#But he also. kind of is? at the same time?

[cressidagrey]

delulu girl autumn

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Caitlin Pritchard thought she actually stood a chance with Oscar Piastri at Haileybury in 2018. Reader, she did not. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Caitlin had only been at Haileybury for a day when she saw him.

Tall-ish. Sharp jaw. Easy smile. Accent unmistakably Australian, like hers. But smoother somehow, more Melbourne than Gold Coast. And he was laughing at something—shoulders relaxed, eyes crinkling, head tilted toward the girl walking beside him.

Caitlin had stopped in her tracks.

Finally, she thought. Someone normal. Someone who didn’t speak in clipped boarding school vowels and ask what her father did before they asked her name.

She leaned over to the girl next to her in form. Mia, or Leah or maybe Thea? “Who’s that?”

The girl followed her gaze and blinked. “Oscar Piastri. He’s nice. Smart. Does motorsport. Always winning stuff.”

Caitlin hummed. “And the girl he’s with?”

“Felicity Leong. Genius. Bit intense. She’s been here forever. Lives in the attic room, actually. Kind of…weird, but she’s nice. Don’t cross her in a debate.”

Caitlin squinted.

Oscar had just nudged Felicity’s arm. She rolled her eyes and said something that made him grin, like she always knew how to make him grin. But she didn’t touch him. No hand-holding. No kiss on the cheek. Just two people walking side by side like they knew all the same secrets.

Huh, Caitlin thought. Maybe she’s just one of those super smart best friend types.

Maybe Caitlin had a chance.

By the second week of term, Caitlin had “accidentally” started showing up near the physics lab at the exact time Oscar had free period. She’d dropped a pen in the courtyard and watched—heart fluttering—when he was the one to pick it up.

“Thanks,” she’d said, flashing a smile.

“No worries,” he’d replied with a nod. Polite. Casual. Australian.

Home.

That’s all she needed. One moment. One shared flag. Surely, once they actually talked…

But every time she tried, Felicity was there.

Gorgeous, quiet, smart. The kind of girl who made the headmistress beam at assemblies and never got her phone confiscated. She always had her hair in a braid, and she somehow looked effortlessly expensive, even in a regulation uniform and the ugliest brown shoes Caitlin had ever seen.

Oscar walked her to class. Sat next to her in the common room. Gave her the last cookie at dinner.

But, Caitlin reasoned, that was probably just a long-time-friend thing. Or maybe she was the mom-friend and Oscar just liked the way she shared her highlighters.

Felicity didn’t act like a girlfriend.

She didn’t sit on his lap or link arms with him. She didn’t get jealous when Caitlin joined them for group study one night and asked Oscar (with perhaps a little too much lip gloss) if he wanted to split a Red Bull.

Felicity had just smiled politely and gone back to solving some ungodly advanced physics problem like Caitlin wasn’t even speaking.

Oscar, for his part, had blinked and said, “Nah, I’m good—but thanks.”

Not interested, maybe. But also not unavailable.

Caitlin just need to separate him from the satellite girl who always orbited his shoulder.

Caitlin had a chance. 

***

Caitlin wasn’t obsessed, okay?

She was just… observant.

Which was perfectly normal when someone as cute and talented and Australian as Oscar Piastri walked the same halls you did and occasionally smiled at you with that very symmetrical face.

So what if he was always with that girl—Felicity Leong?

That didn’t mean anything. Boys and girls could be close. Felicity was probably just his study partner. Maybe a cousin. Or a very intense academic rival he was contractually obligated to have polite conversations with. Sure, she always looked like she knew every thought in his head before he said it, and sure, he never looked at anyone else the way he looked at her—but that could just be stress.

Or sleep deprivation. 

Or mutual trauma bonding over too many A-levels.

Besides, Caitlin had time. She was charming. Australian. Had a solid hair routine. And if she played her cards right, Oscar might notice that she wasn’t just some new transfer who tripped over her own backpack in front of the science block last week.

She just had to be patient.

That Thursday afternoon, she was sitting outside the canteen with a few girls from her form when one of them mentioned something in passing that made her freeze mid-sip of orange squash.

“Can you believe Oscar and Felicity are graduating next year?”

Caitlin blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Oh yeah,” the girl said, balancing a yogurt pot on her knee. “They’re in Upper Sixth now. Well, technically. They skipped a year. Did, like, an insane amount of independent studying. Finished early. It was a whole thing last term.”

Caitlin frowned. “But they’re seventeen.”

“Yeah, and smarter than the rest of us combined. Oscar does racing on the weekends. He was gone last weekend for a competition, and I heard he won.”

Won. That word stuck.

Caitlin nodded slowly, storing it away. Racing. Trophy. Real-world stakes.

Interesting.

Later that day, she was cutting through the front quad when she ran into Oscar. Literally. Walked right into his shoulder as he came through the gate, duffel bag slung over one arm and a giant freaking trophy in the other.

“Oh my God—sorry!” she squeaked, stepping back.

Oscar caught her elbow lightly to steady her. “It’s okay. You alright?”

Caitlin blinked up at him, struck by how tired he looked—jet-lagged, probably—but still managing to smile like it was instinct. His curls were a bit flatter than usual, but he was holding a trophy like it weighed nothing.

It was golden. Shiny. Definitely taller than her forearm.

“I—yeah! You won?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from squeaking again.

Oscar laughed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Hockenheim. Long weekend.”

Hockenheim.

Oh. He was worldly.

“That’s amazing,” Caitlin said, widening her eyes slightly. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m just glad to be back. Haven’t seen Fliss since Thursday, so—” He trailed off, smiling again, something soft flickering in his eyes.

But Caitlin cut in quickly. “Well, maybe I’ll see you around? If you’re not too busy being famous or graduating early or…” She laughed.

Oscar nodded, polite and vaguely distracted. “Yeah, maybe. I should—uh, I promised Fliss I’d meet her before dinner.”

Of course he did.

Caitlin watched him walk off with that massive trophy and the easy kind of stride that said he belonged somewhere. He didn’t look back.

But still.

He hadn’t said no.

Caitlin smiled to herself.

Still a chance, then.

***

Felicity Leong.

Gorgeous, effortlessly intimidating, lived in that weird attic room nobody else wanted, wore her uniform like it was tailored by Prada, and had this way of looking at you like she already knew what you were going to say—and how wrong it was.

People whispered about her. How she was on first-name terms with half the faculty. How she submitted essays a full week before the deadline. How she once corrected a physics teacher mid-lecture and was right.

But Caitlin didn’t get the big deal.

She’d seen her around with Oscar, obviously. Always hovering nearby. Always tucked under his arm at lunch or passing him a pencil looking like they were one collective brain. But Caitlin had told herself that was just proximity. Comfort. Maybe they were from the same side of Australia. Maybe it was platonic.

Besides, Felicity couldn’t be that smart.

People exaggerated. Nerds got hyped up all the time, especially when they were hot.

Then came double history.

Caitlin hadn’t even realized Felicity was in the class until Caitlin slipped into the seat next to hers—late, looking vaguely annoyed. Felicity meanwhile had a black coffee in one hand and three uncapped highlighters in the other.

Caitlin blinked.

“Oh,” she said, “Hi.”

Felicity didn’t look up from her notes. “Hi.”

Caitlin offered a smile. “I’m Caitlin. I just transferred—”

“I know. Caitlin Pritchard.” Felicity said, finally glancing over. “You’re in Samir’s economic class. You were late twice last week.”

Caitlin opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Well. Yeah. I had trouble finding the classroom”

Felicity hummed, scribbled something in the margin of her paper, and then underlined it twice.

Caitlin stared.

She wanted to say something else. Something casual. Charming. Something that might explain why Oscar seemed to orbit this girl like she was a fixed point in the universe.

So when the teacher walked in and launched straight into a discussion on colonial resistance movements, Caitlin pounced.

“Sorry,” she said, cutting across the room. “Can we go back? Didn’t the Sepoy Rebellion happen because of, like… pork grease? On bullets or something?”

A few people laughed. The teacher smiled thinly. “Yes, Caitlin, that was one of the catalysts. Though, of course, the issue was more complicated—”

“It was never really about the grease,” Felicity said suddenly, without looking up. “That was just the final insult. The British had already eroded Indian sovereignty through unfair taxation, disrespect of local customs, and widespread economic disenfranchisement. The cartridge issue was symbolic—it touched religion, identity, and trust. Which, when combined with long-standing resentment, triggered the uprising.”

Caitlin blinked.

Felicity continued annotating her page like she hadn’t just delivered a university-level mini-lecture.

The teacher looked delighted. “Exactly, Miss Leong.”

And that was the first time Caitlin realized two very important things:

Felicity Leong was terrifyingly smart.

She had grossly underestimated the girl Oscar Piastri smiled at like she was his whole damn world. 

Still.

Caitlin glanced sideways at her.

She could recover.

Probably.

Maybe.

***

Caitlin was still replaying the moment in her head when she flopped into a beanbag in the common room an hour later.

“‘It was never really about the grease,’” she muttered under her breath, mimicking Felicity’s deadpan tone. “Like, okay, Google Scholar, relax.”

Across from her, Aarya Kumar— vice captain of the debating society, and possibly the only person more feared in a podium setting than Felicity herself—arched an eyebrow.

“Oh no,” she said mildly. “Did you challenge Felicity?”

“I asked a question,” Caitlin said defensively. “I wasn’t trying to start a revolution.”

Aarya snorted. “With Felicity, it’s the same thing.”

Caitlin grabbed a nearby cushion and hugged it to her chest. “She’s just—she’s kind of cold, isn’t she?”

Aarya looked up from her laptop with the slow blink of someone deciding whether or not to waste time correcting an idiot.

“Cold?” she repeated.

“Yeah. I don’t know. Like, she’s obviously really smart and everything, but she’s a bit… sharp. She didn’t even smile when I introduced myself. She just recited my attendance record.”

Aarya leaned back in her chair, looking extremely entertained.

“Caitlin,” she said, “Felicity Leong is not cold. She’s clinical. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, sorry, clinical. That’s so much more warm and inviting.”

Aarya smiled like a shark. “She just doesn’t waste energy on things she finds boring.”

“And I’m boring?”

“No,” Aarya said, sipping her tea. “You’re just not particularly relevant.”

Caitlin stared. “Wow.”

“Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone who isn’t on her shortlist of priorities.”

Caitlin frowned. “And who’s on the list, then?”

Aarya tilted her head, like the answer was obvious. “Well, there’s Oscar. And—actually, I guess it’s mostly just Oscar.”

Caitlin sat up straighter, hopeful. “So… they’re, like… best friends?”

Aarya raised an eyebrow. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Caitlin clung to the ambiguity like a life raft. “Right. Because he is super friendly with everyone.”

Aarya didn’t say anything. Just went back to typing.

Caitlin leaned back, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted.

Because technically, no one had said they were together.

No kissing. No hand-holding in public. No PDA.

It was probably one of those ultra-close platonic friendships. The kind that seemed romantic but wasn’t. Maybe they’d grown up like siblings. Maybe Felicity was just a little possessive. Maybe Oscar just hadn’t met the right girl yet.

Maybe—maybe—Caitlin could still be the exception.

It wasn’t like they were dating.

Right?

***

It started in the library.

Caitlin was flipping through flashcards, half-studying, half-scanning for Oscar (which was a completely innocent form of multitasking), when she caught the sound of his voice coming from two rows behind her.

“Fliss.”

The tone was casual. Familiar. The syllable dropped like second nature.

Caitlin frowned.

Fliss?

She peered around the bookcase just enough to glimpse him—Oscar, leaning on the edge of the table where Felicity sat, surrounded by a ridiculous number of open books and a mug that probably held black coffee and ambition.

Felicity didn’t look up. “What?”

“You forgot your physics notes in the study room.”

He held out a folder. Her hand came up automatically to take it.

“Oh. Thanks, Oz.”

Caitlin blinked again.

Oz?

Fliss and Oz?

Since WHEN were they nickname people?

She hadn’t even known he went by Oz. Nobody else called him that. Everyone else just said Oscar. Osc rarely, from some guys on the cricket team. 

Caitlin tilted her head. Okay, maybe it was a smart-people thing. Maybe if she ever helped him with physics, he’d let her call him that too.

And then Felicity, still scribbling, added absently:

“You’re not getting another cookie for this, by the way.”

Oscar laughed. “Didn’t ask for one, love.”

Caitlin’s brain stuttered.

Love?!

He said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a thing. Like it was something he’d said a hundred times before and would say again in the hallway or in front of God and Aarya and everyone.

Felicity didn’t even react.

She just circled something in her notes, then muttered, “You’re lucky I still have any goodwill left after The Great Béchamel Disaster.”

“You said you forgave me,” Oscar said, nudging her elbow.

“I lied,” she replied, but she was smiling.

A real smile. Small. Private. Quiet and warm in the way a person only smiles when they’re with someone who knows all their weird habits and loves them anyway.

Caitlin sat there in stunned silence, still holding her flashcard on Newton’s Third Law, like gravity had just personally attacked her.

Oscar Piastri had a nickname. And a backup nickname. And Felicity had one too. Multiple, probably. He probably called her things like “hey you” and “genius” and “mine.” Caitlin was spiraling. She hadn’t even gotten a solid hi this week.

She told herself not to read into it. Some people just had nicknames. That didn’t mean anything.

Did it?

…Did it??

She turned back to her flashcards with renewed determination.

She still had time.

Still had a chance.

Probably.

(Maybe.)

***

It was just after prep when Caitlin wandered into the shared sixth form kitchen in search of a snack and maybe a slightly flirty conversation with Oscar Piastri.

What she found instead was chaos.

The counter was covered in flour. Someone’s blazer was draped over a chair. The oven light was on, the whole place smelled like vanilla and sugar, and at the center of it all—like it was completely normal—stood Oscar and Felicity Leong, side by side at the counter, making cookies.

Oscar had chocolate smeared on his cheek.

Felicity was wearing a hoodie that she was drowning in, from the Richmond Tigers. 

Caitlin blinked.

“Um. Hi?”

Oscar looked up, grinning immediately. “Hey, Caitlin. Want one? They’re a bit misshapen, but Fliss says that’s ‘charm.’”

Felicity, still focused on placing the next tray in the oven, didn’t glance up. “Because it is.”

Two other students—Aarya and a boy named Samir—were sitting nearby eating cookies like this was a regularly scheduled Wednesday night tradition.

Caitlin stepped cautiously inside. “You guys… bake together?”

Felicity closed the oven and finally turned around, brushing flour off her sleeves. “Only when we both have a free evening and Oscar’s not flying from Spain or Monaco or whatever.”

“She says that like I don’t make time,” Oscar said, nudging her with his shoulder.

Caitlin watched as Felicity gave him a look. Not annoyed. Not even teasing.

It was warm. Familiar. Like this was their thing.

Oscar smirked. “Anyway,” he said, holding out a cookie, “these have caramel bits. Still hot.”

Caitlin accepted it, trying not to overanalyze the way Felicity casually stole a cooling rack from behind him and bumped her hip into his like it was second nature.

“Oh my God,” Aarya muttered to Samir behind them. “Is she still trying?”

“She must be,” Samir whispered back, mouth full. “This is brutal.”

Caitlin turned. “What?”

“Nothing,” Aarya said quickly, looking at the ceiling. “Just… nothing.”

Caitlin took a bite of the cookie. It was genuinely good. “I didn’t realize you were, like… domestic,” she said to Oscar, with what she hoped was a charming little laugh.

Felicity looked unimpressed.

“I make a mean pasta bake too,” Oscar said easily. “But Fliss doesn’t let me cook anything unsupervised since The Great Béchamel Disaster.”

Felicity nodded solemnly. “He thought you could substitute almond milk for béchamel.”

“It was a theory.”

“You nearly set the microwave on fire.”

Oscar pointed at her. “You said you forgave me.”

“I did,” she said sweetly. “After you bought me new pyjamas.”

Caitlin laughed awkwardly. “Wow. You two really know each other.”

“Since we were 14,” Oscar said. “It’s kind of hard not to.”

Caitlin wanted to ask more, but Aarya was now fake-coughing aggressively into her biscuit, and Samir looked like he was trying not to choke from suppressed laughter.

“Anyway,” Oscar added, smiling at Felicity again, “you wanna do the next batch or switch?”

“I’ll mix,” she said, already reaching for the bowl. “You always under-fold.”

Oscar rolled his eyes but obeyed. “Yes, Fliss.”

Caitlin watched them—Felicity focused, Oscar content just to orbit around her—and something unspoken flickered in her chest.

But then Oscar caught her eye again. Friendly. Easy.

He was still nice to her.

Still smiling.

And so Caitlin told herself—again—that if it was something romantic, someone would’ve said so. Or at least made it clear. They weren’t kissing. They weren’t holding hands. Maybe this was just… how they were. How they’d always been.

She still had a chance.

Caitlin took another bite of her cookie.

It burned her tongue.

***

Caitlin wasn’t technically stalking Oscar.

She just… happened to sign up for gym block at the same time as him. And then happened to show up early. And then happened to secure a treadmill with a very good view of the weights section.

That wasn’t a crime.

And honestly, she was doing it for herself. Self-improvement. Endorphins. Definitely not to stare at the way Oscar Piastri filled out a nike shirt...

He wasn’t even doing anything fancy. Just basic reps. But his arms? Defined. Shoulders? Unfair. And the fact that he wasn’t even out of breath while talking to someone? Offensive.

Also—he was lifting more than Samir. Samir was on the rugby team.

Caitlin glanced around like someone should be noticing this.

But no one cared. Because of course they didn’t. They’d all seen it before.

And then in came her.

Felicity Leong.

Hair braided. No makeup. Oversized red shirt. ARDEN written over her chest. Black leggings. Looked like she could do calculus while sprinting.

Caitlin tried not to stare.

But then she saw Oscar’s face light up when Felicity walked in and any hope she had left melted like protein powder in lukewarm almond milk.

They greeted each other with the kind of ease that made Caitlin want to scream into a dumbbell rack.

Then they trained together.

Felicity wasn’t flashy. She was fast. Precise. Focused. Caitlin watched her fly through circuits like her body was a machine and she’d never once felt fatigue. Meanwhile, Oscar was at her side, timing her sprints, correcting her posture, offering her his towel like it was nothing.

“Water?” he asked during their rest.

Felicity reached for the bottle, took one sip, and muttered, “You’re still folding your lunges.”

Oscar grinned. “Still bossy.”

“Still inefficient.”

Caitlin was starting to believe in soulmates and consider drowning herself in the gym water cooler at the same time.

And then it happened.

Felicity slipped mid-rep. Nothing dramatic—just a wrong angle coming down from a box jump—but the sound her ankle made was sharp, sickening, real.

She hissed through her teeth and staggered.

Oscar was at her side in less than two seconds.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Don’t move. Is it bad?”

“Twisted,” Felicity gritted out. “Might be sprained.”

He crouched beside her, eyes scanning her ankle, hands gentle as he tested the pressure. And then—before Caitlin could even process what was happening—

He scooped her up.

Like she weighed nothing. Like it was automatic. Like he’d done it before.

Arms under her knees and back, no strain, no hesitation. Felicity didn’t even protest. Just looped one arm around his neck like this was a routine Tuesday.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s get you iced.”

Caitlin gaped.

And no one else reacted.

Not Samir. Not the girl by the rowing machines. Not the PT. They barely looked up.

As if this happened all the time.

As if Felicity regularly got princess-carried out of the gym by her brilliant F1-adjacent boyfriend like it was part of the warm-down routine.

Caitlin blinked.

Her heart hurt.

Oscar was strong. Like—really strong. Quietly strong. The kind that didn’t flex, just lifted people like they were paper.

And Felicity?

Felicity was tiny. Not weak. Not fragile. Just built like the universe decided someone should be genetically optimized to be carried by Oscar Piastri.

As they disappeared into the hallway, Felicity mumbled something.

Oscar laughed and said, “It’s not my fault your centre of gravity is adorable.”

Caitlin still had a chance. 

Probably. 

***

Caitlin had known Oscar Piastri was cute.

Obviously.

That had been Day One material: waves, dimples, polite voice, Australian accent. It was instant. It was unavoidable. It was textbook crush.

What she hadn’t expected was the slow realization that Oscar Piastri was hot. Like… unfairly hot. Like betray-your-bestie-and-your-God hot.

It didn’t hit her all at once.

It was gradual.

It was the library, when he’d leaned over Felicity’s desk to hand her a flash drive and his shirt had shifted, and suddenly his forearms were right there, and Caitlin had nearly highlighted the entire Treaty of Versailles out of order.

It was the way he always ran one hand through his hair when he was concentrating—pushing it back, curls falling forward again five seconds later, like he was in a shampoo commercial directed by the gods.

It was the back muscles, which she first clocked during PE when he’d taken off his jumper and casually did push-ups like they didn’t reveal everything.

And then there was the shoulder stretch incident.

One Friday morning in study hall, he’d lifted both arms behind his head to stretch—and his shirt had ridden up just enough to show a sliver of toned lower back and hip. Caitlin had dropped her pen, her dignity, and a solid 80% of her vocabulary in the same moment.

Every time he laughed, it was a problem. Deep, full-body, throw-his-head-back laughter that made people turn and smile reflexively. Except Caitlin didn’t just smile. She short-circuited.

And God help her when he swore.

Oscar didn’t swear much—but when he did, it was low and Australian and effortless and usually muttered under his breath in the most devastatingly hot tone imaginable. Once it had been “bloody hell, Fliss”, and Caitlin had ascended into another dimension.

Even his hands were unfair. Long fingers. Casually spinning a pen. Good at everything. 

One time he’d run laps for warm-up and pulled his shirt off over his head as he walked off the field, sweat glistening, curls sticking, and Caitlin had genuinely seen a bird fly into a tree because the universe was clearly overwhelmed.

But the worst part—the absolute worst—was how unaware he was of it.

Oscar Piastri had the audacity to be hot and nice. The kind of boy who helped carry books and always shared his last cookie with Felicity without even blinking.

It was a public safety hazard.

***

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon, and most of Sixth Form had retreated to the study hall. The floor-to-ceiling windows rattled with wind, someone had put on a low jazz playlist, and everyone had resigned themselves to pretending they were productive.

Caitlin was “working” on a history essay (read: rewriting the intro for the fourth time), when Oscar dropped into the seat beside Felicity at the windowsill bench. She barely looked up from her notes, just shifted sideways to make room for him in the way of people who didn’t ask—they just expected each other to be there.

He leaned over her shoulder, reading something upside down.

"You need a break," he said softly.

"I need a functioning global economy," she replied, underlining a sentence in red.

Oscar snorted. “Come on. Fifteen-minute truce. Stretch. Look at a cloud. Touch grass.”

Felicity didn’t move. But she looked at him. And then, in the most deadpan voice imaginable, she muttered:

"Alright, Tin Man. Let’s walk."

Caitlin blinked from her corner of the room.

Tin Man?

Tin. Man.

Was that… a dig?

A pet name?

An insult wrapped in affection?

She stared after them as they walked out, Oscar brushing his hand lightly against Felicity’s as they passed through the door. He was grinning. She wasn’t—but there was a crinkle in her eyes that looked suspiciously like she was trying not to smile.

“What,” Caitlin said aloud, turning to Thea across the table, “was that? She just called him Tin Man.”

Thea didn’t even glance up from her colour-coded notes. “Yeah. That’s her thing.”

“Her thing?”

“She calls him that when he gets too sentimental.”

Caitlin blinked. “Wait, what?”

Thea sighed like she was explaining physics to a moth.

“When Oscar first came to Haileybury, some of the guys used to tease him for being a bit—cold. Like, he was brilliant at everything but didn’t show much emotion. You know, kept to himself. Never really… reacted.”

Caitlin’s mouth opened. “So they called him—?”

“Robot Boy,” Thea finished. “No emotions. You get it.”

“That’s—awful,” Caitlin said.

“Yeah. But then Felicity came along, and he started reacting.” Thea finally looked up, eyes sharp with amusement. “First time he ever raised his voice in public was when someone made a comment about her. You should’ve seen it. He went full protective rage blackout.”

Caitlin blinked, stunned.

“Anyway,” Thea continued, “he started thawing. Laughing more. Getting teased for having feelings, instead of not having any. So now when he gets too soft with her—like, says something sweet or looks at her like she put the stars in the sky—she calls him Tin Man.”

Caitlin sat in silence.

Outside, through the rain-streaked glass, she could just barely make out Oscar and Felicity under the trees. He was walking so close beside her their arms brushed with every step. Felicity said something, and he threw his head back laughing.

And then she bumped him—gently, with her shoulder.

He bumped back.

They kept walking.

They weren’t holding hands. 

So Caitlin still had a chance. Right?

***

Caitlin joined the dance club because she needed something.

Something that wasn’t academic. Something that wasn’t tied to being “the new girl.” And, ideally, something that would make her look effortlessly hot in a leotard.

She had a background in jazz, had done a few summer workshops in Sydney, and figured it’d be a good place to make some friends. Plus, Oscar might notice—if she mentioned casually that she danced.

So when she walked into the studio for her first Thursday meeting, wearing her black tank and brand new split-sole ballet shoes, she felt good. Confident. A little nervous, but in a cute way.

And then she saw her.

Felicity Leong.

Hair in a flawless bun. Dressed in a leotard and a worn black wrap top that looked somehow elegant. Not flashy. Not even trying. But immediately magnetic.

Caitlin blinked. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Is she part of this club?” she whispered to the girl next to her.

The girl gave her a look. “She’s the senior lead.”

“Oh,” Caitlin said weakly. “Cool.”

Cool.

Felicity didn’t look like she was about to ruin lives. She was sitting against the mirror, stretching calmly, headphones in. Calm. Focused. Untouchable.

Then the teacher clapped. “Alright, let’s warm up. Miss Leong—lead us in pliés?”

Felicity nodded once, stood, and—

Transformed.

It was like watching a poem in motion.

No overthinking. No hesitation. Just muscle memory and precision. Her arms curved perfectly. Her turnout was textbook. Her every movement landed in that devastating sweet spot between softness and control. And her face didn’t change once—like grace wasn’t a performance for her, just a setting she never turned off.

She wasn’t just good.

She was ballet.

Caitlin barely remembered the warm-up. Her legs did something, sure, but her brain was short-circuiting.

Felicity flowed through port de bras like she’d been born with music in her veins. Executed a développé with the kind of restraint that said she could go higher, but didn’t need to prove it.

By the time they got to center work, Caitlin was pretty sure she’d stopped blinking.

“Felicity, would you mind demonstrating the adagio solo from last year?” the teacher asked.

Felicity gave a soft, almost reluctant nod. “Sure.”

And then she danced.

No music. No fanfare. Just her body moving like it had already heard the score.

Every extension was art. Every balance was deliberate. Every turn was smooth enough to make the world spin slower. When she reached the final pose—arms lifted, chin angled upward like she was made of light—nobody clapped.

Because everyone was stunned.

Even Caitlin.

She barely breathed until the teacher finally said, “Thank you. That was… as always, exquisite.”

Felicity just shrugged like it meant nothing and walked back to her spot like she hadn’t just outdanced God.

Caitlin sat down slowly.

Silently.

And had a minor identity crisis.

Because not only was Felicity Leong intimidatingly smart, casually attached at the soul to Oscar Piastri - she could also do ballet like she was on loan from the Paris Opera.

Caitlin didn’t know whether she wanted to cry, scream, or change schools.

So she settled on tying her shoes tighter and pretending it didn’t bother her.

Even though it absolutely did.

***

It was a rainy Tuesday evening, the kind that turned the Haileybury dorms into a sanctuary of hot chocolate, fleece blankets, and half-finished homework sprawled across common room tables.

Caitlin was curled on the edge of a beanbag, pretending to annotate her literature essay while sneakily watching Oscar argue with Samir about some Grand Prix controversy. It was one of those low-effort nights—everyone a little too tired to be productive, a little too comfortable to care.

And then Felicity walked in.

Hair down.

Caitlin almost dropped her pen.

Because up until that moment, she hadn’t even realized Felicity Leong had hair.

That’s how tightly she always wore it. Braids, buns, perfect French twists that looked regulation-ready even on Sundays. But now—

Now it was loose.

A dark, glossy sheet that spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a black silk curtain, nearly to her waist. Smooth, thick, flawless. It looked less like hair and more like something airbrushed onto a Vogue cover.

Caitlin blinked. Was she allowed to just—walk around like that?

Felicity padded over to where Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, tugged a cushion closer, and dropped herself unceremoniously between his knees like it was a routine chore.

“Hands?” she asked, already gathering her hair over one shoulder.

Oscar grinned. “Clean. Promise.”

And with that, he gently took the mass of hair in his hands and began to braid.

Just like that.

Like it was something they’d done a hundred times. Like this was normal.

Caitlin watched, frozen, as he sectioned it expertly—two smooth parts, fingers moving with unconscious ease. He wasn’t even looking, just chatting with Samir about tyre compounds while looping her hair over and under like he knew it better than she did.

Felicity leaned forward a little to help him get the tension right.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t supervise. Just… trusted him.

Caitlin wasn’t sure what was more shocking—the fact that Oscar Piastri could braid at all, or the fact that Felicity Leong, terrifying genius and dance prodigy, had somehow allowed a boy to touch her hair.

And not just touch it, but casually French braid it in front of other people like it wasn’t the most intimate thing Caitlin had ever seen in her life.

Oscar tied the end with a small black elastic from his wrist, then tugged the braid gently to make it fuller.

“There,” he said. “Symmetry achieved.”

“Better than last time,” Felicity said, glancing over her shoulder.

He tapped her temple with his knuckle. “I get better under pressure.”

Someone across the room muttered, “You two are so weirdly domestic, it’s terrifying.”

Neither of them looked offended.

Oscar just smiled. Felicity leaned back slightly against his knee. And they went right back to talking about whether or not the new history teacher was secretly unqualified.

Caitlin sat there, quietly imploding.

Because never, not once, had she seen Oscar that comfortable with anyone. Not in the flirtatious way she’d been fantasizing about—but in the quiet, unconscious belonging kind of way. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

But Caitilin still had a chance…right?

***

It started with a phone ringing.

Not a notification. Not the subtle ping of someone’s locked screen lighting up. This was a proper ringtone—some soft, instrumental chime that sounded like it belonged to a very calm person who did yoga and paid their taxes early.

Caitlin glanced up from her seat in the common room just in time to see Felicity Leong pull her phone out of her cardigan pocket.

“Sorry,” Felicity murmured, already stepping toward the hallway.

Oscar was sitting on the couch, legs stretched out, textbook balanced across his knees. He didn’t even look up.

Caitlin narrowed her eyes.

“Wait, where’s your phone?” she asked, leaning toward him a bit. “I thought I heard your ringtone earlier?”

Oscar didn’t glance up. “Dead. Forgot to charge it.”

“Classic,” Samir muttered without looking up from his laptop.

But Caitlin was still watching Felicity, who had now stepped just out of sight—though her voice still carried through the open doorway. Calm. Familiar. Just slightly exasperated.

“Hi Nicole. No, he’s alive,” Felicity said lightly. “Phone’s dead again. I’ll tell him to call you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “No, Oscar’s fine. Tired. He’s had a headache all day, that’s why he didn’t call. Yeah. I’ll remind him to check in tomorrow.”

Then Felicity laughed softly, eyes fond. “Yes. He misses you too. I’ll make sure he actually eats something green tonight.”

She listened for another beat, nodding, then added, “Love you too.”

Then she hung up and tossed the phone back onto the sofa.

Oscar caught it with one hand without even looking. “She say hi?”

“She said to tell you to eat a vegetable.”

“She’s so mean to me,” he said dramatically, eyes closed.

“She birthed you,” Felicity replied, deadpan. “She’s earned it.”

And Caitlin suddenly wasn’t paying attention to her annotated Hamlet anymore.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Was that… your mum?”

Oscar glanced up like it was no big deal. “Yeah.”

“She called Felicity?”

Oscar blinked, confused. “Yeah?”

“Instead of, like, you?”

He shrugged. “She knows I never answer. Felicity always does.”

That… was apparently that.

Nobody else reacted.

Not Aarya, not Samir, not the Year 13 boy flipping through a copy of The Economist like his soul depended on it. They just kept working or scrolling or sipping lukewarm tea, as if it wasn’t insane that a boy’s mum had defaulted to calling a teenage girl for updates on her son.

“Your Mom just calls Felicity?” Caitlin repeated.

“Has since Year 10,” Samir said without looking up. “Honestly, Felicity usually knows where Oscar is before Oscar knows where Oscar is.”

Oscar shrugged. “It’s a system. If I miss three texts, she goes to Fliss.”

“I think Nicole called her during exams once because she couldn’t figure out Oscar’s calendar,” Aarya added. “Felicity had it memorized.”

Caitlin blinked. “But… that’s like… really personal, right?”

“Not really,” Oscar said mildly. “Just easier. Fliss keeps my schedule on her laptop.”

“She’s basically his external hard drive,” Samir muttered.

“His mum calls her,” Caitlin said again, dazed.

And yet… still.

Still.

She told herself maybe it was just one of those weird family dynamics. Maybe Felicity had just gotten swept up in the Piastris’ orbit because she was organized. Maybe Nicole liked her because she was polite and good at reminding Oscar to take his iron supplements or whatever.

Caitlin clung to denial with the strength of a thousand delusions.

Because maybe Felicity was just close with the family.

Maybe she was like… the childhood friend who became an honorary sibling.

It didn’t have to mean anything.

She definitely still had a chance.

Didn’t she?

***

The Winter Formal was two weeks away, and Caitlin was ready.

This was her moment. Her chance.

She’d been at Haileybury long enough to know that Winter Formal wasn’t just some dance—it was a statement. A social chessboard. The perfect opportunity to be seen, to be asked, to be unforgettable.

And Caitlin was not going to let it pass her by.

She’d already ordered a dress from Australia—a sleek, midnight blue satin thing with a thigh slit and delicate straps that made her feel expensive just looking at it. Her mum had mailed it express with handwritten instructions about which earrings not to pair it with. S She’d even practiced walking in heels on the quad during lunch.

All of this, of course, was part of Operation: Oscar Will Finally See Me As A Woman™.

So when the girls’ dorm corridor started buzzing with excitement and dress talk, Caitlin took her usual spot near the common room couch, flipping through lipstick swatches on her phone and casually steering the conversation.

“I feel like everyone’s going for red or black,” she said, examining a cherry gloss. “I want something classic, but… memorable, you know?”

Thea, who was painting her nails, nodded. “Honestly, I just hope someone asks me. Last year was so dry.”

“I heard Samir’s organizing a group to go together,” someone else said. “Just friends, but, like, cute coordinated outfits?”

“Ugh, that’s sweet,” Caitlin said, smiling. “I mean, obviously, if someone asked me, I’d say yes. But if not, I’ll just look stunning on my own.”

The group hummed in agreement.

Then the door opened, and of course, in walked Felicity Leong—casual, composed, hair in a clip, hoodie two sizes too big.

No Richmond Tigers this time. but once again something emblazoned with HP Tuners on it. Caitlin seriously wondered where she kept finding them. 

She looked like she was just passing through, but Thea called out, “Fliss! Are you going to the Winter Formal?”

Felicity paused. “Yeah, probably.”

Caitlin glanced over, trying to sound breezy. “Do you have a dress yet?”

Felicity shrugged like the entire concept of formalwear bored her. “I’ve got a few. I’ll pick one.”

“You mean, like… from your closet?” Caitlin asked, lips parting in disbelief. “You’re not getting one new?”

Felicity blinked. “I already own dresses. I don’t need another.”

Caitlin opened her mouth. Closed it. “Right. Sure.”

“So who are you going with?” Thea asked teasingly. 

Felicity just smiled faintly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Caitlin’s heart kicked. Her mind raced.

That could mean anything. It could be a friend. A joke. A bluff. There had been no announcement. And Oscar—Oscar still hadn’t said anything about going. She’d know if it were him.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Definitely.

…Right?

Felicity turned to go, already halfway down the corridor, when she called back casually:

“Don’t stress too much about the dress. The dancing is the best part.”

And just like that, she disappeared.

Caitlin sat very still for a moment.

Her lip gloss suddenly felt… desperate.

But no matter.

Felicity Leong could wear a paper bag to Winter Formal and still pull off mysterious. Caitlin, however, was going to show up looking like a star.

She still had time.

She still had a chance.

***

Winter Formal at Haileybury was everything Caitlin had dreamed it would be.

The great hall was transformed—strings of fairy lights hung from the beams, candles floated on tables like something out of a movie, and the DJ actually understood how to mix orchestral pieces with chart hits. Students filed in dressed to the nines, heels clicking on polished floors, laughter echoing across the velvet-draped room.

Caitlin felt stunning.

Her navy satin gown fit like a dream. Her curls were glossy, makeup dewy, everything rehearsed and poised. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror-lined hallway, she thought: This is it. This is my main character moment.

Oscar hadn’t arrived yet.

She was mid-conversation with Thea and half-scanning the crowd when the noise in the room dipped. Not stopped. Not hushed. Just… shifted.

She followed the direction of a few stares—and there they were.

Oscar and Felicity.

And Caitlin forgot how to breathe.

Felicity was in a deep forest green dress—floor-length, off the shoulder, with a subtle silk sheen that looked so expensive it had to be designer. Her hair was down for once, falling to her waist pin straight and thick. Her makeup was minimal, but somehow she still looked like she stepped out of a fashion editorial.

Oscar was in a classic black suit. Crisp white shirt. And he was smiling at her—her, meaning Felicity—like she was the only person who existed.

The room wasn’t silent, but it didn’t matter.

It bent around them anyway.

Caitlin stared. There’s no way they’re just friends.

But nobody said anything. There was no announcement. No hand-holding. So it was still ambiguous, right?

She had hope.

Until the dancing started.

The DJ called for a traditional waltz—something Haileybury insisted on every year for the old-money aesthetic—and most students awkwardly shuffled into pairs, giggling through their two-left-feet attempts.

And then—

Oscar and Felicity stepped onto the floor.

And they danced.

Not fumbled.

Not swayed.

They danced.

