowd, still grinning. For a moment, the two of you are left standing there, and the noise of the party seems to fade just slightly.

“Daniel’s fun,” you say, breaking the silence.

“He is,” Max agrees.

When the music starts bumping up again, the two of you are faced with a whole other problem entirely.

“So, you’ve been busy!” you yell, leaning across the sticky bar top, your voice barely cutting through the bass thumping around you.

“What?” Max shouts back, leaning closer.

“I SAID, YOU’VE BEEN BUSY!”

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

“I KNOW! THAT’S WHY I’M SHOUTING!”

“WHAT?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, but he just smirks, clearly enjoying this.

So you double down.

“DO YOU WANT ANOTHER DRINK?” you bellow, miming holding a glass.

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT DRINKS?” he shouts back, baffled.

“BECAUSE IT’S TOO LOUD IN HERE!”

“WHAT?”

This back-and-forth nonsense goes on for an impressively ridiculous three minutes, the two of you getting progressively louder, until Max finally groans, shaking his head like he’s reached his limit.

He steps closer, leans in like he’s about to shout something else, then just presses a warm, steady hand to the small of your back. “Come on,” he says, not even bothering to raise his voice this time.

“What?” you yell, still committed to the bit.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he starts gently steering you toward the stairs, and you stumble a little, caught off guard by the unexpected physical contact.

“Where are we going?” you shout, craning your neck to look at him as you climb.

“UPSTAIRS!”

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE I VALUE MY HEARING!” he fires back, glaring at you over his shoulder.

“OH, NOW YOU CARE ABOUT YOUR HEARING?” you tease, but he ignores you, his hand still firm and insistent on your back as he guides you upstairs.

The VIP section is quieter, tucked away from the pulsating bass and the sweaty chaos of the main club floor. Max had slipped a word to a bouncer—who nodded in a way that made you roll your eyes—and now you’re here, sinking into the plush leather of a semi-circular booth with a ridiculous view of the dance floor below.

The relative silence hits you like a warm blanket. You blink, adjusting to the sudden absence of aggressive EDM, and turn to Max, who looks much too smug for your liking.

“Smuggled into VIP like I’m some sort of black-market item,” you tease. “Careful, Verstappen. This is how egos start.”

“You’re welcome,” he says dryly.

“For what?” you shoot back. “The privilege of not getting tinnitus at 27?”

“Yes,” he replies smoothly, sliding into a nearby booth like he owns the place. “You’re lucky to know me.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “My life has improved immeasurably since you dragged me up here. I’ll write a thank-you card.”

“Make sure it’s handwritten,” he quips, signaling a waiter for drinks. “And don’t skimp on the stationery.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, rolling your eyes but you’re smiling, and he knows it.

He chuckles, leaning forward slightly. “Hey, if you’re going to criticize, at least admit this is better than shouting at each other over terrible music.”

You glance around the room, all dark wood and dim lighting, where a few scattered people are having hushed conversations or staring down at the dance floor with an air of superiority. “Alright,” you admit, “it’s not terrible. But the crowd up here…”

You nod toward a guy at the next table wearing sunglasses, inside, and sipping champagne like it’s water. “Is this your scene now? Bottle service bros and indoor eyewear enthusiasts?”

Max glances at the guy, smirking. “Not my scene. But I figured you deserved something better than sticky floors and overpriced tequila shots.”

You laugh. “Wow. I feel so special. Nothing says friendship like a quiet room and a drink I can’t pronounce.”

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back again. “You love it.”

“I love judging it,” you correct, grinning. “Big difference.”

Max watches you for a moment, shaking his head with an almost fond expression. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“And you’ve changed too much,” you shoot back, gesturing at his ridiculously put-together outfit. “Look at you, Verstappen. Fancy haircut, custom clothes, actual social skills. Who are you?”

“First of all, the haircut is functional,” he retorts, mock offended. “Aerodynamics.”

“Oh, of course. Wouldn’t want your hair slowing you down at 300 kph,” you say, pretending to be serious.

“It’s a real thing!” he insists, laughing now. “If you knew anything about racing-”

“If I knew anything about racing?” you interrupt, your voice rising in mock outrage. “Excuse me, I was there when you had to Google how to talk to the media without sounding like a robot. You think I don’t know the intricacies of racing, Maxy?”

“Don’t call me Maxy,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh, I’m definitely calling you Maxy,” you say, delighted. “I might even get a custom T-shirt. ‘Maxy’s Biggest Fan.’ I’ll wear it to a race.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you do that, I’ll steal your phone and delete every embarrassing photo you’ve ever taken of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t have backups,” you say smugly, sipping your drink.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment, the two of you fall into an easy silence, the noise of the club below fading into the background. You glance at Max, noting the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way he’s fiddling with the label on his beer bottle—a habit he’s had for as long as you can remember.

“So,” you say, breaking the quiet, “what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve bought since you became all… you know.”

“All what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know,” you say, waving a hand vaguely. “World Champion. Multi-millionaire. Guy who smuggles old friends into VIP sections.”

He chuckles. “Ridiculous? I don’t know… probably the private jet.”

You stare at him, deadpan. “The private jet is the least ridiculous thing about you, Verstappen. Try again.”

“Fine,” he says, thinking for a moment. “I bought a sauna for my house. Didn’t use it for six months.”

You burst out laughing. “A sauna? For what? Post-race existential crises?”

He groans, rubbing his temples. “It was a bad idea, okay? I thought it would be relaxing.”

“Did it come with, like, a tiny man who throws water on the rocks for you?” you ask, grinning.

“No, but now I kind of want one,” he admits, laughing.

“God, you’re the worst,” you say, shaking your head, but your tone is full of affection.

“And you’re jealous,” he fires back.

“Of your unused sauna?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m absolutely consumed with envy.”

The two of you dissolve into laughter and the conversation continues.

Next thing you know it’s 3 am and you and Max are stumbling out of the club, too giggly for both of your sakes.

Daniel had hopped on to another place hours ago so it’s just you and him.

The cool night air hits you like a slap, but instead of sobering up, it just makes you giggle harder.

Max freezes mid-stumble, his head lolling back like he’s auditioning for Les Mis on the world’s worst stage. “Why’s the air so aggressive?” he slurs. “Feels like it’s… pushing me. Rude.”

“Why’s the ground so spinny?” you counter, stumbling sideways into him.

“'Cause you’re bad at walking,” he accuses, latching onto your arm like a barnacle while swaying dramatically.

“You’re bad at walking,” you fire back, immediately tripping over a shadow and nearly eating pavement.

“You can’t even walk straight!” Max protests, laughing as he catches you before you faceplant.

His arm slides around your waist, steadying you in the most unsteady way possible.

“You’re the one spinning,” you argue, slurring every other word. “Maaaybe you should ju- just stay still for once in your life.”

“Oh, because you’re the expert,” he fires back, wheezing as you nearly trip again. “Where- where are you even staying at?”

You squint at him, trying to focus. “Uh… good question.”

Max stops dead in his tracks, turning to look at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “What do you mean good question? How do you not know?”

“I don’t rememb- ber,” you admit, cackling as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Max groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re just- what? Homeless now?”

“Homeless for the night,” you correct, wagging a finger at him like that somehow makes it better.

Max laughs so hard he has to pause, doubling over slightly. “How- how do you forget where you’re staying?”

“’S not my fault!” you defend yourself, leaning heavily against him. “The hotel has, like… a name! A boring one! And too many floors!”