He led effortlessly, one hand pressed against her back like he was born to guide her. She followed with impossible grace, her green skirt swirling just above her ankles. They moved in tight, perfect circles, their footwork synchronized, their expressions focused and just barely smiling, like the moment was just for them.

And then—because of course—

He picked her up.

Clean, elegant lift. Like she weighed nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Her feet left the ground, and she laughed—actually laughed, head thrown back—and when he set her down again, she didn’t even wobble.

The room applauded.

Caitlin clapped too, mostly because she forgot how not to.

Thea leaned over. “Okay, they’re disgustingly perfect.”

Caitlin forced a laugh. “Yeah, I guess they… practiced?”

Samir, somewhere nearby, snorted. “They’ve been practicing since Year 9, mate.”

Caitlin blinked. “What?”

But Samir had already turned away.

Since Year 9?

That had to mean something else. Dance class. PE. Maybe Oscar’s mum had hired them a coach. It didn’t confirm anything.

Even when the slow songs began, and Oscar pulled Felicity close—one hand at her waist, the other brushing the back of her neck, foreheads nearly touching—Caitlin still thought:

Maybe he’s just that affectionate with close friends.

Even as he whispered something that made Felicity laugh and tuck her head into his shoulder.

Even as they moved in a slow, gentle rhythm that looked less like dancing and more like existing in sync.

Caitlin took a sip of her sparkling juice.

She still had a chance.

...Right?

***

The Winter Formal afterparty wasn’t technically sanctioned, but Haileybury looked the other way as long as nobody died, broke curfew, or set off the fire alarm like last year.

So a group of Upper Sixth students had ended up back in one of the common rooms, still in formalwear but now barefoot, jackets discarded, and half-asleep on beanbags and mismatched sofas. The music was low. The fairy lights from the dance still blinked lazily around the windows. Someone passed around leftover sweets from the dessert bar.

Caitlin was feeling… hopeful.

Oscar was lounging two cushions away, his jacket tossed over a chair, his tie hanging loose around his neck. Felicity sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, sipping from a paper cup. 

Then someone suggested Truth or Dare.

It started off tame.

“Truth: who did you originally want to go to formal with?” “Dare: text your sibling ‘you up?’” “Truth: have you ever cheated on an exam?”

The group laughed, groaned, teased.

Caitlin felt herself relaxing. It was fun. Casual. Normal.

Then Aarya, ever the chaos agent, turned toward Oscar with a shark-like grin.

“Oscar,” she said sweetly. “Truth or dare?”

Oscar didn’t blink. “Dare.”

Aarya’s eyes lit up. “Kiss your girlfriend like you actually mean it.”

The room stilled.

Caitlin choked on her drink.

Felicity blinked slowly, then looked up at Oscar with one eyebrow raised.

He laughed softly. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Aarya said, sipping her juice. “Here we are.”

Oscar leaned forward.

Caitlin’s heart started pounding.

And then—without fanfare, without hesitation—he tipped Felicity’s chin up with one hand and kissed her.

Not a peck. Not polite. Not friend-coded.

It was full-on, no questions asked, get-a-room kissing.

He kissed her like it was muscle memory. Like he’d done it a thousand times. Like he had no idea anyone else was in the room.

Felicity kissed him back with the same energy—slow and familiar and undeniably his.

When they finally pulled apart, Felicity just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stole a sip from Oscar’s drink like nothing had happened.

Oscar smirked and leaned back like he was settling into home.

The room erupted.

Whistling. Groaning. “You are horrible,” someone muttered.

Aarya grinned with no mercy in Caitlin’s direction.

“Oh my God,” Caitlin said faintly. “Wait, are you—?”

Felicity looked at her. “Together? Yeah. Since we were fifteen.”

Caitlin stared.

Aarya, feigning deep shock, added, “You didn’t know?”

The silence after that wasn’t cruel—but it was loud.

Caitlin tried to find her voice. “I just thought—no one ever said—”

Oscar blinked, genuinely confused. “I thought it was obvious?”

And somehow, that was the worst part.

Because to everyone else, it was.

The braids. The cookies. The phone call from Nicole. The dancing. The goddamn waltz lift. All of it had been real.

Caitlin had never stood a chance.

And now she knew it.

Fully. Completely.

Unmistakably.

***

@/caitlinfromoz: ✨okay so now that oscar piastri and felicity leong are publicly Official™ and married… a thread about how teenage me was DELUSIONAL and thought i had a chance ✨ (yes. i was that girl. i’ve grown.)

@/caitlinfromoz:  i transferred to haileybury in 2018. i was 17. oscar was cute. australian. quiet. smart. devastatingly nice to literally everyone. INCLUDING ME. obviously, i decided we were endgame.

@/caitlinfromoz: There was just one obstacle. Her name was Felicity Leong.

@/caitlinfromoz:  Gorgeous. Terrifying. Looked like she ate straight A’s for breakfast and ballet-danced in her sleep. Hair always in a perfect bun. Vibes of a girl who could ruin your life with a well-written paragraph.

@/caitlinfromoz: I tried to talk to her once in history class and said the Sepoy Rebellion was about pork grease. She proceeded to verbally destroy me and rewrite my understanding of British colonialism in one breath.

I still think about it at night.

@/caitlinfromoz:  nobody told me they were together because apparently “it was obvious” spoiler: IT WAS NOT OBVIOUS TO ME. 

@/caitlinfromoz:   I never saw them kiss. She didn’t sit on his lap. I spent three months thinking I had a chance. 

Reader, I did not have a chance.

@/caitlinfromoz: Things I ignored in pursuit of this delusion:

@/caitlinfromoz:  He was the only person that called her Fliss. (Side note: He also called her Love.) She was the only person that called him Oz. Or Tin Man. 

@/caitlinfromoz: His mother called her when he didn’t answer answer his phone. And that was generally accepted as normal. Nobody blinked. i thought she was just close with his family. 💀

@/caitlinfromoz: They made cookies together like an old married couple. They were the best cookies I have ever eaten. (He’s also not allowed in the kitchen without supervision. Something about The Great Béchamel Disaster?)

@/caitlinfromoz:  there was this one time i saw him french braid her entire waist-length hair in the common room while talking about tyre compounds. and i was like “they’re probably just childhood friends :)” girl.

@/caitlinfromoz:  also felicity could do actual ballet. like real swan lake coreography. i joined dance club to be graceful. she FLOATS. i left dance club two meetings later.

@/caitlinfromoz: but the REAL nail in the coffin was winter formal. i thought “this is it. this is where he sees me in a dress and FALLS.”

@/caitlinfromoz: and then oscar & felicity arrived like they’d just stepped out of a slow-burn fanfic and casually performed a literal waltz. with lifts.

@/caitlinfromoz: like, lifted her.

in time with the music.

in front of witnesses.

and i still thought “huh… maybe they’re just really good friends??”

teenage me was determined to die on that hill. and oh god, die i did 🥲

@/caitlinfromoz: Cut to post-formal hangout, someone suggests Truth or Dare. Aarya (bless her ruthless soul) dares Oscar to “kiss your girlfriend like you mean it.”

@/caitlinfromoz: He proceeded to snog Felicity like we weren’t all sitting 5 feet away in formalwear with Red Vines and sparkling juice. When they broke apart, she casually took a sip from his drink.

@/caitlinfromoz:  I had an out-of-body experience.

 turned to the group like: “Wait… they’re DATING??”

Felicity, sipping her juice: “Since we were 15.”

Everyone else: 👀

Oscar: “I thought it was obvious?”

@/caitlinfromoz: Reader, it was. I was just dense.

@/caitlinfromoz: turns out they’d been dating for over 2 years. everyone knew. except me. i think i stared at the wall for ten full minutes.

@/caitlinfromoz: to be clear: they weren’t hiding. everyone else knew. they just… were. no theatrics. no announcement. just two teenagers sharing tea, physics notes, and apparently a long-term romantic commitment 😃👍

@/caitlinfromoz: anyway. it’s years later. they’re still disgustingly in love. her hair’s still perfect. he’s still absurdly nice. and i’m now emotionally stable enough to laugh at my teen self.

@/caitlinfromoz: teenage me had confidence, delusion, and absolutely no awareness.

i salute her.

but she was so, so dumb.

RIP to her.

@/caitlinfromoz: thank you for attending my TED Talk on delulu girl autumn 2018 💀💀💀

***

@/nicolepiastri: This was a hilarious read. Thank you for the reminder that Oscar once thought almond milk could substitute béchamel. And yes, I called Felicity when Osc wouldn’t answer. I still do. Caitlin, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. You never had a chance. Loved the thread though 💕

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  WHY IS OSCAR’S MUM HERE i was a CHILD i didn’t know i was just trying to thrive in maths and a floor-length gown

➡️@/NicolePiastri: You were lovely, but Fliss had already reorganized his entire life by the time you arrived. Including his sock drawer. And his heart.

@/f1roseshard:  SHE SAID "YOU NEVER HAD A CHANCE" I’M SCREAMING

@/chaosinthepits:  nicole piastri coming in like a mother with the final shovel of dirt for the grave 😭😭

@/oscarlovrs: someone frame this whole interaction and hang it in the haileybury hallway i’m serious

@/piastribetterhalf: @/NicolePiastri when did you start calling Felicity instead of Oscar?

➡️@/NicolePiastri:  When he forgot to tell me he’d landed and Felicity texted “Don’t worry, I fed him.”

@/caitlinfromoz: @/nicolepiastri ma’am with all due respect i would’ve loved a warning like maybe a little sign. a polite letter. a fortune cookie.

➡️@/nicolepiastri:  Replying to: @caitlinfromoz I thought the braid should’ve been a giveaway, darling x

@chaoticconstructors: “i thought the braid should’ve been a giveaway” IS THE GREATEST CLOSING LINE I’VE EVER READ

@/piastrisbuns:  what was felicity like irl?? did she ever TALK to people??

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: she talked. just… efficiently. like her words had a budget. she once ended a debate in 3 sentences and someone cried. i respect her. i feared her. i may still fear her.

@/chaosinthepits truth or dare. full snog. in front of everyone. my GOD. did you die. did you ascend.

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  i think i dissociated tbh. someone passed me a cookie. i bit it and stared into space like i’d just seen a horse speak fluent italian.

@/oscarlovrs: be honest… was it at least a good kiss??

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  listen. i’m woman enough to admit… it was an excellent kiss. cinema-worthy. soft hand placement. forehead bump. mutual giggling after. 

@/aussieoscarfans:  so you’re telling me his mum had her on speed dial he braided her hair slow danced with her picked her up IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL and u still thought u had a chance?

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  yes but in my defense: ✨delusion is a powerful drug✨ (i was 17. my brain wasn’t fully online.)

@/softpitwall:  Be honest. Did you ever consider throwing yourself down the stairs at school just to get Oscar to carry you?

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: no but I did once fake confusion near the physics lab hoping he’d walk me to class felicity appeared out of NOWHERE i swear she just sensed it 😭

@/formula1girlie: THE WAY I GASPED AT “he picked her up” 😭😭 you were fighting for your life against a woman who literally waltzed

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i was fighting for my life against someone who could quote voltaire and do fouettés there was no battle. i was collateral damage

@/teamsoftlaunch: i’m obsessed with the idea that everyone else knew. like no one even thought to say “hey they’re dating btw”? lmao

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i think Aarya tried once and then gave up. she probably put money on how long it would take me to catch on

@/piastrilicious: can you PLEASE drop a photo of what you wore to winter formal?? we need to see how hard you tried

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: i will NOT be bullied into posting that navy satin thigh-slit disaster okay fine here it is but please understand i believed it was my villain origin story

<attached image: Caitlin in full formal glam, looking gorgeous and heartbreakingly confident> caption: “she really thought she was gonna change the plot 💔”

@/flissleongstand: this thread is my roman empire. i think about felicity leong just shrugging and saying “yeah, since we were fifteen” DAILY

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: she said it so calmly. meanwhile my entire worldview collapsed in 0.2 seconds

@/oscpiastriluvr81:  GIRL YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD A CHANCE AGAINST THE GIRL HE FRENCH BRAIDED WHILE TALKING ABOUT TYRE COMPOUNDS??? 💀💀💀

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  i didn’t think i had a chance. i built an entire ROMANTIC NARRATIVE. i was the main character in my head. he was the love interest. she was… a subplot. i was wrong.

@/oscarstanpage: soooo who dared him to kiss her 👀

➡️@/caitlinfromoz:  Aarya. if you’re out there: i forgive you. you were right. i needed the reality check.

@/piastricorners:  you had a crush on oscar when he was braiding hair and baking cookies?? be honest. you liked the domestic vibes didn’t you

➡️ @caitlinfromoz listen. there’s nothing more dangerous than a teenage girl witnessing an emotionally intelligent boy sift flour

@/thepiastrileongfiles: are you ok now

➡️ @/caitlinfromoz: i’m healed. i have a job, a dog, and the emotional distance to find teenage me absolutely hilarious. but i am blocking anyone who makes an edit about that truth or dare kiss with “ceilings” by lizzy mcalpine.

@/oscarp_brasil:  sooo how hot was the kiss. scale of 1 to my soul left my body

➡️@/caitlinfromoz: like if a jane austen novel and a wattpad fic had a baby. there was hand cradling, forehead touch after, she drank from his cup like nothing happened. i was spiritually vaporized.

@/mclarendownbad: @/OscarPiastri bestie ur fans need u to confirm the french braid thing

➡️ @/OscarPiastri I can do a Dutch braid, too. And a crown braid.

[kenyummy]

✰ 07. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 07. a fools own parade.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: im not really sure if it counts as it's a very small passage but tw for a lil bit of an identity/existential crisis??? not very sure haha I mostly just write what comes to mind

also, first father appearance! yay! he finally shows up, and he's as mysterious as ever, hehe. next chapter will be either dink focused or ... someone else... 🤔🤔🤔

You dab at your nose with a tissue, cringing at the sight of crimson still pouring out from it. How hard was that guy's chest, anyway?

A thick bandage is stuck tightly on your nosebridge, taped to your skin and soaked in blood. Changing it every hour was a giant pain, but you'd rather have a bloody bandage than clothes.

Thinking back on it, you almost can't imagine the look in Tim's eyes again. Nothing strange. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but different enough to make the hair on your arms raise.

(You're the greatest anomaly in his life. Isn't it natural a detective wishes to solve such a damning mystery?)

How differently his entire composure grew once he saw you laying there, dirtied hands clutching your face. Was it normal for a guy like him to change his entire stance at such a moment? You'd be inclined to believe he couldn't care less about something like this, from all those diary entries spanning several years.

But seeing that look, when you'd stopped him from coming closer, putting distance between you two, as you thought there'd always been, how could you possibly think that? That look of worry, fingers twitching as he reached out, and expression of pure betrayal when you'd stepped backwards. Away. From him.

Wasn't that how it'd always been? You couldn't stop thinking. Maybe you were wrong? Maybe your spidey sense, for the first time in your life, was wrong?

They say that a fool's time spent thinking is wasted time.

You spent hours sitting at your desk pondering all of this. What it meant. Why your siblings seemed to all give you this strange, sinking feeling in your stomach. Raise goosebumps up your arms.

Soon, these thoughts spiralled back to your home. How you could help Reed. Speed up the process. Not wishing to mess with his delicate work nor rush him, but also getting restless with this family.

This family who's known you for their whole lives, yet seems to similarly know nothing about you. This you, their you, any you. Too little to care, too much to hate. The worst kind of balance that upset the universe and made your stomach twist with bile.

But at this point, you weren't too sure who was who, which was which.

If, tommorow, you'd lost everything and if you were caught in a blazing heat, would it be you who had died? Or somebody else? Would it be you in that coffin, underneath a stone who's name carved into it, did not belong to you?

The concept of being your own person, what did it mean? What could it mean when there were more of you, exactly the same, only shaped by their environment? An endless amount of copies, down to the genetic level, each in different worlds yet unmistakably the same?

When you stare into the mirror, nothing is the same except the red that flows down your knuckles when you slam your fist into it. Nothing remains the same except what you look like inside.

Though—in the end—even that belonged to them, didn't it?

You barely ever see your sister, nor her blonde friend. The ginger haired woman has more pressing matters to attend to than ever seeing you, it seemed—something you'd actually grown to appreciate, seeing how positively suffocating those other "siblings" had started to become.

Dick, who was thankfully off in Blüdhaven around now. Jason, who should be out doing his own thing, but seemed to always spare some time for you... as much as you insisted on him not doing that. Tim, who always stared with a little too much intensity and danger hidden behind a sharp smile.

And Damian—your only blood-related sibling, seeming to take great pride in such a fact as he brings it up far more often than not.

You'd begun to realise a distinct lack of a parental figure in your...—

This. This life.

Not yours. This life absolutely was not yours. Everything is seriously messing with your head. Belonging to another unfortunate soul, who happened to have your name, shared your face and voice, yet was everything you never were. Experienced things you never did, yet as you lived in a freedom they could never dream of.

You pitied them more than anything else. But that didn't mean you could just give everything you've ever known up. Your people, your city, your friends, your freedom. This blood that runs through your veins and makes your heart beat steady—it may belong to them, but you never will.

As it spills, you will be free. Losing that chain that binds you and perhaps you will be allowed to feel that wind hitting your face once more. Allowed to swing, fly, feel air and be everything you were destined to become.

Your suit forms over your body and you leap out of your window, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in your wake.

The Spectacular Spidey seems to swing and never sleep—the alliteration in the title of this news article you've read makes your head hurt. Said only as an unfortunate pun referring to how you swing from building to building, and only operate during night hours.

Because, despite everything, it is still you.

(Yet, still careful on avoiding your dearest family... as difficult as that may be—your senses are seriously saving your skin... wait, now you're using alliteration—)

You don't have anything against working during sunlight. In fact, it would be preferable for you. But escaping from school has now become increasingly more difficult after you'd "opened your heart" to MJ and Harry.

Both were completely convinced you were spiralling down a bad path after how you'd acted with Jason, or concerned for both your homelife and general wellbeing—sometimes you truly did damn yourself for picking such good friends.

Nevertheless, you couldn't possibly be worrying about something like that right now, when there's a much bigger problem right in front of you.

A man dressed in a rag-like coat lay beneath your heel, defeated and hands bound together with your webbing.

You'd originally expected to leave immediately, hoping to catch Reed before he was off looking for whatever new part he needed for his grandest project. But now, you can't even hope to move at this point—swamped by flashing cameras and microphones shoved into your face.

Suddenly, you're so incredibly grateful you wear a mask, because you aren't too excited at the prospect of having such unflattering photos of you taken.

"Spidey! What are you doing in Gotham?"

You stammer, "Uh—well, you know—"

"Spiderguy! What's your thoughts on the articles calling you a knockoff Batman?"

"How am I anything like him?" You gesture to your bright red suit. "Also, it's not Spiderguy—"

"Spidey! Spidey! How do you create that webbing fluid? Is it organic? And is it environmentally sustainable? Who's going to clean it?" The reporters move closer and closer.

You inch backwards, "Uh—well, you know, my webbing dissolves in a couple hours by itself, and of course it's sustainable—"

Before you can finish, a multitude of voices all ring through your ears at once. Piling atop eachother, all at the same time, forming into a mush of different tones and accents, indistinguishable from one another.

You can't even hear anything anymore, not until a voice, loud and clear, cuts through a multitude of others and strikes your ears with ease, "Hey, Spidey! Our viewers have a question for you—how have you gotten past Batman? I'm sure you know he doesn't allow metahumans in Gotham, right?"

You freeze. Shocked, but soon, that shock soon morphs into confusion at what exactly a metahuman is.

"I... uh—" You glance to the side. You know, doing this will spark way too much gossip for your own good. Doing this is practically asking for those headlines that, while technically true, are completely outlandish. You were a reporter yourself (for your alter ego, to be fair—but it still counts).

You know this can't end in any other way than complete disaster.

That's why you reach up, webbing to a building and wave goodbye to those pesky paparazzi, "No comment!" With all the wit a Spider must have, you decide that your flight or fight response instead chose: Web away with a sly remark.

"They should be around here, Batman."

Oracle's voice rings out through the earpiece. Barbara had taken the liberty of helping him in his little crusade after seeing that stunt on live television—that spider-hero running away after hearing that metas weren't allowed in Gotham... though, it provided more questions than answers.

Babs was growing restless. For one: that reaction possibly explained why they were so wary of any member of their family even coming close to them. Always running at the first sight of them, webbing away faster than they could hope to catch up. Escaping Batman and his Robin, Babs couldn't help but wonder about them.

They're good. Smart. They're not some new hero. Clearly whoever's behind that mask has experience.

But this raised far too many questions in it of itself. Why had you only popped up now? Why not years ago —if, judging purely by her own gaze, with the years of experience in crime fighting you must have? Why Gotham?

And perhaps, the most daunting question of them all, "Who exactly are you, Spider?"

Bruce's gruff voice reaches her ears, "What was that?"

Her eyes widen, not realising she'd spoken aloud. Shaking her head, she relents, "No... sorry, it's nothing. Right... according to witness sighting and where they were last spotted, you should be meeting them in the middle right now. Do you have any sightings?"

Bruce shakes his head, jumping over to the top of the next apartment block roof—cowl landing in a swoop behind him. "No. Not yet. See if there's any new sightings."

Bruce Wayne was beginning to grow tiresome of this new hero's antics. Running around through Gotham without a care in the world—all too bright and cheerful as if this was all that mattered. Running around as a meta—unchecked and absolutely dangerous.

Nothing good could come out of this. Not without knowing exactly who you were and what you wanted. He never was a dictator type—never had it in him—but with a crime-riddled city like Gotham, he had little choice.

One small mistake could ruin everything. Collapse all that he's worked so hard to create. A better city, a better future. A regular human—as he is—couldn't possibly ever handle a rouge meta... and in the end, this city may not want him, but he really is the type of hero it needs.

So, that's why, instead of patrolling through his sector—he asks Orphan, Batwoman, and Spoiler to take over for tonight, so he can do some much needed digging into this anomaly.

Tim told him that his webbing sample, one he managed to collect around a month ago, when he'd first come into contact with them, had dissolved within hours. Not enough time to perform any kind of intricate testing, not by a long shot.

Batman has taken the almost passive stance—uncharacteristic of him—but now, he realised with such a slippery Spider, he had to do what he does best, and corner them.

His whitened eyes dart up at the flash of red that flies past him. He snaps his head back and finds the Spider—the one he'd been looking for all this time—swinging from building to building, fast.

But not nearly fast enough. With one false swoop, Bruce is after you, grappling towards you, eyes narrowed and mind absolutely determined.

"Batman? Batman?" Oracle pipes up—he assumes she's been talking for the past couple minutes, but only realised she was speaking into his earpiece now. "Can you hear me? Do you have a visual?"

"I see them. Nearly have them."

The Spider darts their head over their shoulder almost frantically—moves stuttering when they see how close he's gotten toward them.

"Hey! Why are you so obsessed with me, huh?" Thrir voice calls out—unlike anything he'd ever heard. "I mean, okay—yeah, I get it. But if you want a fashion taste like mine, I can make you a suit of your own!"

He clenches his jaw to stop himself from saying anything back.

Their voice grows more framtic at his silence, "H... Hey! You're getting really close, there—let it go! I'm not a villain! I swear!"

More silence, and they seem to let out a loud groan of frustration, seemingly aimed at him.

They stop. Heels landing flat atop a building, and Batman, with his cowl wrapped around him like a cloak, follows on their heel, stalking closer towards them.

You raise your hands in defence, stepping backwards and shaking your masked head, "Waitwaitwait—! Don't get violent with me, I don't want to fight you!"

"Then what do you want?" His voice grows deeper, more gruff and cold. "No metahumans are allowed in Gotham without my permission. There's too much trouble that comes with it. Too many difficulties."

He pauses. "Too much crime. Too many deaths. Unnecessary, preventable ones. Who are you to be an exception?"

"I said wait—!" You shriek as he practically stalks into your personal space bubble. "I'm not a metahuman!"

He stops in his tracks. "... What?"

You let out a heavy sigh, now that he's stopped. Batman taps on his earpiece, "Oracle, can you hear this?"

"Reading, Batman."

You look around, to see nobody. "Oracle? Who's Oracle?" You never read anything about an Oracle.

"None of your business. Now speak. If you aren't a metahuman, what are you?" His whitened eyes narrow, and suddenly those pointy ears aren't so silly looking anymore.

You blink. Once, then twice. "Would you believe me if I said I was from an alien planet full of spider-people?"

Despite the reprocessing telling him your backstory would have on you being near non-existent—you still aren't too fond of the idea of the Batman, your father, knowing your secret backstory.

Besides, Oscorp really does exist in this universe, too—Norman is actually pretty nice. You don't want any unwarranted blame falling on him.

"Not a chance." He folds his arms over his bat-symboled chest and you falter with a sigh.

Worth a shot.

"Fine." Not to say he was the reason you finally relented—but his stare was pretty unnerving. "I was bit by genetically modified spider on a school field trip. It altered my DNA so I became stronger, faster, could stick to walls and became three times more flexible than the average person."

You finish with a winded breath, eyes scanning his expression for any hint of an emotion. You found none.

"Why should I believe you?"

Pausing, you glance away. Crouching down on that rooftop, on the ledge, staring down at the city below. Dimly lit roads and the people littering it. So much like your home, yet so different.

You could see why Batman was this city's protector. You could see why he was so careful about this world, and you almost respected him for it. At the same time, though, you couldn't help but think to all those chicken-scratched diaries.

By a helpless child, unable to depend on anybody but him in this world, and he had still failed. For that, you couldn't face him. Not now, not ever.

"You don't have to believe my story." You finally manage to unlodge the words from your throat. "I'm just saying that whatever your rules are—my existence doesn't defy them. You have no reason to keep chasing me down."

His sharp, whitened eyes narrow. It's the only thing visible in such deep darkness where he lingers.

"Actually..." Oracle's voice rings out through Batman's ears. "Their story... might have some truth to it. Check this out—Oscorp's been working on developing a, quote, super-powered spider. Says spider venom is the cure for disease and pandemics. They've been developing in this field for a while."

A super-powered spider sounds absolutely ridiculous, he thinks. But nothing he hadn't seen before. In a world full of aliens, heroes, personification of life, death, and everything in-between—he shouldn't be surprised at the prospect of gaining superpowers from spider venom.

Looking down at you now—slouched, facing away from him, and almost seeming restless... "Oscorp."

You look back at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Did that spider come from Oscorp?"

... You bite down on the inside of your cheek, hard. Looking back away before you could stop yourself. "No. I'm not from around here. I live far. Far away."

"What do you mean by far away? Why are you in Gotham, then?" He steps closer, to the point he's standing over you with all that intimidating bat-aura that makes the criminals of Gotham run for the hills. Still, you can't bear to see him. Because if you do, you know you'll spill everything you've been holding in like a waterfall.

"I don't know," you admit, honestly. "I don't know why I'm here. I want to go home, but I don't know where that is anymore. All I know is that, while I'm here, I might as well help people. Because... that's what I do."

For a moment, there's no sound other than the honking of cars on a busy road. He's quiet, as silent as he always is. Always was. For a moment, you think you almost see him as that father from so long ago.

But only for a moment.

"... How old are you?"

To your surprise, he doesn't immediately go to accusing you of lying again, or keep his standoffish persona any longer—only asking you this simple, yet strangely personal, question.

In simple words, you're really confused. "What? Why does that matter?"

"You sound young. Too young. And from the way I've seen you fight, you're experienced in fighting high, street-level crime. If I had to guess, I'd say you've been doing this for at least three years. Maybe more."

Sweat beads at the back of your neck, and suddenly everything starts caving in, crumbling like failed architecture. How did he know? How could he have possibly—

Batman continues, "The way you talk, and the way you behave in the public eye, you can't be an adult. I'm assuming you're a child. Meaning you've been fighting crime since you've been in your early teens, right?"

"What are you talking about?" You stand up at your full height, staring up at him. Glaring, as well as you can manage from underneath those refractive lenses. He doesn't back down. "I'm not—"

"You're a child," He repeats. "Don't carry this weight. You don't have to carry the weight of—" Gesturing towards the ground below, he stares down at you, strangely sadly, "All this. Especially not all by yourself. Not as a child."

The only word you want to spit out at him is hypocrite.

"Don't act all high and mighty. That Robin you have looks 12. You're saying a 12 year old is capable of fighting crime but I shouldn't? I'm nearly an adult, for god's sake! I'm—"

You slap your hands over your masked mouth, but still continue. "Don't treat me like I don't know better. You don't know me. You have no idea what has happened in my life."

"I only take Robin under my wing because he needs it. So I can watch over him."

You glare, "So what? So he can turn out like you?"

"So that he doesn't."

And to this, your lips feel sealed shut. You want to say something, but you can't. What could you possibly reply to this?

Even Oracle is silent. Not a word, not a peep. Nothing. The honking of cars has ceased, and it's like the world itself had just gone quiet for that one, stunning moment.

"You're not from here, so I don't know you," Finally, he speaks, and it's like the silence has been shattered like glass. "You're right. But... you're a child. You aren't obligated to this. This isn't your responsibility—to make this world better. If you can live normally, you should."

Isn't such normalcy why you ended up like this in the first place? All those entries, wishing to be like the rest of them—and here your father is now, telling you to be yourself.

If only they had heard this, you think, bitterly. Then, you'd know you were right. That he would only ever see you if you had become one of them.

The thought makes your stomach churn. How pretentious could this man—this devil—possibly be?

"You're wrong. To live normally like this, when I was given the strength to be better, to do things to be a better me... that's just wrong." You clench your fists, hard. "I already made that mistake before. It doesn't matter whether I'm 18 or 80. All that matters is that I'm doing what I know is right."

You pause, allowing the words to sink in. "But to discard the normally in your life is a waste. That's why I live the way I do. To protect the normalcy around me, the ones who can't protect themselves. With great power comes great responsibility... my responsibility is to be the best Spidey I can be."

...

You angle your wrist up and don't bother to look back at him when you walk away, "You and your birds can come after me all you want, but I won't stop doing what I think is right. 'Cause I'm a hero."

When you thwip away, you aren't so sure how you'd forgotten that. How a hero protects the ones they love above all else.

Your family aren't heroes. Perhaps, to the public, and even the whole world—but not to you. They'd failed to protect that child, a miserable, small child, left in that massive world.

To make it so they felt they had to save people, to take that responsibility of power to matter—that was their greatest failure.

"... Batman?" Barbara's voice is a dramatic shift from the silence that started to consume him. "Batman,are you okay? Batman? ... Bruce? Are you..."

He takes a moment to regain his composure, world still spinning as he speaks, "I'm fine. They're... they're okay." Saying the world's like they're hard to spit out, or like he's unsure himself. "I'm coming home."

Barbara wants to say something. About that spider. About what they said to him. Power, responsibility, protection, normalcy, love. But she doesn't. By the sound of his voice, he seems just as frazzled as she is. A conflicted Batman means no good for anybody, including her.

So, she will let him think. Oracle can take a back-seat for now. So can Batman. For now, she's just Barbara Gordon. And he's just Uncle Bruce.

Holding her tongue, "Cass and Steph aren't back yet. Kate left a while ago... said there was something she needed to do. ... Everyone else should be at home, I think..."

"Okay." He murmurs, quieter.

Barbara shuts her mouth and leans back in her chair. There's nothing else for her to say, so once more, there is silence.

...

When Bruce returns back to the Manor, he finds himself pushing past everything and everyone, including Alfred, and rushing up the stairs. Not even bothering to take off his suit fully—tossing his helmet behind him and walking away.

Down a hall to the left, then up right, then left again. Stopping once he, finally, stands in front of a door. Blank. Colourless, dull. Like the rest of the manor, blending in away from those extravagant suits and too-bulky armours.

After a brief moment of confliction, he brings his fist up, and knocks. Standing there, almost the size of the doorway, waiting for any kind of reply.

"Hello? What—"

You freeze at the sight of your father staring down at you—this time, his eyes were as blue as ever and his face was less grim. This time, you could see the greying of his dark hair and the crease of his brows.

This time, there was no escape.

"[name]." He says your name as if it's foreign, unfamiliar. Testing it out like a new spice or seasoning, then seeming to come to the conclusion that he likes it. "It's been a while."

You're frozen in place, mouth open yet unable to speak. What could you possibly do now? Run? Swing? Duck past—

A hand places itself on your shoulder and every siren in your body blasts itself tenfold. Blaring like the most buzzing and painful alarms—so awful that you have to grab the side of the doorframe to stop yourself from falling over.

Panic gnaws at every side of you, chest rising and falling erratically when your headache grows.

What is this? This is so much worse than when I'm with Jason—

His face morphs and blurs as does his words, yet you manage to catch the few, "I think we should spend more time together. Become closer, like how it was before. You are my child after all. The only one who doesn't have patrol or scoutings with me. That calls for more regular ways of bonding, right? That's my responsibility... as your father."

He's smiling. Hardly so, but you're about to collapse. A deafening buzz in your skull, you spit out any agreements you can manage through squeezed eyes, waiting for him to go, to leave, so for a moment, you can finally breathe.

"I'm glad you agree," he says, moving back. Clearing his throat, he looks down at you, recovering as he gives you space. "Next week, then?"

You clutch your head, jaw taut and stance tense. It's a wonder how he hadn't noticed your absolute discomfort, but you digress—just wanting him to go. "Sure."

"Good, then—" Before he can finish, your door slams shut in his face and once again, that barrier has returned. Bruce pauses, staring at that slab of wood keeping you from his line of sight.

Bruce lingers for a few moments longer, fingers hovering the handle, before retracting back and swallowing thick.

Batman walks away, but glances twice over his shoulder, cowl falling behind him.

You slump down your door with a heaving sigh, feeling your head start to clear and breathing stabilise.

That feeling of fear, of utter terror—it was the feeling you'd get with Jason and Tim, but tripled. It was torture. Absolutely awful. Unbearable. You'd not relt anything while you were Spidey on that rooftop, but seeing him here now send your senses spiralling into a whirlwind of chaos.

You grab your head and it falls onto your knees, pulled up to your chest.

Your eyes fall bleak and everything blurry again. Are you going to cry, like a child? To prove him right again, that you're afraid of this? Of him?

Maybe you were more similar to his version of you than you were lead to believe. Maybe—

Still, though, your phone buzzes.

A strange sounding noise compared to the cheap, hand-me-down one you had in your other room. Probably spammed with stupid videos from MJ, and worried texts from Harry. Maybe even the odd "how are you?" from Matt, or something.

(You still don't know how he texts, but that's beyond you).

You pick up your phone, despite the lingering thought it could just be from one of your family members. Siblings, or father.

... You were half right.

From a contact customised to say, the #coolest auntie, there's a text.

Hey, kid. Let's go out. It's been way too long.

You stare down at the bright phone screen for a few seconds longer than you should've. Surprised, sure, but just as confused. Swallowing and considering your options for a second.

You haphazardly let your fingers fly over the keyboard. If your contact name for her was this comfortable, she must be a good person, right? Maybe she could provide an outside perspective on everything. Your family, their hero-lives, even you.

You press your lips tightly together narrowing your eyes down at her contact profile picture. Short, red hair and a smug smile. Pale skin, and the features reminiscent of your father.

Sure. Where?

When you watch the text bubbles pop up on the screen, you can't help but wonder what exactly you're going to do next.

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi @bunniotomia @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bat1212 @gaychaosgremlin @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @randomlyappearingartist @cxcilla @spidermanluvr444 @cruzerforce4256 @mybones537 @xjesterxjacksx @nirvanaxx1942 @djpuppy-kittens @br33zy-blizzardz @moon0goddess @0sunnyside01 @mei-simp @redsakura101 @the-dumber-scaramouche @wizzerreblogs @lovemiss-vale @deathbynarcisstick @allycat4458 @wonmyheart @luckyangelballoon @one-piecelover @hartwyrm @horror-lover-69 @maria-trisha @4rachn3 @galaxypurplerose @duskeras @coffeeaddictxd @lithiumval @kaz-playz

taglist is open!

[ravensuperr]

DPx DC Prompt-Alternate Dimension Shenanigans

So instead of the usual Casper High field trip trope in the Danny Phantom fandom, imagine this time it’s Damian Wayne’s class that ends up stuck in the Infinite Realms.

Here’s how it plays out:

Damian’s class is on the way back from an overnight field trip to Washington, D.C. Everything's fine—until they stop at a rest area. The bus driver goes off to handle his business, comes back, and they get back on the road.

Then… a portal opens out of nowhere.

They don’t even have time to react. The bus gets pulled in. When they try to turn around, the portal’s already gone.

Enter: Danny Phantom.

He’s just gotten back from visiting either Pandora (weekly chat) or Frostbite (med checkup) when he stumbles on a confused group of teens, their teacher, and a parked bus in the middle of the Infinite Realms.

He blinks.

Mr. Carter (the teacher): “Our driver stopped at a rest stop—standard procedure. Then this portal opened up out of nowhere. We couldn’t stop in time. It just… sucked us in. When we tried to turn around, it was gone.”

Danny: “Ah. Natural portal. Those usually happen to planes, not buses… though, now that I think about it, ground traffic’s not unheard of. Shouldn’t have said that out loud.”

Damian (irritated): “Where exactly are we?”

Danny: “You’re in the Infinite Realm.”

Camila (raising an eyebrow): “So… another dimension?”

Zane (grinning): “Wait, does this count for my bingo card? ‘Accidentally ending up in another dimension’ was my free square.”

Priya: “Are we in space? Or some alien planet?”

Danny: “Nope. Think bigger.”

He gestures to the eerie green sky swirling above them.

Danny: “The Infinite Realm is like... glue. The glue that holds everything together. Every timeline, every dimension, every kind of power—magic, science, tech—they all touch the Infinite Realm. This place connects them all.”

Emily (deadpan): “Freaky. Multiversal glue vibes.”

Suddenly, one of the students blurts out:

Mason: “How did you die?”

The whole class turns to stare.

Mason (shrugging): “Come on—tell me you’re not curious too.”

Danny (calmly): “Okay, so, it’s super rude to ask a ghost how they died unless you’re family or really close. It’s kinda taboo.”

Leo: “Fine, then… who’s your favorite Justice League member?”

Danny (without missing a beat): “Martian Manhunter.”

Zane: “Why?”

Danny: “Because I wanted to be an astronaut when I grew up… and I love space.”

Damian (pinching the bridge of his nose): “Does anyone have a question that’ll help us get home?”

Nina (class rep): “Yeah—how are you getting us back?”

Danny: “There’s a powerful artifact that can return you to your dimension. I just need to make sure none of you wander off or tick off any local ghosts. Not all of them are thrilled to see humans here.”

Camila: “So you can take us back to Gotham?”

Danny: “Sure. Where exactly is that in the U.S.?”

Class (in unison): “…Are you serious?”

Danny: “I know it’s where Batman and his birds live. I just don’t know where it is on a map. Also, I failed geography. And I’m dead.”

Emily: “New Jersey. Gotham’s in New Jersey.”

Danny: “Cool. Everyone back on the bus. First stop: Pandora.”

Priya: “Wait—Pandora? As in Pandora’s Box?”

Danny: “Yep. She’s real. She’s super protective of it. Someone stole it once—I helped her get it back. She’s chill now. I’m going to ask her if you can hang out in her realm while I talk to two people: Frostbite and Clockwork. I need to make sure I don’t accidentally drop you off in the wrong Gotham.”

Zane: “There’s a wrong Gotham?!”

Danny: “This place touches every timeline. You don’t think there’s a version of Gotham where Batman is a vampire or something? Multiverse roulette isn’t fun.”

Class (collectively): “Yeah. No more questions.”

Camila (genuinely): “Wait—we don’t even know your name. We feel kinda rude calling you Ghost Boy.”

Danny (blinks): “Oh. Right. Just call me Phantom.”

Damian (dryly): “Just Phantom? Not your real name?”

Danny: “Not telling you that. That’s basically the same as asking how I died. Still rude.”

Mason: “If I die, can I change my name?”

Danny: “Yeah. You can go by whatever name you want. You’re dead. There are no rules.”

Leo: “What if someone’s, like, gay or bi or trans? Does that matter?”

Danny: “Dude, we’re dead. We’ve got Pride flags engraved into dimension gates. Trans? Cool. Bi? Great. Ace? Valid. Nobody cares. You’re free to be whoever you are.”

Priya: “Okay but… what if someone was transitioning when they died?”

Danny: “Then the gender they identified as is the one they get. Period. No exceptions.”

Zane: “...So it’s like actual equality?”

Danny: “Yeah. Ghost society’s not perfect, but nobody here’s getting judged for who they are. You’ll probably see two ghost guys kissing before lunchtime.”

Mason: “Wait. Have you met Death?”

Danny: “Twice.”

Class: “…What?”

Danny: “Yeah. They go by Jeff.”

Class (blinking): “Jeff?”

Danny: “Says it sounds like Death. Duh.”

Damian (deadpan, to himself): “I need a week off school. Maybe two.”

Damian (out loud): “What about things like Time? Dreams? Are they ghosts, too?”

Danny (nodding): “They’re called never-born ghosts. They weren’t alive and then dead—they exist because of human concepts. Like Time? His name’s Clockwork. Depending on your religion, you’ve probably heard of him under a different name. Same ghost. Different culture.”

[ariaste]

If your moral principles are always a fun time, you are doing them wrong.

Moral principles are HARD. They CHALLENGE you. If you claim to believe in, for example, Kindness, then you have to sit with the difficult questions of, "Do I believe every person deserves kindness? What does kindness mean? How do we balance kindness with justice and fairness? How should kindness exist and be expressed in a complex society where sometimes human beings are absolute dicks?" You test your moral principles by feeling out how far they go. And if your answer is, "You only get kindness until I decide I don't like you" then news flash, you don't actually believe in kindness.

Same thing for human rights. If you believe, "Human rights are only for the people who deserve them" then what you actually believe is "Human rights are only for the people I personally approve of" and that's just basic garden-variety fascism, baybeee. That is also what conservative Christian evangelicals/Republicans believe. Do you want to structure your moral principles on how they do it? Or is the way they do it kind of fucked up?

Do better. Be radical. "Human rights aren't about whether you're a good person or whether you deserve them, they're something you get just for being human, period." That's revolutionary. We've had that concept for a couple hundred years now, but it's still revolutionary.

And that shouldn't be a frustrating, confusing, upsetting thought--it should be a COMFORTING thought. Because if a serial rapist, murderer, cannibal, and hobbyist puppy-kicker gets human rights, then that means the rest of us get them too. We WANT that particular asshole to have them because it really nails them down for the rest of us. And if that guy's human rights are threatened, then all of ours are endangered just a little bit more. He's the canary in the coal mine.

Sooooo few people are actually willing to defend the basic human rights of people who have committed crimes. Like I know it's not fun but if you genuinely believe in human rights as a concept you can't be okay with the state violating them in prisons I'm sorrrrry. Having moral principles is not always a fun time.

[miedei]

hooting and hollering about spencer being obsessed with being married!

it's probably a year after your wedding, but he still gets giddy every time he sees you put your ring next to his on the nightstand before bed.

has a framed picture from your wedding day on his desk. not one of the posed ones, although those are all in prominent places on your walls, but one of your first look. you look radiant and happy and he looks a little ridiculous, white-knuckling his little book of vows with his eyes full of tears.

takes every single opportunity to call you his wife and it gets a little much.

like even to Derek or Emily, he'll go "yeah, my wife's picking me up" and they're both like ??? we know her name lmfao

gets the same kind of giddy when he hears you refer to him as your husband, like full on heart eyes as he trails after you.

also, every once in a while when you're fucking especially passionately, he gets the urge to recite his vows again, panting, hot breath fanning over your ear as his hips move as if on their own accord.

asks you to do it sometimes, gasping the prompt up at you as you drag yourself up and down on his lap.

"come on sweetheart, 'i take you, spencer reid', you can do it."

[vernonverse]

🏛️ Call It What You Want | Choi Seungcheol | PART ONE

🕮 At Carat University, a fierce rivalry brews between Sigma Veta Tau and Delta Kappa Epsilon. Choi Seungcheol, the confident frat president, leads one side; you, a sharp-tongued women’s rights activist, lead the other. You've clashed for years—total opposites who can't stand each other… or so it seems.

ⓘ Paring. Seungcheol x f!reader ⓘ Genre | tags. Forbidden love/rivals to lovers, angst, fluff. ⓘ Warnings. Minors do not interact, implied smut, suggestive, swearing, slight slut shaming. ⓘ WC. 896.

━ This is part of my series ‘The Greeks’ to celebrate Seventeen’s 10th anniversary! All the stories are in the same universe, but you can read them as standalones.

ʚ A/N: This one’s ended up being in three parts because I simply couldn’t stop writing. Part two is coming out tomorrow, same time!! Also, one of the dialogues here was heavily inspired by a scene from Gilmore Girls.

THERE IS AN ANCIENT MYTH that has circulated around the campus of Carat University for years. It tells the story of how the infamous rivalry between Sigma Veta Tau and Delta Kappa Epsilon began—and why their members don’t mix under any circumstances. And when it says any, it really means any. In every sense of the word.

No one actually knows if it’s a true story, which is exactly why it’s called a myth. But even with that label, it remains the only explanation students have ever had, and the one they’ve treated as absolute truth for nearly forty years.

According to campus gossip—and like all the best stories in the world—it all started with a broken heart. Or, for those who prefer the direct version: a massive cheating scandal.

Kim Jieun, sweet and angelic, was the former president of Delta Kappa Epsilon. She was the golden girl of the university when she was elected back in the late '80s—charming, beloved, and effortlessly popular. She turned heads wherever she went, and as fate would have it, two of those hearts belonged to Choi Hyunjoon and Park Daejung: inseparable best friends and proud members of Sigma Veta Tau.

Jieun was Hyunjoon’s first love. For him, crossing paths with her was faith; he was sure she was his soulmate. Everyone knew they were in love, and they were the kind of couple people rooted for. They even started planning their wedding with just a couple of months into their relationship. 

But that was before she set her pretty little brown eyes on Park Daejung, who, rumour has it, looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Hollywood movie. He had all the classic bad boy traits that girls in books and films seem to fall for: dark hair, brooding eyes, a hint of danger in his smile and, naturally, a motorcycle.

You know that magic in movies, when two people lock eyes for the first time and suddenly know they’re meant to be? That whole love-at-first-sight, soulmates-on-the-spot, burning passion kind of thing? Yeah, that. Apparently, that’s exactly what happened when Jieun and Daejung exchanged glances for the first time.

After that day, a wedding was called off, a friendship shattered, Sigma Veta Tau lost a member, and Choi Hyunjoon was left with nothing but a heartbreak that would take years to mend. Rumor also has it he married another woman sometime later, though not before filing a lawsuit against Jieun, claiming emotional damages.

But that’s not important.

At least, not right now.

The point is: it was Choi Hyunjoon’s broken heart that birthed the greatest rivalry Carat University has ever known, especially since he was also the president of Sigma Veta Tau at the time, just as Kim Jieun was Kappa Delta Epsilon. 

The moment the two fraternities officially declared their rivalry, the entire campus felt it. The atmosphere shifted overnight. Tension became palpable. Hostility spread like wildfire among their members and spilled into every corner of student life at Carat University. People started choosing sides, and the division only deepened from there

These two fraternities, once friendly, began competing in everything—events, fundraisers, social activities—each trying to outshine the other. What started as the aftermath of a heartbreak soon evolved into something much bigger: a legacy of competition, historical resentment, and completely opposing philosophies.

Sigma Veta Tau built a reputation as the party fraternity, infamous for its chaos and packed with self-proclaimed heartthrobs. Delta Kappa Epsilon, on the other hand, prided itself on activism and social justice, particularly focused on women’s and children’s rights. Those wildly different values fueled the fire, turning their rivalry into a constant tug-of-war for recognition and influence on campus.

CaratU became a non-fictional version of West Side Story.

Except, there’s no forbidden love tale here—or at least, not yet.

Just the Jets and the Sharks reimagined as the Vetas and the Kappas.

Of course, over the years, a few brave souls tried to rebel against this unspoken rule. A couple here, a friendship there, modern-day Marias and Tonys. But at Carat U.? That’s basically social suicide.

The first commandment of both Greek houses? Never, ever, fraternize with the enemy.

No Kappa is ever seen with a Veta, and vice versa. Doing so is basically sacrilege. on and off Carat U. grounds. You’ll get glares in the hallways and lecture rooms, dirty looks from housemates and sisters, maybe even from your fraternity coordinator. That’s if they don’t just choose to ignore your existence altogether, treating you with chilling cold silence.

No one ever gets officially expelled, at least not properly.

The university doesn’t allow it without right cause, and breaking an unofficial rule doesn’t qualify. But don’t get it twisted: you’re exiled all the same. You’ll fade into the background, your presence barely acknowledged. No matter how dedicated or talented you are, your contributions won’t matter anymore. You’ll be benched. Forgotten.

It’s unfair, yes. But no one cares.

This is a silent social contract, and it’s been respected for forty years.

No one’s ever had the courage to challenge it.

And those who did? They gave up eventually. They left. Moved on. Found other groups to join.

Because it doesn’t matter if the relationship or friendship you risked everything for falls apart.

Your name will still be stained in the halls of Kronos for one reason and one reason only: you fraternized with the enemy.

Period.

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[gyugraphy]

between book pages and baked pies (r.r.)

summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didn’t quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.

Then you found out he’s the Sentry —

and suddenly, pretending doesn’t feel so simple anymore.

pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader

content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au

warnings : none

word count : 7k

⋆˙⟡

Thursday, 10:43 am.

You glance up, and there he is.

You’ve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy — like he doesn’t quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesn’t expect to be noticed in it.

He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please don’t ask me anything, but I’m also not in a hurry to leave.

Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.

You smile. “Back again. That’s three Thursdays in a row.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised you’ve been keeping count.

“…I like it here,” he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.

“Most people say that when they’re avoiding something,” you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. “Bad day?”

He shrugs. “It’s a day.”

Fair.

He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare — you really do — but it’s hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like they’re familiar terrain.

After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks — both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.

You ring them up, sneaking a glance. “You like the ones where the world almost ends?”

He gives a faint smile. “Sometimes I like when it doesn’t.”

You pause, curious. “You a writer?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just… a fan.”

“I get it,” you say, handing him the bag. “Books are a safer way to live dangerously.”

He smiles at that. A little more real.

Then, on impulse, you ask, “So, what do you do?”

He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.

“��Sometimes I help save the world,” he says, deadpan.

You blink. And then you laugh, because there’s something about the way he says it — so dry and sincere — that it’s obviously a joke. Or at least… you think it is.

“Wow,” you grin. “That’s bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Something like that.”

You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. “Well, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. We’ve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.”

He nods, turning toward the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He’s almost gone when he pauses and looks back.

“What’s your name?” he asks you, and you tell him.

He nods once. “I’m Bob.”

Then he’s gone.

The bell chimes again — sharper this time. Final.

You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.

Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.

Bob.

⋆˙⟡

Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.

You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.

Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.

“Hi, sweetheart!” your mom’s voice practically sings as you answer. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to use a phone.”

You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. “Hi, Mom. You called me yesterday.”

“I know, I just missed you. So sue me.”

There’s a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enough—

“So, listen,” she continues, far too casually. “Next Saturday we’re doing dinner at our place. Just the usual — your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.”

“Mmhmm.” You sip your drink, waiting.

“We were thinking 6 o’clock. And of course we’ll do something vegetarian for you—oh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?”

There it is.

“Anyway,” she adds, far too lightly, “I just thought I’d ask — are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?”

You snort. “Bringing where? Into the lion’s den of a family dinner?”

“Oh come on,” she laughs. “We’re not that bad.”

You give her a look she can’t see. “Last time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighbor’s chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if I’d frozen my eggs.”

“She meant well. He didn’t, but—still.”

You roll your eyes. “No, Mom. I’m not bringing anyone.”

“You’re not?” Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. “Not even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.”

You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds — including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.

You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said “Sometimes I help save the world” like it wasn’t even strange.

But you say nothing.

“Anyway,” your mom chirps on. “No pressure. Just… you know. You’re not getting any less amazing with time.”

“That’s not how time works, Mom.”

“Semantics. Just let me know, okay? We’ll keep a seat open. Just in case.”

You sigh and mutter, “Okay.”

She’s already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighbor’s shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.

You definitely don’t have a date.

You definitely don’t need one.

…But your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when he’s not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.

⋆˙⟡

Tuesday, 11:07 am.

The bell over the door rings, and — like clockwork — you glance up.

There he is.

Bob.

Same as always, but also… not. His jacket’s still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didn’t get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.

You try not to smile.

Try.

“Tuesday this time?” you call out from behind the counter, tone light. “Switching it up?”

Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. “Had some time.”

You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance — new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesn’t stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.

“You sure it’s not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?” you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.

He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. “Maybe I like consistency.”

“Bold choice in this economy.”

That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.

He picks up The Lantern War — you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. You’ve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like he’s searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.

You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.

“You know,” you begin, tone half-teasing, “you don’t talk much, but you’ve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.”

Bob looks up — startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.

“People pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,” you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.

He blinks.

You wince. “Sorry. That was weird. I’ve just… been talking to my mom too much lately. She’s on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think I’m starting to project ‘potential boyfriend material’ onto every semi-normal customer.”

Bob doesn’t laugh, exactly — but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, gently placing the book under his arm.

You nod. “It was meant to be one.”

The air shifts then. Not awkward — not yet — but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.

You watch him for a second longer than you should.

He always lingers when he’s here. Not like he’s killing time. Like he’s… catching his breath.

You don’t say it — not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.

Still.

As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.

He wouldn’t. That’s insane. Would he?

He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.

“Thanks,” he says.

“See you Thursday?” you ask, voice light, playful.

He pauses, then shrugs. “Maybe.”

You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.

And you’re still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.

Right. Work.

You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically — scanning books, making small talk — but your brain’s somewhere else.

⋆˙⟡

“Hi, honey!” she sings the second you answer. “Don’t panic — this is not a ‘guilt you into bringing a boyfriend’ call.”

You snort. “You literally said the word ‘boyfriend’ in the first sentence.”

“Okay, technically,” she says, unfazed, “but I’m just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.”

You sigh and lean against the counter. “I know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Diane—”

“Oh, speaking of Aunt Diane,” she says sweetly, which should’ve been your warning, “she knows this great guy from her pickleball league—works in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.

Your stomach sinks.

You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.

“I—Mom, no.”

“Well, honey,” she says, trying for innocent, “you haven’t said you’re bringing anyone. And if you’re still single—”

“I’m not.”

Silence.

Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.

“I mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. It’s been, like, a month.”

A pause. Too long.

“You are?” she says slowly.

You wince. “Yeah. I didn’t want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didn’t want to scare him off. He’s… kind of shy.”

Your mom gasps like you just told her she’s finally getting a grandchild.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! What’s he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?”

“Mom, calm down,” you say quickly, pacing now. “He’s just… quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.”

You mentally kick yourself.

“Well, now you have to bring him,” she insists. “If he’s already survived a month with you, he’s clearly got staying power.”

You laugh sharply. “Gee, thanks.”

She chuckles. “I’m just saying — you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.”

You force a smile into your voice. “Let me talk to him first, okay? I’ll see if he’s up for it.”

“Promise me you’ll try.”

“…Promise.”

You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.

Mouth open. Brain screaming.

You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.

Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for a month.

You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.

And for some godforsaken reason…

…you think he might actually say yes.

⋆˙⟡

Thursday, 12:45 pm

It’s raining again.

Of course it is.

A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.

“Two days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more time—” you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. “Who even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?”

You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.

“I swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, I’m moving to the mountains. I’ll sell rocks. I’ll become a rock girl.”

The bell above the door chimes.

Right on cue.

You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. “Welcome in,” you call absently, trying to sound composed — but you already know.

It’s him.

You don’t need to look.

Still, you do — and there he is.

Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didn’t even try to stop him.

There’s a quietness to him that doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.

“Back to your usual Thursday shift?” you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.

He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “It felt wrong not to.”

There’s something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired — like his body’s been holding something heavy for too long — but his gaze doesn’t flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.

You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.

“Let me guess,” you say as he veers toward the back. “Fantasy section?”

“Always.”

You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book that’s been reshelved in the wrong genre. There’s no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.

He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasn’t cracked yet.

You rest your elbow against a shelf. “That one’s going to wreck you emotionally,” you warn, teasing. “But, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.”

Bob glances over. “Good to know.”

You hesitate — just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: “Hey… can I ask you something kind of weird?”

His eyes shift to yours — cautious, but open.

“Sure.”

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. “So… hypothetically,” you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, “if someone were being — let’s say — aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinner—like, a big one—”

“Okay,” he says slowly, still holding the book.

“And they may or may not have panicked and told said family they’d already been dating someone for a month… someone who does not, technically, exist—”

Bob’s brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Go on."

“Would it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe… pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. There’s pie.”

Silence.

Bob doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t recoil.

He just watches you.

And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.

“I know it’s weird. And probably creepy. And I swear I’m not dangerous. You don’t even really know me. But you’re the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think I’m secretly dating a war criminal.”

His expression shifts — thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.

“And if it helps,” you add quickly, “I already told them you’re shy. So you wouldn’t even have to say much. Just… look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend I’m charming.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

“Just for a night,” you say. “No pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.”

“…Because your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.”

You blink. “Wait. How do you—?”

“You talk while you shelve books,” he says simply, mouth quirking. “I pick things up.”

You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.

And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it — bright and ridiculous and yours.

Bob… smiles.

It’s small. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing. But it’s there.

“So?” you say, biting your lip. “Would you consider it? I can’t offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.”

He sets the book down.

Looks at you.

A long moment passes.

“Okay,” he says.

You blink. “Wait — really?”

He nods, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Why not.”

“You didn’t even ask what kind of pie.”

“I trust your judgment.”

You squint at him. “You’re either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.”

Bob shrugs. “Can’t it be both?”

Something in your chest tightens — in a good way.

“Dinner’s Saturday,” you say softly. “At my parents’. Here's... the address?” you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.

You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.

And he actually did.

He nods. “Should I wear something nice?”

“Honestly,” you say, “if you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street — a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.

And you?

You stand behind the counter, staring after him.

Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.

From relief. And something else.

Excitement, maybe.

Because somehow, against all logic and odds —

Bob said yes.

⋆˙⟡

Saturday, 5:49 pm

“Not too much sugar,” your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesn’t trust you with a spoon.

You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. “Mom, you’ve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, it’s on you.”

She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. “Don’t tempt me.”

You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way — cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. You’re elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.

You’ve told everyone you’ve been dating someone for a month.

That he’s meeting your family.

That he’s sweet and shy and real.

And in about fifteen minutes, Bob — your fake boyfriend — will be at the door.

You’re 85% sure he’ll show up. Maybe 90.

…Okay, 75.

“Do you need help with the crust?” your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like she’s trying not to pry.

You glance at her. She’s avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.

“Nope,” you say, pressing the dough into the pan. “Unless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.”

She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.

“So,” she says, “you never told me how you met him.”

You hesitate. “The guy I’m—bringing tonight?”

She nods. “Mhm.”

You stall by rinsing your hands.

“It’s kind of a quiet story,” you say carefully. “We kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just… kind of happened.”

“Hm.” She tosses apple slices into the bowl. “And you like him?”

You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Thanks for inviting me.”

You nod. “I think I do.”

Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.

“Well,” she says gently, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.

Your heart stops.

Your mom turns toward the sound.

You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, “moment of truth.”

You walk to the door.

And open it...

You expected nerves.

You did not expect him to look like this.

Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hair—usually floppy and rain-wrecked—is now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.

You blink. “H-hi.”

He smiles—bashful, but sure of himself. “Hi.”

Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. It’s warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.

“I hope I’m not too early,” he murmurs.

“No—uh—no, perfect. You’re perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.”

You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.

As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers — fresh and faintly minty.

“My mom’s in the kitchen. Brace yourself.”

He chuckles. “Noted.”

You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.

Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like she’s just been cast on a reality show. “There he is! You must be Bob!”

Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.

He recovers quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And polite!” she says, delighted, patting his arm like she’s already ordering him to call her ‘Mom’ by dessert.

Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncle’s tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet “Yes, ma’am” that makes her beam.

At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.

“You look really familiar,” Milo says, tilting his head.

You freeze mid-chew. Bob’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth.

“I get that a lot,” Bob says calmly.

Milo frowns. “Like, weirdly familiar. Like—superhero familiar.”

“Milo,” your mom cuts in, “eat your green beans.”

Milo shrugs but keeps sneaking glances.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

And about halfway through dessert, something happens.

The TV is on behind your mom’s head, low volume. Just the news playing — no one’s really watching. Your dad’s closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.

You’re listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchor’s voice shifts tone.

“—dramatic footage of the Thunderbolts’ mission this past Wednesday—”

Your brain barely registers it.

You glance at the screen.

Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.

A familiar flash of red and black—John Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.

And then—

Golden light. Blinding, unmistakable.

The Sentry.

A blurred shot becomes a close-up.

He’s floating mid-air. Hair wild, cape tattered, jaw clenched in focus. Glowing.

It’s not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.

You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.

Bob.

You snap your gaze toward him.

He doesn’t move, but his fork slowly lowers.

Your eyes dart to your dad. He’s starting to turn toward the screen.

Before he can react—click.

The TV cuts off.

Silence.

Your dad frowns. “Did the TV break again?”

Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No one’s the wiser.

Except for you.

And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.

You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.

Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. “Can you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.”

He rises without protest.

You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.

Then you turn, look up at him, and whisper—

“What the hell, Bob?”

You shut the door behind you.

Bob leans casually against the wall — too casually — like he isn’t literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.

You cross your arms. “Okay. Start talking.”

He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. There’s a strange stillness to him, like he’s waiting for a storm he knows is coming.

“I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.

You stare. “Bob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parents’ TV. With your mind.”

“I said I help people,” he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. “Sometimes I help save the world.”

You gape. “I thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I don’t know, a really good therapist!”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Sorry. That probably would’ve been easier.”

“You’re—” You lower your voice, leaning in. “You’re The Sentry. You’re an actual Avenger. Or—Thunderbolt. Or—whatever the hell team you’re on.”

“Technically, I’m sort of on loan.”

You give him a look. “That's not the point.”

He’s quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just… waiting. Letting you process.

And you are processing.

All the little things you overlooked:

The quiet strength in how he moved.

The weird evasiveness.

The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.

You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, softer now.

“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he says. “I liked the bookstore. I liked that you didn’t know. You talked to me like I was just… Bob.”

You blink. “Is that your real name?”

“Yes.”

“And you really read fantasy novels?”

He actually smiles. “Especially the sad ones.”

You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.

“You came to dinner,” you murmur. “You sat through my uncle’s knee replacement story. You complimented my grandma’s brooch.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t hard. I meant it.”

You stare at him.

The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.

The man who shyly kissed your cheek.

The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.

You rub a hand over your face. “I dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks I’m undateable.”

His voice is gentle. “You didn’t drag me. I said yes.”

You glance up at him. “Why?”

His gaze softens. “Because you asked.”

You swallow.

He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. “If you want to call this off now, I’ll understand. I’ll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.”

You laugh — a short, startled sound — but it breaks some of the tension.

You look up at him. “You’d really do that?”

“I’m a very convincing fake ex.”

You’re quiet for a moment. He’s still standing there — not defensive, not cocky — just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.

The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.

And yet…

You find yourself saying, “Let’s just get through dessert.”

His brows raise slightly. “You sure?”

You nod. “We can panic later.”

He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.

“Okay,” he says. “Back to the pie.”

You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together — fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.

You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow… everything continues like nothing happened.

The pie’s been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.

Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, “Yes, ma’am,” with a small smile.

She beams.

You stare at him for a second longer than you should.

He’s calm. Almost too calm. Like he’s pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.

Milo won’t stop glancing over, like he’s replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.

You press your knee against Bob’s under the table.

He glances at you.

You mouth: Thank you.

He just nods.

⋆˙⟡

When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. She’s humming. Actually humming.

You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.

After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bob’s arm like he’s already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, “You handled the chaos pretty well, son. That’s promising.”

You’re still not sure whether that’s a compliment or a threat.

Finally, it’s just the two of you at the door.

You walk Bob out onto the porch. The sky’s dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you don’t know what to do with them anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, leaning against the railing. “I dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that or—”

Bob steps forward and kisses you.

Soft. Sure. Warm.

It happens in the span of a heartbeat — his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.

When he pulls back, he whispers, “Sorry.”

You blink, stunned.

He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.

You turn.

Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain — watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Bob chuckles. “She’s committed. I respect it.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile. “That was mean.”

“That was method acting,” he teases.

You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he says. “I meant what I said — I liked being asked.”

A beat.

“I still do.”

The air between you shifts — warmer now, quiet but honest.

You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.

He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.

“I’ll see you Tuesday?”

You smile. “Tuesday.”

And then he’s gone.

You close the door gently, heart fluttering like it’s trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:

“…Oh no.”

⋆˙⟡

Sunday, 7:36 am

It starts like any other day.

You stop at your usual corner café, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.

For a moment, the world feels normal.

You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isn’t until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels… off.

Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.

And then you see it.

Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.

“WHO IS THE SENTRY’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?” (Shocking New Romance Revealed — Civilian Involved?)

You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.

Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.

You nearly drop your coffee right there.

But it only gets worse.

Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore — just a normal Tuesday morning — you don’t see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.

You see a crowd.

No — not a crowd. A swarm.

Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at… nothing, because the store isn’t even open yet.

Your stomach drops.

Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.

And then, mercifully — your brain does the one logical thing.

It panics.

You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.

“Hey—hey! That’s her!” someone yells behind you.

You don’t look back.

You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.

Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.

And then—

“Hiii.”

You scream.

A figure drops from the fire escape like it’s nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.

Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.

She smiles. “So. You’re the girlfriend?”

You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. “I—I’m—who are you?!”

“Yelena,” she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. “Bob’s teammate. Sometimes assassin. Don’t worry, I’m nice-ish.”

You don’t take her hand. You just stare.

“I was sent to retrieve you,” she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. “Big mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.”

“I—I’m fine,” you lie, inching toward the wall.

Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. “You’re not fine.”

You exhale shakily. “How is this real?”

She grins. “You kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now you’re in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.”

You press your palms to your face.

Behind you, the voices are getting louder.

Yelena tilts her head toward the street. “Wanna escape this circus?”

“…Yes.”

“Come on.” She tosses you a hoodie from her bag — black, oversized. “Put this on. You’re going to Thunderbolts HQ.”

“What?”

“Bob’s waiting,” she adds casually, “and he looks very stressed. It’s adorable.”

Your heart thumps harder.

You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner — quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.

As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.

She tosses a protein bar in your lap.

“You’re going to need energy,” she says. “They’re gonna love you.”

The SUV pulls away.

The shouting fades behind you.

And your life? Well. It’s never going to be quiet again.

The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe you’re hallucinating. That’s possible too.

Yelena’s sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.

Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.

Yelena hops out and waves you after her. “Don’t look nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“Then pretend you’re not. That’s what we all do.”

You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.

You? You’re in someone else’s hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brain’s still processing “Bob is the Sentry.”

Yelena leads you through a corridor like she’s returning a library book. “Try not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the team’s diversity initiative.”

“…What?”

“Just smile and nod.”

Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. You’re still in someone else’s hoodie, your coffee’s long gone, and you haven’t quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.

She swings open a door, and inside it’s surprisingly normal — couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.

Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.

John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.

Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.

“Well, damn,” Walker says, leaning against the counter. “I thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.”

“John,” Bob says flatly.

“I’m just saying, we’re happy for you, man. It’s cute. Weird, but cute.”

Ghost sips her tea. “He’s been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.”

Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh — and fail. A little.

Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.

She smiles, perfectly calm. “Glad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.”

You blink. “Uh… thanks?”

Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesn’t look up. “So here’s the deal. We can’t exactly walk this story back without making it worse. You’re already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked… well, shockingly competent.”

Bob mumbles, “Thanks?”

Val finally meets your eyes. “So. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.”

You glance at Bob. “Would I… be staying with him?”

Bob visibly stiffens.

Val shrugs. “You’d have your own space. This isn’t The Bachelor. We’re not trying to force anything.”

Bob relaxes.

You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.

“…Okay,” you say. “But I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.”

“Done,” Val says, already walking away. “Yelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.”

Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again — sort of. You’re standing near the couches, and he’s holding a mug like it’s a prop he forgot how to use.

You glance at him. “So.”

He looks up. “So.”

“You, uh… handled that well.”

“I was sweating the entire time.”

You smile. “Didn’t show.”

There’s a pause. The good kind.

“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” he says.

“I’m not,” you admit, then quickly add, “I mean—not the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.”

He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didn’t know he needed.

He fidgets. “For the record, I didn’t just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.

Then, again, he softly says: “Do you think… once this blows over… maybe we could try the real thing?”

You consider it, heart full but calm.

“…We’ll see,” you say.

He grins.

So do you.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy

[4nyangnyangz]

just one time, right? 2️⃣

you asked and I delivered, here's part two!! enjoy <33333

this is a part 2/sequel of “just one time, right?”. i highly suggest reading it first before proceeding with this one!

pairings: pervy roommate!beomgyu x fem reader

tags/warnings: smut/nsfw content, minors dni!! friends to ???, more angst! slow burn, mutual pining(Y/N is still kinda confused lol), masturbation, oral(m and f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex(wrap it before you tap it!!), creampie, gyu is whiny and desperate (he also gets kinda manipulative at some point), fluff, there's probably more I forgot to mention.

wordcount: 7.5k!!

fic below the cut!!

------------------------

It’s been two weeks since that night.

Two weeks since you've kissed your friend. Two weeks since you've let him touch you in ways no one else ever has—since you've made a deal that you’ve repeated in your head so many times that it’s starting to feel less like a rule and more like a lie.

Still, things have stayed the same…on the surface.

You’ve both slipped back into your normal routines—laundry days, late-night ramen runs, and bickering over who left the bathroom light on. Everything looks the same from the outside; You laugh at his dumb jokes, you fight over the game controller like nothing’s changed. Like you didn’t just moan his name with your face buried in his pillow once.

Everything is back to the way it was.

Except…it’s not. Not really.

Because now, you’re aware of him. Really aware of him.

You catch him watching you during dinner, his chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth, eyes lingering just a little too long on your lips as you ramble about your day. When you're sitting on the floor playing games, your knees brushing his just slightly, and he doesn't move it. Sometimes, you catch the warmth of his hand ghosting over the small of your back when he reaches around you for the remote or a drink, like it’s innocent. Like it’s normal.

And you notice.

God, you notice.

You tried to ignore it at first, but how could you? Especially when you can feel your breath hitch when he's a little closer than usual. Your heartbeat skip when he smiles at you in a way that makes your thoughts go haywire. You’re becoming hyper-aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with the way he made you feel that night.

But you tell yourself it’s nothing: You're just confused. A temporary glitch in your brain. Hormones. Residual tension. Whatever excuse you could come up with.

Because if you admit it’s more than that, if you admit you want him again—maybe even miss him—then you have to admit that something between you shifted, that the line you both crossed didn’t disappear after you pulled your dress back on and closed his door.

You keep thinking about what he said that night.

“I’ve always wanted to do this to you.”

“I always thought you were attractive.”

You've been replaying those words in your mind on loop, dissecting them from every possible angle like a problem you’re desperate to solve.

He said he’s wanted you. He's attracted to you. Wanted to touch you. Make you feel good. That much was obvious. But you’ve been clinging to the difference—wanting someone isn’t the same as liking them.

Not in the real way. Not in the “I think about you when you're not around, I want to wake up next to you, I want to know every messy part of you and stay anyway” kind of way.

Maybe it was just about sex. Chemistry. Timing.

Maybe you were just convenient.

And Beomgyu…he’s not the type to—

A soft knock on your door cuts through the haze of your thoughts.

You blink, your heart skipping like it got caught off rhythm. You clear your throat and call out,“Yeah?”

The door creaks open just a little, and Beomgyu peeks his head in.

“Hey,” he says casually. His voice is soft, but it still ripples through you like a shiver. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out to meet the guys. I’ll probably be back late, so I won’t be around for dinner.”

You sit up instinctively, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear and trying very hard not to let your gaze linger. He’s wearing that loose black hoodie he always pairs with ripped jeans and his usual silver chain.

Nothing out of the ordinary, but something about the way it all hangs on him tonight, effortless and cool, makes your stomach flip.

Of course it does.

He’s just standing there. Being him. And somehow that’s enough to throw you off balance.

You nod quickly, too quickly, before responding,“That’s fine. You didn’t have to tell me, you could’ve just… texted.”

He shrugs, leaning a little against the doorframe.“I just figured I’d say it in person.”

His eyes linger for a moment longer, just long enough to make your chest tighten before he reaches for the handle.

“Don’t wait up.” he says softly.

He starts to pull the door behind him when, without thinking, the words tumble from your mouth.

“Beomgyu—wait.”

You don’t even know why you said that. It’s out before your brain catches up, and the door pauses, just a sliver of him still visible. Then, slowly, he peeks his head back in.

His brows are raised slightly in surprise. “Yeah?”

He’s looking at you like you’ve said something important, and now you have to figure out what that something is. Your mouth opens, then closes. Your thoughts are scattered. You wish you had something clever to say, anything that didn’t make your heart feel like it’s about to burst out of your chest.

“I just…” You shift on the bed, your fingers clutching the blanket a little too tightly.

“Can we…talk? Sometime?”

There’s a brief pause. He tilts his head just slightly, looking at you with softened eyes. And then, he nods. A small, quiet motion, but the understanding in his gaze nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

“Yeah, Y/N.” He says,“We can talk.”

“Not right now, of course,” you add quickly, waving a hand,“I mean—you don’t have to. Just… whenever you're ready.”

He gives you a small smile—gentle, warm, a little crooked in the way that always makes your stomach do that stupid thing.

“Okay,” he says,“Let's talk soon.”

And just like that, he’s gone again, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

But this time, the silence he leaves behind feels different. The air suddenly feels heavier for some reason.

-----------------

You’ve shifted in bed at least twenty times now, changed positions, adjusted your blanket, flipped your pillow over for the cooler side—none of it works.

You lie there, eyes wide open and locked onto the ceiling like it might offer some relief, but it doesn’t. It just stares right back, blank and unmoving, while your thoughts swirl like a storm you can’t escape.

Beomgyu.

That night.

You close your eyes tightly as you try to ignore the thoughts that are running through your head, but no matter what you do, you can't seem to stop thinking about him—about what happened.

You remember the heat of his breath against your neck, the pressure of his hips against yours, the sounds he made whenever you moaned into his mouth.

You can't stop thinking about how his body felt on yours, how good it felt to have him on top of you, how good it felt when he was rubbing his cock on your pussy.

You sigh in frustration and close your eyes once more. You turn around on your bed and cover your face with a pillow.

As much as you try to deny yourself, he's all you could ever think about. You've been wanting him again since that night.

You try to push those thoughts away, or forget it even happened, but it's no use. Your body remembers; It aches with the memory of him.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate how badly you still want him— even when you’ve told yourself so many times that it was a one-time thing, that it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Before you know it, your hand slides under the hem of your shirt, tentative at first. You don’t even realize what you’re doing until your fingers graze your skin and your breath catches.

You imagine it’s him. His hands, not yours. His lips at your throat. His voice low and rough, praising you, teasing you. You imagine him kissing you like he's been starved of it. You imagine his weight on top of yours as he touches you.

You want him. You want him so bad that you couldn't think straight.

You take off your shorts and throw it across the room. You start touching yourself, imagining that it was him.

Your hand moves with purpose, mimicking the rhythm of his hips that you so vividly remember from that night. You start imagining him rubbing his cock on your clit. You start imagining his cock sliding between your folds. You start imagining him fucking you.

“Mmm…” you moan softly as your fingers brush against your clit slowly.

Two of your fingers slip inside you, and you gasp at the sudden fullness. They curl upward, and you can't help but arch your back into the pillow, imagining his strong arms holding you down, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

You pump your fingers in and out, increasing the tempo, feeling yourself getting closer to the edge. You're lost in the fantasy, in the delicious torture of wanting him so badly that it physically hurts.