Max groans so loudly it echoes off the buildings. “Oh my God. You’re homeless now. You’re a wandering drunk with no home.”

“I'm trying a new lifestyle,” you say, grinning. “Like… nomadic, y’know? Spiritual.”

“Yeah, okay, Buddha, let’s find you a real place to sleep before you start befriending rats,” he mutters, dragging you down the street.

“I like rats,” you say cheerfully. “They’re just misunderstood.”

“You’re misunderstood,” Max shoots back. “Come on. You’re crashing at my hotel. I can’t leave you out here to, like, adopt a possum or something.”

“I don’t wanna!” you whine, digging your heels into the ground.

“Tough!” Max barks, throwing his arm around your shoulders to keep you moving. “You’ll thank me in the morning when you’re not spooning a garbage can.”

You groan dramatically, slumping into him. “Maxxyyy, I’m tired. Can’t I just sleep on a bench or something?”

“Nooo. No benches. Benches are gross. You’ll get, like… pigeons on you.”

“Pigeons are my friends,” you declare solemnly, as if this is a hill you’re prepared to die on.

Max shakes his head, clearly trying to stay serious but failing miserably. “Okay, Dr. Dolittle, you’re not sleeping outside.”

You groan again, dragging your feet even as he starts pulling you along.

“Stop whining,” he slurs, swaying as he tries to walk in a straight line. “It’ll be like- like a sleepover! Like when we were five.”

“Sleepovers at five were better,” you mutter. “Less… you.”

“Excuse me?” Max stops, glaring at you like you’ve mortally offended him. “I’m the best sleepover buddy. I let you steal my Haribo once.”

“You hid the Haribo under your pillow!” you counter, poking him in the chest.

“’Cause you’re a thief!” he says, grinning as he pulls you toward the street corner.

“Am not,” you huff, pouting.

“Are too,” he replies, but his tone is teasing as he hails a cab.

When the cab pulls up, it feels like the world is tilted just enough that the ground might collapse under your feet at any moment. You both tumble into the backseat in a fit of giggles, your laughter echoing off the darkened streets.

It’s the kind of laughter that’s born of a little bit too much alcohol and a whole lot of absurdity. You could’ve sworn you heard a streetlight flicker in disbelief at the sound of your shared joy.

Max flops dramatically against you as if the very act of sitting upright requires more effort than it’s worth.

His head lands squarely on your shoulder, and for a split second, you’re both tangled in the shared warmth of a really questionable decision.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded, and grins like a kid who just got away with stealing candy.

“You smell like tequila and poor decisions,” he mutters with a lazy drawl, his words slow but somehow still cutting through the haze of the night.

You’re already shaking your head before you even speak, the words spilling out one over the other. “You smell like someone who wore Axe in high school.”

Max’s eyes widen in mock outrage. “I did not!” He shoots up from your shoulder like you just insulted his very existence, but the motion sends him veering dangerously toward the cab door.

He catches himself at the last second, gripping the seat like it’s a lifeline.

By the time the cab pulls up to Max’s hotel, you're both deep into a discussion about whether Axe body spray could be classified as a biohazard in certain quantities.

It’s a ridiculous debate, fueled by far too much tequila and a complete disregard for logic, but it’s the most fun either of you have had in ages.

Max is practically in tears from laughing, his snort-laugh echoing off the walls of the cab as he tries to argue that Axe is, in fact, a perfectly fine product, just poorly misunderstood by society.

The cab screeches to a halt, and Max stumbles out first, holding the door open for you with the kind of exaggerated flair you’d expect from someone who probably practices his dramatic entrances in front of a mirror.

As he pays the driver, his wallet slips from his hands not once, but twice, and he’s already apologizing profusely, his face flushed from the alcohol and his own clumsiness.

Finally, he gets the wallet sorted, tucks it back in his pocket, and reaches down to drag you out of the cab like you’re a piece of luggage.

You’re both barely standing, teetering back and forth on your feet as if gravity itself is conspiring to make the night even more ridiculous.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Max says, throwing his arm out grandly to gesture toward the hotel lobby like he’s unveiling the Louvre.

The marble floors, polished to a shine, the sleek, understated furniture… none of it compares to the visual assault that is the ugly carpet underfoot.

“Your palace has really ugly carpet,” you mutter, laughing as you trip over the offending fabric, your feet not quite able to keep up with your brain’s idea of where they should go.

Max snorts, his hand steadying you as you almost face-plant into a particularly gaudy potted plant. “You’re banned from the palace,” he retorts, giving you a playful shove.

You recover, and together, you stagger toward the elevator, which, for some reason, feels like an obstacle course in itself.

The elevator doors open with a dramatic ding, and Max promptly starts jabbing the wrong floor button in a series of random, very confident moves.

Each one is a miss, but he keeps at it, as if this were somehow part of the plan.

You lean against the wall, your body shaking with laughter as you struggle to breathe through the giggles.

“This is why they don’t let you operate machinery,” you manage to gasp, watching him fumble with the buttons in disbelief.

Max grumbles under his breath but finally, miraculously, hits the correct floor button. He turns to you with an exaggerated wink. “See? I told you. Genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, patting him on the head condescendingly. “Sure you are, buddy. A true mastermind.”

The elevator ride is a blur of jokes and half-baked insults as you both fight to keep your composure.

Max leans against the wall with a smug look, clearly reveling in his victory over the elevator button.

When the doors finally open, you both stumble out, holding on to each other uselessly.

At the door to his room, Max proceeds to fumble with his key card in a way that can only be described as tragically incompetent.

The key card slips from his fingers twice, and each time, he lets out a string of expletives in a garble of Dutch and English.

“Jesus. You okay there, Einstein?” you tease, leaning casually against the wall and watching him drop the card once more. You can’t help but laugh.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice already tinged with frustration. “Technology’s hard.”

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the door swings open, and Max stumbles inside with the grace of a rhino on roller skates.

He turns to face you with a theatrical sigh. “There. I did it. Happy now?”

You’re already halfway to the bed, your shoes flying off in opposite directions, one ending up by the dresser and the other getting lodged under a chair.

With a dramatic thud, you collapse onto the bed, your body sinking into the soft, luxurious comfort like it was the only thing holding you together.

“This bed is softer than my hopes and dreams,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the comforter as you stretch out like a starfish.

Max, predictably, flops down beside you with the subtlety of a sack of bricks, his arms and legs sprawling out in every direction.

“Move over,” he grumbles, his face smooshed into the pillow.

“Nope,” you reply, barely lifting a finger to indicate where his side is. “Your side’s over there,” you say, pointing vaguely toward the edge of the bed, but it’s clear from the way your eyes are barely staying open that you’re not in any shape to play the “bedroom politics” game.

“Too bad,” Max grunts, grabbing your pillow from beneath your head and smushing it over his face. “This is a dictatorship, and I’m the dictator.”

“Goodnight, Haribo hoarder,” you slur, your words trailing off into nothing as sleep drags you under.

The last thing you hear before you fully fade into unconsciousness is Max’s muffled laugh, and you can’t help but smile.

For a brief moment, it feels like nothing’s changed at all.

—-

Max’s eyes snap open, and for a second, everything is blurry.

He blinks a few times, the weight of his eyelids making it feel like he’s wading through molasses.

A dull ache sits in the back of his skull, a reminder of the questionable choices he made the night before.

He groans, dry, scratchy, the kind of noise that only belongs to mornings where you regret both your life decisions and your snack choices.

He’s still in his room. So far, so good.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary... except for that persistent feeling in the air that something is off.

Max stretches, or at least tries to. His arms flail in an uncoordinated spasm, which results in a series of awkward grunts and a pop from his back that sounds like a joint trying to jump ship.

For a second, he considers staying perfectly still, hoping his body will remember how to function like a normal human.

But then—

There’s something warm beside him. Something... alive.

Max freezes, eyes snapping wide open. His breath catches in his throat as he tries to process what’s happening. The warmth next to him isn’t the soft comfort of a pillow.

It’s... a person.

A person in his bed.

What the actual hell?

His brain goes into overdrive, trying to make sense of the situation. His mind races through a thousand thoughts in a second, each one more ridiculous than the last.

Did he... did he end up getting a stranger drunk last night? Did someone break into his room to cuddle with him?

Max’s eyes dart to his left, and it hits him like a freight train.

The person is you.

You, sprawled across the bed, fast asleep, your hair tousled and your face peaceful, completely unaware of his mounting panic.

For a moment, Max just stares, brain failing to catch up.

How did this happen? His head starts swimming. His mouth goes dry. His first thought is that he’s dreaming..except, no.

This is far too real. He’s not that lucky.

“I need to call Daniel..”

[cheriedivine]

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫

chapter I | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (no use of y/n)

꩜ CW: swearing, weed, creepy guy, slightly suggestive, tension (if u squint).

꩜ WC: 4.9K

꩜ A/N: okayyy soooo, i’m starting a new series, it will be a slow burn so bear with me. Im excited for this and all the yearning to come woohooooo! just your typical loser lesbians who are best friends and there’s tension but they don’t know it yet alright…

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How can we tell something is complicated? Is it because the easy way isn’t available, or because we crave the possibility of more?

Life is full of complex things like the human brain or death or love. Especially love.

The line between love and codependency is blurry, if it even exists. Do we cling to the people we love because we need them or because we don’t know who we are without them?

Still, love is more than need. It's more than survival.

Of course the easy way is not to feel.

But then again. What’s the point of life without love?

Without being consumed by it? Without being absorbed?

Ellie always felt like love wasn’t meant for her. Yeah sure she had been in a few relationships in the past, casual summer flings, but nothing that got too serious. The moment someone wanted to put a label on her she was out the door.

Maybe she was doomed from the start, sentenced to suffer in loneliness for the rest of her life. Maybe it was karma for all the shit her ancestors had done.

Or maybe... she was just twenty-one, and spiraling.

But then she met you.

Her best friend. Her whole world.

You brought sunshine into her life like it was nothing. Like it was easy.

She smiled more. Went out more. God. She even made stupid jokes just to hear you laugh. Saying you made Ellie’s life better was an understatement.

How it started?

It was a casual Thursday. Ellie was tired, the kind of tired that settled deep in her bones. She’d been up since 5 a.m., chasing the sunrise for an early shoot, and stayed late at the studio the night before, hunched over rolls of film, watching images slowly come to life. Now, all she could think about was the couple she’d photographed that morning. Mid-twenties, freshly engaged, smiling like they had the rest of their lives mapped out. Some people had it all figured out, she thought. Settled. Steady. Meanwhile, she was here…at her usual breakfast spot, an old fashioned diner, squinting at her laptop, scrolling through photo edits with aching eyes. Her camera bag sat beside her on the booth seat, worn and stickered to hell. Savage Starlight, Sleater Kinney, a faded rainbow sticker that had started peeling at the corners.

She yawned into her tea, hood up, headphones loosely slung around her neck, when someone placed a plate down in front of her. chocolate chip pancakes, soft scrambled eggs and bacon, her usual.

Ellie blinked up, and you were standing there, wiping your hands on a dish towel tucked into your apron. Your eyes flicked toward the camera case.

“Savage Starlight,” you nodded at the sticker. “God tier taste.”

Ellie froze for a second, then smirked. “You read that?”

“Duh,” you said like it was obvious. “Issue 8 ruined me emotionally for weeks.”

That pulled a laugh out of her, the first real one she’d had all morning. “Same. Still not over that ending.”

You smiled, shifting your weight to one foot, clearly not in a rush to leave. “Cool camera, by the way.”

“Thanks, she’s my baby” she said, suddenly aware of how wrecked she must look. Messy bun barely held up, camera strap indenting her neck. “—I’m Ellie, by the way.” She stuck her hand out, immediately second guessing it.

Was that too old fashioned? Joel really was rubbing off on her.

“I know. I take your order every other Thursday.” you said, shaking her hand.

She blinked, embarrassed. “Right. Sorry. Early mornings kinda melt my brain.”

“No worries,” you grinned, and Ellie noticed the little pin on your apron. A tiny, pixelated spaceship with your name on it, stupid stupid stupid. she thought to herself for not noticing it earlier.

And since that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t anything loud or life altering, not some cheesy movie moment with music swelling in the background. But it was something. A small click, like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

Ellie became obsessed with you, in a way that she needed to be around you or her day wouldn’t be complete, she needed to hear your voice, your laugh, you calling her stupid for a dad joke she made, she just needed you, her best friend.

From then on, Ellie started showing up more often, not just on Thursdays anymore. Sometimes it was Tuesdays. Sometimes Saturdays, right before the lunch rush. She claimed it was for the pancakes, and not the terrible service (she earned herself a playful smack on the head for that). She’d sit at her usual corner booth, camera bag by her side, flipping through photo previews on her laptop, waiting for your shift to end.

Ellie would usually show up with the latest issue of Savage Starlight, sliding it across the counter like some sort of sacred offering. It became an inside joke your “weekly trade deal,” she'd say. In return, you’d draw ridiculous little faces into her pancakes with extra chocolate chips, crooked grins, wonky eyes, sometimes a very unflattering interpretation of Joel. She thought it was hilarious.

You’d complain about the usual chaos, the rude customers, shit tips, kids treating the floor like their personal warzone. Ellie would listen between mouthfuls of bacon, eyes gleaming.

“Sounds like you need a cig break,” she’d propose, already halfway out of the booth.

And that’s how most of your breaks ended up. At the back of the diner, sharing a cigarette with your best friend, the smoke curling into lazy spirals between your fingers. Who would’ve thought the best thing to come out of this job would be the quiet girl who used to sit in the corner booth alone, camera gear spilling across the table and making it a logistical nightmare to serve her food?

You ducked behind the counter, catching your co-worker scribbling down an order on a pad.

“Taking five,” you whispered into her ear, already slipping off your apron and tossing it over the stool.

Ellie was waiting by the door, cigarette hanging from her lips, hands in her pockets, grinning like an idiot. Moments like these, quiet, in company of you, were the highlight of her day.

The metal door creaked behind you as you stepped out into the alley, greeted by the smell of old grease, cigarette smoke, and freedom.

“You have no idea how much I despise this uniform,” you groaned, tugging at the stiff collar of your work shirt like it personally offended you. “Why do they make us wear these stupid skirts and hats?”

Ellie chuckled, flicking the lighter and shielding the flame with her hand. “You look cute, very… militant barista chic”

You gave her a flat look. “It’s a literal open invitation for creepy dudes to stare”

“In that case I’ll beat them to death with my camera tripod” she said around the cigarette, grinning as she passed it to you. “I would like to see you try honestly.”

You took a drag, leaning your back against the brick wall, bumping your shoulder into hers lightly. “I’m just saying, Hooters uniform has more coverage than this… thing.”

Ellie nodded solemnly. “Oh yeah? Are you a Hooters expert now?”