“More please, Beomgyu...” You whisper as you imagine his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone, his teeth nipping at your sensitive flesh, making you squirm and moan for more.

Your thumb circles your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, and you bite your bottom lip to stifle the cry that threatens to escape. Your body tightens, a coil of pleasure winding up tighter and tighter.

“Ahh...! Beomgyu!!” you groan, crying out his name as you come all over your fingers. Your legs start shaking, and your pussy clenches at nothing. Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, and you ride it out.

When you come down from your high, you realize what you've just done. You’re still lying there, chest rising and falling slowly as your pulse calms, but something else starts to settle in the stillness.

Guilt.

Not the light, teasing kind, but the kind that coils in your gut, low and heavy and cold.

Because as the warmth fades from your limbs, reality floods back in—and it hits you all at once.

You just touched yourself.

To the thought of Beomgyu.

Your best friend.

Your roommate.

The same Beomgyu who made you laugh through hangovers, who stayed up with you when you were heartbroken, who’s seen you in ratty pajamas and no makeup and still called you cute just to make you roll your eyes. The same Beomgyu who held you that night two weeks ago like he’d been waiting forever to do it.

But still.

You haven’t even talked since then. Not really. Not about what happened, not about what it meant.

And here you are, lying in your bed in the middle of the night, using the memory of him to get off like it’s some casual fantasy. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. You know it did.

But now, in the dark, tangled up in guilt and craving, you can’t lie to yourself about it. Not really.

You sit up slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on your shoulders. Shame crept up your neck, your cheeks. You run a hand through your hair, exhaling hard, like you could push the thoughts out of your head if you just breathed hard enough.

You haven’t even figured out what you feel yet.

You don’t even know if he likes you. Not the way you’ve started to think about him when it’s quiet. When you let your guard down.

You just know that it felt good, so so good—to pretend; To imagine that he wanted you like that, that he meant what he said that night, that it wasn’t just lust, that it could be more.

You stand up on shaky legs, reaching for your towel with the hope that a hot shower might scrub the thoughts off your skin. You don’t even make it three steps before you hear your phone buzz behind you.

You pause for a moment before turning back.

The screen lights up like a curse. You catch a glimpse of a text notification from Beomgyu appear through your lock screen. You stare at the message.

Beomgyu: I can hear you.

You freeze in place.

The air leaves your lungs in one short, panicked gasp.

No. No fucking way.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a second too long. Your mind is in chaos, racing, spiraling. The longer you wait, the more it feels like you have to say something before the silence turns lethal.

So you type without thinking, leaning on denial like it’s your last defense.

You: what are you talking about?

You hit send and immediately regret it. It’s flimsy. Weak. Painfully obvious. You can already picture the smirk pulling at his lips as he reads it.

His reply is almost immediate.

Beomgyu: I heard you moan my name just now. I know I wasn’t just imagining things.

You flinch, your mouth falling open just slightly.

The flush creeps up your neck so fast you have to sit down. You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself against the full weight of humiliation crashing down on you.

Your hands tremble as you reply again, more desperate this time, like maybe there’s still a way to make this go away.

You: but you literally aren't even home yet??

The dots appear. Then stop. Then appear again.

And then,

Beomgyu: You seriously think I’m still out?

You immediately shift your attention to the top of your phone. Your eyes widen when you see that it's already 1:50 AM.

When did it get so late?

You’d been so lost in your thoughts, so lost in him, that the hours slipped right through your fingers. You’d convinced yourself you were alone, when really… he was here. Maybe in the room next door. Maybe just on the other side of the wall.

And he heard you.

The silence stretches now, this time from you. You stare at the screen, not knowing what to say, not even sure what you could say.

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment when you finally realize what's happening. You didn't even think that he might already be home.

You set the phone down, cover your face with your hands, and groan softly into your palms.

Then — another buzz.

You felt your heart jump into your throat.

You reach for it hesitantly, scared of what he might’ve said next. And when you finally gather the courage to look:

Beomgyu: I’m so hard right now. I need you. Help me out?

You freeze, fingers gripping the edges of your phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. Your heart is pounding — hard enough that you feel it echo in your throat.

You don't know what to say. You don't know how to respond.

Beomgyu: Y/N, please?

Your thumbs hover, unsure and nervous, but also... curious.

You: how?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

The moment stretches. A beat. Two.

Then, your screen lights up again.

Beomgyu: I’m outside your door.

You jolt, head snapping toward the door like it might vanish if you blink.

He’s here?

Like, right now?

You sit up straighter, adrenaline rushing through you in one wild, dizzying wave. You don’t even remember hearing his footsteps— didn’t hear the hallway creak or his soft knock.

But now, he’s standing just on the other side of that door. Waiting.

Your phone buzzes again.

Beomgyu: Open the door for me, please?

Your breath hitches.

With trembling hands, you retrieve your discarded shorts and panties from the floor, sliding them back on in a hasty attempt to regain some semblance of decency.

You take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself before you tiptoe to the door. You pause, one last second of hesitation before slowly pulling it open. The soft click of the lock sounding louder than a gunshot in the stillness of the night.

And there he is.

Beomgyu.

His hair is a mess, like he’d been running his fingers through it over and over. He’s still dressed in what he wore earlier. That effortlessly casual fit that always looked too good on him, but now it’s a little rumpled, like he’d been pacing or shifting anxiously.

His chest is rising and falling faster than usual. And when his eyes meet yours, it knocks the air right out of you.

There's something hungry in them. Unmistakable.

He looks like he wants to say something— maybe explain, maybe apologize — but all of it dies on his tongue as his gaze sweeps over you. Slowly. Almost reverently.

Like you’re the only thing he sees.

And when his eyes return to yours, they’re darker now, filled with something raw, something intense.

He's looking at you with so much hunger in his eyes that it makes you weak in the knees. He looks like he wants to devour you. He looks like he needs you; Like he can't wait another second without you, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You open your mouth slightly to speak, but before you can even say anything, he's already on you.

He pushes you back into your room and closes the door behind him. He pushes you down onto your bed and gets on top of you. He starts kissing you passionately, like he's been wanting to do this for so long.

His hands explore you, tracing the familiar curves and planes of your body, igniting every nerve with each touch. The kiss deepens, and you lose yourself in it—breathless and dizzy.

“Beomgyu,” you murmur against his lips, the sound barely a whisper but loaded with feeling.

He breaks away slowly, eyes dark and shimmering with something raw and desperate.

“Y/N,” he breathes out, his voice thick and husky with desire that it's coming out almost shaky,“I need you. I need you so bad, it’s driving me crazy.”

You hesitate, looking away quickly, your cheeks burning, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” you whisper, “About what happened. Before… before anything else.”

His bottom lip trembles, and his voice drops to a whiny, almost heartbreaking tone.

“That’s not fair,” he says, sounding half upset, half desperate.

“You just—you got off thinking about me, and now that I'm here you won’t even help me? Please, Y/N…” He cups your face, turning your head slightly to make you face him,“Don't beat yourself up about this. We both know you want it. We both know that you want me. I can feel it.”

You couldn't speak. His breathy voice, full of desperation and need, suddenly sends a jolt of electricity throughout your body. He's so close to you, and it's making you dizzy with want.

But you can't just jump into this again without even talking about what happened. That's not how it should be.

“Beomgyu...I—” You try to say something, but you can't. He senses your hesitation, and his eyes soften a little.

You try to pull back, but he tightens his hold gently, eyes begging.“It's okay. We can talk about this afterwards...but right now,” he murmurs, voice cracking,“I need you, please.”

His desperation is almost heartbreaking, and despite every warning in your mind, your body betrays you with a tremble.

He's asking you for permission. He's giving you a chance to back out, but you don't want to. You want this. You want him. And that's all that matters right now.

You nod slowly, giving him the permission he's asking for. You move your hand to the back of his head, slightly pulling him in closer. He gets the hint and immediately captures your lips with his once more.

His hand trails down your body, touching and caressing you everywhere. He knows what he's doing, and it's driving you crazy. His hands are so warm on your skin, and his lips are so soft against yours.

You can't get enough of him. You want more and more of him. You want all of him.

His lips trail down to your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His teeth graze your skin, and it sends shivers down your spine. He's making you feel so good, and you can't get enough of it. He's driving you crazy with desire.

“Been wanting to do this again, couldn't stop thinking about it…” he pulls away just a little, his lips moving up to your ear. He licks your earlobe teasingly as he whispers into your ear, his voice breathy and desperate.

“Fuck, Y/N. You don't know what you do to me.”

He bites your earlobe, and you moan in response. His lips trail down your neck once more, this time to your collarbone. He kisses and licks at the skin there, making you even more aroused.

You can feel his hard cock on your thigh, strained by his pants and it's making you even wetter. You want it. You need it inside of you.

“Beomgyu, please…” You beg, wanting more of him.

He looks up at you and smirks. He knows what you want. He knows what you need.

His lips start trailing down to your chest, his hand pushing your shirt up to reveal your breasts to him. He starts sucking on one of your nipples, making you moan in pleasure. His other hand is squeezing and caressing your other breast, making you even more turned on.

“Beomgyu—!” You can't help but moan as he bites and sucks on your nipples. The sensation was driving you to the edge.

He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention as the other one. His hand is on your thigh now, trailing up to your pussy. He starts rubbing it through your panties, and you can't help but squirm at the sensation.

“You're so fucking wet, I wanna eat you out. Can I? Please?” He asks as he looks up at you with pleading eyes.

You nod, unable to say no to him, not when he's looking at you like that. And especially not when you want it too. He smirks and immediately takes off your panties. He throws them across the room before diving in, eager to taste you.

His mouth is on your pussy, licking and sucking on your clit. His tongue flicks at the sensitive bud, making you moan even louder. He's eating you out like a starving man, like he can't get enough of you. And you love it. You love the way he's making you feel. You love how he's pleasuring you.

His tongue enters your hole, making you moan out his name. His finger enters you as well, pumping in and out of you at a steady pace. His mouth is still on your clit, sucking and licking at it. Adding another finger inside you, he starts to fuck you harder with his fingers, his tongue still on your clit. And it's driving you insane.

“Feels so good...Ah—Beomgyu!” you scream out, the feeling of his tongue and fingers on you all at once becoming too much for your to handle.

You can't help but move your hips, trying to get more friction. You want more of him. You need more of him.

You feel yourself getting close and close to your release, but Beomgyu suddenly stops.

You look at him, confused and frustrated at the same time. You were so close, and yet...

“Shit. Sorry, Y/N,” he pulls away from your cunt, his face covered with your juices as he apologizes. His voice is breathy and shaky as he quickly takes off his clothes.

“S-sorry…I can't hold it…need you to touch me…” He says as he hurries to take off his hoodie. His hands are quick to unbuckle his belt, and soon he's pulling his pants down along with his boxers, freeing his hard cock. He throws his clothes across the room, not caring where it lands.

You take him in, his naked frame hovering above you. You can’t help but let out a soft gasp at the sight of him.

Heat rushes straight to your core as you take in the sight of his naked body. Your cunt is leaking, and you know you’re already wet for him.

He sees the shift in your expression, and a knowing smirk forms on the corners of his lips. His eyes darken with lust as he looks at you, taking in the way you’re looking at his body. He knows you like what you see.

Without saying anything, he takes your hand and slowly guides it to his hard cock. It’s already leaking pre-cum, and you can feel the heat radiating from it. You can see the pre-cum oozing out of the tip, and you find yourself licking your lips at the sight. You want to taste him. You want to feel his cock in your mouth.

He moans softly as your hand wraps around his cock. You start pumping it, feeling him twitch in your hand as you stroke him.

“F-fuck, Y/N…keep going…” He moans, his eyes closing in pleasure as you move your hand faster.

However, your hand slows down as you lean closer to him. You plant a kiss on the tip of his cock, looking up at him with pleading eyes— as if asking for his permission to take him into your warm mouth.

His eyes open at the sudden change of pace, and he looks at you through hooded eyes. He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. He’s looking at you with so much need and desire that it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, like you’re the only one who can satisfy him.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice breathy and hot with need,“You wanna suck me off?”

“Mhmm...” You nod, looking at him expectantly.“Can I?” You ask, your voice soft and gentle. He groans at your words, his hips bucking slightly.

Beomgyu's eyes widen a fraction, and he nods vigorously, the anticipation thick in the air.“Yes, yes, please.” He whispers, his voice strained with need.

You lean in, your plush lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue swirling around the tip as you taste the saltiness of his pre-cum. You take him in deeper, inch by inch, feeling his size stretch your mouth. His eyes roll back in pleasure, his hands finding your hair, threading through the strands as he guides your movements.

You suck him with a passionate hunger that matches his own, your cheeks hollowing as you take him deeper, your tongue sliding along the underside of his shaft. The room fills with the sound of your wet, sloppy mouth working him over, and his harsh breaths and grunts of pleasure.

He's so hard, and you know you're doing it right. You moan around his cock, the vibration sending shivers through him.

“Feels so fucking good...” He gasps, his grip on your hair tightening.

You look up at him, your eyes watering slightly, but you don't stop. You love the way he looks at you when you're like this, like you're the only thing in the world that matters to him.

And just when you think you can't take it anymore, he pulls away, panting,“Wait—not like this, Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with need.“I want to be inside you when I cum.”

Your heart skips a beat and you nod, your cheeks flushed at his words. You're ready for him. You're ready to feel him inside you. You want him to fill you up, to make you his. And you know he wants it just as much as you do.

He moves closer to you, his lips capturing yours in a passionate kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, tasting you, claiming you. His hands roam your body, touching every inch of you. His touch sets your skin on fire, and you feel like you're going to explode with need. You’re desperate for his touch, your body aching for his cock.

He breaks the kiss, his eyes dark with desire as he looks down at you. He positions his cock at your entrance, making you gasp as his warm cock slips between your wet folds. He rubs himself on your slit, making you even wetter.

“Fuck…” He breathes out, hissing curses under his breath as he feels how wet you are.

You feel his tip hitting your sensitive clit, and you can’t help but moan.

“Beomgyu...stop teasing…” You groan, your grip on his arm tightening.

You can’t take it anymore. You need him inside you. Now. You’re so wet, and you can feel your juices running down your thighs. You want to feel every inch of him inside you. You need to feel him stretch you out, to feel him pumping in and out of your tight hole. You want to feel your cunt gripping his cock like a vice. You want to be his, and you want him to be yours. And you want it all right now.

You move your hand from his arms to cup his cheek. You gaze at his dark, lust-filled eyes, your fingers moving to touch his soft, swollen lips.

“Please… I need you inside…” You manage to breathe out.

You know there’s no turning back after this, but you don’t care. You want him. You need him. You can’t deny yourself anymore. You can’t deny the way you feel about him. You’ve wanted him since that night, and now you have him.

He looks down at you, his eyes filled with so much desire that you can’t help but feel like you’re going to combust. His fucked-out face immediately darkens, like a switch has been flipped.

“Yeah? How badly do you wanna have it, huh?” He coos, his voice husky and teasing. His fingers find your clit once more, rubbing circles on the sensitive nub. You throw your head back and moan, unable to control yourself. His touch is driving you crazy with want. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s making you feel things you’ve never felt before.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear.“How badly do you want my cock inside you? Tell me, baby.” He whispers, his hot breath fanning over your ear.

You felt heat rush to your core at his words, the pet name sending shivers all over your body, your pussy clenching at the thought of finally having him inside you.

“I need it,” you whisper back, your voice breathy with need.“I need your cock, Beomgyu. Want you to fill me up, please…” You moan, your hips bucking up to meet his fingers.

He groans, and you can feel his cock twitch against your slit. He wants you just as much as you want him.

“Please, Beomgyu…” You beg, your hands gripping his hair tightly,“Please, I need you…” Your voice trails off into a soft moan as his fingers continue to work on your clit.

“Fuck…” You hear him whisper, his voice strained.“You want my cock that bad, huh? Gonna feel so fucking good, baby… gonna make you feel so good…” He smirks, his eyes gleaming with desire as he continues to rub your clit.

You nod, biting your lip as you look up at him,“Yes… yes… please… Beomgyu, I need it… want your cock so bad…” You moan out, your hands moving to grip his arms.

He groans again, his cock twitching against your slit once more.“Fuck, if you keep begging like that… I'm gonna give you what you want, baby… Gonna fill you up so good…” He whispers, his voice husky with lust.

He slowly pushes inside you, inch by inch. You gasp as you feel him stretching you out. His cock is so big, and it feels so good inside you; It felt so much better than you ever imagined.

“Ah!” You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips as you feel him bottoming out. He’s so deep inside you, and it feels amazing.

He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, but he soon starts moving, pulling out until just the tip is in before slamming back inside. You cry out, your hands gripping the sheets tightly.

He starts pumping in and out, his thrusts becoming faster and harder. His cock is hitting all the right spots, and you know you won’t last long.

“Fuck, you’re so tight…” He moans out, his voice strained.“So fucking wet… just for me…” He bites his lip, his eyes rolling back in pleasure.“You like that? You like my cock inside your tight little hole, baby?” He looks down at you with a grin, his thrusts never stopping.

“Yes!” You can’t help but cry out as you feel your orgasm approaching.“Yes, yes, Beomgyu! Mmmh..!!” His name is a moan on your lips, and he loves the sound of it. He loves the way you're moaning his name.

“Yeah? You love my cock, don’t you?” He smirks as he thrusts even harder and faster into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

“Yes! Yes, I love it! Feels so good!” You moan out, unable to stop yourself. You love the way his cock feels inside you. It feels so right. It feels like it belongs there.

He grunts, his thrusts becoming erratic,“I'm about to cum soon, baby…” He groans out, “Wanna cum inside you so bad, make you mine… gonna let me fill you up?” His eyes darken with need as he looks down at you.

“Yes! Yes! Please, Beomgyu! I'm so close... please..!!” You beg, your orgasm nearing. You want to cum on his cock so badly. You want to feel it inside you when you cum. You need it.

He smirks down at you as he thrusts harder and faster. You feel yourself reach your high as you start cumming, your pussy clenching around his cock tightly. He groans, his thrusts slowing down as he cums deep inside you.

You feel his hot cum filling you up, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips. It feels so good, so right.

“Fuck, Y/N…” He moans as he pulls out, his cum leaking out of your pussy. You look at him, your eyes filled with desire and satisfaction. You know you made the right choice. You know this is what you wanted. You wanted him. And now you have him. And it felt amazing.

He soon rolls over to his back, breathing heavily from his release. You turn to your side to face him, and you soon find yourself drowning in thoughts once again, the ones you buried before when you made your decision, the feelings you never had the courage to express.

And the reality hits you once again.

You just fucked your roommate.

You just let your best friend cum inside you like it was the most normal thing to do.

You don’t even know if he feels the same way as you do. If he likes you more than a friend. If he wanted you more than just sex. You don't even fucking know if he wants you again after this.

You were about to spiral once again when you felt his fingers glaze over your ear, tucking a strand of hair that was blocking your face. You’re immediately snapped out of it when you meet his gaze. He looks at you intently, like he’s trying to convey everything without words. You felt your heart skipping a beat when he looks at you like that, like you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. You see the expression in his eyes shift, but this time it’s different; It's not filled with lust.

His eyes are filled with something you’re more familiar with, one you always see in his eyes when he looks at you but tries his best to hide— the way he always looked at you like this but pretends it’s not what it looks like.

“Do you… like me?” You blurt out, immediately regretting it the moment you did.

He's taken aback, and you mentally slapped yourself.

That was so stupid! Why did you do that? Why did you have to ask that?! What if he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore after this? What if—

“Are you kidding, Y/N?” Beomgyu says seriously, almost offended as if you asked him if the Earth is flat.

You look at him like a deer caught in the headlights, not knowing what to say.

“Of course I do,” he says with finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. You blink in surprise, not expecting him to answer that so fast.

“You’re my best friend. I love spending time with you. I can't spend a day without thinking about you. I like you… I like you so much.” He looks at you with his signature smile, the one he always gives you when he’s teasing you. But this time, there’s no teasing. There’s no denying. It’s all out there in the open. You see the sincerity in his eyes, the fondness, the love. You see everything.

“Yeah. I like you, Y/N. Fuck, more than that, actually. I’m in love with you, and have been for so long,” he says, a hint of shyness in his voice as he admits his feelings.

You can’t believe what you’re hearing. The realization hits you, and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. He likes you. He’s been in love with you this whole time, and he's finally telling you. And he’s not just saying it because he wants to have sex with you again— He’s saying it because it’s true. He’s saying it because he means it. He’s saying it because you’re asking him to.

“Since when?” You find yourself asking, your voice barely a whisper. You're in shock. You can't believe you're actually having this conversation with him.

Beomgyu chuckles softly,“Since the day I met you. You caught my eye the moment I saw you.” He looks into your eyes, his gaze soft.“You stole my heart from the moment you first smiled at me,” he confesses, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask, your voice still soft, but this time there's a tinge of sadness in your voice.

“I was afraid. Afraid of losing you. Afraid of ruining what we had. I was content with just being your friend, your roommate.” He sighs, his eyes looking away from yours, “But then that night happened. And I couldn’t hide it anymore. I couldn’t pretend anymore.” He turns to look at you again.

“I couldn’t stop myself from kissing you. I couldn't help but want you for myself.”

The moment he said that, everything suddenly clicked. You felt so stupid for not realizing this sooner.

You suddenly remembered all those times you became more aware of him when he lingered his gaze on you for just a second longer than he should have. His soft touches that were just a little too long. The way he knew exactly what your favorite foods are, and he’d buy them for you. The way he’d put his games on hold just to listen to you rant about your day. The way he would tell you to stop going out on dates with guys, even though he wouldn’t say why. You thought he was just being nice. You thought he was being a good roommate, a good friend. You thought that’s just how he is.

But now you know the truth. He did it all because he loves you. He did it all for you, because of you.

Because he's in love with you.

You felt your heart beating so fast at the realization, your head dizzy with thoughts you never thought possible.

“Beomgyu…” You start, unsure of how to continue. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know where this is going. You don’t know if this changes anything. You don’t know…

“It’s okay,” he says, as if reading your mind. “You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he reassures you.

“No, I—It’s just…” You trail off, looking away from his gaze.

You don’t know how to tell him. You don’t know how to put into words all the thoughts that are running in your head right now.

“It’s just… I never thought of you in that way… I always thought that I was looking too much into it whenever I noticed how you tried to make me aware of you… it was never anything more than that to me before, but then… after that night… I- I didn’t want to stop thinking about it… about you… I couldn't get you out of my head... and I don’t know what it means, I-”

The words came tumbling out of your mouth without you even noticing, but you knew he can already piece it all together.

You look up at him, expectantly, almost pleading him to help you understand what you're feeling. He just chuckles and kisses you on the forehead, stopping you in your tracks.

“Sorry, you’re just too cute, I couldn’t help it.” He mutters, his eyes filled with fondness as he stares at you. You feel your cheeks heating up, and you don’t know what else to say. You just feel your heart skip a beat.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he starts, his voice soft and reassuring,“It’s okay to not know how you feel right now. It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I just… I just wanted to let you know how I feel. I wanted you to know that I’m here for you, no matter what.” His eyes are filled with sincerity, and you can see the truth in his words.

He’s telling the truth. He means it. And you can feel it in your heart.

He loves you. And you love him.

You want to tell him, to let him know, but you don’t want to say anything you’ll regret.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

“Beomgyu, I'm—” You start again, looking him in the eyes.

“I…” You trail off again, your mind going in circles. You don’t want to make a mistake.

You don’t want to hurt him, but you also don’t want to lie to him.

You don’t want him to think that you don’t care.

You don’t want him thinking that you don’t feel anything for him.

You open your mouth again, trying to find the right words, but Beomgyu cuts off your attempt.

“You don’t happen to have any plans today, do you?” He says suddenly, catching you off guard.

You shake your head immediately, confused by the change of topic.

“Great. Then go on a date with me, and you can tell me how you feel then.” He smiles, that annoying, confident smirk of his plastered on his face.

You're stunned. You can't believe what he just said. You can't believe he just asked to take you out, but at the same time, you can't help but feel the warmth in your chest. You feel like you're feeling everything all at the same time.

You take a deep breath and manage to get your words out.

“Okay. Let’s do that.”

He smiles and kisses you again, this time on the lips. You can’t help the butterflies that flutter in your stomach, and you can’t help but smile back at him.

“Now, go take a shower and get ready. I’ll take you out on the best date ever.”

You laugh and roll your eyes,“Pretty confident there, aren’t we?” You tease him.

“Of course. I’ve seen all your failed attempts at dating. I know what not to do now,” he chuckles.“Plus, I’m going to show you how much you’ve been missing out on by not dating me sooner,” he adds, that annoying smirk back on his face again.

You roll your eyes again at his remark, but you can’t help the warmth that spreads in your chest. He’s being so absurd, so full of himself… and yet, it makes your stomach do somersaults. It makes your heart skip a beat. It makes you smile.

You hit his chest playfully, pushing him away from you.“Ugh, whatever. Just go shower already,” You say, hiding yourself under the covers.

“I’ll go shower first then. Feel free to join me if you want,” he teases you before you can stop him.

“You wish!” You scream back, hearing him chuckle as he closes your door.

You hear his laughter fading away as he goes back to his room.

You’ve been on so many dates with so many guys, and none of them made you feel the way you're feeling right now. You already knew you were going to have the time of your life, even before the date even started. You've never felt so happy, excited, and nervous all at once before.

And then you realized, everything suddenly becoming clear to you.

You already knew what your answer to Beomgyu is going to be.

-------------------

a/n: hey oomfs i'm back!! i missed everyone here so much 😩 just dropped a new Beomgyu fic that I wasn't expecting to get so much attention in just a few days, y'all are the best!! i also didn't want to end the fic there so here's part two!! i hope y'all enjoyed reading this and I'll be back with more(currently working on a draft for Kai..) so stay tuned!! also special thanks to my beloved estelle for the pretty header <33333

taglist: @tyunzznluvr @interestellear @hyunelixbun @dawngyu @tubasmiracle @no1likemybbgcharlie @lovesickchoi-reads @xylatox @delugyu part 2 is finally out!! I hope y'all enjoy this one too!! 🙏

[riricatria]

Greetings, greetings~

*slides into room* Sunny, ♫ ♪ ♬ ♪ yesterday my life was filled with rain ♫ ♪ ♫

Giggling, blushing, screaming, kicking my feet while reading your comments and asks ( ∩´ ᐜ `∩) I'm truly flattered by the feedback! I got an especially heartfelt ask on the Aventurine profile regarding the A/N, thanks for that! ♡

I'm a bit torn on who to write a profile for next, so I welcome opinions on that! Maybe Jing Yuan or Blade? Argenti, even?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

CONTENT WARNINGS INCLUDE: Dark content (dead dove), cisfem!Reader, hair-pulling, threat of breaking bones, the general stuff that comes with yandere content (obsessiveness, possessiveness, captivity...), reader is put in a cage, mind control, slap on face, degradation, forced non-schmexual touching, restraints, a bit of sadism, NONCON, restraints, fingering, some breath-play, pet-play, edging, mind control, brief butt stuff, sadism, praise (kind of), Sunday is pretty cruel.

Disclaimers can be found in my pinned post. The template is heavily inspired by @/cinnamonest!

S-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 1. General look: How are they like? How do they behave around the darling? Are there any warning signs?

The head of the Oak Family, Sunday, is an exemplary man. Or, at least, that’s what you’ve gathered from the limited time you’ve had the honour of spending in his presence. He dresses elegantly, he’s always on time, he speaks in a tone that conveys nothing short of self-assurance, and the words he utters are, without a miss, perspicuous. His way of leading leaves no room for hesitation. It’s nothing short of admirable.

You and him first meet by chance when you’re roaming around in the Dreamscape. It’s just an ordinary time: You’re waiting in line by one of the food trolleys. There’s still a few people ordering before you, but you start searching for your money in advance nonetheless. You dig around in your bag, trying to find your wallet amongst all the stuff in there, rummaging through each pocket with one hand. And, when you do find your wallet, it slips from your grasp and falls onto the ground. A curse makes it past your lips, but before you can crouch down to pick the item up, another hand has already wrapped its fingers around it.

You stand up, preparing to thank the person for their help, but instead, your mouth is left hanging ajar. You recognize the man: It’s one of the most prominent figures on the entire planet: Pale blue hair, a white suit, and most notably, the little wings of a halovian that poke out from behind his neck. It’s difficult to mistake him for anybody else — Sunday.

He hands the wallet back to you with a polite nod and a smile. You shake yourself out of the befuddlement before proceeding to sputtering out apologies and words of gratitude. It’s already embarrassing to have someone picking up your stuff from the sidewalk, but it's even more so when the person is someone of his status. It’s incredibly rare for a woman like you to end up in the company of somebody like him.

In your flustered state, you continue babbling away at him until he reaches for your shoulder. He gives it a gentle pat and lets you know that ”he’s not bothered at all”. Your heart skips a beat.

You never knew that the strict man you saw on the articles was such a courteous and gentle person behind the scenes. Compared to the image you had of him, he’s also not that tall, even though the pictures of him depict him looking down at the vast crowds of Penaconians. It’s not to say that he doesn’t look the exact same otherwise, down to the clothes he wears, but the sight of him is, admittedly, a little less threatening in person. And, he has got a pleasant and calm voice, too.

You can’t help the blush that rises onto your cheeks. He has a very distinct charm to him, through and through. From the way he looks you right in the eye to how his little wings flutter along with his movements… Oh my. If you were anybody else, you would have fallen in love right then and there. But, he’s just a guy, and you’re just a girl, and you have places to be, as unfortunate as that reality is. It’s your turn to buy your food, and you bid him a wave of goodbye before walking away with your fresh snack. He responds to the gesture.

The second time you run into him is also by pure coincidence. It’s in the Dreamscape’s Golden hour, yet again: You merely brush against each other on the bustling street. Obviously, you notice him the moment your eyes land on his form but ultimately decide not to say hi to him. He meets at least a dozen new people every day, and you don’t think you’re anyone special among those, so there’s no chance that he could even recall your face. However, against your expectations, he recognizes you in a heartbeat, and he stops in his tracks in favour of turning around to greet you.

The two of you engage in a short yet joyful conversation, chatting about this and that — it’s mundane things like how gorgeous the place looks, how much fun you’ve had today, what you’re going to do next. You mention how you can’t believe that he would remember you, and that you’re truly honoured to be able to have yet another encounter with him. He nods along, speaking cordial words and uttering ingenious phrases. Just like the first time, you’re left with a delightful impression of him.

Oh, if only you knew what’s truly going on in his head.

It would be near impossible for you to glimpse the sinister side of him. The truth is meticulously hidden behind all the pleasantries and witty expressions. Nothing in his demeanour raises the warning signs. You don’t have the slightest idea of what kind of a person you’re truly dealing with.

Only a select few minds in the entire universe have been blessed with such skill to effortlessly deceive as he has. It’s a distinct, morally dubious trait that’s only found in the most established people in the cosmos. Considering it’s nature, the people in question usually end up pursuing a career in the criminal world since such prowess is, without a doubt, a priceless tool to have in that field. He, however, has found particular success with it when it comes to furthering his most recent goal.

You see, the case with Sunday is that he has most likely been in search of a darling for a while before he happened to stumble upon you. With all the responsibilities he has to face in the shoes that he fills, it’s no wonder that a certain part of his psyche would begin desiring a target to take all of his uncertainty out on. His job is incredibly demanding: He has to be in charge of a countless number of things, pulling at each of the strings to achieve nothing short of a perfect result, and that leaves very little time to pursue personal relationships. Such is the life of the Oak Family head: It’s a lonely position to be in.

No matter the amount of adroitness he has been granted by the Aeons, there’s still something crucial missing in his days. There’s currently a single person in the entire world that he could refer to as one he holds dear — that person being his sister — but as even Robin is straying farther and farther away from him, he comes to the realization that a certain specific, selfish need of his is no longer being fulfilled.

After the first time he ran into you, it cannot be said that he was immediately obsessed. He’s a reasonable man, so a more adequate description would be that his interest has been piqued. You’re attractive to him, like a fascinating, new concept, he admits to himself, but that’s where it ends. Though, it’s not like he meets people that catch his eye on a regular basis — it may very well be less than a yearly occurrence — but you have successfully crossed that threshold. He just isn’t entirely certain yet.

However, on the second instance, even a level-headed person like him must ponder if the concept of fate truly exists. Truth to be told, the entire conversation you have with him, more or less, goes in one of his ears and right out of the other. Despite seeming fully present, he’s operating completely in autopilot mode. Sure, he answers and asks smart questions, keeps you engaged in the discussion, but in his head, he’s going over entirely different matters. Namely, how he’s going to get you for himself.

You won’t catch even the tiniest hint of what he’s planning while you’re busy gushing at him about how wonderful Robin’s last performance was, how big of a fan you are, how you’re looking forward to seeing her perform again. He smiles, nods along, gestures with his hands. He knows he’s skilled in disguising his true intentions, but for him not to raise a single question in your mind is truly a wonder. You’re so gullible.

After your little reunion has concluded, he’s left standing in the middle of the sidewalk with an abundant amount of thoughts rushing through his head. His eyes are glued to your back as you disappear back into the crowd, mixing into the sea of colours that is the Golden Hour’s scene. His chest bubbles with unfamiliar emotion.

The idea of you won’t leave his mind even when he exits the Dreamscape several hours after. He can still feel your warmth, hear your voice, smell your scent, see your delicate form in his mind’s eye. It’s so vivid that he has to wonder if he’s hallucinating. However, even though the current course of affairs is already alarming enough on its own, it’s only the first few steps of the spiral he’s going to be sucked into.

Sunday contemplates the idea of getting to know you in the standard, societally acceptable way for a day or two. He promptly rules that option out, however, since it would require asking you out on a date. It would be a risk both regarding his position and the possibility that you may decline the advance. Someone like him can’t just approach a woman and expect the media not to turn it into a circus. Besides, what he’s feeling is less of an innocent crush and more of a budding obsession. He recognizes it himself, but after a little bit of ”careful consideration”, he’s surprisingly fine with the idea. Someone like you is incapable of truly caring for themselves, anyway, he thinks.

As soon as he makes up his mind about you being ”the one”, he starts preparing a room for you to stay in in Penacony — in his house, more specifically. This extends to both the Dreamscape and the reality. He has already done some devising by this point, but now, as his plans are finally about to bear fruit, he allows himself to get excited about it. He starts gathering a list of all the things you’ll need in your new home: A bed, a dreampool, a wardrobe (oh, he has to get you some clothes, too), you’ll be needing a bathroom of your own for when he’s away, the security systems must be updated, he needs to install a few cameras… There’s a lot to take into account. Ah, he has to build a few more locks on the door, and the cuff stems have to be attached to the wall, too.

Most importantly, though, a metal cage needs to be built in the corner of your room. He isn’t delusional: He knows that you won’t be particularly enthusiastic about the change in your life, so he has to be prepared for your attempts to… protest. Moreover, it’s going to be much more convenient to lock you in the cage opposed to tying you down completely. Unlike with all your limbs restrained, you can still move around in there, but there won’t be anything that you can take your anger out on.

He’s not a savage, either. You’ll have a mattress for yourself in the enclosure. He wouldn’t make you sleep on the cold hard ground, no, that would be terrible for your body. That, and the cage has to be high enough for you to be able to stand straight. He can’t have your back developing deformities because of the constant hunching you would have to do. All in all, he’s incredibly meticulous about the groundwork.

The workers that eventually have to construct and renovate the place to Sunday’s liking are to be pitied. Throughout the entire process, he sees the men exchanging doubtful looks between each other, and the cage hasn’t even been brought in yet. He oversees the efforts, making sure that everything is flawless for when the day of your arrival comes, peeking over the men’s shoulders with a serene expression. Though they don’t express it out loud, it’s obvious that they’re not thrilled about having someone like him breathing on their necks while they work on the more-than-suspicious personal project of the Oak Family head. It’s a little amusing to him, even; how none of the workers dare to question his plans or even cautiously inquire what the room will be used for.

Though, at one point, the boldest man out of the bunch asks him if it’s on purpose that the room cannot be unlocked from the inside. Perhaps there is an error in the blueprints, he gently suggests, but Sunday simply smiles at him and lets him know that ”no, the blueprints are as they’re meant to be”. Whatever is going on behind the worker’s eyes would be a curious sight to see, judging from the way he quickly averts his gaze before returning to his task. Obviously, the project is starting to look more like a prison cell than a leisure space or a spare bedroom. Little do the workers know that their initial thought is, in fact, correct.

All the while Sunday is preparing for the calamity that is soon to befall you, you’re out there, free, living your best life. For the little time you have left, he lets you do just that. You look awfully happy when you’re exploring all that the Dreamscape has to offer, enjoying the sights, experiencing the wonders without a single care in the world. It’s a bit of a shame that he has to take all of that away from you. It’s a heinous thing to do, but just this once, he hopes that the Aeons will avert their gaze.

˗ˏˋ ★ 2. Securing: How will they abduct their darling? When, where and how?

His method of kidnapping you is meticulously planned, well thought-out, and completely and utterly inescapable. There’s literally nothing you can do to prevent it aside from leaving the planet on the next ticket.

Sunday informs the Bloodhounds that they have a little bit of work cut out for them. Namely, they are to transport an entire person out of a certain room in the Reverie hotel. Naturally, when he airs the request to the less-than-zealous workers, their first assumption is that the man in front of them is cracking some strange, obscure joke. One of them even lets out a half-hearted laugh to appease him. Very quickly, though, they understand that Sunday is, in fact, serious about it. The matter is not questioned further.

Being the head of the Oak Family, Sunday has certain privileges on the planet that the regular guests don’t necessarily even know about. One of those privileges is that he has access to each and every room in the hotel if he so desires. That day, he happens to want to visit a certain number with a couple of bloodhounds to ”assure his safety”.

You’re completely unaware of the danger that you’re in. Still submerged in the comforting warmth of the dreampool, your other body is wandering around somewhere in the Scape. Your face is relaxed, completely devoid of any expression or indication that you know what is about to happen to you.

The Bloodhound men look at each other behind Sunday’s back, sharing a collective glance of ”what the hell”. If he was in their shoes, he would strongly be considering booking it, but a profession such as this has no room for weak-minded people, and so, neither of the men turn their backs to him. For how concerned they seem to be about you, they’re completely oblivious to how they’re about to become victims themselves in the next few seconds. Most likely, they don’t get a chance to choke out a single word before their minds become hazy, and eerie, wavy patterns fill the edges of their vision. It’s a shame that he won’t get to enjoy their psychological torment any further than that since, unfortunately, having witnesses to the act is out of the question.

Sunday won’t be caught in the act himself, of course. The only thing that the outsiders will get to see is four people walking out of a certain room with strangely dull expressions on their faces. He marvels at the passing people’s reactions at the strange phenomenon for a moment before using the Harmony to make sure that they remember none of it. The same will go for the two bloodhounds as soon as the mission has been concluded.

The place of his residence is located outside of the Reverie hotel, and to take you there, he needs to drive. He’s not going to do that himself, just in case somebody were to catch him in the act, so it’s much more convenient to have the two men conduct the dirty tasks. He’s not particularly worried about being stopped by the authorities since he can always just use his tricks on them, but the less people that are affected, the better. The more targets there are, the riskier the practice becomes. That’s why he settles on sitting on the backseat with you leaning against him as one of the bloodhounds parks the vehicle in front of his grand house. He makes sure to thoroughly conceal their memories of the event before sending them back on their way.

By the time you wake up, you’ll be safely confined in the room he designed just for you. He observes you through the surveillance cameras, peering at the screen as your body twitches awake. He hopes that you won’t be too perturbed about the sudden change in scenery, but based on the way your face falls, he’s going to have some explaining to do. As much as he wishes that you seeing him would bring a smile to your face, the mischievous part of him simply cannot wait to hear your appalled gasp when you realize just who the one behind it all is.

˗ˏˋ ★ 3. Life: What is it like to live with them? How do they treat the darling?

Your life with Sunday is strictly bound by routine from the day one. He’s austere when it comes to the structure of his day, he was raised that way, so naturally, his habits extend to you.

For the first week or so, he allows you to question him, to protest his ways. He responds to your inquiries to the best of his ability, articulating his answers in a calm and poised manner, explaining your circumstances for as many times as you would like. He doesn’t particularly appreciate the way you mostly scream at him and attempt to throw hands, but he understands that you’re in a strange, new situation — some pushback is to be expected. He probably gives you an entire room tour like a real estate agent, presenting everything that he has prepared for you with a proud expression on his features. You can only blink at him in disbelief as he leads you to the cage and recites the words ”stainless steel and impossible to wear down”. The audacity of this man is unrivalled.

Though, after your grace period is over, your ”normal life” will begin. From that point onward, your misdeeds and bad behaviour will be punishable offences, and your questions about his plans will mostly go unanswered. He gave you ample time to get used to your new surroundings, and if that wasn’t enough for you, that’s a ”you”-problem, he concludes. Besides, most of your later complaints are about things like ”there’s no windows”, ”it’s so gloomy in here” and ”he can’t just lock you away from the rest of the world” after you realized that he’s immune to the insults and demands you have been hurling at him. Yes, he understands that the room is a bit sombre, but you could technically be seen through a window if there was one, and so, he decided against having that. He could install a screen that mimics the view of the outside world, though, if you would like. He barely dodges the glob of saliva that you sit his way.

That being said, you wake up at the same time every morning, and the two of you eat breakfast together in your room at the table he constructed for this specific purpose. You don’t get that much time to finish your food, though, because he is to leave for his work in the Dreamscape’s Dewlight Pavilion soon after, and you’re coming with him. You have your own little prison there, too, and it's where you’ll be staying for most of the day. It’s not as dismal as your regular room in the real world: There’s even a window that faces the gorgeous landscape of the Moment of Morning Dew. It’s nice to be able to see the sky, even if it’s only a fabrication. That, and you’re usually alone for this part of your day since the man is busy with his own affairs.

The space you’re allowed to roam in in the Dreamscape is much more spacious than your regular room, too. He isn’t as concerned about you trying to leave since there’s usually nobody around in this Hour, anyway. If you’ve been agreeable, he might permit you to explore the Pavilion’s interior. There’s not that much to see there, though, the hallways are dull and empty at best, but regardless, you’re happy to get to move around more. He takes note of how you seem a bit more energetic after getting some time to wander around, so these instances get more frequent further into your captivity. It’s also convenient for him since you can’t exactly escape via the dream world: Shaking yourself out of the slumber will only get you sent back into your room in the reality.

When he’s done with work, you either leave the Dreamscape, and the rest of your day is spent in his house, more or less in his immediate vicinity, or he might take you to visit the other corners of the dream realm. It’s only the most secluded locations, obviously, and the entire time, you’re glued to his side. Compared to the alternative, it’s a pleasant time despite the rotten company you’re forced to be in.

In the evening, you’ll be back in reality. The two of you share dinner, either eating in your room or sometimes in his, albeit it’s an incredibly rare occasion. Then, when the night comes rolling around, he sees you to the bed (always the exact same time), tucking you in and shackling one of your ankles to the chain that connects to the wall. He himself stays up an hour or two longer, usually doing some leisurely activity like reading a book, but eventually, he either joins you in the bed or goes on to sleep in his own bedroom. It depends on what mood he has been in during the day. Curiously enough, he will leave you to sleep alone only if the day has been an unremarkable one. If the day was pleasant or downright horrible, he will prefer to have you in his arms for the night. The ”downright horrible” aspect does include you being disagreeable, too. You don’t know what it is with him, but you have noticed that the chances of him cuddling you only increase the meaner you are to him. It’s a peculiar equation.

Furthermore, his favourite position to sleep in is with you in his hold, his chest against your back. One of his arms is draped over your body, preventing you from squirming too much or trying to create distance between you and him. One of his wings will also come down to rest on the side of your head, the feathers stroking your temple. There are no other alternatives; this is the position the two of you sleep in if you share a bed. He’s very fastidious about it, too, though he would never admit it out loud.

Lastly, a lot of tiny aspects in your daily life are controlled by him. You don’t, for example, really get to choose what you wear. He sets out your clothes for you, and he sometimes even dresses you up himself. He tends to doll you up a bit, too, even though there’s nobody else but him that gets to see the sight of you. You conclude that it must be him emulating what it would be to live a normal life with you. You’re not too thrilled about having to play a role in his fantasies, but to be fair, even you yourself would prefer looking pretty to resembling a sogged-up origami bird in appearance. He occasionally buys accessories for you to wear, too, like necklaces and hair ornaments.

You don’t get to decide what you’re going to eat, where he’s going to take you in the Scape, when you’re going to bathe, nothing. Of course, if you’re feeling brave, you could offer a kind suggestion to him, asking him if you could maybe do this or that, but it’s likely that he won’t oblige. He has his preferences, and it’s much easier for you to just go along with them.

˗ˏˋ ★ 4. Rules: What kind of rules do they enforce? How lenient are they? How do they keep their darling in check?

True to his style, Sunday has a coherent set of rules for you, all detailed with possible irregularities and exceptions. There’s quite a lot of them, but he has written them down on a list for you to read through. And, you come to find that they are very thoroughly considered.

The core rules go as follows: 1, Always do what he says regardless of what he’s asking of you. 2, Do not attempt to flee unless exposed to imminent danger (e.g. fire). 3, Do not attempt to hurt him or yourself. 4, Do not attempt to resist him under any circumstances unless a matter requires his immediate attention. 5, Only speak when spoken to. 6, He has the right to change these rules any time he so wishes.

You look at the list, then you look up at him, back at the list, back at him. Them, you immediately take the liberty of breaking the fifth rule and start insulting both him and the thing, sparing no curses nor words. He, despite having expected an outburst, is a tiny bit taken aback by the sheer volume of your voice and the strength you muster up to try and free yourself of your bindings. Disobedience is among the top three things he cannot stand in this world, but still, he supposes that he can forgive your misdemeanour this once without a consequence. It is only the first week in your new life, after all; he would be a bit too cruel of a man if he didn’t allow you even a bit of leeway.

Though, that ends up being the last time your offences go unpunished. ”On the seventh day, grant dignity”, and so on. He’s very particular about the rules he has set out for you, and he expects you to follow them to a T. Though, if your offence is dancing the line between being admissible and being deserving of a punishment (especially if the act was accidental), he tends to let it slide. It only means that he has to make the rules more definite. Although, he does let you know that your common sense ought to have shunned you away from the act. If you constantly keep committing slight deeds of disobedience, he won’t look at them through his fingers much longer. This applies to the inadvertent instances, too.

When it comes to keeping you in check, Sunday is nothing but thorough in his ways. The door has at least a few different locks on it, there are no open windows (there are no windows at all), there are no items in your room which you could use to attack him or get yourself out, there are surveillance cameras that he constantly monitors you through, and one or more of your limbs is chained to the wall at nearly all times. There really aren’t many options open for you to try.

He tends to go a bit overboard with banning items from your room. He justifies it because of the miniscule chance of them being of aid when you plan your escape. Sharp items are obviously off-limits: This includes things like scissors, nail files, even hairpins and whatnot, but he also prohibits you from holding stuff like glass and porcelain items, long cords, anything that he deems too risky to have in your vicinity. The further it goes, the more laughable it becomes: Not even that far into your captivity, he ends up taking some jewellery away from you because the clasp has a sharp edge on it.

Even if the whole ordeal has you rolling your eyes, you’re sort of curious about how far he will take it. So, in response, you start inventing the most creative of ways to cause harm to your surroundings with what little you have in your room. You start scratching the walls with the buttons on one of your shirts and the heels of your shoes, you begin trying to shoot the lamp down from the ceiling by throwing loose objects at it. Any and all items that can fit into the keyhole in the lock will be shoved in it. You flip your bed upside down and see if you can detach one of the crossbars. It’s beyond petty.

In the end, though, as much as he has to commend you for being so resourceful, the result is him taking all your stuff away into a different room — down to your clothes. The only thing you have to cover yourself with is the blanket in your upside-down bed. The aftermath really isn’t worth it despite you getting a laugh out of his bewildered face and twitching smile.

His unfortunate go-to is also, well, the cage. It was built for this specific purpose, after all. It’s the one place in the entire house where you simply can’t cause harm from. If possible, though, he would prefer not to have you in there all day (unless you deserve it), but he will not shy away from throwing you in at the smallest sign of insubordination, so be prudent.

And then again, the last card up his sleeve is always the power of Harmony if you prove especially difficult to deal with. All he needs to do is take a single look at you, and the vibrant hues start creeping into your field of view. It’s sort of endearing, even; how you squeeze your eyes shut when your head starts feeling fuzzy at the intrusion into your mind. Not long after, your fire will simmer down, and you’ll have that hazy, serene look in your eyes that he so adores.

˗ˏˋ ★ 5. Consequences: What kind of punishments will the darling face? How do they punish different offences?

Sunday is a lot when it comes to the punishments he serves. Aside from the list of rules, he also happens to have all the possible consequences written down on a neat, white sheet of paper. He has left the thing in your drawer, just in case you would want to refresh your memory every once in a while.

The punishment for even the smallest of misdemeanours feels disproportionately harsh. Considering what his rules are, you could earn yourself a penalization by just saying something that even mildly inconveniences the man. It almost feels like he has set the restrictions out just to be able to punish you. He’s ridiculously strict with them, too, and you can rarely get out of it, even if you were to present the most heartfelt apology to him. It’s an impossible game to win, and just as you suspect, he has taken a little bit of a liking to seeing your consequences through.

The smallest offences, the list reads, are punishable by locking you in the cage until a certain period of time has passed. However long that time is is up to him to decide: Usually, it’s somewhere around half an hour, but it could stretch up to being a few hours, even, if you’ve been particularly disagreeable. Considering the alternatives, this is not that bad of a punishment since you do have a mattress in there: Usually, you just end up napping the time away, and when you wake up, he has most likely already unlocked the latch.

It is, however, especially humiliating in the beginning. He’s treating you like a misbehaving animal (which you sort of are to him to a degree). Early on in your captivity, you might very well spend the entire day in the cage because every time he enters the room to free you, you immediately start hissing at him. You learn that the cooldown time is, unfortunately, cumulative.

Another thing he might do in response to small stuff is taking away your means of entertainment. Since you seem to be having so much fun spitting mean words at him, he’s sure that you won’t be missing your books for a while (the rest of the day at minimum). It also serves another purpose to him: If you don’t have anything to occupy yourself with, you’re more likely to seek him out in hopes of a conversation to pass your time. It’s embarrassingly effective, to his delight, and you do end up spending more time with him during these instances.

When it comes to anything more severe than the slightest of blunders, though, it gets scary and it gets scary fast. His punishments are like a rapidly steepening slope: He’s relatively lenient at first, but you won’t have to walk further than a few steps before he will show you the worst that he could possibly offer.

Breaking anything gets you a foul punishment without exceptions. This includes the stuff in your room, the rules list (your personal favourite to take your anger out on) and him. It could be as little as tossing something on the floor, swatting his hand away when he tries to touch you, anything. You don’t get a chance to speak out your reasoning, because his hand will already be grabbing your face before you can get a single word out. He squeezes your cheeks together, makes you look him in the eye, and speaks to you in a tone that’s a complete contrast to how tightly he’s gripping you. ”Excuse me?” he will ask in a placid tone, slightly raising his brows. If you talk back at him, he’ll say something like ”come again?” or ”what was that?”. It’s usually enough to shut you up without delay, but in the case that you don’t, he’ll just grab a handful of your hair, tug your face towards his and tilt his head to the side. That gets you quiet real fast.

There’s also a harsher version of this event. If you’re doing your absolute best to be as insufferable as possible, even when his nails are digging into the sides of your face with more strength than you thought he was capable of, you’ll be in for a nasty surprise. Without a warning, he lands an open-palm slap on your cheek before digging his hand into your scalp. He drags you across the room to where the mirror stands. There, he basically dangles you in the air just by the strands in his grip and asks you to look at your reflection.

”Apologize”, he demands. You don’t speak a thing, only trying to claw at the hand that’s ripping on your hair. It’s a futile effort, however, and as your silence prolongs, he only tugs harder. He only loosens his hold when you’re sure that he’s about to pluck a tuft out, and in fear of that, you start spewing out frantic apologies.

Deeming your remorse sincere enough, he lets your body fall onto the ground. Your hands are holding your head, and you don’t lower them, even when your locks settle back into their places. You’re breathing heavy, your teeth are clenched, and there are tears stinging in your eyes. You’re worried for your hair, picking at your scalp, but judging from how there are no strands in his fingers in the mirror’s reflection, no permanent harm was inflicted.

Wondering about the same thing as you, he crouches down to your level and gently brushes his fingers through where his grip was tight a mere moment ago. A light smile spreads on his features as he finds no signs of detriment. He lets his arm fall lower to your upper back where he gives a few pats in between your shoulder blades. ”That wasn’t so difficult, now, was it?” he asks you. You think about getting even with him right away — his wings are within a grabbing distance — but you’re not sure if you can take another whole day in the cage, so you swallow your pride.

Realistically, you won’t be able to flee Sunday’s clutches — at least not without help — but if you do plan on making an escape, be aware that even the tiniest signs of you trying to conduct a scheme will be punished just as harshly as if you had actually made it out. Be it a lockpick, a makeshift blade, a written note; anything could be classified as an attempt.

What such offences will earn you is a day chained to the bed. Your wrists, your ankles, your neck, all of them will be chained down in a position where you can hardly move. Technically, whatever you did could very well just be nothing, but he doesn’t like to take the odds. No matter how you try to tell him that ”no, the drawing wasn’t a map of the ventilation system”, you’ll only be let out of the bindings if you need to go to the bathroom or when he decides that you have had enough of it for now. During these times, he will feed you himself, too, so you’re not getting up from the bed during mealtime, either. Not only is it horribly humiliating and dehumanizing, but it also gets boring very fast. And, if your attempt was especially heinous, he might even give you a blindfold to top the setting. It’s terrible.

On the miniscule chance that you do manage to make it out of the room you’re locked in, you’ll truly see him livid for the first time in your life. You’re not going to make it very far, anyway, you’ll be caught up with by the time you reach the front door, but even that is way past what Sunday ever expected you to be capable of. It’s most likely when he’s away on work business, so he can’t directly intervene with your attempt, but he sure as hell can see what you’re doing through the surveillance cameras.

You’re not sure what to do. Honestly speaking, you didn’t think you would make it this far. The tiny pick you had constructed out of some metal parts from a can of lemonade is, without a doubt, your greatest handiwork yet. Even though it took nearly half an hour, you managed to make it through all the seven locks in the door. You know that he’s most likely watching, and damn, you hope that the man is seething from anger behind the screen. As you push the door open, you make sure to flip off the camera above your bed before exiting the room.

You make it to the hallway. You have seen it a few times when you have had the honour of visiting the other rooms in the house, but aside from that, the view is unfamiliar to you. The door to the left is his bedroom, you’re sure, and the one after you’re not sure about. It doesn’t really matter, though, because the staircase at the end of the corridor is where you’re headed, anyway.

Your heart is thumping in your ears as you hop down the stairs two steps at a time, keeping a steady rhythm despite the way your entire body is shaking. The feeling is simultaneously euphoric and terrifying. You know you’re being monitored, and you’re certain that he will be on your back soon, so you hasten your pace.

His place is big. There are more rooms than you can count. Ornaments costing more than your life savings line the drawers, the mantel, the dinner table. There’s a somewhat abstract painting of Robin hanging on the wall alongside a smaller picture of a halovian man with dark hair and a crow on his shoulder. You don’t recognize him. There’s the living room where Sunday’s own, personal dreampool sits. As a fleeting thought, you consider that perhaps you should go to the Dreamscape instead and try to alert someone of your presence, but you’re not sure where the pool is connected. It’s wiser to try and make it out of his house.

It’s easier said than done. You need to make it to the lower floor, and only there you’ll be able to find the main door. You have never gotten the chance to explore this part of his residence, understandably so, but eventually, after running around the building for a good few minutes, you arrive at the grand entrance hall. Lining both sides of the walls, a rounded staircase leads down to the first of two doors to the exit. You run towards them, breathing ragged and your hands clammy with cold sweat. You wrap your fingers around the ornate handles, barely able to contain your feelings as the gates to your freedom crack open. You know you shouldn’t celebrate yet, especially since you still need to get through the vestibule, but you can smell the outside air that seeps through the walls.

You sprint for the exit. Your legs burn from the strain, the adrenaline courses through your veins like a drug. Your fingers find the handle, you push and-

The lights go out. The door behind you slams shut. In the pitch black, you try to yank on the knob that your hands are still clutching, desperately twisting the thing, but it doesn’t budge. In the span of a single moment, all your hope trickles down the drain like the tears that now spill from your eyes. You turn around, trying to free yourself from the small space by getting back in the house, but the handle on that door refuses to give in as well. You’re trapped a mere few inch away from your freedom.

You collapse to the ground.

It’s not until an hour or so later that Sunday arrives back at his house. You don’t even raise your head from where it’s slotted against your knees when light floods the vestibule. You’re balled up in the back corner of the room, silently sniffling.

”Hand it over”, you hear Sunday order. The tip of his shoe enters your limited field of view as he bends down in front of you. You don’t comply with the request. However, it seems that his patience has worn thin, because in the next moment, your vision is already swimming in the strange hues of Xipe. Against your own volition, your balled fist unravels and drops the lockpick on the ground. He picks the thing up, inspects it between his fingers for a moment before sliding it into his pocket.

You’re pulled up from the ground by your arm. His grip is tight, sparing no mind to how it aches when his fingers pinch on your skin. You yelp out a noise of pain, but he could not care less. Your legs feel wobbly as he drags you through the hall, up the staircase, past the living room, all the way back to your room. You’re sobbing out incoherent words, trying to tell him that he’s hurting you, that his grasp is cutting off your blood flow, but he doesn’t listen to a thing.

When he reaches the wide open door of your prison, he wastes no time tossing you to the ground. The air is forced out of your lungs as your body hits the floor with a heavy thud. Your head is spinning, your arm is throbbing, there’s snot running down your face. He doesn’t grant you a single second to collect yourself before his heel comes down on one of your ankles.

He shifts weight on it. Your eyes go wide as his shoe digs into your leg, putting pressure right where your tibia protrudes under the skin. ”You have learned your lesson, I hope?” he speaks out in a tone colder than his pale blue eyes. His wings are sticking out straight to the sides, spread into their most majestic form. There’s not a single hint of sympathy in his dead gaze.

He presses down harder. Tears spill down your cheeks and gather at the tip of your chin. You try to whimper at him to stop, that it hurts, that you’re sorry, but no coherent words come out of your mouth. There seems to be a single intention in his mind, being one that involves his heel burrowing right through your skin, and judging from his expression, his mind is set on it. You attempt to pull your legs to yourself, but you find yourself being completely unable to move anything below your head due to the Harmony that’s still being inflicted upon you.

There’s nothing left for you to do except pleading for mercy and letting your tears fall. Still, even through the relentless, colourful haze, you’re able to mumble out a single, strained ”please” before closing your eyes.

The pressure on your foot disappears. Even as you hear shuffling, you don’t dare peek at his form. With how your head is clouded, you find it easier to pretend to have passed out. He, of course, knows that you’re still conscious — no thoughts of yours are safe from his prying mind — but even when he lifts you to the bed and cuffs all your limbs to the bedposts, you keep your eyes shut. It’s no use struggling at this point. It’s a meritorious feat you managed to pull off today, even though it ended up being for nothing.

You fall asleep not long after. You’re aware of the horrors that await you when you wake up, so you decide to make most of the little time you have before that. Slumber is the one place where Sunday cannot reach you, but despite that, you’re certain that throughout your rest, there’s somebody cradling your body in their arms.

˗ˏˋ ★ 6. Emotions I: How do they show love? How do they attempt to make the darling love them?

So, the way Sunday shows love is… making you as perfect as humanly possible. You’re his very own darling, so of course he puts the utmost effort into making sure you’re flourishing and in a sound state. The latter may be compromised, though. It’s morally questionable, sure, but to him, it’s the highest honour that he could bestow upon anyone.

He takes pride in taking care of your appearance. It’s a daily thing, sometimes even multiple times in the span of a single day, but he loves to do things like brush and do your hair, dress you up, even put makeup on you. It’s reminiscent to the things he used to do for Robin when the two of them were young, so he’s very adept when it comes to grooming you. Were it in any other context, the whole thing would be incredibly wholesome, even. The ordeal is sort of a control thing to him, too: He gets to decide how you look like, to a degree, and it’s a very intimate idea to him.

It may come as a bit of a surprise, but he’s, in fact, a little bit of a toucher, too. It’s very subtle and sophisticated: A caress on your lower back here and there, holding your hand in gentlemanly way, inspecting a strand of your hair between his fingers, that kind of thing. He’s not one to indulge in touching you that much against your will, it doesn’t do much for him, but be prepared to be prodded at least a little bit. He likes to have you close to him in general, so if you’re in the same room as him, it’s a common occurrence that he might sidestep closer to you and pull you to him. He may start chatting to you about nothing in particular, just seeing how you’re faring (you’re usually not faring very well).

Moreover, he tends to praise you. There’s always a nasty little backhanded aspect to it that leaves you feeling like you were actually being degraded, though. He might, for example commend you on being exceptionally obedient that day, or tell you what a good job you did listening to the instructions he gave you. It’s a little theatrical, and he makes it that way on purpose. Still, no matter how dramatical, it’s way better than being on the receiving end of his wrath. You grow used to it.

In addition to the previous points, Sunday does get into a true lovey-dovey mood every once in a while. It’s still subdued, true to his style, but the most affectionate you’ll ever see him is when he starts to sort of play out the role of a husband. He has these fantasies in his head that are straight out of a picture-perfect romance series. He has envisioned the sight of you in a pretty dress and smiling at him, for example (it’s probably his before-sleep thought). He acts these scenarios out if you’re receptive: For instance, he tends to come up behind you, move your hair to the side and kiss the back of your neck. He’ll smile and mutter out a compliment. You’ll come to realize quite early on that this part of him is purely performative — it’s like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re actually willing.

If you are willing enough, though, he adores just lingering in your presence while you read or draw or knit, something along those lines. Sunday isn’t that big of a talker when it comes to showing genuine affection, so his go-to is just sort of being there with you.

Maybe you’re sitting on your bed while he’s resting on the couch, occupied with his book. In the next moment, he’ll slide himself in the sheets with you, patting the space in between his thighs. Your brows furrow, not immediately understanding the request, but it does become clear when his fingers wrap around your upper arm and insistently nudge you towards him. You’re much too fatigued to fight his advances, and without much resistance, you climb into his lap and get into a comfortable position. His hand comes down on your hip, caressing the skin for a little before returning to his activity.

Oh, and he will absolutely get the two of you rings. He presents the piece of jewellery to you, telling you that you shall be wearing it from now on (preferably on your ring finger). It’s not that you’re actually married, but he likes to… pretend. You’re sort of like his wife, after all — no, more like a possession, actually, but the notion stands. One more ring will appear on his glove, among the ones that already adorn his fingers. Nobody asks a thing about it, despite the piece’s risqué position on his left hand.

Be aware that he will be furious if you decide to get rid of the thing somehow. It’s both a stab to his ego and a soul-piercing insult to him. The entire ordeal is incredibly personal to him, so if you end up throwing his act of love away, you best be sure that he’ll be sulking for the rest of the week if not longer.

˗ˏˋ ★ 7. Emotions II: How do they deal with the darling’s emotions? How are outbursts handled? How do they attempt to comfort the darling?

One issue that both you and Sunday alike will face is that, in the setting he has placed you in, your contentment starts deteriorating, and it does that in an alarming rate. He knows exactly why that is, he’s not stupid, but there’s only so much he can do without risking having you flee or somebody seeing you. That being said, it’s wasted effort to expect him to go easier on you if you start showing signs of gloom.

Emotional outbursts that hold even the tiniest bit of kick are dealt with using his usual methods: No matter how much you scream and cry, you’re going to end up in the cage he has for these exact situations. He really can’t be bothered to deal with a yelling and thrashing person that he has been nothing but sensible to, and even if your rage eventually dwindles down into sorrowful sobbing, he’s not gonna offer much comfort to you. More often than not, these little episodes of yours are to get a reaction out of him, anyway (or at least that’s what he thinks), so what better way to punish you than not to give you the attention that you so seem to crave (you want to bash his face in).

Even though his nature is seemingly callous, he is quite proficient in differentiating when you’re just making a scene for the sake of it and when you’re truly under heavy emotional distress. He can tell from the way you react to him presenting you with the consequences. If you go quiet afterwards and accept the result with only a distasteful click of your tongue, it’s usually just about you blowing off some steam. However, if you continue lashing out even after he has locked you in the cage, for example, it’s usually a sign to him that you’re not in a good place mentally.

The first few times that you end up on your knees on the floor, sobbing your heart out, he’s at a little bit of a loss. Of course, he could go the usual route of offering half-assed consolation like a few kind words and whatnot, patting your head a bit, whatever. It’s just that, when he thinks of resorting to that, his heart twitches in an uncomfortable manner. He feels like the action would be particularly immoral, even for somebody like him.

That being said, his uncertainty results in him having to leave the room nonetheless, and you’re left in the darkness, all alone and without anybody to listen to how you wail your soul out. He knows that it appears incredibly cruel to you, but the reality is that it’s the best he can muster. He beats himself up for it long after, even.

When more time has passed, and you have gone through a couple more of these ”episodes” as he likes to call them, he finally decides to gather up the courage to face you during one. It’s the regular kind: You’re in your room, yelling and pointing fingers at him, sobbing your eyes out. As usual, after the initial outburst with all the violent words and tearing at the cuff around your ankle, you give up the fight and fall down onto the floor, defeated. As is common, his only reaction so far has been standing a short distance away from you with his hands behind his back, silently observing and taking in the sorry sight of you. There’s not a lot going on on his face, either, purposefully so; it’s terrifying for you not to know at all what to expect from him next.

You sniffle, sitting on your knees with what is left of the rules list on your side. You shredded the thing into pieces, ripping into the paper with all your might until the only proof of its existence was the white flakes that now cover the carpet. It must be the third one this week. It’s a terribly childish show of resentment, you know that very well yourself, but being the object of Sunday’s emotional torment would be enough to drive just about anyone into primal rage.

Your head hangs low as you clench your hands into fists and tell him to ”just throw you in the cage already”. However, your words are only met with silence.

There’s a gloved hand on your cheek. You raise your gaze the tiniest bit, only enough to be able to see that, yes, it’s him that’s so tenderly holding your face. He kneels down in front of you, stroking his thumb under your eyes and rubbing away the tears that spill past your lashes. His expression is strange: The usual smile he wears is still there, sort of, but his eyes are slightly unfocused. It’s like he’s gazing right through you despite being very precise with his movements.

”You must be exhausted”, he speaks, voice conveying no emotion in particular, just like always. He brings his other hand up to your face as well, using the back of his glove to dry the streaks that adorn your cheeks. His touch is so delicate, so gentle that your head is about to explode from how his actions completely contrast his usual behaviour in these moments. Despite how soft he’s being, you can’t help but feel completely dehumanized by the sentiment. He knows that he’s the sole reason for your anguish, yet now he’s so graciously offering you consolation for your woes. It almost makes you want to try and lash out at him again.

He snakes an arm behind the back of your neck. The touch gently urges you to lean in, to rest your face against his chest while his hand rubs up and down your back. His other hand finds the crown of your head where it gathers a bunch of your hair and gently scratches the scalp there. You feel his wings tickle your forehead, coming down to mimic an embrace.

He smells pleasant. You hate yourself for associating a single nice adjective with him.

It’s a terrible situation to be in. You don’t have the slightest idea if he’s being genuine with his actions, even now that he’s holding your trembling form in his arms. You stay like that for a good while, too. He only loosens his hold when he knows that you’re close to collapsing to the ground. You don’t have a single ounce of fury left in your system anymore, and he takes advantage of that by properly pulling you into him and picking your tired body off the ground. He lifts you over to the bed, settles himself on the mattress, and rests you in his lap. There, he places your head over his heart and begins stroking your hair like he was caring for the baby bird he found in the garden with Robin in his childhood.

You are more resemblant to that bird than you realize, he muses. Both you and the animal are scared little things; terrified and thrashing in his hold until you realize that your captor has only extended their hand out to help. You need to understand that what he does is for your own good, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner the two of you can begin living with no longer needing to lock you in your metaphorical and literal cage. He lets you know all of this in a soft, soothing tone all the while you’re barely able to keep your eyes open. His chest gently vibrates with every word. If you still had the strength, you would latch your fingers around his throat.

Though, when it comes to situations where Sunday doesn’t believe you’re going to tire yourself out before causing serious harm to your environment and yourself, he’s not going to hesitate using Harmony on you. He will follow the situation through the surveillance cameras with a pensive look on his face before promptly deciding that it is time for you to knock it off.

He will arrive in your room like normal, and naturally, an object immediately flies his way. He dodges it with little difficulty, and when his eyes settle on you, you know it’s over. The colours start spreading around the edges of your vision, and the image of him in front of you blurs. Whatever you’re holding drops to the ground with a dull thump. He steps closer to you, and you can barely get a word out before the noteless melody consumes you whole. You suddenly feel completely at ease, your body becomes incredibly heavy. One of his hands comes to support your back as your legs give in and you nearly fall over. Through the haze, you hear how he’s softly telling you to calm down and ”breathe, just breathe”. ”You’re alright”, he hums, lulling you deeper into the song.

Nothing, not even your red-hot wrath, is capable of resisting the overwhelming sense of tranquillity that curls around your mind. It seeps into your very essence, forcing every last muscle on your body to fall lax in his tender embrace. You look up at his face and try to get your eyes to focus on his expression through the fog. There’s nothing to note: He himself is scrutinizing your features, looking for any signs of discomfort. When he doesn’t find any, he let’s out a long, somewhat relieved exhale.

As handy as it is, he would prefer not to use the power on you if possible. Not to say that he won’t rely on it when need be, but the obedience he gains from you via that route is… inauthentic. You’re not submitting by your own volition. He’s just explicitly making you do what he orders you to, and that’s not what he aims for. He wants you to want to be good for him. However, in his eyes, all of these instances are just necessary bumps in the path that he needs to cross to get to the result he desires. It’s a long road, he’s perfectly aware, but what awaits at the end is more than worth all the anguish and struggle.

˗ˏˋ ★ 8. Thing to exploit: What are the darling’s best chances at escaping? Are there things the darling can use to their advantage? How can the darling make thing easier for themselves?

There’s no way around it: Sunday is an incredibly difficult yandere to get away from. Not only is he an extremely prominent figure with loads of resources at his disposal, but he also has the power of Harmony on his side. On top of that, he doesn’t really take you outside, let you meet any people or offer you many chances at escaping in general. Every door is locked, all windows are shut, there’s absolutely nothing you could use to your advantage. Getting past all of his precautions and measures will require both wit and patience, calculated risk-taking and vast strokes of luck.

He doesn’t let you see any of the many workers under his command. Even though the chance of them agreeing to help you is minimal, he would still rather not take the risk. It requires a bit of extra effort to keep them away from you, but he’s a meticulous man to the bone, and this is no exception. The one person, however, that you may be able to get in contact with is none other than Robin.

It’s only a few fleeting times that you’ll get to even be in the same room as her. Although Sunday is opposed to the idea of you and her talking, he does have a soft spot for his sister and ends up allowing it — only when he’s in the room with you, though. You won’t be able to get much from her — it’s only a break from being alone with Sunday, really — but she might attempt to make your life a little easier.

The tendency to manipulation must be a familial thing with them: As naturally as breathing, Robin musters up her most pitiful expression and says something like ”Oh, poor thing”. She sets her hand on top of your head and strokes your hair in a nearly maternal way. You don’t dare look at Sunday, but from the corner of your eye, you can see the way the corner of his mouth twitches. You’ve known him for long enough to recognize that he’s affected but is doing his absolute best not to show it. You don’t know how you should feel about seeing him so… vulnerable.

Furthermore, if it occurs that you meet Robin more than once, it’s quite likely that she will help you escape. It’s not just indirectly aiding you or offering you comfort, she will literally aid you in your breakout. She isn’t afraid to have it traced back to her, either; she’s much too kind-hearted to know that his brother is keeping someone captive and live doing nothing about it. She might divulge Sunday’s schedule to you, for example, or literally sneak to where he keeps you and get you out. No matter the consequences she will face, it’s worth it in her eyes. A bird does not belong in a cage.

Whatever happens after making it out is up to you, though. Robin can only do so much, and as much as she wishes that she could see you soar, the people higher up in the Family hierarchy would probably not be overjoyed to hear that the most public figure in their faction is getting involved in such affairs. The wisest course of action would be to immediately leave Penacony by whatever means possible, of course, and surprisingly, just that might be enough. Don’t be fooled, though: Sunday can and will hunt you down if given the chance, but there are a few responsibilities of his that he can’t simply ditch. He has an image to upkeep, and as obsessed as he is with you, as painful as it is, they are a higher priority. That, and he has a bit of an ego and wants you to think that "this was his plan all along". His people will be coming after you within only minutes worth of delay, however, so be careful.

When it comes to things aside from escaping, there’s one oddly specific thing that you can do which will both lower Sunday’s guard and make him dull down the harsher aspects of how he treats you. It’s not one you’ll come to think of straight away, but when you ponder it more profoundly, it actually makes plenty of sense.

Whether it’s humming a tune or whistling a few notes, hearing you sing is something that will calm his nerves with a near perfect success rate. You don’t have to be skilled by any means, you can be just as off-key as you want, it’s the action that counts. It doesn’t matter what he’s currently doing, hearing a melody flow out of your mouth immediately transports him back to his childhood. He hates how weak he is to it, but he can’t help the way his heart softens.

He may come up to you when you’re idly humming while being occupied with some mundane task. You obviously shut your mouth when you see him approaching, not assuming that he would appreciate it if you were to fill the silence with your song. You carry on with your chore, but after a few moments of quiet, you hear him mutter something. You turn around to face him, only to find that he’s standing with his back turned to you. Hesitantly, you ask him to repeat his words. ”Please sing”, he speaks in a tone no louder than a whisper.

It’s up to you if you want to follow through with the request or not. Nothing will happen if you decide not to, but know that if you do, he will remain in a good mood for the entire day. He’s much less volatile and much easier to talk to. If you’re feeling brave, you could even ask him for something. It’s a bit of a gamble whether he will agree to it or not, depending on the nature of the wish, but still, it’s worth to try.

Finally, as a side note about escaping his clutches — it’s the stupidest thing imaginable, but your freedom will arrive at the latest when the Astral Express arrives in Penacony and does their boom-shakalaka. Part of his redemption arc will be letting you go. It’s a bit of an anticlimax, but it is a solution nonetheless.

˗ˏˋ ★ 9. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes? What unique qualities do they possess?

In hindsight, you should have guessed it from his looks, but Sunday is a complete and total, irremediable neat-freak. It manifests in nearly everything he does, from his taste in dress to how the books on his shelves are set in alphabetical order. His work desk is so pristine that its feng shui can heal its surroundings within a five-mile radius.

Naturally, his obsession with order extends to you. Whenever he notices even the slightest fault in your appearance, he’s quick to fix it. Be it your hair, something on your face, your clothing being wrinkled, anything. He’s actually very mindful about it: He doesn’t say a thing — only steps closer to you and moves the stray strand off your face, picks out the piece of dirt on your cheek, fixes your collar. There’s no remarks about the error, nothing. You could almost call it loving; the way he does it is so tender. He might get annoyed if you keep repeating the same faults over and over again, though.

On a different note, Sunday is one of the few captors that might actually make you do labour for him. It sounds ridiculous, and it very much is just that, but if you’re whining about having nothing to do all day, he might be inclined to get you to spend your time more wisely.

He will set a stack of papers on your desk. When you question the action, expressing your confusion by uttering out a very demure ”what the fuck?” and pointing at the thing, he will explain that you ”might as well busy yourself in other ways than complaining”. He tells you to organize them by date, the oldest at the bottom and the newest at the top. You squint your eyes at him to decipher if he’s actually being serious with the suggestion, but as you find nothing but the usual, polite smile on his features, you conclude that yes, this man might just be a lost cause.