You snorted, passing the cigarette back. “Certainly more than you. I wish I could just spend time with you in your stinky little studio instead of serving Ice lattes to Karens”

Ellie blinked, a flicker of something crossing her face, but she masked it quickly with a laugh. “Obviously. I’m way prettier.”

“Thats certainly one way to put it.”

“Rude.”

You both stood there for a while in comfortable silence, trading the cigarette and small complaints about the day, until your five minutes were definitely more like ten and your co-worker cracked open the back door to glare at you.

Ellie just winked and mouthed bitch. She checked her phone, winced, then let out a dramatic sigh like the world was ending. “Shit. I’ve got a shoot in twenty minutes.”

You blew out a stream of smoke. “Ugh, fine. Go be artsy and productive or whatever.”

“I will. Gotta make the girls look ethereal in a field of flowers or something,” she joked, already stubbing the cigarette out on the wall and stuffing it into an empty Altoids tin she kept just for that purpose.

You rolled your eyes. “Tell them to pose like they're not better looking than me or I’m gonna have a problem.”

Ellie gave you a look, smirking as she slung her camera bag over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’re the muse.”

You flushed but covered it with a sarcastic bow. “Obviously. Anyway, I’m stuck in hell for two more hours, but I’ll text you after. You still down for the movies tonight?”

“Dina threatened me if I bail. Jesse’s picking the movie, though, so get ready to watch something with car chases and unnecessary explosions.”

You groaned. “He has the worst taste. I swear if it’s another Fast and Furious sequel I’m leaving.”

Ellie laughed and started backing down the alley, walking backwards. “You say that every time and yet you stay. For the family.”

You threw your apron at her. She dodged it.

“Text me when you're done,” she called out before disappearing around the corner, entering her beat up truck.

Back inside, the rest of your shift crawled by in a blur of clinking mugs, whiny toddlers, and low tip customers, but it was easier to survive knowing you had a movie night waiting, with your best friends, and Ellie sitting next to you in the dark, probably whispering dumb commentary in your ear the whole time.

You smiled to yourself as you cleared a table. Just two more hours.

The field was nice. Golden hour kind of nice, warm light slicing through the tall grass. Ellie adjusted the settings on her camera, peeking through the viewfinder at the group of girls twirling in their flowy pastel dresses, laughing like they were in a Greta Gerwig film.

“Alright, ladies, pretend you like each other!” she called out, grinning.

They laughed and did that overly exaggerated cutesy pose thing, arms slung around each other, a couple fake-kissing cheeks. Ellie snapped the shots effortlessly, stepping around them with practiced ease. Her brain clicked into auto-pilot when she was shooting. Light, angles, timing. The rest of the world faded at the click of the camera.

Except for one of them.

Cat.

Bridesmaid number three. Mid-20s, pretty, clearly knew it, and knew how to work a camera. She'd been giving Ellie a look since they started, the kind with too much eye contact and a little too much lower lip biting.

"Should I hold the bouquet like this?" Cat asked sweetly, lifting it chest-level and tilting her head just enough to make it obvious.

Ellie didn’t skip a beat, snapping the shot. “Sure…unless you’re auditioning for a rom-com in which case, maybe tilt it a little more—yeah, that’s the angle. Nailed it.”

The girls laughed and whooped like they were in a music video.

Cat winked at her. “You’re kinda funny, camera girl.”

Ellie smirked but didn’t look up from her camera. “Only kinda?”

The flirting kept bouncing like that for a bit. Harmless, surface-level, the way Ellie always played it when she wasn’t invested, just bored. She never let it get too deep, not like with you. After wrapping the shoot and handing off her card to the bride, Ellie was stuffing her camera into her bag when Cat came up to her, twirling a piece of her hair between her fingers like she practiced that in the mirror.

“Hey,” she said, kind of sing-songy. “You should give me your number. You know, in case I wanna book you for something… personal.”

Ellie bit back a grin, already zipping her bag. “Oh, totally. Here—”

She grabbed a pen from her tote and scribbled a number on the back of a coffee receipt. Not hers, obviously. Some random number she made up.

Cat took it, all flirty and hopeful, and Ellie gave her a small salute before heading toward her truck.

As soon as she was out of sight, she cracked up to herself, shaking her head.

“Yeah, good luck with that one.”

She wasn’t mean. Just... not interested. Not in Cat. Not in anyone lately.

Only person she actually wanted to hear from was probably just clocking out of that stupid diner, peeling off that stupid uniform and texting her with some dumb meme or a rant about someone leaving syrup on the counter.

She checked her phone.

No text yet.

She leaned against the side of her truck, thumb tapping lazily against the metal, waiting. Like clockwork, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. A text from you.

It was a photo. Your middle finger proudly raised beside your diner uniform, crumpled and defeated on your bed. “im out. pick me up at 6?”

Ellie chuckled, typing back: “Only if ur wearing the uniform.”

Your response came quick: middle finger emoji.

Still grinning, she climbed into her truck and headed to her studio (which, technically, was also her apartment…but calling it the studio made it feel a little more like she had her shit together). She was planning on washing off the day and changing into something comfortable for movie night at Dina’s.

Meanwhile, back at your place, you kicked off your shoes the second you walked in. Your roommate wasn’t home, probably still stuck at work, so you shot her a quick text letting her know you’d be out late. You peeled off your uniform, and threw on your robe before texting Ellie again, “home. u picking me up at 6 right?”

You stepped into the shower, determined to scrub off the smell of burnt bacon and sticky syrup, letting the steam pull the exhaustion out of your bones. Afterward, you got caught up scrolling on your phone, time slipping past unnoticed… until there was a sharp knock on your door.

“Shit,” you muttered. Then louder, “HOLD ON, I’M COMING!”

Still wrapped in your towel, you darted to the front door and flung it open. Ellie blinked, caught off guard. Her eyes flicked over your towel-wrapped frame a second too long, before she quickly covered her grin with a hand, trying (and failing) to play it cool.

“I am so, so sorry,” you said, pulling the towel tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling too exposed. too self conscious. “I got distracted and totally lost track of time.”

Ellie raised her eyebrows, but her voice stayed teasing. “You sure you’re not trying to seduce me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Ten minutes. Swear.”

You vanished down the hallway. Ellie flopped onto the couch, pulling out her phone and texting the group chat: running late but grabbing snacks first. don’t start without us.

She shifted to get more comfortable, and caught a glimpse through the crack in your bedroom door. Two inches. Practically nothing. Not on purpose… right?

You were slipping on a hoodie, back turned, still in just your bra and pants. Ellie’s face flushed instantly. She snapped her head away like the door had personally scolded her. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands. “Fuckin’ creep.”

Before her spiraling could get worse, you emerged from your room, hoodie on, tugging on your shoes.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your keys and swinging the door open. “Let’s go.”

Ellie followed, still flustered, and absolutely not ready to unpack any of what just happened.

The sky was starting to turn soft and purple as Ellie pulled out of your complex’s parking lot, her tattooed arm flexing, hand grasping lazily on the wheel, the other fiddling with the volume knob. Some old indie playlist was shuffling through the speakers. Ellie music, as you called it. You leaned back in your seat, hair still a little damp from the shower, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over your hands.

“So?” you said, glancing at her. “How was the rest of your very glamorous day?”

Ellie let out a snort. “Oh, you know. Just got aggressively flirted with by someone named Cat.”

Your head turned so fast it nearly cracked. “Cat?”