Your initial thought is that, hell no, you’re not going to entertain his stupid ass by doing his work for him, but as the hours stretch on and on, you start considering that maybe you should take up on the offer. It’s not like something like this would take him that long, either, so what if he truly just wants you to feel a bit more involved? You’re running out of books to read, stuff to draw, and the pile of notes on the desk is starting to look more and more enticing.

And so, you start sorting the papers out, inspecting the date written on each page’s corner. Sunday, of course, follows your every movement through the security app on his phone. There’s a slight smirk playing on his face as he sees the way you carefully sort the documents into different stacks before eventually gathering them into a single, neat bunch. You seem to be pleased with yourself, even.

Truthfully, the papers are of no value, and he doesn’t even need them. They’re just some notes from the Family people of lower ranks, and they hold no importance to him. Still, seeing you conduct the task with such diligence, he needs to start bringing more of those in, he thinks.

A strange thing you'll come to see is that, when it comes to Sunday, you don't actually have that much to tell about him. Not that you don't have things to say about him, though — those you have a lot of, and the words used would not be pretty — but in general, you don't really know him on a deeper level. He keeps it that way on purpose: Despite your occasional inquiries, he hasn't told you almost anything about his past, about his job, about things he likes, anything, really. It's a boundary that he wouldn't like to cross any time soon. While it's partially because of his own emotional blocks, it also keeps you more pliant since you don't have a lot you could use against him psychologically. It's a strategic choice.

NS-FW

˗ˏˋ ★ 10. General look: How does their sexuality manifest? What does sex mean to them? How horny are they?

Sunday has got two sides to him that contrast each other to an inconvenient degree. On one hand, he’s very reserved when it comes to his sexuality: He doesn’t indulge in the art of beating one’s meat except for once in a blue moon, he isn’t a fan of a flirty atmosphere, and he certainly does not search out company for those kinds of activities. Then, on the other hand, he’s… a man. He’s a man that isn’t that far off from the average when it comes to the topic of libido. He has urges, sometimes hefty ones, even, but he’s very skilled in suppressing them. (He probably unironically refers to sex as ”coitus”.)

Furthermore, though, as is with most yanderes, his sexual desires skyrocket when you come into the picture. There’s a nearly comical aspect to it: He isn’t used to having to keep himself in check to the degree where he consciously has to force himself to look away from the sight of you or start counting the dust particles in the air. It’s ridiculous, and he’s ashamed of himself, too, but there’s only so much he can do about it. Besides, it’s at least partially your fault since you’re flaunting around your bare ankles and all. Whore.

His desire towards you first manifests in less inherently sexual ways. Though, being aware of the context, they still appear that way. Kissing your neck and upper back, for example, are a thing he tends to do in an almost idle manner. You think it’s quite intimate, yeah, but it’s not as big of a deal as when he sneaks fleeting touches at your thighs or your chest. Those, despite being less intrusive, feel a lot more loaded than the pecks. He kind of builds his touches up until it all comes down on the night of your undoing.

˗ˏˋ ★ 11. Limit: How long does it take for them to have the darling? What is the first time like? Do they care about the darling’s willingness?

It’s stupidly dependent on how you present yourself in the first few days of your captivity. Whatever you do, he is going to take you by force, but the aspect that you can affect is when it will happen. It’s an either-or situation: Your options are basically right away or in a few weeks. There’s no in between, and it all comes down to how you behave. If you display signs of serious fear like crying, trembling and being unable to converse with him, he will decide that perhaps it’s for the best that he leaves the leap for a later time. Then, on the other hand, if you’re mostly hostile and spitting insults at him, he’s going to tackle the matter as soon as possible.

Nevertheless, how the first time goes is more or less the same regardless. You don’t know to expect what is about to happen, and he prefers it that way. It’s easier to lead you into the bedroom and lock the door behind him without you putting all of your strength into trying to wriggle away from his grasp. That being said, you only start to anticipate that something grim is about to take place when your only exit clicks shut with him in the room.

He’s won’t sugar-coat it. He simply informs you that ”you’re going to have sex with him”. Of course, your eyes go wide as saucers at the statement, and your immediate response is to scamper as far away from him as the room allows. You start screaming at him, refusing to listen to anything further he has to say, telling him that ”he’s insane”. He was prepared for a reaction like this, he’s not dense, but it does manage to irk him nonetheless. Yes, he does feel a tinge of sympathy when he sees your petrified expression, but it’s a necessary evil, he thinks. Tears won’t get you out of this one — he’s going to have you either way.

It’s terrifying; the way he backs you into the corner of the room, walking in unhurried steps while you’re hyperventilating and scampering away from his nearing silhouette. He does it all with the usual, polite smile on his pale features, all the while you go through every possible method of keeping him away from you: You throw objects at him, you make an ungodly amount of noise, but there’s only so much you can do. Eventually, he catches up with you and pulls you up by your arm. If you put up a considerable amount of resistance, thrashing around in his hold, clawing at him, trying to take a bite out of his hand, he’s going to use the power of Harmony on you. It’s only for a moment, though: He wants you lucid for the experience, but even the few seconds of his tricks get you nice and obedient for him. You’re fighting a losing battle.

He drags you to the bed and chains your hands to the cuffs that hang from each of the bedposts. Despite your struggling, he’s being uncharacteristically gentle with his actions, making sure that your wrists don’t chafe against the restraints more than absolutely necessary. From the psychological viewpoint, the experience is among the cruellest, compared to how the first time would go with other yanderes. The entire time, you’re being bombarded with his soothing coos while he holds your flailing legs down with an iron grip. The contradicting messages blur into one, and you can only hope that the ordeal doesn’t steal the last bits of sanity you’re clinging to.

Still, he hasn’t lost control, by any means. Although his dick is straining in his pants to an uncomfortable degree, he knows that, when it comes to the female body, he can’t just jam his cock in. You need to be cared for like the delicate, little thing you are. So, he starts methodically caressing his hands along the curves of your body, all the while you’re quivering like a leaf under his touch. He smiles down at you despite the way fat tears are spilling past your eyes and gathering down where the pillow catches them under your head. He’s going to have to cover your mouth if you don’t stop wailing, though. No matter how gentle he’s being, you won’t stop begging and pleading for him to stop his ministrations.

He talks you through the process. Systematically, as he pokes and prods at you, he lets you know what he’s going to do to you. It doesn’t even serve a sadistic purpose: He simply describes what is about to happen in a poised yet calm manner. Despite his attempts at consoling you, you only seem to become more distressed.

He lets you know that first, he’s going to kiss you and finger you for a reasonable while so you’ll be sufficiently aroused, and then he will proceed to penetrating you. You shake your head in disbelief, still crying, but it does little to sway his will. He leans down to your face and plants a loving kiss on your temple.

His form obscures a section of your field of view, and you’re unable to see the way his gloved hand slides down the front of your bottom. You sure can feel it though, and even more so when his fingers start prodding around. Despite being fully clothed, you feel horribly exposed by the way his eyes are glued to your expression as he searches for your clit in between your folds. He takes his sweet time, feeling around, finding your entrance and briefly tipping his appendages in. He withdraws a bit to slide his fingers a little higher, searching for where your most sensitive spot is hidden. Judging from the way you flinch when he presses at a particular spot, he believes that he has found it.

Your arms are straining against the restraints. He advices you to tone it down a little; he doesn’t want you to suffer unnecessary injuries from the ordeal. Still, yet again, you only scream at him that ”he’s the reason for it”, and finally, he has had enough of your disobedience. His free hand comes up to your cheek, stroking his knuckles against the soft skin, before latching it over your mouth. Naturally, you furiously shake your head, try to bite his fingers, anything to get him off of you, but no matter what you do, neither of his hands are pulling away. He merely sighs at you as if you were a misbehaving pet.

The way the tears spill down the sides of your face does, admittedly, wound him a bit. He would prefer for you to enjoy this at least half as much as he does, but he understands that it’s not a reasonable expectation. He’s also a little concerned about the rate in which you’re gasping in air through your nose. He might end up having to lift his hand off your mouth if your airways begin to clog.

Despite the way you tremble and sob, he’s going to progress to properly having you by the end of the session. Though, before that, he’s going to continue fucking you with his fingers for a good while. He’s aware that the muscles in your lower parts need to be completely relaxed before the act. His hand should do an adequate job at assuring that, so he’s not concerned. And, going by the clear substance that now coats his glove, he’s doing a fine job.

He lifts his hand off your mouth in favour of slipping it under your shirt. When your immediate response is to start yelling again, he makes the decision to pull one of his gloves off and stuff it into your open mouth. The noises immediately decrease in volume.

The pads of his fingers slide along the skin of your chest until they find one of your nipples. There, he begins stroking the nub, gently circling his thumb around it until it hardens under his touch. The stimulation is evidently starting to get to you, and your muffled shrieks for murder are now turning into strangled whines. Not that you’re being cooperative by any means, no, but now, a part of your energy is going into rejecting the pleasure that he’s offering you. It’s a beautiful sight to him. Moreover, his pupils dilate at the way the trembling of your limbs has become more and more uncoordinated. He presses down on your clit. Your breath hitches.

You come on his fingers. He feels the way your cunt constricts around them, and he can’t help but marvel at the view. After helping you ride out your high, he pulls his hand away from your bottom and brings it to his face. He inspects the digits, observing the way the dim light reflects off of the fluid coating them. He lets out an airy chuckle.

He hovers the fingers right above your eyes, presenting you with the mess you’ve made. Despite your misery, he can see the blush that has crept on your cheeks. You’re humiliated beyond repair, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty even when more tears fall past your lashes. He let’s you know that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that ”you’re doing an excellent job”, and how you’ll be ”just fine”. The glove in your mouth suffocates your cry of despair.

He removes his hands from your body in favour of stripping himself of his blazer. You try your hardest to stay alert, racking your brain for possible ways to get yourself out of the situation, but you’re hardly even able to form coherent thoughts in the mélange of emotions your system is drowning in. In your hazy, post-orgasm state, you don’t notice the way he goes to unbuckle his belt.

It doesn’t take long for you to start flailing hysterically again when he drags your bottoms down and bares your cunt to the cold air. You muster up another fit of vigour, wildly kicking your legs in all possible directions, trying to rid yourself of his touch, but there’s only so much you can do when your wrists are firmly tied above your head. With ease, he grabs both of your ankles and gives them a squeeze. You don’t immediately comply, but when his hold tightens, you resort to trying to force your thighs shut. It’s no use, of course, and soon enough, you feel something nudging its way past your entrance.

It’s not painful aside from a tiny sting when his cock enters you. He’s not remarkably big or girthy, and he’s taking care to go slowly despite how heavenly it feels to finally have you around him. He observes your expression, the way you wring your eyes shut at the intrusion, all of it. One if his hands goes over to your hip to gently pet, trying to offer comfort or reassure you. It’s not doing much, you’re still clenching your teeth and hissing through your make-shift gag, but this is the best he’ll get for now, he supposes.

After a few minutes of waiting you to adjust, he starts fucking you in earnest. He lands kisses all over neck, your face, your chest, everywhere he can possibly reach. His wings tickle your skin and caress your cheeks. His fingers stroke your breasts, your clit, your thighs. The cock inside you slides in and out without much difficulty. In his eyes, his first time with you is the most magical time he has experienced in his life. From your point of view, all the stimuli you’re being bombarded with are threatening to fry your mind and body alike. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to that, though, because the night will stretch on until he has had his fill.

˗ˏˋ ★ 12. Preferences: How is sex with them like? What sort of stuff are they into? What kind of kinks do they have?

There are two extreme ends of what Sunday is into when it comes to sex. It’s either the most intimate, gentlest time or a three-hour session where you have to fear for both your mental stability and your body. There’s one thing that never changes, though, and it’s him being in full control of the situation at all times.

You would think that he would have a submissive to him, especially since his job requires him to be stone-faced and scheming, but no. He can’t even fathom the thought of letting you take charge in any way. His morbid need for authority manifests in him taking all of his frustrations out on you in his own, personal way. It’s never necessarily a bad time for you (or if you’ve been disagreeable, it might), but it’s not something you particularly look forward to. You’ll come to find quite early on that he has got a bit of a nasty streak in him.

BDSM

It’s no surprise. The words that the acronym stands for suit his tastes to near perfection. Bondage, domination, discipline, and last but not least, sadism. It’s like the practice was created solely to cater to his needs. The last two words, submission and masochism are for you to decide, of course, but by the end of the day, you can be sure that the former will have been achieved, whether you like it or not.

He will have introduced rope and bindings into your shared life by day one, as mentioned. Obviously, you have the chains on your bed, but you didn’t realize they served an inherently sexual purpose until the first time he went through with his fantasies. Restraining you is not only effective in assuring that he can do whatever he wants with your body, but it’s also incredibly arousing for him. There’s just something, something about the way you struggle against the restraints, how you can’t do anything to stop him when his fingers caress your most sensitive areas. You can plead, you can shiver, tremble, cry, even, but ultimately, you’re completely under his mercy. He likes the rush of power that it grants him. More often than not, bondage is more for him to chase that feeling than to actually get himself off.

The bindings also extend to things like collaring you. This one is not that common of an occurrence, though, since he himself is the tiniest bit embarrassed about enjoying it, but he does have a leather choker for you in his closet. The thing is attached to a leash, naturally, and you dread the times he enters your room with the damned item in his hands.

He has two things he likes to do with you when it comes to the collar. The first one is just a simple fucking, dicking you down while he forces your head up from the pillow by tugging on the chain. He doesn’t choke you or anything, but it does make him feel some type of way when you let out a strained noise at the action.

Then, the other side is, you guessed it, good old petplay. He himself prefers not to call it that since it would insinuate that you’re just some animal he owns (he secretly gets off to the thought), but it doesn’t stop him from enjoying the act to his heart’s content. Though, if anybody were to ever find out that Sunday of the Oak Family was into this kind of stuff, he would probably leave the entire star system of Asdana, so there’s still a vague awkwardness to when he fastens the collar around your neck. He’s also putting up an act that ”no, this is not just a sexual thing”, but you would have to be pretty daft not to understand that he’s lying through his teeth.

He likes to do things like parade you around the room with you on the leash, have you sit at his feet, naked, while he "works", and do strange things like scratch you under your chin. The more shameful it makes you, the better. The cage will also gain a secondary purpose during these times, which is to simulate the pet-thing to an even more authentic degree. He hasn't yet whipped out the animal ear band, but be aware that if he enjoys the act too much, he just might.

Spreader bars are on the table, too. Especially if you’re being uncooperative, he will latch cuffs on both of your ankles before connecting them with a metal bar. No matter how hard you try to close your legs now, it’s a futile effort. Your thighs are trembling from the strain, but despite your best efforts, you can no longer hope to fight his touches off. Your entrance seems to give in further in this position, too, so he doesn’t have to coax you to relax nearly as much as usual to be able to stick his fingers or cock in.

When it comes to the things he’s not too fond of, gagging you would be at the top of the list. The concept would be a welcome addition since you hardly ever keep your mouth shut when he does his thing, but at the same time, he wants to be able to kiss you. It would be a bit difficult to slide his tongue past your lips if you had a silicone ball in between them or similar. He prefers to cover your mouth with his hand or stick his fingers in your throat to silence you instead.

Aside from all the tools, it’s the discipline part of all of it that Sunday likes the best. Sure, he enjoys using his instruments on you, and they make his job easier, but he adores making you submit to him. Talk is a big part of it. He commands you with a strict tone, telling you to open up, to stop struggling, to suck on his glove, anything he wants. He orders you to tell him exactly how it feels when his fingers rub against the walls of your cunt. If you don’t, you’ll receive a mean pinch on your nipple in retaliation. Whatever he says, goes, and you don’t get to have an opinion on the matter.

Your obedience will be rewarded with orgasms, and your disobedience will be punished with… a little more strenuous orgasms. Don’t get him wrong, both scenarios are going to end up with you coming at least once or twice, but the latter requires a bit more effort. He will edge you until you yield, until you let down your guard and submit to him. He will be satisfied with nothing but complete acquiescence. He relishes the way your pleasure is in his hands, and he will use that to his advantage.

Truly, prepare to be edged if you misbehave. Not that it will alter the eventual outcome, but he will stretch the process out until you swallow your pride, and it’s going to be a much worse time than if you were compliant. He himself has incredible amounts of self-restraint, so just leisurely fucking you or laxly fingering you bring no difficulty to him when he doesn’t want you to come just yet. It’s only feather-light strokes on your clit, brief curls of his fingers inside you, tweaking your nipples until you choke out a ”sorry”. Only when you settle down and accept his ministrations will he pleasure you into completion.

Sensory deprivation

Sunday enjoys toying with your senses. He has noticed that blindfolds work wonders to heighten your receptiveness, so he comes to ponder if going a step further would bring about an even more thrilling experience.

He ties you to a chair, naked and trembling. Your ankles are bound to the legs, your hands strain from the way he has cuffed them to the back of the chair. You can barely move; you’re able to clench your fingers and toes at most. Your vision is obscured by a black strip of fabric. The polished wood is cold against the back of your bare thighs.

He’s in the room with you, slowly walking circles around your helpless form. He wants you to hear his steps, the menacing clack of his heels against the floor. You speak out in a timid tone, hesitantly calling out for him, unsure of what is about to happen to you. He doesn’t say a thing, only prolonging the unbearable anticipation that looms upon you. It’s only after a good few minutes of him merely observing you that you feel his touch on your breasts.

He rolls your nipples in between his fingers, gently tweaking them, cupping your mounds. The warm air from his slightly laboured breaths tickles the side of your face as he inspects his work from over your shoulder. He doesn’t answer even when you whimper out his name in a frightened, hitched voice. At most, you’ll get a soft, acknowledging hum from him, but it does nothing to intervene with his actions. He doesn’t pause even for a moment, and soon, his touch starts trailing down to your lower parts.

You flinch when his hand finds your clit. Slowly, he rolls the pearl between his index and middle finger, tenderly rubbing around it in a way that has your stomach turning. His aim is not to have you come, at least not for now. His objective is to rile you up as high as possible.

Even behind the blindfold, you don’t fail to notice the colours that slither at the edges of your field of vision. The last thing you hear is a gentle ”calm yourself” before your ears go deaf. You’re not spared even a second of panic before you feel the way his digits dip into your heat. You shiver as his tongue licks a stripe up your neck, all the way to your earlobe. Despite having two of your senses disconnected, the sensory hell you’re being subjected to is beyond your wildest nightmares. It’s torture, and it’s exactly how he wants it to be. You can only hope that the sounds that erupt from your mouth are shrieks and not whimpers and moans.

Mind control

It’s something he figures out he likes after you have been subjected to the wonders of Harmony a few times. He hasn’t yet used it in a way that would bring about sexual gratification, but the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if he should give it a try despite its… morally dubious nature.

He has you in the bed. You think that it’s going to be the same routine as before: him tying you down, fucking you, and being done with it. What you don’t expect, however, is for him to grab your face and look you directly in the eye with a faint smile on his features. In a matter of seconds, your expression turns dull, and you’re completely under his clemency once again.

To his delight, he notices that he doesn’t even need to bind you down when you’re under the Harmony. He’s able to pull the strings in your mind like controlling a puppet, and although he can sense and hear your disinclined thoughts, there’s nothing you can do to resist. Telepathically, he suggests that you "lay your complaints to rest and just accept what is about to happen to you”.

Your limbs start moving on their own. No matter how hard you will your legs to close, your hands to fly out and grab at him, they won’t listen. Instead, your thighs spread apart right in front of him. Then, your own hands start unbuttoning your top. He watches the events unfold with a curious glint in his eyes, following your every movement with silent glee. You can see him perfectly clearly, all the way from the smile tugging on his lips to the slightly raised brows. Your hands move to your bottom, and you pull the article of clothing off along with your underwear.

He tells you to spread your labia for him. The sentence sends such a jolt down your spine that he’s almost concerned you could break out of the trance if it were any stronger. Still, no matter how you fight it, your fingers slowly trail down your stomach and over to your bits. There, you slowly part yourself for him to ogle at, baring your clit to his scrutiny. He seems well and truly pleased at your show, and he makes it known by leaning in and landing a kiss just under your cheekbone. Then, you feel his own hand replace yours.

It’s not just about guiding your body, either. He takes immense pleasure in making you tell him just where to prod and touch to have you unravel. He asks you things like ”how does it feel right here? What about here?” and ”is it better when I touch here or there?”. Each time, you answer candidly due to the way his powers force the truth out from between your pursed lips. He follows your instructions, and soon enough, he has you coming undone in a record time. It’s particularly endearing for him to hear all the protests and the voiceless wails that are scrambling in your brain. As a reward for your transparency, he decides to bring you to another, earth-shattering climax. You would cry if you were able.

… Soft sex?

It’s not something you expected from him. However, Sunday, against all odds, requires a session of soft, organic, missionary sex with you every once in a while to keep himself from going insane. This, somehow, is even more embarrassing for him than all the other things he makes you go through, and he would rather admit to the petplay-thing than ever confess to baring his soul to you like that.

Regardless, he needs it. He needs you. He needs to caress you, to feel you under his fingers, to understand that you’re truly there. That being said, sometimes, when you appear weary enough, sex with him will be as gentle as it gets. He doesn’t bind you down, doesn’t cuff you to the bed or try to control you with Harmony. If you thrash, the only thing he will do is take both of your hands in his and press them down on the mattress before quietly shushing directly in your ear. His forehead will press against yours when his cock sinks into you, and your bodies begin swaying back and forth in tandem.

Occasionally, you cry during these times. He doesn’t quite have it in him to console you when you do, but he does bring one of his hands to rest over your eyes. He can’t bear the sight of your tears. Not at that moment.

˗ˏˋ ★ 13. Punishment: What do their sexual punishments look like? What methods do they prefer?

One would expect Sunday to get quite creative with his sexual punishments, and one would be correct about the matter. He knows the effects that sex has on people, he understands the extent of how far it can be utilized. That being said, his methods of disciplining you through sexual means will become very familiar to you once you have faced his wrath. Prepare to be subjected to a carnal hell. Through pain, pleasure and psychological torment, he will make sure that you won’t repeat your mistake of disobeying him again. You’ll experience such overwhelming amounts of stimulation that after he’s done, you’ll be feeling his hands on you multiple days after.

He never gets particularly rough, per se. His punishments are more about how they make you feel rather than how much damage he can inflict on you. His usual approach includes things like spanking, relentless edging, choking, and humiliating you in other ways. All of them are meant to be mortifying for you, and he happens to be quite skilled at making you regret your choices.

Spanking is an easy one. Sometimes, it’s his hand, and other times, it’s a wooden paddle that he has invested in solely for this purpose. Nonetheless, it’s one of the most physically agonizing things that you’ll be exposed to during your captivity. It’s either over his lap, or he might tie your hands to the bed’s headboard and have you ass-up-face-down for him. Regardless, he’s very precise about the way his implement of choice lands hits on your butt. Your flesh jiggles along with the impact, and no amount of whining is going to get you out of it. He gives you a set amount of strikes, and you have to count them out loud, or the torment will continue into the unforeseeable future. You don’t have a choice, really.

Edging is given, too. It doesn’t require that much of him, it goes with basically zero preparation, and it’s very effective. It’s not necessarily that you’re desperate to come, but every single one of your erogenous zones will be so spent by the end of it that you feel like it would be better not to climax at all. He plays your body like a violin, plucking on your strings until you’re a sobbing mess, begging for him to have mercy on you. He won’t, however — you’re done when he says you are — and that might be in the next thirty seconds or three hours.

Choking is what he tends to do when he’s actually mad. It’s the only time that he indirectly causes pain to you when it’s not the main purpose. It’s either with the collar on, or he might use his own two hands to do it. More often than not, it’s with the latter: His fingers wrap around your neck, and before you can protest, they squeeze down around your windpipe. You can no longer get ample air into your lungs, and instinctively, you attempt to yank your hands off the shackles and get him off of your throat. His hold tightens by the second, all the while his cock is ramming directly into your sweet spot. His eyes are fixated on the way your mouth hangs wide open, where tiny wheezes of breath make it past his clutch. He doesn’t actually strangle you, of course; he makes sure that you’re getting just enough oxygen, but the sense of danger is still very much present, and that’s exactly what he’s going for.

Lastly, if you misbehave, a consequence that doesn’t directly involve touching you is him taking your clothes away. All of them. You have nothing to wear, not even underwear, and the only thing you have to cover yourself with are the sheets in the bed. It’s the pettiest thing you’ll ever see him do. He won’t regrant you the privilege until you have profusely apologized to him, either.

˗ˏˋ ★ 14. Aftermath: What does their aftercare look like? Is there any?

The aftercare depends heavily on what kind of sex the two of you have had. If it’s the usual kind (from gentle to medium rough), he’s going to be quite meticulous about it. It’s also tied to how your mental state is afterwards — sometimes he’ll go through the entire checklist of things, other times it’s only a bath with him. The bath is non-negotiable, though, no matter the occurrence. It also comes with him changing the sheets if the bed has been utilized, which is almost always.

More often than not, he’s going to perform a full check-up on your body after sex. This is especially if he has inflicted pain on you. Scarring you (physically) isn’t something he aims for despite being the reason you’re left with a considerable number of marks. That’s why, after you’re done, he takes you to the bathroom, turns on the uncomfortably bright overhead lamp, sits you down on the stool and starts going through your body limb by limb. He has the same routine nearly every time: First, the shoulders and the neck, then your arms, your back, your thighs and legs, and finally, your face. He’s very precise, and he doesn’t allow you to move during the fifteen minutes that it takes for him to do his thing. He might mumble a few words, but that’s the most you’ll get.

He’s very soft with his actions. His fingers glide over your skin with tenderness, going over the hickeys, the bitemarks, the welts, the bruises, everything. Sometimes, you can feel his touch stop at a certain spot, maybe to inspect a mole or to rub on some tiny speck he found. You might hear him let out a soft sigh before moving forward. Be aware though, that if the sex was the punishment kind, this part of the aftercare will most likely be skipped. It’s not even that big of a concern to you: It usually gets a bit tedious to sit still for as long as he’s busy with you (naked, too, mind you), but in his eyes, he’s disciplining you by leaving this extremely necessary step out.

When it comes to the bath, you will sit still and pretty in his lap in the tub, and he will wash you. Don’t attempt to clean yourself, because he’s only going to grab you by the wrist (the strength depends on whether you’ve been agreeable or not) and set your hand back down in the water. It’s a wordless way of telling you that you’re unqualified to take care of yourself in this manner. He will scrub you down thoroughly, he will wash your hair, soap you up, all of it. It’s not uncommon for it to take so long that by the time he’s done, you’re already half asleep against his bare chest.

Regardless if it’s night or not, you do tend to go to bed afterwards, he has noticed. Psychologically, sex with him is always strenuous, so it’s no wonder that you would be tired. If he doesn’t have anything better to do, he will tuck your worn body under the blankets and climb in next to you. However, more often than not, he won’t fall asleep until a few hours after. He tends to read a book or go through a few work matters before that.

There’s one exception that comes to his aftercare routine, however, and that is if you’re left in a particularly rough state after a session. He doesn’t like it himself, but he does have a weakness for tears; particularly when it comes to you. So, if you’re left sobbing after he’s done, he’ll postpone the mandatory bath in favour of soothing you. If you’ve been ”bad”, the words of consolation that he offers are more on the end of being ”you did this to yourself” and other less-than-benevolent phrases, but if not, if it’s just an ordinary time, he will genuinely attempt to alleviate your suffering. He will caress your face, neck and chest area, probably kiss you a bit, his wings will kind of come down to shield your eyes, and he will let you know how "good you were for him". Depending on the occasion, he may even get a little desperate with it; he might literally beg you to stop crying. It’s probably the weakest you’ll ever see him.

˗ˏˋ ★ 15. Further notes: Is there anything that sets them apart from the other yanderes sex-wise? Are there any unique aspects to them?

It’s a relatively minor detail, but Sunday prefers to keep his clothes on during sex. The habit sometimes extends to you, as in he doesn’t undress you beyond unbuttoning or pulling up your shirt and taking your lower half off to get to the good bits. When it comes to himself, though, you’ll be lucky if he ever decides to even get rid of his gloves. It’s quite a common occurrence that he ends up fingering you with them still on. Naturally, after the act, he’ll comment on them ”being unusable”, completely ignoring the fact the same thing happens each time. He might shove the drenched piece of fabric in your mouth if your complaints regarding the matter get too loud.

It’s sort of a domination thing, too. He finds power in being the one clothed while all of you is bared to his hungry gaze. It’s especially uncomfortable since his eyes tend to rake every inch of your skin, and he seems to take pleasure in the way you squirm under his scrutiny.

Eye contact is another thing that’s really big for him. No matter the position (unless it’s one of the times when you’re blindfolded), he likes to be able to look directly in your eyes while his thrusts rock your body back and forth. Not only does it make it easier to use the Harmony on you if need be, but by observing your expression, he can figure out just what makes you tick.

It also makes sex with him exceedingly intimate. There’s nowhere you can hide from him, nothing you could redirect your mind towards. Oftentimes, he will ask you to ”look at him”, verbatim. If you decline the request, he’s sure to give you a couple extra deep pushes to change your mind. It’s less demanding to just go with his whims.

Sunday likes butt plugs. It's specifically those: He's not that big of a fan of brutish things like full-on anal: Sometimes, if he's feeling extra freaky, he might stick a finger in your ass while fucking you, but nothing beyond that. Plugs, however do it for him. Especially the ones that have a jewel on the flat end, those are to his liking. He might have you wear one for a long while, too, especially as a minor punishment.

He likes putting in the thing himself. He has you face down in the pillow, hands tied behind your back as you wouldn't stop protesting, and he meticulously lubes up your rear hole. His fingers spread the liquid around, occasionally dipping in, rubbing around your rim. He coats the toy in the substance as well, and soon after, you feel the rounded tip pushing into you. One of his hands is stroking on your hip, trying to get you to relax so he can nudge the entire thing in.

He might prolong the process in purpose, too. Just as the widest part of the plug is about to slip in, he pulls it back. Your hole contracts as the stretch disappears. He repeats the action a few times, probably fingering your cunt at the same time just to maximize the stimulation, and he watches with great satisfaction as the toy finally sinks in all the way. You let out a high-pitched whine. The strain in his pants is nearly unbearable.

Oh, and if you want to embarrass his prudish ass, make sure to talk to him about sex as much as possible. Despite all the stuff he does to your poor body, due to his inhibited nature regarding the subject, he gets horribly uncomfortable when you bring the matter up. It’s reverse psychology at its best, and if you make him awkward enough, you might very well receive an exemption from the night’s session. If his actions have been especially nefarious lately, it’s possible that you may even get an apology from him. It’s not a promise to never do it again, though, because he absolutely will, but it gives you a break from it at least. And, another reason to go through with it is because it’s… kind of funny. It’s a rare treat to see the man so flustered.

A/N

The taglist has expanded to two (2) people!

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[absinthe-over-tea]

either way it's gonna || the pitt

pt 4 <<prev • next>>

pairing: jack abbott x f!resident!reader quick synopsis: When Langdon leaves The Pitt for rehab, Robby hires you as a new senior resident. Meeting Jack on your first day spirals into a year of almosts and miscommunication — all you know is either way this goes, it's going to hurt. Inspired by Hurt by Jasmine Jethwa. warnings: age gap (older man/younger woman), canon-typical death, probably a gross amount of medical inaccuracies, vague allusions to reader's past a/n: Welcome to part 4, featuring an absurd level of conclusion jumping and miscommunication between these two fucking morons. Thanks to everyone who's hopped along for the ride! This one's a little angsty, and longer than the last two updates (close to 4.1k). Pls let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list! Not beta read.

“We’re not talking about it.”

“Did I just see what I think I saw?” Robby asked, undeterred. Jack was still reeling, both from the euphoria of having your lips on his and the hurt of you running away. 

“I said we’re not talking about it.”  

“Because I think I just saw you making out with my favorite resident.” The grin on Robby’s face grew with every word he spoke and every step he took toward where Jack was still planted next to the railing. 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Collins is your favorite resident,” he corrected. “And we’re not talking about it.” 

“Favorite residents are like best friends, you can have more than one,” his friend waved off the technicality. “And it feels like you’re purposefully avoiding the point.”  

“It feels like you’re purposefully avoiding the fact that I said we’re not talking about it.” 

For one, blessed minute, they stood there in silence, Jack’s brain still trying to fully catch up to what the hell just happened over the course of the last five minutes. 

Of course, it didn’t last for long. 

“You know, I’m a little hurt that you brought her up here,” Robby nudged his shoulder against Jack’s. “I always kind of considered it our spot.” 

Jack groaned. God, he was such a little shit. “I’m going to push you off this roof.” 

“But then I’d be wheeled into your OR, Dr. Abbot.”  

“And I’d have them stick you in a room with Myrna. I saw she’s back at Casa de la Pitt tonight,” he threatened, pulling himself off the railing to head back inside. Patients were waiting, and not for the first time, Jack was extremely grateful for the distraction of a 12-hour shift ahead of him. 

After that shift ended, Jack didn’t go back to the roof like he usually would’ve. Instead, he went outside to that bench in the park where the day shift sometimes drinks after a hard day, beer in hand despite the morning hour. 

The universe had clearly been plotting against him — it had been a mostly quiet night in the ED. Not even Shen pointing out the fact (followed by Parker throwing a wadded up paper ball at the side of his head) had picked up the pace. And while that meant fewer people hurt or sick and no one lost on his watch, it also meant plenty of down time for paperwork and overthinking what happened between you two on the roof. It didn’t help that he was clearly in a shit mood, and everyone gave him a wide berth throughout the evening. Even Walsh had stayed clear, only grumbling once about a chest tube he’d put in.

Kissing you was…fuck, he hadn’t felt like that in over a decade. It was like jumping off the deep end and coming home all at the same time. But the way you’d reacted when Robby opened the door? You couldn’t get away fast enough. Were you ashamed of being seen with him? Did you regret it? 

And the more Jack thought about it, the more angry with himself he got. 

You’d had a horrible day. The case with the teenager and her dad had clearly shaken you to your core, though Jack didn’t fully understand why. You’d cried in his arms! And what had he done? Taken advantage of the situation and your willingness to be vulnerable with him for his own personal gain and gratification. He was an attending, for fuck’s sake. You were a senior resident. And it didn’t matter that you were on different shifts, he was still technically a superior. It was entirely inappropriate of him, even if you had been the one to kiss him first. 

“Are we still not talking about it?” Robby plopped down on the bench next to him, two to-go cups in hand. 

“No.” 

“Shen said you snapped at Ellis over a blood draw she could do in her sleep, and you’re out here drinking a beer at 7 a.m. Feels like maybe you need to talk about it.” The teasing from the previous night was gone, replaced by concern and that tone Jack recognized as a warning he wasn’t going to let something go. 

Jack took a deep breath. Might as well get this over with. “There’s nothing to talk about. I fucked up. She ran away.” 

“Well yeah, she ran. She was embarrassed.” Robby was looking at him like he was stupid for thinking it possible you’d react any other way. And while Jack knew he was stupid, hearing his friend lay it out so plainly was still hurtful.

“Exactly,” he grumbled, hand raised to take another swig of his beer. Robby leaned over to snatch it out of his hand before he could and replaced it with a warm to-go cup. Chamomile, by the smell of it.  

“Not embarrassed of you, dipshit. Embarrassed at having been caught by her boss.” 

“But why be embarrassed if she didn’t regret it?” He balanced the cup on the bench next to him, leaning forward to bury his head in his hands. “Let’s be realistic about this. She’s young, she’s beautiful, she’s incredibly competent, she’s got her whole life ahead of her. The last thing she wants is a middle-aged man with a dead wife, PTSD, and half a right leg.” 

“Have you thought about asking her?” He suggested it like it would be easy, just a casual conversation to be had in the lounge. 

With a sigh Robby stood up, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Look, I know you and I don’t generally do the mushy shit, but I need you to hear me when I say this.” Jack looks up to meet his eyes. “Don’t sell yourself short, brother. Or her, for that matter. You deserve to be happy.” 

He didn’t wait for a response before walking back toward the hospital entrance, leaving Jack alone on the bench to mull over his words. 

*** 

You hadn’t been able to get Jack alone. You’d come in early and stayed late, hoping to talk to him about what happened on the roof, apologize for running away like that. But he was constantly in motion, always with a patient or Robby or one of the other residents. 

You were positive he was avoiding you, not that you could blame him. 

Kissing him was… fuck, you didn’t know if you’d ever felt like that during a first kiss in your life. You’d been so consumed by it, by him, that you’d forgotten everything — where you were, who you were, what had happened before he joined you on the roof, all of it.  

Well, at least until Robby had walked through the door. And then it all came crashing back in an instant — the teenager you couldn’t save and the way her dad had screamed in your face just like yours used to, the fact that you’d just made an absolute mess of Jack’s scrub top sobbing like a child in his arms, how absolutely unprofessional you were being making out with an attending at work. 

So you’d bolted. Like a coward.  

It definitely wasn’t your finest moment. You hadn’t even told Heather about any of it, though you were sure Robby had said something. They may technically still be exes, but they told each other everything, and every time you spoke to your boss lately, he eyed you with barely concealed glee that caused your face to flush. 

You wanted to tell him that you’d just panicked, that you didn’t want your boss to think less of you or that you were throwing yourself at an attending the first chance you got, that you couldn’t stop thinking about it or him or what it all meant. 

But that would have required him to look at you. To speak to you about anything other than patient care. 

A week went by, and then two, and your desire to apologize morphed into irritation at his behavior. Two turned to three, and your irritation turned into anxiety. Maybe you had it all wrong. Maybe the reason he pulled away so definitively wasn’t because he felt rejected. Maybe this was him rejecting you. 

By the time a month had passed, you’d accepted Jack’s behavior for what it was: a boundary. You were a resident, and he was an attending, and what happened on the roof was nothing more than a hard day and a lapse in both of your judgments. 

Then Langdon got out of rehab. 

“Are you sure?” Heather asked after the informal residents staff meeting where you volunteered to move to nights to accommodate his return to the schedule. 