“Bridesmaid number three. Said I looked like I’d be good with a camera and my hands.” Ellie smirked.

You groaned, but came out more like a failed laugh. “Ew. Who says that?”

“She did. With full confidence. Honestly? Kinda impressive.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “Tell me you didn’t flirt back.”

“I mean, a little. For the bit.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “You’re shameless.”

“Hey—she asked for my number, I panicked and gave her Joel’s landline. So I think I redeemed myself.”

That made you burst out laughing, and gave you a weird sense of relief. “Oh my god, imagine her calling and Joel picking up.”

“‘Hello, Miller residence.’ And then just click.”

You were still giggling when you turned toward the window. “You’re evil.”

Ellie looked over at you for a second too long, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re just jealous.”

You scoffed. “Jealous of Cat? Please. I wear a dumb visor and serve bacon to men named Dennis who tip in nickels.”

“That’s hot.”

You rolled your eyes. “My shift was hell. I had a kid throw a hashbrown at me and scream because I gave him the wrong syrup. Like. What syrup could he possibly need at age four? It’s all just sugar.”

“Future criminal behavior,” Ellie said. “I would’ve drop-kicked him.”

“Oh believe me, I considered it. But then I remembered I’m trying not to go to jail this year.”

“Personal growth,” she nodded solemnly.

There was a comfortable silence after that. The kind that didn’t feel like it needed to be filled. The kind you only got with someone who knew you well enough to not need noise. But still, Ellie spoke again, a little quieter this time.

“Hey,” she said, eyes on the road, voice soft. “We still have to get those snacks.”

You turned your head, smiling without really meaning to. “7-Eleven stop?.”

“7-Eleven it is.”

The buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the refrigerator coolers welcomed you as the door to the 7-Eleven swung open with a mechanical chime. Ellie held it open for you with a sarcastic bow. “After you.”

You rolled your eyes smiling. “Wow. So chivalrous. All for a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.”

“What can I say?” she shrugged, grabbing a plastic basket. “I’m a provider.”

You split up for a second, Ellie going straight to the drinks section while you scanned the candy aisle, already filling your arms with too many options. Gummy worms. A Kit Kat. Those sour blue raspberry straws Ellie claimed she hated but somehow always ended up buying.

You were just about to decide between a regular-sized Snickers or the obnoxiously large King Size when a voice behind you broke the silence.

“Damn,” the guy said, eyeing you up like you were on sale. “If I was your man, I’d never let you out the house looking that good.”

You didn’t even turn to look at him at first, just dropped a pack of sour candy into your basket.

“If you were my man,” you said, glancing over with a tight smile, “I’d move states and change my name.”

He scoffed. “Damn, you don’t gotta be a bitch about it—”

“—And you gotta be stupid enough to not take a hint” Ellie appeared behind you, sliding an arm around your shoulders with a lazy grin, completely playing into the moment.

The guy blinked, probably about to say something else, until Ellie looked at him, really looked at him and whatever speech he had left drained from his face. He turned and walked off without another word.

“You find the sour blue raspberry straws?” she asked casually, like nothing had happened.

You nodded, leaning into her like it was muscle memory. “Yep.”

Something always shifted in Ellie when guys like that got too close. She didn’t make a scene, didn’t have to, but her jaw would clench just a little, her voice would drop, and suddenly she wasn’t just your best friend. She was your shield, your protector. And no one got to talk to you like that when she was around.

Once he was out of earshot, you burst out laughing, nearly dropping your armful of snacks. “Babe is new”

“It felt right,” Ellie said, grinning. “And also hilarious. You should’ve seen his face.”

You were still laughing as you dumped your haul on the counter. “Thanks for the save, my prince charming.”

“Anytime,” she said, tossing a couple of sodas beside your loot. “Protecting you from weird dudes is in my contract.”

“Oh yeah?” you raised a brow. “Where’s this contract?”

“In my head,” she said.

You shook your head, still smiling. “We should make it a real thing. Ellie Williams: official candy mule and creepy guy repellant.”

“I prefer the term bodyguard,” she said, pulling out her wallet. “But yeah. Works for me.”

Dina’s apartment smelled like buttery popcorn, weed, and that vaguely sweet candle she always left burning on her windowsill, something with a name like Midnight Fig or Velvet Moon. The TV was already on when you walked in, credits of some old romcom playing, Jesse sitting cross-legged on the floor, halfway through a bag of gummy worms.

“You’re late,” Dina called from the kitchen, not even looking up as she stirred something in a pot. “Movie night rule number one: punctuality. Rule number two: bring snacks. Did you guys bring snacks?”

“We were on time,” Ellie said, kicking the door closed behind her. “But somebody forgot I was picking them up.”

You shot her a look. “I was in the shower. I told you to pick me up at six, not barge in at six.”

“Oh my god,” Jesse muttered. “Just make out already.”

“Shut up,” both you and Ellie snapped at the same time. Jesse loved to poke the bear when it came to you two, claiming it was funny how flustered you both got.

That only made him grin wider.

You dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, pulling a throw blanket over your legs and tossing a bag of hot cheeto chips onto the coffee table. “There. Snacks.”

Ellie flopped down beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. Not enough to say anything, not enough to move away—but enough to notice. She leaned back, hands behind her head.

“So,” Dina said, walking over with a bowl of something that looked suspiciously like boxed mac and cheese. “Ellie, how’d your shoot go? You flirt with any bridesmaids?”

You groaned. “Don’t encourage her.”

Ellie smirked. “Told you already. Bridesmaid number three. She winked at me and called me ‘camera girl.’”

Dina wheezed. “Wait. Wait. Did she give you her number?”

“She asked for mine,” Ellie corrected, proudly. “I gave her Joel’s landline.”

“Are you trying to get disowned?” Jesse asked, taking a handful of popcorn.

“I’m trying to avoid drama with a woman named Cat,” Ellie said, dead serious.

You shook your head, “You’re impossible.”

Dina squinted between you two, then looked at Jesse. “Tell me they’re not already dating.”

“Not yet,” Jesse said, popping a gummy into his mouth. “But they will be. I give it, like, three months. Maybe two if there’s a karaoke night.”

You threw a pillow at his head. Ellie snorted and leaned closer, her arm grazing yours again.

“Anyway,” Dina said, tossing a remote into Jesse’s lap, “are we watching Jennifer’s Body or are we letting Jesse pick another sad man movie again?”

“Jennifer’s Body,” you and Ellie said at the same time.

The night rolled on. Full of bad jokes, half-eaten snacks, and shared glances neither of you really knew how to deal with yet.

Not tension, exactly. Not yet. But something.

The movie had long since faded into background noise, replaced by gossip and stolen bites of popcorn. Jesse and Ellie kept chucking snacks at each other like overgrown children, until Dina groaned from the armchair, "You idiots are cleaning all this shit up. Y’all are like toddlers when you're together."

They both laughed, Jesse flinging a pillow in her direction, which, of course, kicked off a full-on war. You were winning. Striking Ellie with a pillow like your life depended on it, until she fought back three times harder, knocking you onto the couch and sending the whole group into hysterics.

This was your group. The best friends you ever had.

You’d all met not long after you and Ellie did. Jesse and Ellie were practically siblings, bonded since childhood, while you’d known Dina since high school—trauma-bonded over shitty exes and academic burnout. She knew you like the palm of her handl You definitely were an incredibly different group of humans, but it’s what made things more genuine with y’all.

You and Ellie had a secret running bet about Jesse and Dina. After one drunken party makeout they swore never happened, they’d been in full denial mode, sneaking glances and pretending it meant nothing.

Ellie bet $20 and a month of free rides that they'd never admit it. You, being the romantic, countered with a month of free pancakes and $10 that they would.

(Not that they needed to know about it.)

A blunt or two made its way around, leaving everyone pleasantly buzzed, limbs heavy, laughter echoing off the walls. Jesse and Ellie were laid out flat on the floor. You sprawled on the couch with Dina nestled between your legs, her back to your chest. It was warm, hazy, perfect.

You glanced at your phone. 2:57 a.m. Saturday. No work tomorrow, thank god. You’d definitely get fired for showing up this stoned.

Your fingers idly played with Dina’s hair while she giggled at nothing. Jesse and Ellie were arguing about something in the background, their voices fuzzy through the weed fog. Eventually, Dina stretched and yawned, announcing she was going to bed.

“If anyone’s crashing, cool. Just don’t open the windows and don’t trip balls in my apartment,” she mumbled.

Jesse followed behind, only to get a very loud, “GET OUT OF MY ROOM, I’M NOT HIGH ENOUGH FOR THIS.” He retreated to the guest room in defeat.

Ellie dropped down on the couch next to you, head tipped back, eyes glossy.

"You don't have an early photoshoot with your kittycat tomorrow?" you teased, glancing at her sideways.

"You wish. I might as well just cave and give her my real number," she said with a lazy grin.

“And forget about me?” you said, bumping her shoulder.

"You know I would never."

"Oh, I know. Im just fucking with you" you smirked.

“Oh yeah?,” she shrugged, grin widening. “I think you would like that.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Your favorite one.”

“I think that’s why we’re best friends.”

“Yeah, you’re my best-best-best-friend-ever-in-the-world,” she said, slurring it like a spell. “But shh, don’t tell Jesse. Sensitive guy.”

She held a finger to her lips like she was sharing an FBI top-secret, you laughed, shaking your head.

Shortly after that, you dozed off on the couch, your head resting on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. She could smell your shampoo, faintly sweet, and the ever-present scent of maple syrup that always clung to you no matter what. Like it was just… yours. Branded in her brain.

Your thigh was warm against hers, and yeah—it wasn’t weird. You were always like this. Close. Safe.

But then Ellie’s mind flicked back to your apartment. That two-inch crack in the door. The sliver of skin, the bra strap, your back. She’d looked. Not on purpose…but she’d looked. The weed was fucking with her head.

Her chest tightened. Was that weird? Creepy?

But best friends think about stuff like that sometimes… right? Like, it wasn’t a big deal to know your friend was hot, and protecting her from creepy guys knowing you’d treat her so much better In a normal, totally non-weird, completely platonic way. Right?

She tilted her head slightly, watching you breathe, peaceful and soft beside her. Her brain finally quieted.

You were her best friend.

And that would always be enough.

Right?

[jxwl4k]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ we listen & we don’t judge .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ . . . genre. fluff

☘︎ . . . pairings. bakugou x influencer!reader

⤿ bakugou and yn did the we listen and we don’t judge trend.

“Why the hell are we doing this again?” Bakugou grumbled, arms crossed as he sat on the edge of the couch, glaring at your phone like it personally offended him. You were fiddling with the tripod, humming a happy tune, completely unaffected by his usual sour mood.

“Because it’s fun, Katsuki,” you chirped, stepping back to check the angle. “And because I said so.”

“Tch. Stupid trend,” he muttered, but his scowl faltered when you gave him that look—the one where your eyes sparkled with excitement. “Fine, whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

You grinned, plopping down beside him and nudging his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Now remember the rules—‘we listen, and we don’t judge.’”

“Like I’d judge you,” he scoffed, though his ears turned a faint pink. “Just hit record already.”

You hit the record button and waved at the camera. “Okay, we’re doing the ‘We Listen and Don’t Judge’ challenge! I’ll start!” Turning to him, you smiled mischievously. “Alright, Katsuki. The first time I saw you in your hero costume, I thought your gauntlets looked like giant grenade-shaped marshmallows.”

He blinked at you, his jaw dropping. “Marshmallows?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“They’re poofy!” you laughed, covering your mouth. “Like, in a cute way! I love them now, though!”

“You think Dynamight—the badass hero—looks cute?!” he snapped, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Unbelievable.”

“Hey! We listen, and we don’t judge!” you reminded him, trying not to giggle at how genuinely offended he looked.

“Fine,” he muttered, leaning back against the couch. “My turn. That time you made me tea when I was sick? I dumped it down the sink because I thought it looked weird.”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?! I made that tea with so much love! I even Googled the recipe!”

“It looked like sludge, YN,” he shot back, smirking now. “I wasn’t gonna risk dying over tea.”

“Wow, Katsuki. Wow,” you deadpanned, trying to hide your laugh. “We listen, and we don’t judge, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving his hand. “Your turn.”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think hard. “Okay, remember that time you thought the washing machine was broken because it kept making weird noises?”

“Don’t tell me…” he said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“It wasn’t broken,” you admitted, biting your lip. “I accidentally put one of your gloves in there, and it got stuck.”

“What?!” he groaned, throwing his head back. “Are you serious?! I spent an hour fixing that stupid thing!”

“Whoops,” you said innocently, leaning away from him as he glared at you. “We listen, and we don’t judge!”

“Whatever,” he grumbled. “Last one, and we’re done.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious about what he’d say. He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Remember that time I told you I couldn’t hang out because I had extra patrol shifts?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah…?”

“I lied,” he confessed. “I stayed home because I wanted to finish watching that stupid rom-com you made me start. It was too good, alright?!”

You gasped dramatically, clapping your hands. “You mean The Proposal?! Oh my god, Katsuki! You liked it!”

“Shut up!” he snapped, cheeks blazing. “I didn’t say I liked it—I said it was decent.”

“You were laughing so hard at the Sandra Bullock scenes!” you teased, scooting closer to poke his cheek. “Admit it—you’re a closet rom-com fan!”

“Like hell I am!” he barked, swatting your hand away. “Next time, we’re watching something with explosions.”

“Sure, sure,” you said, rolling your eyes. “But you’re not off the hook yet—what’s your favorite part of the movie?”

“I’m not answering that,” he muttered, crossing his arms.

“Come on, Katsuki,” you teased, leaning against his shoulder. “We listen, and we don’t judge.”

He grumbled something under his breath, refusing to meet your gaze. Finally, he muttered, “The grandma dancing part was kinda funny.”

You burst out laughing, grabbing his arm as he groaned in embarrassment. “Oh my god, you’re so cute!”

“Shut up, idiot,” he growled, but his lips twitched into a small, begrudging smile as he pulled you closer. “This trend’s stupid, but I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

You smiled up at him, resting your head against his shoulder. “Admit it—you had fun.”

“Maybe,” he said, wrapping an arm around you. “But don’t think I’ll do another one of these dumb trends.”

“Whatever you say, Dynamight,” you teased, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as the camera caught his flustered reaction.

“Cut the damn recording already!” he barked, his blush deepening.

[psychoticbipolarbear]

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: You're nothing more but his best friend. Until he kisses you on a night out.

“I’m just saying, you’re being a dick,” you note casually, pointing out something you wonder if he’s been aware of regarding the situation he’s in.

You can hear his sigh through the headphones, the sound loud and clear despite the thousands of miles that’s between the two of you. When you glance at the screen on your side to check his camera feed, you can see him staring at you through it with an annoyed look on his face.