“McKay has a kid, Mel has her sister, Samira is the only thing standing between Gloria firing Robby over day shift patient satisfaction scores and med students and interns aren’t allowed to be on permanent night shift,” you repeated the same rationale you said in the meeting when Robby asked if you were sure. 

“I could have switched,” she pointed out gently, shoulder nudging yours as you walked side by side back to the ED.

“You’re the chief resident, and the best teacher we have other than Robby,” you argue back. Instead of acknowledging the sympathetic look you could see her giving you out of the corner of your eye, you knocked her with your elbow, waggled your eyebrows dramatically, and did what you did best: deflected. “Plus, you and I both know you’d get cranky without your daily dose of Michael Robinavich.” 

She snorted, rolling her eyes, but otherwise didn’t take the bait. She studiously avoided naming whatever weird exes-to-coworkers-to-definitely-more-than-coworkers-but-infuriatingly-less-than-lovers situationship she had going on with Robby regardless of how many sly remarks you made about it. “What are you going to do about Jack?” 

You still hadn’t told her about what exactly happened on the roof. Just that he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested, and you were respecting his choices. You could tell she didn’t believe that was all there was to the story, and god knows what Robby had or hadn’t told her, but she thankfully hadn’t pushed further. 

The man in question came into view as you stepped back through the doors of the ED. He was leaned up against the nurses station looking over a tablet and talking to Dana, still in his street clothes. The black tshirt fit tighter over his arms than his scrubs, and his hair still looked a little damp, like he’d taken a shower and hadn’t bothered to dry it before heading in.

You sighed, turning around to put him out of eyesight. “Nothing to be done. He’s a great doctor; I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from him.” 

Heather leveled you with a stern look, eyes pointedly glancing behind you. You made the mistake of turning to follow her gaze to where Robby was handing over the new schedule, ostensibly breaking the news to Jack about his newest night shift senior resident.

Hazel eyes whipped locked on you from across the room, and you quickly turned back around. You didn’t want to see whatever reaction he was going to have to you joining his service. 

Heather was still looking at you, arms crossed and one perfect eyebrow raised. But true to form, she didn’t push. 

You gave her a sad smile, grateful for your coworker turned friend. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Pinky promise.” 

You showed up to your first night shift with a cup of steaming hot black coffee from the hospital lobby cafe, sliding it across the counter to Jack. He glanced up from the patient chart he was working on, eyebrows raised in an maddeningly unreadable expression. 

You huffed out a sigh and straightened your shoulders. “I want to learn, and I want to do good work on your service.” You gave no other explanation, hoping he would read between the lines. Please don’t make this personal. Please don’t reject me here, too. 

He sat there, eyes locked on yours, for a beat too long. He wanted to say something — you could feel it in the weight of the silence, see it in the hard swallow he took like the words were caught in his throat. You felt the buzz of anxiety creep up your neck, but you refused to squirm. You met his stare unwaveringly. 

After what felt like an age, he sighed, and you saw the way his eyes softened almost into something resembling sadness and his shoulders deflated just slightly before he nodded. As if he were the one giving something up and you the one taking it. The move flared a split second of anger in your chest at the audacity for him to act like the one spurned when you were the one who’d put everything on the line, the one who had been rejected. 

But then Shen’s voice broke through. “You know, I heard they were letting a daywalker join us, but I didn’t fully believe it.”  

With a final tap on the counter with your fist, you tore your eyes away from Jack and plastered a smug smirk on your face as Shen sauntered up with two Dunkin iced coffees in hand. “For you,” he held out one. “Call it an official welcome to night shift.” 

“Should I be concerned about what’s in this?” you joked, holding the light-colored liquid up to the light as if to inspect it. 

Jack’s quiet chuckle startled you so much, you nearly jumped. “I guarantee there’s more sugar than coffee in that thing,” he quipped. Shen flipped him off but didn’t deny it. 

When you spared a glance over at him, eyebrows raised, he met your eyes with a small smile. You mirrored it with one of your own. A truce. An implicit promise that this would be okay. 

And as you settled into a new rhythm and a new schedule, things were, shockingly, okay. 

Turns out, you loved the night shift. You’d always been a night owl by nature, and your sleep schedule adjusted quickly. Getting off at 7 a.m. also meant you could swing by to visit your mom during breakfast visiting hours, and she was generally much less irritable earlier in the day. Traffic was easier to navigate. 

But beyond the logistics of night shift, you also loved the work. There was less oversight, more freedom. You were able to learn and practice procedures you’d never get to see on day shift. The cases were often harder, but more rewarding. 

Ellis and Shen were quick to bring you in on the night shift gossip, including Jesse’s insufferable crush on Mike, the security guard. (And you had to admit that Jesse had good taste because that man was fine.) And you loved getting to learn from them. They were both so solid. Quick to act during a crisis, but just as quick to relax in the lulls. Everything seemed to roll off their backs in a way you envied. 

And then there was Jack — Dr. Abbot, you tried to remind yourself to keep him firmly in that box. 

You hadn’t worked with him that much when you were on day shift, had only seen glimpses of his leadership and mentorship style, how he interacted with patients. Seeing him fully in his element was different. He was still firm, decisive, an “ER Cowboy,” as Walsh called him. But he was also somehow softer in the wee hours of the morning. 

He made bets with Ellis on who could make the most paper baskets (Ellis won every time — she’d played field hockey in undergrad and Jack’s far-sighted vision wasn’t what it used to be), he gave Shen constant shit for his beverage choices (I’m just saying, someone drinking iced anything when it’s 38 degrees outside is cause for concern). He was kind to patients, took his time especially with the kids. 

People were intimidated by him on day shift, the rough around the edges vet. But on the night shift? People adored him. 

It was somewhat disorienting, but also completely endearing. Which made his continued distance with you twist painfully in your chest. 

He was a consummate professional, a fantastic teacher. Told you when you did a good job on a case, corrected you with a gentle hand when needed, never once treated you unfairly compared to the others. But it was different, he kept you at a distinct personal distance, and you weren’t the only one who noticed. 

“Okay, what’s up with you and Abbot?” Ellis asked point-blank one night during a lull, fully leaned over the nurses station with a half-eaten protein bar in her hand. “There’s a pool going, and the guesses are starting to get a bit ridiculous.” 

“Someone should seriously look into whether this ED has a gambling problem,” you muttered under your breath, taking a sip from your water bottle but otherwise keeping your focus on the patient chart on the screen in front of you. 

She snorted. “If the hospital paid nurses and PAs what they should, they wouldn’t have to run a gambling ring for their vacation funds. Let them live.” Touché. “Come on,” she whined. “Just give me a hint. Secretly divorced? Secretly married? You know, he would be the type to keep his marriage a secret at work so he could keep pretending to be all professional about working with you.” 

“I hate to disappoint, but there’s nothing up with me and Dr. Abbot.”

You hit save on the chart and exited out, pushing away from the computer. It was time for a break — your stomach growled — and a snack. 

“I don’t believe you!” she called after you. You just waved her off as you headed to the lounge for a water refill and the apple slices and peanut butter you had stashed in the fridge. 

Despite the apparent second betting pool about you and your attending, it was easy to settle into a routine. 

Come in and chat with Heather and Dana for a bit to catch up on any day shift gossip before they left for the night. Tackle patients until the mid-night lull. Try not to let it get to you when you caught Jack laughing with Shen or teasing Walsh. Grab some food and a coffee refill before catching up on charting. Finish off the shift with the morning rush before handoff with day shift. Pretend you don’t linger a little longer than necessary at the nurses station in the hopes that maybe Jack would ask if you wanted to grab breakfast and talk. Rinse and repeat. 

At least, until the night of the robbery gone wrong.  

She was young. A vet, dog tags around her neck. Four stab wounds in her abdomen, one slashing right through a Semper Fi tattoo on her ribs. She’d realistically already lost too much blood by the time she came in, but that hadn’t stopped Jack from hanging blood bags and pushing meds, doing his damndest to plug the holes. When she coded before surgery could even arrive, he’d done compressions for far longer than protocol demanded. 

Shen had tried to get him to call it. Ellis had stepped in when that hadn’t worked. You knew better than to interfere, could see it in his eyes and the set of his jaw that nothing any of you said or did would move him. The three of you weren’t vets, none of you fully understood. 

In the end, Walsh was the one who got through to him. They usually argue like cats and dogs over patients, but she said something to him too quiet for you to make out, her eyes locked on his and her hands covering his on the patient’s chest. 

His movements slowed, the only sounds in the room his labored breaths and the steady drone of the flatline on the heart rate monitor. She called it when he didn’t. Time of death, 3:53. 

All at once, it was like he came back to himself, as if realizing he was in a Pittsburgh ER and not an Afghanistan field hospital. A few deep breaths, and he was stepping back and tearing off his gown and gloves. Unflappable Dr. Abbot mask firmly back in place, almost like it was never off. Almost.  

He went back to work after, like it had been any other case, any other loss. You all knew it was a lie, but no one seemed keen to call him on it. 

When her husband arrived, Jack went out to greet them. Accompanied him to the morgue. After, he excused himself, said he needed some air. Notably, he went out through the waiting room and not upstairs to the roof, which somehow worried you even more. You asked Shen if someone should go check on him, but the other attending shook his head. 

“He’s always like this when we lose a veteran, but he hates anyone trying to talk to him about it. Nearly bit Parker’s head off one time after she tried convincing him to take the night off,” he shrugged. “Said he didn’t need to be coddled. None of us like it, but we all learned a long time ago to leave him be.” 

Despite Shen’s assurances that he’d be fine, you couldn’t help yourself from keeping an extra eye on him the rest of shift. At first glance, he always seemed fine. But you also saw the way his jaw stayed tense, the rigidity in his shoulders that went beyond his typical good posture, the faraway look in his eyes. 

You recognized it all. You knew what it looked like to barely be holding yourself together, to be clutching onto the broken pieces of yourself so hard your hands bled. You knew what it felt like to not want to let anyone treat the wounds because admitting they’re there meant risking falling apart completely. 

So at the end of shift, you didn’t linger at the nurses station to wait for him. Instead, you snuck away a few minutes early, took the elevator to the top floor, parked yourself at the top of the stairs to the roof, and waited. 

He stopped short when you came into view, body blocking his exit path.

“I’m fine.” The croak of his voice sounded anything but fine. Angry. Devastated. Guilt-ridden. Of course, you didn’t think there was a shot in hell of him admitting to any of that. At least not here. 

“I don’t recall asking,” you said instead, leaned back with your elbows propped up on the step behind you. Your voice was hard, a razor edge to it that you hadn’t purposefully employed in years. Not since your dad died. “Roof’s closed tonight.” 

Shen said he didn’t want to be coddled? Fine, you wouldn’t coddle him. But you damn sure weren’t going to let him torture himself two feet from a 22-story drop. 

He just stood there, glaring at you with his hands on his hips. Under different circumstances, the hard lines of his face and the coldness in his eyes turned against you would make you squirm. Make you question whether you were crossing one of the many invisible lines he’d drawn over the past couple of months. But you steeled yourself against it tonight; this was about something bigger than a romantic rejection, and you wouldn’t let your fear of that stop you from being there for him as a friend and colleague. Whether he wanted you there or not. 

You met his glare with your own, chin raised and lips pursed. A challenge. 

A door opening several floors down is what finally broke the silent standoff, both of your attention momentarily shifting to the voices bouncing off the cinder block stairwell walls. With the tension stretched thin between you two cut, his entire body seemed to soften. You watched as some of the anger seeped out of him, replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion. 

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he asked when his eyes met yours again. 

“I’ve been told I can be quite stubborn,” you confirmed, doing your best not to let a smile creep up on your face. You could tell from the look on his face that you’d won this round — he wasn’t going to fight you on this. 

He sighed, raking a hand through his salt and pepper curls. 

“Come on,” you stood, smoothing your hands over the thighs of your pant scrubs and stowing your stethoscope in your pocket. “If you want to brood with a view of the skyline, you can do it at my place over breakfast. We both need a meal from somewhere that isn’t this hospital, and I don’t feel like being alone.” 

You both knew that the last bit was for his benefit, a way for him to pretend this was about what you wanted and not what he needed. But he didn’t argue with you or scoff at your demand. Instead, he just turned and gestured for you to lead the way.

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tag list: @brnesblogposts @nosebeers @emma8895eb @nerdgirljen @woodxtock @misshoneypaper @starrykitn @qardasngan @artsymaddie @evrybodydies1 @teenage-iridescence 

[fail-era-clovermon]

nono i agree!! what they did was bad and obviously nobody is entitled to forgiveness, your actions are still your actions regardless of circumstances. what i was trying to say that i think i failed to convey was that they obviously grew up in a tunnel-vision environment where they were spoon-fed propaganda that their nation was right all along. zuko took steps to unlearn this and he realized that oh, he was pretty shitty actually

the problem with azula is that she never really got the chance to see any outside perspective (at least imo) as she was constantly used by her father. she has done extremely horrible things and never seeked redemption but at the same time she never really got a chance to make her own opinions or choices and by the time she did have any chance she wasn't stable enough mentally.

i do think it's important they as characters accept that their actions are their own fault and seek betterment, but i personally hesitate to call it with the term redemption because they are still children, like the rest of the gaang, and they aren't as conscious of what consequences their actions might have as an adult might be.

i completely agree with your post if it wasn't clear!! you're absolutely right, personally i think what would have been best for azula was a combination of the two: she takes responsibility for her actions and genuinely, truly makes an effort to right her wrongs without seeking compensation of any kind, but also she gets the mental health help she needs and a space where she is allowed to be a 14 year old and not a weapon

i feel like so many people misunderstand redemption arcs. they’re not about forgiving past actions. they’re not about softening previous behavior. redemption arcs are about realizing past behavior was heinous and resolving to be better, do better. that’s why so many redemption arcs fall apart upon close scrutiny.

[loricciardo]

TAG YOU LATER, charles leclerc.

pinned rules masterlist

pairing. charles leclerc x indie musician!reader

summary. an up and coming american indie musician tags charles leclerc on instagram after he wins the austin grand prix, never expecting him to see it; let alone comment. when he gets hooked on a dreamy demo she shared, not realizing she’s the one who made it… things spiral fast.

tags. female reader, fluffy, slight cussing, SMAU, usage of y/n as name is unspecified, unaddressed hate comments, reader is an american from texas,

author’s note. hey!!!! i’ve never in my life written a SMAU so i hope this isn’t too shit 😭 feedback is always welcome and appreciated!!!! lots of love ALSO I RUSHED THE END IM SORRY!!!

request are open, not proofread, based on this ask. looking for beta readers! x

🎶 stranger to me (demo) — by your band

liked by charles_leclerc, yourbandmate1, gracieabrams and 3,478 others

yn still not over yesterday. charles leclerc on the podium in my home state??? unreal. also if you see a girl sobbing during the anthem… no you didn’t.

tagged charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari

view all 368 comments. . .

charles_leclerc Merci ❤️ I didn’t see anyone crying I promise 😅 Also great song choice

↳ yn not you actually seeing this 😭😭 wait. wait. you listened to it?

↳ charles_leclerc Yes! On repeat actually. Who is the artist?

↳ carlossainz55 Mate… 😂😂😂

↳ charles_leclerc ????

↳ ferrarifan1 oh charles is dumb dumb

ynluvr128 Wait. Wait. Wait. Is this happening.. in real time?!

random IMAGINE THE CHARLES LECLERC is in your comments what is going on 😭

f1gossipgirl wtf is charles doing here lmao

random Another clout chaser 🥱 F1 isn’t the same anymore with all these wannabe WAGs

yourbandmate1 Way to promote the song go girl xo

↳ yn I DIDNT EVEN MEAN TO

↳ yourbandmate2 well it went up in streams sooo keep doing this 💝💝

charles_leclerc has added to their story!

🎶 stranger to me (demo) — by your band

yn has replied to your story:

yn okay so um. hi 😅 i didn’t want to say anything publicly because i was kind of dying on the inside and it just felt weird to announce but

yn i’m the artist btw

yn or… well my band is 😭 i wasn’t gonna release it but now charles leclerc listens to it apparently so that’s cool

charles_leclerc Wait

charles_leclerc No no no

charles_leclerc You can’t just casually be that good and expect no one to notice 😅

charles_leclerc That’s so cool. You’re seriously talented yn liked this message

yn thank you!!!!! 🤍🤍

yn i’m kinda glad you didn’t know 😭 it feels less weird that way

charles_leclerc Makes sense

charles_leclerc But now that I do know… it’s even more impressive

charles_leclerc You’ve got something special. The lyrics are very well written

yn that means a lot especially coming from someone who’s used to yknow…

yn engines n shit idfk 😭

charles_leclerc Hey!!!! 😡

charles_leclerc I write music too

charles_leclerc Well

charles_leclerc I mess around on the piano sometimes but still

yn wait for real??? youre a musician too??? what can’t you people do 😭

charles_leclerc “Musician” is a very very strong word I’m afraid

charles_leclerc I play a few basic progressions when I can’t sleep

yn honestly relatable af

yn that’s how stranger to me happened

charles_leclerc It’s a sign chéri. It seems to be working well for you ❤️

yn i’ll take that as encouragement to keep making sad little ballads then

charles_leclerc Yes! Please do

charles_leclerc I need new stuff to listen to. You have a very specific vibe and I’m addicted now 😅

yn well damn

yn guess i have to finish my next song 😭 charles_leclerc liked this message

charles_leclerc has followed you back!

liked by bandmate1, yourband, bandmate2, charles_leclerc, tatemcrae, and 7,269 others

yn currently writing songs i swore i’d never let anyone hear. funny how quickly that changes sometimes. #MaybeWeWillShareThisOne #OrWillWe?

tagged yourband, bandmate1, bandmate2, bandmate3

view all 1,655 comments. . .

ynfan this era of her is so raw i’m obsessed

charles_leclerc 👀 Now you have to release it liked by yn and 5,279 others

↳ fan1 omg CHARLES AGAIN??

↳ hater i can’t tell if he actually likes her music or just wants in her pants LMFAO

↳ fan2 He is here before the fanpages are 😭

↳ fan3 is he not embarrassed 💀

carlossainz55 @charles_leclerc Did you switch careers or what?

↳ charles_leclerc I can’t just appreciating good music anymore?

↳ fan he’s SWEATING in these comments lol

lilymhe I vote yes for release DM me the drop 😌

↳ yn only if you pinky swear not to leak it 🤙

↳ lilymhe What do you take me for? 🤙

↳ fan omg not lily being in on it too

↳ fan soft-launch SQUAD confirmed

bff1 drop. the. demo. or we riot.

↳ yn y-y… yes maam 😅 (help she is holding me at gun point)

musicblogger22 I love watching you lean into this. your sound deserves to be loud 🔥

bandmate3 YESSSSSSSS 🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌

↳ bandmate3fan i want u so bad

f1gossipgirl ok but are we just ignoring the way Charles is basically soft launching in her comments?

↳ yndefender girl what??? 💀 they’re just friends???

charlesfan876 she’s literally milking this attention lol

ynhater4 girl one song on insta doesn’t make you a musician 😭

↳ ynHQ and yet he’s in her likes and you’re in the comments 🫶

f1updatesdaily can someone explain to me why this random singer is suddenly everywhere with the drivers??

random i swear if she doesn’t release this one i’ll cry

yncharlesshipper He’s gonna end up in a song isn’t he 👀

↳ fan he’s already inspired one idk what y’all mean

f1updatesdaily 📸 Spotted: Charles Leclerc out in Las Vegas with American singer-songwriter YN of yourband following the Vegas GP.

The two were seen walking around the Strip late at night after grabbing food. Fans were quick to recognize YN from a recent post where she tagged Charles after his Austin podium, where he left a suspiciously flirty comment. 👀

She is behind the indie track Stranger to Me that Charles recently shared to his story last week.

More than just a coincidence? Swipe ➡️ for more.

#F1 #CharlesLeclerc #Ferrari #VegasGP #WAGWatch #WhoIsShe #YnLn #LasVegas

view all 2,465 comments. . .

ynmusicfan THE WAY SHE’S BEEN LOWKEY FOR YEARS AND NOW THIS??

wagupdates she’s been on a few spotify editorial playlists lately too?? i’m smelling gold diggerrrr

fan “stranger to me” is about to chart isn’t it 😭

wherestheferrari not the guy who plays piano falling for a girl who writes sad songs

↳ charlesfan26 meant to be!!!! we love yn in this house 🏠

ynupdates IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?!?!?!

fan3 not the indie girlies entering the F1 universe now 😭

f1slayyy unpopular opinion but i kinda love this for him

f1anon Y’all she’s American and 4 years younger than him… plot twist

↳ yndefender2 am I the only one who thinks the gap is a little weird 💀 Charles is ancient

f1hatersunite fame-hunting 101 lol

charles_leclerc has added to their story!

yn has replied to your story:

yn are you trying to start rumors or are you just feeling bold today

yn also?? favorite sound????? i’m blushing pls

charles_leclerc Both are true

charles_leclerc Also you blush really easily, chéri

charles_leclerc It’s cute yn has liked this message

f1girlie CHARLES. LECLERC. JUST POSTED A GIRL ON HIS STORY. NO TAG. NO CONTEXT. I’M UNWELL.

lovedovedance wait wait WAIT is that the same girl who dropped stranger to me??? the vibes matchhhh

leclercdaily She had headphones on. “Favorite sound.” He’s either dating her or she made him a playlist that changed his life

goferrari69 not charles soft launching his manic pixie dream indie girlfriend while i cry over my physics exam

ynlovebot OKAY BUT. the caption. the framing. the fact she’s not tagged??? that’s real. that’s intentional. yn x charles era is here

delusionaldutch i fear this is the girl from vegas.

leclercgf we lost girls. wrap it up.

maxverstappenshrine me pretending i don’t care while zooming in and enhancing like i’m on NCIS

charlesloverreal no bc if this IS her then charles has TASTE. this is what a yearning man

haterhoe69 not another one of them falling for the ✨artsy✨ american girls 💀 y’all are weak

carlossainzstannie atp if she gets invited to qatar i’m logging out permanently

liked by charles_leclerc, taylorswift, georgerussell63, scuderiaferrari, bff1, and 20,369 others

yn wrote a song and found a soft place to land. 🤍truly forza ferrari 🏎️🇶🇦

tagged charles_leclerc, scuderiaferrari, qatargp

view all 14,972 comments. . .

charles_leclerc Even your captions are poetic. Love you ❤️ liked by yn and 17,252 others

↳ yn ❤️❤️ forever?

charles_leclerc Is that even a question, chéri?

fan OH MY GOD

leclercsleftdimple that deep ass kiss just healed my trust issues

ynupdates her caption?? charles’ comment?? everyone shut up this is love

lando We’ve been knew but congrats Ig

↳ yn jealous much?

↳ lando Of him? Not a chance

↳ yn i meant jealous of me. we know you want a homoerotic relationship with charles liked by 162 others

↳ landofan THIS IS SO??? 😭

leclercnation she writes songs AND makes our boy smile like that?? wife material confirmed

hater27 i tried to hate but i listened to her song and now i’m just confused

WAGupdates this is why we never trust a man’s instagram story. full relationship arc in 4 posts

carmenmmundt She’s beauty, she’s grace, she’s everything. He’s there. Love you.

↳ yn sending all my love carmen 🤍🤍 you’re welcome to hang out in the ferrari garage anytime george pisses you off x

↳ georgerussell63 Excuse me??????

↳ yn everyone is a ferrari fan! forza ferrari george

pierregasly finally. my timeline is at peace.

gracieabrams literally crying at this softboy era you unlocked 😭🫶

lilymhe Miss you girlie!!!!

↳ yn can we date instead

[pantoneyoongi]

in love with love (with you) || slow dance

series ; in love with love (with you)  description ; you’re a romantic. jungkook? jungkook is not. 

title ; slow dance

word count ; 3.9k

notes ; 

a drabble for the in love with love (with you) series! in which jungkook did not (but also didn’t not) take you to prom. (or: among the first of many times jungkook makes excuses just to be good to you.) 

tags ; high school!au, fluff, sickening levels of fluff, my god i love them, the tiniest bit of angst if you squint, frenemies to lovers, this is like mostly unedited but oh well, no u don’t understand i really really love them so much, pls go to main masterlist for more / general tags 

you don’t go to prom with jungkook. 

actually, you don’t go to prom with anyone. you suppose you could’ve asked taehyung or jimin to come home - they would’ve - but you can’t bring yourself to ask them to pay for a flight right around their finals season at university, just to come and take you to a high school dance. you really can’t justify it. especially not when you do technically have someone to spend the night with, even if you didn’t, technically, go with him. 

see, you and jungkook are not friends. you’re also not not friends. your relationship with jungkook is a lot of nots, and not nots. like, his tie doesn’t match your dress. it also doesn’t not match your dress. the color is just one shade off. 

and he didn’t ask you to go with him, and you certainly didn’t ask him, but he still showed up with a corsage for you, claiming that he had to buy it as a set with his boutonniere, and then muttering some kind of excuse about his mom wanting to see him with the boutonniere, and it’s not like he has a date either, so he may as well give you the corsage, because who else would he give it to? 

which is funny, in retrospect, because it’s not like jungkook is incapable of getting a date. unlike you, jungkook is popular, well liked, and - while you would never be caught dead admitting this - terribly handsome. at least, according to your classmates he is. he has round eyes that shine when he gets excited and his two front teeth are just slightly more pronounced, so he always looks a bit like a bunny, and the hair that falls just so over his eyes is impossibly soft, something you know only because you yank on it every so often whenever he’s managed to irritate you more than usual (especially now that jisoo isn’t around to stop you from tearing his hair out). 

he’s handsome in all the ways a high school senior could be. he’s even got the charming personality to match, as long as he’s talking to anyone that isn’t you. there was probably a long line of people - across all year levels - just hoping he’d ask. but he didn’t. 

so, yeah. you don’t go to prom with jungkook. 

you also don’t not go to prom with jungkook. because he’s the one who drives you to the venue - “it’s easier to carpool, anyways, and i don’t trust your driving skills,” so the two of you show up together. your eyes go wide at the sight of the fancy hotel - glittering chandeliers, plush, carpeted floors, smooth, dark wood bordering the entrance. jungkook steps in beside you, looking unimpressed with the decor, but he doesn’t leave your side, either. lets you take it all in, lips parting with awe, a smile slowly forming on your face. he’s more interested in watching the emotions flit across your face than he is with the grandeur - all your excitement, the mesmerization, the giddiness. you don’t have a date, but anything can happen. the scene has already been set - so what the main lead opposite you has yet to be cast? 

you’ve always fantasized of a beautiful, perfect prom night. the same way you dreamed about a handsome senior whisking you off your feet when you were a freshman, or having a sophomore year classmate be the perfect gentleman for you and offering you his hoodie in that one class you had where the air conditioner was always on a little too high. even junior year, when you should have reasonably broken out of your childish daydreams, you wondered about a boyfriend who might study with you as you prepared for college entrance exams, someone to drape a blanket over your shoulders when you fell asleep on your textbooks. 

but prom - prom had a four year lead-up. prom had the gorgeous backdrop, and the glittering decorations, and the lavish dress. prom had the adorable promposals that you watched seniors give their dates every year until you became a senior waiting for one, too. even though you knew it would never come. 

still. maybe somebody will catch your eye from across the floor. slow dance with you, twirl you around, place a hand at your back, tip you low, maybe even kiss you at the end of the night. tuck that one, inevitable stray hair behind your ear. stare at you like you hung the moon and stars yourself. 

jungkook can’t say he understands, but he’ll let you have it, at least for tonight. the teasing can wait till morning. for some reason, he can’t muster his usual antics right now. something about your dress, the blush across your cheeks, the delicate necklace brushing your collarbones - any number of these things combined, even - makes the words die on his lips every time he tries. 

you look so beautiful, it makes him breathless, but he won’t admit that. 

finally, you continue in, following the signs to the ballroom for the dance. there’s already crowds of people there - your classmates spread across the dance floor, laughing and singing along and dancing wildly to the music that’s so loud jungkook can feel the bass reverberating in his entire body. you wince a little but it doesn’t stop the delight crossing your features even as you’re lifting your hands to cover your ears on reflex. you wander about the ballroom, jungkook following after you everywhere you go. 

“you can go hang out with your friends, you know,” you finally turn to him, though you’re basically shouting it over the music. jungkook considers pretending not to hear, but whether he likes it or not, hell, whether you like it or not, you know him better than that. 

“nice try,” he tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “you think i don’t know you’re gonna tell jisoo i ditched you at this dance? i’m never gonna hear the end of it.” 

you scowl. he so good at fouling your mood. but he loves the way your brows draw in, how your jaw sets stubbornly, every time he gets on your nerves. it stokes a fire inside him that makes him smirk back at you. 

“i’m gonna tell her you didn’t ditch me at this dance, and instead spent the whole night annoying me,” you retort back. “then you really won’t hear the end of it. from me.” 

it’s supposed to be a threat, but jungkook feels sparks in his bloodstream instead, and he grins back. leans forward, matches your height. “is that a promise?” 

you let out an aggravated sound, one hand shoving his shoulder. he barely budges, but he does at least relent a little and straighten back up, hands sliding into his pockets. you’re glaring at him in a way that always makes his heart beat a little fast, something he largely attributes to a feeling of victory. he loves getting you to make that expression at him - nose wrinkled, lower lip jutting out in the smallest of pouts, shoulders raised like you want to hit him. 

it’s kind of adorable. in like, a small, angry creature kind of way. 

though if you heard him call you a creature, he’s pretty sure you’d start aiming for body parts he’d prefer remain intact. 

“come on,” he says instead. “it’s prom. i promised taehyung i’d make sure you’d have a good time.” 

“i don’t need your promises,” you mutter back, but jungkook hears it even above the music, mostly because you whip your face away from him to hide your expression, but he sees it anyway, and this one he doesn’t like. he’s all for the cute, annoyed huffing and puffing you do, but not the brief cut of hurt that crosses your features. he crossed the line somehow. he hates crossing the line - because he always does it without meaning to. 

“i didn’t - i didn’t mean it like that,” jungkook tries, but you’ve got too much pride to let jungkook apologize, instead lifting your chin high. 

“if you’re gonna stick to me, then you better dance, too.” 

jungkook swallows down what you don’t want to hear, even if he needs you to know it. maybe he can show you, instead. he’s not keeping you company just because of some silly promise he made taehyung, or because there’s no one else to stick by your side. he’s here because he wants to be. he wouldn’t have even come tonight if not for you. 

his eyes light like you’ve issued him a challenge - and jungkook has always been competitive. “better keep up, princess.” 

.

.

.

you collapse into a chair, kicking your heels off. jungkook settles into the seat beside you, albeit a little less out of breath. you loll your head towards him, tracing the outline of his neatly combed hair, his shoulders, the way his hands fumble a little with his tie, trying to loosen it. you’re both tired from jumping and dancing and screaming along to well-known songs remixed into one massive run-on song, but true to his word, jungkook did make sure you had a good time. you reach over, smacking his hands out of the way. “i can’t believe you still can’t figure out how to work a tie. shouldn’t it be easier to loosen than it is to put on?” 

“you’ve met my mother,” jungkook gripes back. “she ties things like she’s trying to make sure it can never be untied again. i think she might want me to live in this suit forever actually.” 

you roll your eyes, managing to hook a finger into the knot and wiggle it a little looser. jungkook inhales a deep breath, dramatic enough that you give into your giggles, and he has to hide his smile behind one hand. 

“what now?” he asks, after you’ve both sat in silence - or, as much silence as could be had in a room full of teenagers at a school dance. you hum, one foot nudging at the heel you discarded on the floor earlier. 

“well…” 

jungkook narrows his eyes. “of course you have something.” 

you shoot him a sly smile. “i did a little research before the dance.” 

jungkook eyes you warily. “who does research for prom? actually - i don’t think romcoms count as research, y/n.” 

you throw him a dirty look. “shut up. i meant about the hotel,” you make a vague gesture towards your surroundings. you bite your lip, and jungkook definitely doesn’t focus on the action. you glance back at him and he snaps his eyes back up to yours. 

“there’s supposedly a garden on the sixteenth floor,” you tell him. “it’s usually only for people who, y’know, rented a room or whatever, but it’s not like you need a key or anything to get in, so honestly, once you’re in the hotel, it’s pretty much fair game.” you shrug, but there’s a hopeful shine to your eyes. “the pictures looked really pretty.” 

jungkook tries not to sigh. of course. of course even at a school event, you found a perfect, romantic getaway to sneak off to. jungkook thinks you could probably find a romantic setting anywhere you go. or you’d just make one yourself. you could probably dress up a dumpster well enough to make it look like the start to a love story. 

jungkook waves a begrudging hand. “lead the way.” 

you jump up immediately. he heaves himself out of his chair to follow you, snagging the heels you’d decided to ditch from off the ground. he doesn’t know how you can bear to walk barefoot around the hotel, but he supposes all the carpet feels better than the three-inch heels you’d manages to dance in almost all night. you’ll probably want them later, once you reach the garden. 

the two of you sneak past other hotel-goers, and hotel staff, too, slipping into the elevator and thankfully making it up to the sixteenth floor without any stops. you wander down the halls until you spot the glass doors, glancing back at jungkook, giving him only a quick glimpse of the bright, unadulterated joy in your eyes before you’re pushing the doors open, wandering into the garden. 

your reaction at the hotel entrance is nothing compared to this. this, you’ve been waiting for since you stumbled upon it a couple days after the prom location was announced. you pause so abruptly that jungkook nearly bumps into you, stabilizing himself against one of the columns that border a walkway that aligns with the wall of the hotel. he’s about to nag you about it, but all that comes out is a quiet exhale, catching the wonder in your eyes as you survey what’s in front of you. 

he’ll admit, it is certainly pretty. it’s dark out, but there’s fairy lights strung about, illuminating the open space in a soft glow, just enough that you can see the pretty reds and purples and blues of the flowers, the deep greens of their leaves and the bushes surrounding them. there’s gravel, too, in shades of white and tan, bordering a pathway that cuts through the garden, to a small, white, octagonal pavilion. there’s nothing inside the pavilion but a bench that borders the entirety of it, but there’s vines that climb up the white beams, interspersed with flowers jungkook can’t even begin to name, but he’s sure you must know each and every one, and all the meanings that come attached to them, too. 

you begin to take a step out, but jungkook catches you by the arm. the immediate frown you give him makes him snicker, but he sets your heels down at the ground before you. “it’s pretty,” he allows. “but with flowers comes bugs. pretty sure you’re not gonna wanna step on one.” 

you make a face, but slip your heels back on, using jungkook to balance yourself. you figure he’s in a good enough mood, loose from the mocktails and the dancing, that he doesn’t say anything about the way your fingers grip onto his elbow. 

as soon as the shoes are on, though, you’re off. your fingers brush the petals, touch feather light, and you breathe in the sweet smell, closing your eyes briefly. jungkook trails after you, following you around the garden, walking the tiny pathways. you have a small smile on your face the whole time, like you’re falling a little in love with the flowers. you would, jungkook muses. he’s pretty sure you could fall in love with almost anything. 

when you’ve had your fill of the garden itself, you move towards the pavilion. you take a seat on the bench, resting an arm on the ledge as you peer out at all the flowers and greenery and little lights. jungkook joins you, but he doesn’t sit, just observes with you. it’s so quiet up here, a deep contrast to the dance happening sixteen floors down. 

his gaze falls to you. you look at peace here, a little sleepy, even, but happy. but for jungkook, that’s not enough. it’s prom night. you’re here, in a dress that sways with your every movement, with your makeup and hair done up nice, and jungkook has no idea what compels him to do it, but he reaches a hand out to you. 

you blink at his palm. stare blankly for a half-minute. “yes?” 

jungkook clicks his tongue against his teeth, grabbing your hand. “didn’t you want a slow dance?” 

he pulls you to your feet. you don’t have to know that his roughness has nothing to do with him pretending to begrudgingly grant you your wishes for prom. that maybe he just wants to hold your hand and feel you stumble into his chest. maybe he thinks you look beautiful in your dress, maybe he adores the way your cheeks turn a little pink with surprise. maybe he wants to feel your palm in his and know that he’s making you happy, because you always wanted to slow dance with someone. 

there’s no music here - there’s no one up here at all but the two of you - and that makes it all the more romantic. and he knows it. knows it because he knows you, knows you love this kind of thing, so maybe that’s why he does it. because jimin isn’t here, and taehyung isn’t here, and even yoongi isn’t here, but jungkook is. 

jungkook would rather die than say it out loud, but he loves this look on your face too. loves being the one - for once - to put it on you. not your angry, sullen pout, but the stars in your eyes, and how he can practically feel the way your heart races, even if he’s sure he’s not the reason - just the situation, the circumstance. after all, you love romance. you love the twinkling lights, the cool night air, even the clumsy steps the two of you take as you move in circles around the pavilion. 

this was what you wanted tonight, even if jungkook isn’t the person you pictured doing it with. 

he makes prom magical for you, in this moment. what you don’t know is that you make prom magical for him, too. 

breathless. 

his heart skips a beat in his chest, as he gazes down at you. you’re not looking at him - still too in love with the setting, the lattice on one side of the pavillion, the short post lanterns, the view over his shoulder from being sixteen floors up. but that’s okay. if you’re not looking at him, that means he can look at you. 

it’s circumstance, jungkook thinks. you’re as close to a date as he’s got, and he’s slow dancing with the prettiest girl in school, alone in a garden straight out of a fairy book. if his heart is doing double time, it has nothing to do with you. the same way you’re probably not even thinking about him. only that you’re dancing in a pavilion that could’ve come straight out of a pride and prejudice movie, and when jungkook spins you out and then back to him - that uninhibited, radiant smile isn’t for him. can’t possibly. it’s for that bucket list you keep, of all the things you want to do, of all the ways you want to love and be loved. just like this. 

.

.