His livestream is about to begin, yet here he is, listening to you rambling about how stupid he’s been when his girlfriend suggested moving into his place. But how could you not scold him when he instantly brushed off the idea? 

They’ve been together for a bit over a year, as far as you know he loves her, but now that he’s talking about her, his voice lacks emotions, as if he was talking about a one-night stand, someone who means very little to him—if she means anything at all.

So, how could you expect him to be honest with her when he can’t even be honest with his best friend?

“Oh, fuck it,” he suddenly says, his voice now sounding a lot more emotional, full of anger you didn’t even know was lurking beneath the surface.

“What?”

He looks away, staring at the screen ahead of him, but you can almost hear the gears turning inside his head. “She doesn’t even like me anymore, but she wants to stay because I’m one of the top drivers in F1,” he explains, spitting out the words with so much hatred you’re honestly getting a little scared.

This confession leaves you temporarily speechless, because you sure as hell didn’t expect him to drop such a bomb onto this conversation. Before you could say anything, he rage quits and you follow him without a question so you can focus on whatever he has to get off his chest.

“I overheard a conversation she had with a friend over the phone the other day. I got home earlier, and she didn’t notice I was there, so she kept talking, and then suddenly she went, ‘It feels like I’m dating a teenager who lives in front of his gaming rig while drinking dozens of cans of Red Bull. He’s lucky he’s a successful F1 driver, otherwise I would have already kicked him out.’ How could I stay with her after this, huh?”

Now you get it, and you feel your own anger rise as the seconds pass. “Okay, you’re right, she needs to go,” you agree, although you want to go on and say something about her that wouldn’t be very ladylike. 

He knows. Max always knows what’s on your mind, as if there was a radar in his brain that can help him clock you, even over the computer screen. “You know, I kinda envy you,” he suddenly speaks up, surprising you. “I couldn’t bite my tongue like you can. I mean, if I said the things that are probably on your mind now, I would be banned from F1 for the rest of the season,” he jokes. 

To be fair, he’s right, he would never be able to hold back and lie, so right now you’re sure he’s not even that mad at his girlfriend. Well, at his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. 

“So, what now?”

A thoughtful hum fills your ears. “I already packed her shit. Damn, I didn’t even notice how many things she had in my apartment,” he adds with a roll of his eyes. “Anyway, she’ll come over today as if nothing happened, and then I’ll point at the boxes. Go wherever the fuck you want, the door’s that way. Or something like that.”

“Good,” you agree with the plan.

Silence falls between the two of you—a nice, comfortable one that you’re used to after the decade you’ve been friends for. You were a VIP with your dad at one of the races, and that’s how you met him in the paddock when he was still a rookie. This idiot tried—and failed—to flirt with you, but that strange mixture of awkwardness and arrogance made you realize that maybe you could be friends at least. 

And then, out of nowhere, his face lights up. “Oh, you need to join me for the tripe-header. You know what? I’ll send my jet to pick you up right now,” he says excitedly. “It’s gonna be like back in the day during your school breaks.”

“I have to work,” you point out. 

Max rolls his eyes at this. “Unpaid leave. I’ll give you your salary in return—not like you need it,” he adds with a cheeky grin. 

You snort. “Unlike you, I’m not a tax-evading billionaire.”

“You’re old money, sweetheart. Alright, I have a livestream coming up, and I’m already a few minutes late, but I want to make a quick call before that to schedule my jet for you. I’ll send you the details. Bye.”

“Max, I didn’t say,” you begin, but he quits before you finish the sentence. 

As you are sitting on the jet, you can’t help but wonder why you have a bad feeling about this trip. It’s like an upcoming storm you can feel in your bones. 

Max is waiting for you at the airport, just like he always does, and when you wave at him through the window, you don’t miss the wide, happy smile that’s plastered on his face. He certainly doesn’t look like a guy who’s just broken up with his girlfriend, but you don’t mind that you’re not going to spend the next weeks in the company of an annoying version of him. 

You’ve seen him after bad breakups and it wasn’t funny. This post breakup Max? This one you actually like. 

“We’re gonna have so much fun together,” he says as a greeting.

With a questioning hum, you watch as he wraps his long fingers around the handle of your suitcase. “Is that a threat? It did sound like a threat.”

“Why didn’t you say, ‘Don’t threaten me with a good time?’ It would have been much funnier.”

“Don’t push your luck. Be happy I’m here.”

Max throws his head back as he laughs, then opens his car with a shake of his head. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know traveling to Monaco on a private jet, then going from one country to another in the following weeks was such a terrible thing to do,” he says as he puts the suitcase in the trunk.

“I already told you, I have a job to focus on. There’s this upcoming project that—”

“BOOOO! You workaholic,” he adds with a laugh before signaling you to get in the passenger seat. 

Without hesitation, you punch his upper arm, a move that draws another laugh out of him. “Says the one who races both IRL and online.”

“And here I was, thinking you handled the breakup well.”

The two of you are standing outside his favorite Monaco club, with him leaning against the side of his car that will be driven to his home by a chauffeur service once they get here. Until then you need to babysit him, the kind of pathetic drunken Max that you haven’t seen in years. 

He lets out a long, loud sigh, as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, then wraps his arms around your neck as he leans against you, burying his face into your shoulder. “You’re the only woman in my life who loves me despite everything. The only one who’s not a relative, that is,” he mumbles against your shirt. 

You don’t even think when you run a hand through his dirty blond hair in a soothing manner, a gesture that wasn’t unusual between the two of you. But this time it prompts him to do something he has never done before—he kisses you. 

This is the first time it happens, and it surprises you so much that you instinctively return it at first. 

It seemed like his stupid little crush on you disappeared shortly after you became friends, but now you can feel something, like long-repressed feelings were coming to the surface. You can’t say up don’t like it, because you do, but being the relatively sober one, you know you can’t let this happen.

“Max,” you say quietly as you push him away a little. 

But he doesn’t seem to hear you, or even notice that you broke the kiss to make him focus on what you have to say, because he dives back in to kiss you again.

“You taste like strawberry,” he notes with a chuckle.

Sure you do, your cocktail was full of it after all. When he leans in again, you move out of the way and place a hand under his chin to make him focus. “Stop.”

“Why?”

“Because we can’t,” you respond.

Max doesn’t seem to understand. Maybe he’s too used to the idea of always getting what he wants, maybe he’s just a drunk, lovesick puppy. Whatever’s the case, you know you have to put an end to this before things get out of hand.

“You’re my best friend, and—”

“Aww, you’re my best friend too!”

“Dude, focus,” you say with a tiny little bite to your voice. “The chauffeur can be here any second, pull yourself together. I’m sure you don’t want articles about your drunken state.”

He suddenly starts giggling as he shrugs theatrically. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” he points out, then leans forward again, trying to capture your lips as if he was some infected from The Last of Us. 

A car parks on the other side of the street, and a man gets out of the passenger seat to walk up to the two of you. Since Max still doesn’t seem to behave, you kick his leg, and finally he stops whatever he’s doing. 

“Huh? What?”

You motion towards the driver with your head. “Get in the backseat,” you order. 

“As you wish, milady,” he says with a Cheshire Cat grin. 

“Idiot,” you say with a sigh.

The next morning you sit on a barstool in the kitchen, one hand wrapped around the warm mug, the other patting Donut’s head as you read a longer post on your phone. It’s a peaceful morning, although your mind keeps returning to the kiss. 

There are photos and videos online, the rumor mill is working full time, and you’re not that sure about the triple-header anymore. If you join him when so many people believe you’re his girlfriend, showing up in the paddock would only confirm the theories. 

“Morning,” you hear Max’s voice from behind, and it’s laced with a yawn that he can’t fight back. 

Before you turn to look at him, you gulp and quickly try to think about what to say. Does he even remember what happened? Does he know what kind of shitstorm you’re in? 

Donut jumps off from your lap, probably sensing the upcoming fight between the two of you. The funny thing is, you’re not mad, not really. You’re just annoyed that you managed to convince the world that you’re not dating, but now they have something to point at when they bring up a secret relationship.

You watch as your friend rubs his eyes with the heel of his palms, then lets out a sigh and rests his forearms on the counter across from you. “I saw the posts. I’m sorry,” he say seriously, the drowsiness seemingly nowhere to be found. 

With a nod, you raise your mug and take a sip of your coffee.

“I guess you’re thinking about not coming with me.”

“Yeah, maybe that would be for the best.”

Scoffing, Max rolls his eyes. “That’s what they want. They want you to run and hide. Don’t let them win.”

There are so many things you want to say, but your brain can’t put a proper sentence together. 

Lucky for you, your best friend knows exactly how to put what’s on his mind into words. “Listen, that kiss… It doesn’t have to mean anything, but…”

“But?”

A beat of silence. “Nothing. You want breakfast?”

After shaking your head, you empty your mug and put it in the dishwasher. Your hunger vanished the moment you saw the messages from friends and family, all asking why didn’t you tell them.

Soon, the two of you begin to move in perfect sync in the kitchen, as if this was part of your daily routine. He made himself something to eat, while you prepared the cats’ healthy little snacks for the day.

But deep down you couldn’t stop thinking about that little, inevitable but.

Finding out Charles was now Max’s neighbor after moving into his new home didn’t surprise you at all. Despite not making a big deal out of their friendship, you knew they often hung out together in their limited free time.

Tonight the two of you bumped into the Monegasque in the elevator, and your best friend immediately forgot that you existed as he stepped out of the elevator on the wrong floor just to continue the conversation.

“Max, I don’t have keys to your place,” you call after him once you stopped the elevator.

He turns around with a questioning hum, then—after a short pause—his eyes go wide. “Shit, sorry. Why don’t you come over?” he asks the fellow driver. 

Rolling your eyes, you step back into the depths of the elevator, then press the button to close the door. In the last second, you see the confusion on their faces, but you can’t care about that.

What you don’t understand, though, is why you feel disappointed that he asked Charles to come over. He’s a friend. Another friend. A male friend. He’s no competition.

Then again, why do you keep considering everyone he’s on good terms with that?

The day before Max is supposed to travel to Japan for the first triple-header race, you decide to do a little shopping in your favorite boutique that’s hidden from the prying eyes of tourists.

What you don’t except to see is Charles, going through a rack of clothes, searching for something that catches his eyes. Occasionally, he asks for the opinion of a woman who looks to be in her thirties, but you can’t quite understand what they say.

Not like you care. 

You go back to your own quest to find the perfect dress to a party you’ve been invited to, but sadly, mere minutes later, you hear the Ferrari driver’s unmistakable voice from your side.

“Didn’t think I’d find someone who’s not a local here,” he says with a smile.

“Hey. Looking for a gift for Alex?”

He smiles, and it’s the kind of fond smile only someone with a deeper connection to him could deserve. “Nope, it’s for my mom.”

Nodding, you pick a dark green dress to take a look at it. It’s nice. A little different in style than what you usually wear.

Even without looking, even without hearing a sound coming Charles, you can tell he has a look of disapproval on his face. 

“What?”

“Royal blue suits you better. Trust me.”

When you turn to him with a questioning look, he holds up a dress he’s been apparently hiding behind his back. It’s beautiful, really, but you’re not sure about it.

“It’s not as fancy as the one I need,” you point out as you return your attention to the clothes. 

He sighs. “It’s been approved for the party you’re going to.”

“Approved by who?”

“Max.”

“Max is going to the triple-header, I’ll be in Copenhagen to meet a friend,” you say with a shrug.

This seems to surprise the Monegasque who immediately glances down at his phone. “I don’t understand, he just texted me that he’s taking you to some restaurant in–Wait, you really don’t want to go with him.”

You let out a long sigh at this. Great, now you know these two are talking about you behind your back. With a sigh, you run a hand through your hair. “Look, I just don’t want rumors. I’m sure you know what happened the other day, so no wonder I think this would be for the best.”

But Charles immediately shakes his head. “No, no, no. You have to attend the races, especially now. His fans adore you, and Max—” His voice suddenly fades away and you can see his eyes go wide when he realizes he was just about to say something he wasn’t supposed to. “Never mind.”

“Charles,” you growl. 

“Okay, okay. You didn’t hear this from me, but Max talks about you. A lot. Even while he was with his ex, I heard more about you then her. And that kiss meant a lot to him, even though he was drunk that night.”

If you didn’t know better, you would say he’s trying to tell you that your best friend probably thinks about you differently than you think about him. Although… what does seeing competition in everyone he interacts with means exactly?

Two hours later you arrive to your temporary home and realize it’s empty. Three hours later you’re sitting on the couch with your suitcases neatly placed next to it. 

When Max gets home, he doesn’t even notice the suitcases at first, because the moment he sets foot in the living room, the words begin to flow out of his mouth as he begins his famous maxplaining session. He’s talking about his idea to get a dog, about how good it would be, and he even came up with name ideas that he doesn’t hesitate to share with you.

But then he suddenly stop mid-sentence. “Oh, good, you’re ready,” he says, motioning towards the objects on your side.

Of course he assumes you packed for the upcoming races. He doesn’t even take it into consideration that you maybe changed your mind about it. That maybe you don’t want to be involved in the mess he caused. 

Finally, he realizes the truth. “You’re not coming with me.” When you shake your head with an almost apologetic smile, he sits down next to you. “Listen, I know these photos, and the rumors, and all that shit can be a lot to handle, but this isn’t the first time someone assumes we’re dating.”

“Charles didn’t warn you?”

“Warn me about what?”

You let out a long sigh and lean your head against the back of the couch. “He said this kiss wasn’t nothing to you,” you tell him quietly.

Max gulps and exhales sharply, probably cursing his friend in his mind for not being able to keep his mouth shut. Maybe it wasn’t fair to throw Charles to the lion, but he became collateral damage along the way.

“That’s something you don’t have to worry about.” 

And he means it, you can tell, but his voice is different now. Less certain. More cautious. 

How could you not worry, though? “Did it start now, or…?”

“What? Me catching feelings?” he asks, sounding a little confused. You nod, he leans back with a sigh. “When I asked you out after we met, and you pretty much told me to fuck off.”

“So all this time—” 

He flashes a small, sad smile at you. “I’ve been in love with you at the end of the day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this? Max, if you told me, I could have… I don’t know, just…”

A smile. Small, reserved, maybe a little sad. “Tried to love me back? Leave me? What?” he asks, his voice rough but quiet.

Looking into those blue eyes turns out to be the biggest mistake you could make, because you’re instantly rendered speechless by them. You’re kinda used to being one of the few who can see this side of him, but now that he looks this defenseless, broken even, because of you makes it worse. 

What you’re saying next isn’t out of pity. It’s out of curiosity. 

“One date. One proper date.”

A dry laugh leaves his lips. “If this conversation wasn’t awkward already, I would probably kiss you again.”