.

jungkook doesn’t think about that night for years to follow. 

except, well, there’s a photo saved on his phone. a couple of them, actually. he never deleted them, and they’re from so far back that no one ever really scrolls that far in his camera roll, so it’s practically hidden. 

a little under seven years after the fact, you have your legs thrown over his lap. jungkook is letting you play with his phone, doesn’t really care what you do with it - and you frown. “jungkook.” 

he hums. he’s half asleep on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. he’s pretty comfortable with you here, one hand on your calf, kind of unbelievably pleased with himself that the two of you have moved into a stage where you’re cuddled into his side, head on his shoulder, doing whatever it is you like to do with his phone (usually play mobile animal crossing on his account), while he falls asleep. but you nudge him again. “jungkook,” you insist. 

“hmm,” he blinks his eyes open. “what?” 

“is this me?” 

well, probably. jungkook doesn’t have a lot of photos of people on his phone who aren’t you, or your mutual friends. he doesn’t think twice about it when he peers at his phone, but when he sees the picture, he snatches his phone away from you on pure instinct, so fast that you startle, jerking back a little. “kook?” 

it’s not a secret. obviously not, considering he’s never purposefully hidden it on his phone. but he’s kept the pictures for years, refused to delete them, because, okay, yeah, maybe sometimes he likes to scroll back and see them. see you. see that photo of you wandering the gardens, where you’re not even paying the slightest attention to jungkook, but he can spot that lit up smile of yours even in the dim light. or the selfie that he took of the two of you, one that he sends to the group chat later as proof that he stuck by your side all night. jisoo gave him shit on the side for being obsessed with you - at the time, he denied it with fervor. “i’m not,” he’d insisted, but jisoo had clocked him before jungkook had even remotely come close to realizing that hoarding pictures of your prom night in secret meant she was definitively, without a doubt, right. 

you’re still staring at him, looking more confused than concerned. he relaxes his shoulders. he has to remember that you like him now. you’ll give him shit for a lot of things but, when it comes to him liking you back, you always get a little shy. like you can’t believe it, either. 

he lowers his phone so the two of you can see the screen again. there’s one more photo he kept. the two of you, side by side, with your dress not matching his tie, and not not matching his tie, and you looking breathlessly happy. for once, if not because of, then at least with, jungkook. 

he loves this photo. there’s very few photos of just the two of you back when you were teenagers, and even fewer still of you looking so unabashedly happy next to him. you stare, then you stare a little longer, then jungkook watches the flush creep up your neck, to the tips of your ears. just like that, his embarrassment disappears, and he grins, dropping his phone to turn your face towards him. 

“i had the best prom date,” he shrugs, relishing in the way you glower back at him. 

“you didn’t even ask me to go with you!” 

he’s grinning wider as he says, “you wouldn’t have agreed.” 

he loves the way this somehow agitates you more. “you don’t know that! maybe, if you promposed well enough, i might’ve considered it.” 

he snorts. “there is no promposal i could’ve possibly come up with that could outweigh how much you detested me in high school. please.” 

you cross your arms. there’s a glint in your eye that doesn’t match the frown on your face. “skill issue.” 

he gapes at you, then tosses his phone to the side altogether, letting it land somewhere on the floor as he flips the two of you until you’re squirming under him on the couch, laughing loudly as he pins you down so you can’t escape. “skill issue? i had half the student population wrapped around my finger-” 

“skill issue,” you retort. “i wasn’t one of them.” 

“you are now,” he asserts, and you waver, because he’s leaning closer, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the way he cages you in. 

“am not,” you respond, but there’s no weight to your words, and jungkook can’t be bothered to care anymore, because you’re staring at his lips, and he can’t not give you what you want. 

you don’t say you want him to kiss you. 

you don’t not say it either, and you don’t need to. 

jungkook will always love you the way you want to be loved. 

the way you deserve to be. 

series masterlist ; in love with love (with you)

taglist ; @ahundredtimesover @nadzzzblog @apollukee @codeinebelle @yoongimentita7 @libra04 @welconme-notreally @yeow6n @babyboo22

[kenzdolls]

SHOTA AIZAWA RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS .

⌗ pairing: shota aizawa x gn! ua teacher! reader

⌗ tags: eraserhead x reader, shota aizawa x gn! reader, mha x reader, bnha x reader

⌗ side note: i’m so deep into writer’s block it’s not funny. (◞‸◟,)

FIRST TIME MEETING:

▹ he first notices you when you're efficiently handling a crisis situation without breaking a sweat - competence is attractive to him, and also you didn't scream when that villain's quirk made everything explode into glittery chaos which was honestly more disturbing than the actual danger

▹probably officially meets you in the faculty lounge at 3 am when you're both grading papers and surviving on coffee, and you're the first person who doesn't give him weird looks for having his sleeping bag draped over his shoulders like some kind of comfort-seeking burrito

▹ initially thinks you're "too energetic" but secretly appreciates that you actually get your work done instead of spending meetings talking about "synergy" and "student engagement metrics" kill him now

▹ makes a mental note when you don't try to make small talk during meetings - respects people who value efficiency over asking him how his weekend was (it was spent sleeping and grading, actually, it's always sleeping and grading)

▹ notices you carry around a thermos of coffee that's somehow always full and warm, and he's 67% convinced you have some kind of coffee-related quirk because that's not humanly possible

▹ gets mildly annoyed when you organize his desk without asking, but keeps it that way because it's actually helpful and maybe he likes that someone cares enough to touch his stuff without wanting something

▹ observes you from across the room during faculty meetings, noting how you handle difficult conversations without resorting to present mic's volume levels or all might's aggressive optimism

▹ appreciates that you don't flinch when his eyes glow red during quirk demonstrations, unlike half the new teachers who still think he's going to murder them (he's only thought about it twice)

▹ finds it oddly comforting when you work in comfortable silence together during late-night patrol prep, because you understand that 2 am is not the time for philosophical discussions about hero work

▹ realizes you're one of the few people who doesn't take his bluntness personally and actually seems to prefer it over fake pleasantries - finally, someone with sense.

HIM FALLING IN LOVE:

▹ starts leaving his capture weapon in slightly more organized coils when he knows you'll be in the same room because apparently he has some kind of basic human dignity left

▹finds excuses to patrol the same routes as you "for efficiency purposes" and definitely not because he wants to make sure you don't get yourself killed by being too reckless (you're not reckless, he's just paranoid)

▹ actually starts drinking the fancy coffee you recommended instead of just whatever's cheapest, and pretends the taste difference doesn't matter even though it's obviously superior - he's not becoming bougie, it's just logical

▹ catches himself staring when you're concentrated on work and immediately looks away while mentally cursing himself for being unprofessional

▹ begins to hate when other teachers interrupt conversations between you two, especially mic who has the worst timing in human history and zero understanding of social cues

▹ starts remembering little details about your schedule and preferences without consciously trying, like how you always grade villain analysis essays on thursdays and prefer the blue pens over black ones

▹ gets irrationally annoyed when other pro heroes flirt with you during joint missions and has to resist the urge to use his quirk to make them stop mid-pickup line it would be for the greater good

▹ finds himself staying awake longer when you're both doing late-night paperwork, claiming it's because he's more productive with ambient noise (not because he's enjoying your company, obviously)

▹ unconsciously positions himself between you and potential threats during dangerous situations, then acts like it's just tactical positioning and not protective instincts

▹ actually considers buying new clothes that aren't just "whatever's comfortable and black" before realizing he has no idea what looks good and gives up

▹ starts timing his coffee breaks to coincide with yours and pretends it's a coincidence even though he's literally checking his watch

▹ gets secretly pleased when you laugh at his dry, sarcastic comments because most people just think he's being mean - he is being mean, but like, affectionately

▹ begins to worry more about your safety during missions than he logically should, doing unnecessary risk assessments about your patrol routes (he's not obsessing, it's just thorough planning)

▹ catches himself almost smiling when you successfully handle difficult students, then immediately schools his expression back to neutral too late, mic saw

▹ realizes he's memorized the way you organize your classroom and desk supplies and could probably recreate your filing system from memory - this is definitely normal behavior

HIM AS A S/O:

▹ shows affection through practical gestures - brings you coffee exactly how you like it, leaves snacks on your desk, and pretends he's not keeping track of when you last ate because someone has to make sure you don't die of malnutrition

▹ uses his capture weapon to pull you closer when you're within range, especially if you're being "inefficient" by walking over to him when he could just gently retrieve you

▹ shares his sleeping bag during outdoor missions and training camps, claiming it's for "optimal body heat distribution" and not because he wants to cuddle he wants to cuddle so bad it's embarrassing

▹ remembers every detail about your quirk's limitations and actively works to cover your weaknesses during fights, like some kind of strategically-minded partner

▹ lets you play with his hair when he's too tired to protest, and secretly loves it but will never admit it because that would require acknowledging he has feelings

▹actually starts going to bed at reasonable hours because you've convinced him proper sleep improves his quirk efficiency (and not because you worry about his health, definitely not)

▹ gives you one of his spare capture weapons "for practical purposes" but really because he wants you to have his protection even when he's not around

▹ shows rare moments of softness by pressing his forehead against yours when you're both exhausted after long days, pretending it's just because he's too tired to hold his head up properly

▹ starts eating actual meals instead of just coffee and nutrition bars because you worry about his health, and discovers food actually tastes good when it's not from a vending machine - revolutionary

▹ uses his quirk to stop your alarm clock on weekends so you can sleep in together, then acts innocent when you realize what happened ("did i do that? weird.")

▹ lets you be the only person who can interrupt his naps without getting death glares, though you still get grumpy mumbling and attempts to pull you into the sleeping bag

▹ actually smiles (small ones) when you successfully coordinate combo moves with his erasure quirk, proud of your teamwork and maybe a little turned on by your competence

▹ wraps you in his capture weapon when you're cold instead of offering his jacket like a normal person, because why be conventional when you can be efficient

▹ defends your teaching methods to other faculty members with surprising passion, shutting down criticism with cold logic and barely-concealed threats - no one talks about his partner like that

▹starts keeping a spare hair tie on his wrist for you after noticing you always lose yours, and pretends it's not because he pays attention to every little thing about you

▹ uses his underground hero connections to make sure you're safe even when he's not around, running background checks on suspicious people in your area (totally normal boyfriend behavior)

▹ actually takes days off when you're sick to take care of you, claiming it's logical since he'd be distracted anyway and not because seeing you miserable makes his chest hurt

▹ lets you reorganize his entire living space because "you're more efficient at domestic tasks" and definitely not because he likes evidence that you exist in his space

▹gets genuinely upset when you're injured, even minor cuts, and hovers while pretending he's not hovering ("i'm not hovering, i'm strategically positioning myself for optimal medical assistance")

▹ learns your coffee order at six different places and has backup plans for when your favorite cafe is closed because proper caffeine intake is serious business

▹actually starts taking pictures to "document important moments" and (definitely doesn't have a folder on his phone labeled with your name)

⌗ taglist: [open] ⌗ mutuals: @haikyuubby @va-3 @tulippanes @luvseraphh @gh0st-g1rll

© property of kenzdolls 2025 — do not copy, steal, or plagiarize my work onto other media platforms.

[nevershootamockingbird]

[ Image One: A screenshot of a reddit post that reads: "AITAH for "training" a guy "like a dog"?

I (23F) have recently started seeing this guy (26M). he's super pretty, but he's kind of emotionally unavailable and he's alluded to an unstable/ unhealthy childhood.

for context, i also work w socializing abused and neglected dogs at a local shelter and i think about how much time i spend w the dogs is impacting the way i interact w ppl.

when we were on a date i started subconsciously making mental notes abt him like the notes id make abt a dog. for example, i noticed when we went out to dinner and i noticed he ate really quickly and was very anti-sharing (resource guarding) but when i offered to pay and suggested dessert it seemed to make him really happy and a little calmer (food-motivated); he likes when i pick where we go/ what we do (eager to please), etc. so, ive started using the tactics id use on a dog w similar problems.

recently a friend (22F) pointed out that it's weird that i keep peanut M&Ms on me w the specific purpose of offering the guy one when i see him, and offering them again whenever i can tell he feels vulnerable. she said that im being an asshole bc he's a person, not a dog so i shouldn't be "training him like one."

i don't think thats fair, im not trying to control him or anything, i just want him to feel comfortable w me the same way i need the animals im helping to be comfortable w me. humans and animals aren't THAT diff after all, we all just want to feel safe and cared for. the guy hasn't noticed yet as far as i can tell. the problem is, my "technique" is yielding really positive results.

AITAH? should i stop?"

Image Two: A screenshot of a reddit post that reads: "UPDATES/ CLARIFICATIONS

for everyone asking me if i've seen the big bang theory ep w this plotline: i have not

for everyone saying they think i am autistic: probably, yeah. i haven't been tested but maybe i should

i do not have loose m&ms in my pocket bc then they'd get all melty and gross - i keep them in a bag in my purse

ik the title was clickbait-y so i want to make some things clear. i didn't think of it as "training" til my friend said it was like i was training him, and that made me feel weird (and it's why i made the post)

i am not and never have been trying to "modify" behavior. what i noticed in him and what i notice in animals were stress responses. we only get aggressive over our food if we believe someone's gonna take it away. we get defensive over our spaces if we reasonably feel like they'll be violated. applies to both animals and ppl. i was trying to establish trust the way i best know how to lol

if he never shared fries and never wanted to park next to a car w wide doors again, that'd be fine w me tbh. i know he's not a dog, so he's not at risk of being euthanized or something"

Image Three: A screenshot of a reddit post that reads: "ON TO THE UPDATE PROPER YAY!"

so, to all of the ppl who told me i should tell him what im doing - you were right and that's what i did. turns out i was VERY WRONG abt him not noticing what i was doing - he apparently put two and two together pretty quickly after i started doing it. he didn't tell me he was on to me tho, bc he liked it and was worried id get embarrassed and stop if i knew that he knew. so we talked it out and it ended up not being a very big deal at all and im probably gonna keep having m&ms bc they're good. that's all i got for yall lol" / End ID ]

sickens me to my stomach. how dare this guy get to live my dream.

[mikaylathenerd5]

𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒜𝓁𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝒟𝑜 | Roman Reigns Smut

*I do not own the gif or pictures*

Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

PAIRING: Roman Reigns x Black OC (Shiloh Lucero)

SUMMARY: The world sees a warrior. She sees a man who only exhales when she touches him. After a brutal match ends in chaos, Roman sends nothing but a room number. No words. No apology. No warning. But Shiloh comes anyway. And in the silence that follows, she gives him what no one else ever has—peace, softness, and a body he can lose himself in.

🥀 Emotional aftercare. Sacred-level smut. And a man who doesn’t know how to let go—until she shows him he doesn’t have to.

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes graphic smut (oral, vaginal, size kink, overstimulation, creampie), strong language, emotional vulnerability, references to violence (in-ring), and intense aftercare. If you like your smut dirty and your emotions raw, this one’s for you.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

A/N: This one did something to me. We might have went a little overboard with the smut. 😭 It’s filthy, yes—but also soft in a way that feels sacred. Roman is raw and wrecked, and Shiloh is the calm he didn’t know he needed. If you’re new here and want to keep up with all my Roman Reigns fics—drop a 💬 in the replies to join my Main Taglist, or fill out the Google Form in my pinned post. There’s a whole masterlist waiting to ruin you softly.

The world saw a warrior. She saw a man who only ever exhaled when she touched him.

She shouldn’t be here.

That thought echoed through her mind with every step she took down the carpeted hallway, her hoodie sleeves stretched over her palms, her heart thudding too loud in her chest. The hotel smelled like bleach and dust—clean but hollow. The kind of place where things came to rest. Or fall apart.

Her footsteps felt like thunder even though she moved quietly. Carefully. The closer she got to his door, the more her stomach knotted.

Room 815.

She’d stared at the text for ten minutes before even leaving the house. Just those three numbers. He didn’t say come. Didn’t say don’t. He just sent the room number, hours after the fight. After whatever had been clawing at him finally broke loose in the ring.

Shiloh had watched it on her phone. The clips. The commentators’ stunned silence when he didn’t stop swinging after the bell. The way security had to pull him off the guy. The way Roman didn’t look like Roman.

She’d seen that version of him before.

The version with the split knuckles and the cold stare.

The one who walked into the recovery room months ago with blood on his hoodie and pain in his bones and nothing left in his voice.

Back then, she hadn’t flinched.

And she wasn’t going to now.

Still, when she reached his door, her hand hovered.

She wasn’t scared of him. That wasn’t what this was.

It was what she carried for him. The tenderness, the ache. The way she saw through him even when he tried to disappear into silence. The way she knew—deep in her chest—that he needed softness more than he’d ever admit. That tonight, he didn’t need discipline or space or distance.

He needed to be seen.

To be held.

To be touched like a man, not a monster.

So she raised her hand and knocked. Softly. Once.

No answer.

Not for ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.

Then the lock clicked.

And the door opened.

The hotel room door shut behind him with a weight that had nothing to do with hinges.

Roman didn’t speak.

He dropped his gym bag by the dresser and let the silence settle over the room like fog—thick and slow, clinging to everything it touched. The air still carried the echo of the fight: adrenaline, frustration, sweat. That unshakable feeling of being full of everything and nothing at the same time.

He should’ve gone to the trainer. Should’ve iced his shoulder. Popped something for the swelling in his knee.

But he didn’t.

Because she was already here.

Shiloh sat at the edge of the bed in one of his hoodies, legs crossed, back straight but not tense. His gaze dropped, caught on the full curve of her hips, the way the oversized hoodie clung to her like it knew exactly what it was covering. She was thick in the kind of way that made a man lose his damn mind. Plush thighs. Fat ass. Built like comfort and chaos. He bit the inside of his cheek just to keep still. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves, her lips glossed with something soft and pink. The glow from the cracked bathroom door behind her lit her skin in warm gold.

She didn’t flinch when he walked in.

Didn’t rise or rush him.

She just looked at him—quietly, gently—like she was counting the parts that made it back whole.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low. Careful. Not tiptoeing—just attuned.

Roman’s gaze dragged up her body like it hurt to look too long. Not because she wasn’t beautiful—but because she was. And he didn’t know how to hold something like that without feeling like he might crack it open by mistake.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally. His voice sounded rough, like it had been scraped across gravel.

Shiloh blinked. She didn’t look away. “I came anyway.”

That did something to him.

He crossed the room in three slow steps and dropped to his knees in front of her. The sound of it wasn’t dramatic—just real. Solid. His hands found her thighs, palms warm even through the fabric, and then he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to her stomach like he was begging for silence.

She didn’t expect the way her chest ached just watching him breathe. Didn’t expect how warm he still was—even after the world tried to make him cold.

She touched him anyway.

Her fingers slipped through his damp hair, down to the back of his neck, tracing the line where tension still lived. Her touch didn’t ask for anything. It simply said: I’m here. I see you. I’m not leaving.

Roman exhaled like he hadn’t done that since the fight.

“You’re the only one who sees me like this,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Shiloh’s hand stilled, then moved to his jaw. She tilted his face upward until his eyes met hers.

And just like that, a memory bloomed.

The first time Shiloh saw him, he didn’t speak.

He walked into the recovery room with a scowl on his face and blood drying on the collar of his hoodie. His knuckles were split, and his right arm hung lower than his left—like even lifting it would cost too much.

She glanced up from the file in her lap. Her supervisor wasn’t in yet.

He noticed her—but barely. Like he was scanning for threats, not people.

He sat on the padded table with a grunt and pulled the hood lower over his face. Not a word.

Shiloh stood slowly, walked to the counter, grabbed an ice pack, and brought it over.

Still no eye contact.

“Your shoulder,” she said softly. “Right side?”

He didn’t nod.

Didn’t deny it either.

She reached out and laid the ice against the swelling—lightly, gently, not forcing it. His flinch was instinctive, but it passed. And then he finally looked at her.

Eyes sharp. Quiet. Heavy-lidded like they’d seen too much.

She met his stare without dropping hers.

“You don’t have to explain pain to me,” she murmured.

He blinked. Just once. Like he wasn’t expecting that.

Like maybe he didn’t even want to be understood—but now that he was, it made his whole body settle just an inch.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the session. She taped his wrist and iced his ribs. He didn’t make a sound, but his breath hitched once when her hands brushed lower than expected.

She apologized. He didn’t say anything.

But when he stood to leave, his voice was deep and low.

“You always this calm?”

She gave a half-smile. “You always this grumpy?”

And for the first time, Roman Reigns—fight-hardened, blood-smeared, silent-as-the-grave Roman—grinned.

Just a little.

He came back three days later. Asked for her by name.

And over time, something started to form.

No flirting.

No games.

Just longer sessions. Longer silences. Until the silences weren’t empty anymore.

Until she started waiting for the sound of his boots in the hallway.

Until he started staying five minutes after. Then ten. Then walking her to the parking garage.

Until the night he looked at her and said:

“I don’t usually let people touch me. But you… I feel like I’d stop breathing if you didn’t.”

And maybe that’s when he knew.

Maybe she did, too.

She still remembered that first night. The blood on his hoodie. The way he couldn’t meet her eyes until she told him he didn’t have to explain pain. The way he looked at her now was different—but the man underneath hadn’t changed. Just the way he let her hold him.

“That’s why I don’t look away,” she whispered.

And that’s when he kissed her.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. It didn’t demand or dominate. It opened.

Warmth bled between them as her lips moved against his—slow, sweet, and sure. He tasted like iron and something tired. She tasted like ChapStick and vanilla and something his.

Roman made a low sound in his throat. Not quite a growl. Not quite a sigh. Something in between. A sound that meant thank you for touching me when I feel like a monster.

He deepened the kiss, just enough to feel her breath change.

One hand cradled her jaw. The other moved to her back. He held her like a man holding the last soft thing in a hard world.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse.

“Take it off, Shy.”

Her throat went dry. The syllable of her name felt heavier when he said it like that—slow, deep, like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

She nodded, fingers curling around the hem of the hoodie.

It wasn’t modesty. It was vulnerability.

Being bare around Roman was different. He didn’t just see her. He memorized her. Devoured her with his eyes like he wanted to be fluent in her skin.

Still, she peeled it off.

Underneath: soft bralette. Cotton shorts. Bare thighs. Gold anklet.

The shorts clung to her like a second skin, cinched just under the swell of her ass. Her hips flared, thick and smooth, and her thighs jiggled just a little as she moved—soft enough to sink into, strong enough to ride him into the mattress. Roman swore under his breath again, because fuck… she was thick and beautiful and everything he didn’t deserve.

Roman swore under his breath. In English first. Then Samoan.

“You don’t even try to kill me. You just do.”

He took off his own shirt—slow, deliberate. The bruises on his ribs bloomed deep purple. A long, angry cut ran beneath his collarbone. He didn’t flinch.

But when she reached for him, he caught her wrist.

“Don’t fix it,” he said. “Just be here.”

Shiloh’s eyes softened. She touched his chest anyway—right over the cut—and whispered, “Okay.”

And then his mouth found hers again.

Slower this time. Hungrier.

Roman’s mouth never strayed far from hers, but the kiss shifted—lower, deeper, more possessive. His lips dragged along her jaw, then lower, biting softly at her neck.

Then he sat back, gaze dark and unreadable.

“On your knees, mama.”

Shiloh’s breath caught. Not from fear. From the sheer weight in his voice.

She moved without hesitation. Slid off the bed onto the carpet, the press of the cool floor grounding her even as heat licked up her spine. Her body was buzzing—raw and worshipful. Being in front of him like this didn’t feel small. It felt powerful. Sacred. Like her mouth was the only place he wanted to lose control.

Roman leaned back slightly, legs spread, watching her with a hunger that almost made her ache. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and already leaking. And when she reached up to free him, his eyes fluttered closed for a second—just one.

“You know what I like,” he said, voice gravel. “So don’t tease me, baby. Not tonight.”

She pulled him out, her hand not even able to wrap fully around him. God, he was heavy in her palm. Warm. Veined. His tip was flushed and dripping, and she licked it once—just a flick, just to taste him.

Roman’s hips jerked.

“Fuck—”

Shiloh looked up at him through her lashes, her lips wrapping around the head. She sucked him in slowly, relaxing her jaw, inch by inch, until she couldn’t take any more. She gagged softly—his size never stopped being a stretch—but she pushed herself down again, letting her nose brush the firm line of his abs.

His groan was guttural.

“Jesus, Shy…”

She held him deep, her throat tightening around him, breathing through her nose. Her palms rested on his thighs, grounding herself in his warmth. Her eyes watered—but not from discomfort. From the rush. The intimacy. The way his whole body shook beneath her.

Roman’s hand found the back of her head—not rough, just firm.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Givin’ me this sweet fuckin’ throat like it belongs to me.”

It did.

Every part of her did, and he knew it.

She moaned around him, letting the vibrations travel through him like lightning. He bucked once—just once—and then forced himself still.

“Shit, baby. I’m hangin’ on by a thread.”

He was unraveling, and she felt it.

And God, she loved it.

Loved that this man—this warrior, this myth, this fucking machine of violence—was coming undone because of her. Because of her mouth, her patience, her devotion.

He looked down just in time to see her spit slick down his shaft, her lips glossy, her eyes wild with heat. She sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, then pulled back and stroked him with both hands, spreading her spit all the way to the base.

Roman was breathing like he’d just run five rounds.

“Fuck. You tryin’ to make me bust in your mouth, mama? That what you want?”

She nodded, then swallowed him again.

Deeper this time.

Sloppier.

More desperate.

Her throat worked around him, each bob messier than the last. Her tears smeared down her cheeks. And still—she didn’t stop. She gave all of herself, like worship, like penance, like prayer.

Roman’s jaw clenched so hard it ached.

“Shit—Shy—you gotta stop—fuck—you gon’ make me—”

He pulled her off, fast but careful, panting like he just survived a war.

His cock was dripping, shiny and soaked, twitching in her grip. And her lips—God—her lips were swollen and slick with him.

She looked ruined.

And he’d never seen anything more perfect.

“Get up here,” he growled, low and urgent. “Now.”

Shiloh climbed onto the bed, flushed and breathless. Her thighs were trembling, her body dripping. She looked like she was ready to burst.

Roman dragged her into his lap, every part of him still shaking from the feel of her throat.

Shiloh was already straddling him, bare thighs spread across the thick muscle of his lap. Her ass settled heavy against him, thick and plush, the kind of weight that made his pulse throb. Every time she shifted, he felt her softness drag along his skin like a slow tease. That ass had a rhythm of its own—one he’d memorized, one he craved. It wasn’t just how she moved—it was what she made him feel when she did. Her softness against him made his whole body tense. He gripped her hips, thumbs pressing slow circles into her skin like he was mapping her, muscle by muscle.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and gritty, jaw tight with restraint.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Nah, baby. I need to hear it.”

“I want you,” she breathed, lips brushing his. “I want all of you.”

Roman’s nostrils flared.

“You got me.”

He nudged the tip against her entrance. Just that—no pressure, no push—just enough for her body to remember what it was like to be stretched by him.

She inhaled sharply. Her hips twitched, needy already.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “She already opening for me.”

He gripped his cock at the base and slid it against her folds, teasing. Her slick coated him instantly. He didn’t even push in yet, and she was already dripping.

“So fuckin’ wet. All this for me?”

“Yes,” she gasped. “It’s yours, Roman.”

“Damn right it is.”

Then he sank into her.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving.

Shiloh’s mouth fell open, eyes squeezing shut as he filled her inch by inch. The stretch was insane. Her walls fluttered around him, barely able to take it.

Fuck—he was huge.

Every goddamn time, it felt like he was breaking her in from scratch. Like her pussy forgot how to handle him the second he pulled out. And now—now he was splitting her open like he owned the right to ruin her.

No one else had ever felt like this. No one else had ever made her gasp just from the first few inches. Roman filled every part of her—thick, heavy, perfect—and still had more to give.

It wasn’t fair. How the stretch made her ache and gush all at once. How her walls clenched like they were desperate to hold onto him. How her pussy went dumb the second he bottomed out.

She was fucking addicted to it.

To him.

To the way he made her feel small, stuffed, ruined…

And God help her, she loved it.

Loved being the only one who could take it. Loved knowing this dick—the biggest she’d ever had—was hers.

Roman groaned, head falling back. His voice cracked when he said:

“Goddamn, Shy. I forget how tight this pussy is ‘til I’m back inside it.”

She whimpered. Tried to breathe. Failed.

“That’s it, baby. Ride it. Ride this dick like it’s yours.”

She rocked forward and down—shaky at first, then stronger. Her rhythm built, hips moving in rolling waves, the wet slap of skin-on-skin echoing through the room.

Roman didn’t stop watching her.

Her tits bounced with every grind. Her nails raked his chest. Her head fell back as she moaned his name, again and again, like a prayer unraveling.

“Look at you,” he gritted out. “You fuckin’ takin’ it. So pretty. So fuckin’ perfect.”

“Look at you,” he gritted out. “You fuckin’ takin’ it. So pretty. So fuckin’ perfect.”

“Fat fuckin’ ass takin’ this dick like it was made for it,” he growled, gripping both cheeks hard. “You feel what you’re doin’ to me, baby? Bouncin’ like that, makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

His hand moved to her ass. SLAP.

She gasped, clenching hard around him. It sent a fresh bolt of heat through her core, her pussy tightening like a vice, sucking him in deeper.

“You like that?”

“Yes—Roman, please—”

“You gon’ make a mess all over this dick, huh?”

Another slap—harder. Her thighs jolted. Her back arched like she couldn’t help it. The sting of his palm only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“You better fuckin’ cream on me. I wanna see it.”

She didn’t even realize she was crying until her vision blurred—tears sliding down her temples, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming stretch of him inside her. Every time she lifted and dropped her hips, she felt her body split wide open, clenching just to survive the next thrust.

It wasn’t just pleasure.

It was obliteration.

He filled her so deep her guts throbbed. Her belly felt taut from how far he reached, the tip of his cock dragging along every soft, swollen nerve that had already been fucked raw. Her clit throbbed just from how full she was. And she couldn’t stop—didn’t want to.

“You feel what you do to me?” Roman groaned, voice cracking. “You ridein’ me like that and expect me to hold on?”

He grabbed her hips tighter. Forced her to grind deeper, slower, harder. The friction made her eyes roll back. Her pussy fluttered, soaked and messy and milking him with every bounce.

And then he looked down.

“Oh fuck—look at you.”

His jaw dropped. His voice dropped lower.

Her slick coated him in white, a creamy ring forming around the base of his cock every time she bottomed out. Her juices smeared his thighs. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and something dangerously addictive.

“Fuck, baby—you see that shit?” he growled. “You fuckin’ drippin’ down my balls.”

Shiloh whimpered. Her body trembled uncontrollably. She was seconds from losing it, thighs shaking, pussy clenching in rhythmic spasms around him.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“You better fuckin’ cum,” he said, voice low, wicked. “Let me see you lose control on this dick, mama. Let me feel all of it.”

His hands gripped her ass, slammed her down—and that was it.

She shattered.

Her body jerked forward like something had snapped inside her. Her scream tore from her throat, raw and helpless. Her walls convulsed. Wetness exploded down her thighs in hot, pulsing waves. She squirted around him, again and again, coating his lap with a slick, chaotic mess.

“Fuck you’re squirting for me, huh?” he hissed. “Look at that. Look how wrecked you get for me.”

And still—he didn’t stop.

He fucked her through it, his cock dragging slow and deep through her still-gushing pussy. Her head fell back. Her mouth stayed open. Every nerve was on fire.

“You want another?”

She whimpered. “Roman—I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He flipped her.

One motion—gripped her waist, laid her back, and lined himself up again.

“Legs open. Let me see that pretty pussy I just broke.”

He slid back in—no resistance now. Just slick heat.

“Mmm. Still twitchin’. She not done yet.”

He put her ankles on his shoulders. Bent down. Kept all of him inside her.

Then he moved.

Deep, grinding thrusts that made the bed creak. His moans got rougher. His lips brushed her ear.

“Cum again, babygirl. One more. Just for me. Let me ruin you soft.”

Her hands gripped the sheets. Her body shook.

“Roman—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Let go. Let me feel everything.”

She came again. Loud. Messy. Writhing beneath him as her body gave out. And that broke him.

He grunted. Cursed. Slammed into her twice more before groaning into her neck.

“Givin’ you all of it. Take it. Take it.”

His cock jerked deep inside her as he came—hard. Long. Gut-wrenching.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even move.

Just lay over her, shuddering with every pulse.

“You okay?” she whispered, dazed, breathless.

Roman chuckled, voice still ragged.

“Baby… I think I saw God.”

Shiloh didn’t remember collapsing.

All she knew was that her body had given up. She was boneless, limp, ruined in the best possible way. Her legs trembled with aftershocks. Her skin tingled from every place he’d touched. And her pussy—God—her pussy throbbed, stretched wide and still pulsing, warm and wet from him.

Roman hadn’t moved.

He was still deep inside her when the last tremor rocked through her hips. Still pressing his forehead to hers. Still breathing like she was oxygen and the world had left him breathless.

“You okay?” he rasped.

Her voice was hoarse. “I think… I can taste colors.”

He chuckled. Deep. Warm. A sound that made her want to kiss the corner of his mouth just to feel it again.

“That good, huh?” “You ruined me.” “Good,” he said again, this time darker. “I like you ruined.”

He kissed her cheek and pulled out slow. She whimpered at the drag—how empty she felt the second he left her. The wet sound of him slipping free echoed between them.

He looked down.

And groaned.

“Fuck. Look what you did to me.”

His cock was slicked in her cream. The base was messy with it, sticky and glistening. His cream smeared down the backs of her thick thighs, leaving glossy trails on skin that still twitched from overstimulation. Her ass—red from his palms, soft from the way she molded into his lap—looked like it had been claimed. Marked. Remembered. There was a milky trail between her thighs, seeping onto the sheets. He brushed his thumb along her slit and watched her body twitch.

“You still sensitive?” “Roman—” “Yeah,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Still flutterin’. She not ready to let me go yet.”

Then he moved. She thought he was going to tease her again, but instead—

He left the bed.

The absence of him made her cold.

She heard water run. A drawer open. The rustle of cloth. The quiet click of the light dimmer.

When he came back, he knelt at the edge of the bed. Warm towel in one hand. Tenderness in the other.

“Open your legs for me, mama.”

She did.

Because her body always listened to him before her brain could.

He wiped her clean—slow, reverent. Cupped her thighs, spread her gently, ran the towel between her folds with care so tender it made her chest ache. She winced once.

He paused. Kissed the inside of her knee.

“I got you. I’ll be gentle. Just wanna take care of my mess.”

She whimpered at how soft he was. How filthy his voice still sounded even when he was trying to be delicate.

“You always this sweet after you cum?” he murmured, brushing her skin with the backs of his knuckles. “Goin’ quiet on me like I ain’t just made you squirt on this dick twice?”

“You’re cocky.” “I’m correct.”

Once she was clean, he stood and scooped her up.

Roman didn’t ask. Didn’t warn her.

He just wrapped her in his arms like he was reclaiming something that already belonged to him.

“Can’t walk yet, huh?” he teased, lips brushing her temple.

“I might fall face-first.” “That’s alright. I’ll carry you every time.”

He tucked her into the bed gently, like he was setting something delicate into silk. Draped the sheet over her legs. Then slid in behind her, chest to her back, wrapping an arm around her waist.

But she twisted.

Rolled into him.

Tucked herself under his chin and pressed her lips to his collarbone.

“Stay close,” she whispered.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Room service trays now sat mostly ignored. Her stomach was full, her thighs sore. She was wrapped in one of his hoodies now—nothing underneath but warm skin.

Roman fed her sushi with his fingers. Held her ankle in his lap, massaging her calf.

“You always this quiet?” “You always this soft?” she asked back.

His eyes lingered on her for a long beat. Longer than she expected.

“Only with you.”

She turned her face into his chest. Breathed him in. Then asked softly:

“Do you ever let anyone else see you like this?”

His answer was immediate.

“No.”

“Why me?”

He didn't rush the answer. He trailed his fingers along the seam of her thigh. Thought for a long time. Then:

“Because you don’t try to fix me. You don’t treat me like I’m some fucked-up legend. You just… show up.”

“I’d keep showing up if you let me.”

He looked down at her. For once, no smirk. No armor. Just a truth sitting heavy behind his eyes.

“You already do.”

He kissed her slow. Not sexual. Not even possessive.

Just like he couldn’t believe he got to.

And when he pulled away, the room was quiet again—except this time, the silence felt earned.

Safe.

Shiloh was already half-asleep, lips brushing his chest, hand resting over his heart.

But before she drifted, she heard him say—voice low, almost to himself:

“I sleep better when you’re the last thing I see.”

The room was still dark.

Early morning light hadn’t breached the curtains yet—just the faint blue hush of pre-dawn that settled across the ceiling like a sigh. The air was cool. The sheets were warm. And Shiloh—bare and curled beside him—was breathing slow and even, her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder.

Roman was already awake.

Had been for almost an hour.

But he hadn’t moved.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he didn’t want to.

There was something sacred about this—about watching her sleep, soft and safe in a bed that had seen violence hours before. Her cheek rested on his chest, her lips parted slightly, and one thigh was draped over his waist like she had no intention of letting go.

And God… he didn’t want her to.

He ran his hand down her back. Barely a touch. Just enough to feel the curve of her spine. Just enough to remind himself she was still there.

Still here.Still his.

He leaned forward—careful not to wake her—and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. Then another, lower, just above her shoulder blade.

His lips lingered.

And then, in a voice no louder than breath, he whispered something no one else had ever heard from him. Not his family. Not his friends. Not even himself, in the mirror.

“I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

The words didn’t scare him.

What scared him was how true they felt.

He kissed her again—one more time, just because he could—and let his forehead rest against the space between her shoulder and neck. She stirred lightly, but didn’t wake.

Roman closed his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like years, he didn’t feel like he had to armor up when morning came.

He didn’t feel like the fight would start again as soon as the sun rose.

He just felt... safe.

Because she was here.

Because she came anyway.

Because maybe—for once—he didn’t have to be anything more than this.

Just a man.

Just hers.

Author's Note ✍🏽:

If this one gave you feelings, made you squirm, or had you whispering “oh my God” to no one—please tell me everything. I live for your reactions. 💭 What line did it for you? 💭 What part made you feel soft? 💭 Should I write a morning-after continuation? 💭 Do you imagine this Roman existing in the same universe as any of my other stories?

Let’s talk about it in the comments or in your tags—I always read them. Your reblogs, reactions, and love keep me inspired. 💌

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