#HER EYES ARE SO CHARMING 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

[jils-things]

WWHEHEHEHEH RHYS MAI HUNNI BRBRBRBRBRBRB!!!!!! 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🤍🩶🖤🖤🩶🤍 I WUB MAI HUNNI BBRBRR 😋😋😋😋

[youthguk]

✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You inhale slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you remind yourself that Kara isn’t your concern today. No — your concern just stepped through the studio doors like he owned the light that followed.

So you lift your chin, smooth the edges of your expression, and bury the frantic thrum of your heart beneath that practiced, glassy calm you’ve spent years perfecting.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once. And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality. He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing. He’s gone again. And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control. Just like always.

Hyerin only nodded, already lifting her phone to send the message.

And then a shift. Subtle, at first. Not a sound, not a movement, but something in the air tightening, thickening — the kind of change you feel against your skin before your mind can name it. Like the slow drop in pressure that happens before thunder splits the sky.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, all of them. Fully, unmistakably, overwhelmingly present.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. The name alone was supposed to mean nothing now. Not here. Not in this room. Not in this life you built without him.

But your gaze lifted—just once, just for a breath—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again. 

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered. You turned away first. Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You crossed the set in brisk, deliberate strides, addressing the camera assistant without once glancing his way — you didn’t have to.

The air shifted again, electric with movement, and you felt it before you saw it. He was walking toward you. He wore that perfect, easy smile — all charm, all textbook idol — as if the cameras had never stopped rolling. But his steps were purposeful, and they were headed straight for you.

Still, you didn’t move. Behind him, Taehyung watched with a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of something unreadable tightening his brow.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted. His expression shifted slowly. “No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “It’s not nothing,” he said, softer now.

The glance he shared with Taehyung was brief, but loaded — a silent recognition passing between them that didn’t need words to say what they already knew: this was going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands. “Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold. “You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly. And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away. And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore. And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges. She didn’t say anything just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you. Something in her expression sharpened. She had nothing solid. Not yet. But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already but you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless, silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck. He watches you in the mirror and doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke. “Liar.”

You step back; one clean motion with no hesitation. Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

The cold water against your wrists and temples helps clear your mind as you gather yourself in the bathroom. This is just another work assignment - he's just another subject to photograph. You've dealt with far more challenging situations than being near someone who once made you believe in forever.

With practiced efficiency, you touch up your lipstick and straighten your blouse. When you emerge into the hallway, your composure is flawless, your expression revealing nothing of the storm beneath. The studio has quieted now, with only essential crew remaining.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

The hallway outside the dressing area is empty except for you and the steady hum of the hard drive transferring the final export. Metal and stale sweat linger in the air, a reminder of the day's shoot. You've maintained your composure perfectly throughout, every interaction calculated and professional.

But when you hear those footsteps approaching - measured, purposeful, unmistakable - your carefully constructed facade threatens to crack. You don't need to look to know who it is.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. "Waiting on a drive."

He moves closer, maintaining a careful distance. "They left in a rush. Didn't even say goodbye." The words carry a weight you both understand - he's not talking about the crew.

"It was a long day," you reply, your voice measured.

"You always were good at making things efficient," he observes, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You turn to face him with your perfected expression - the unflappable editor no one dares to question. "Did you need something, Jungkook?"

His composure shifts, tongue pressed against his cheek. "I need to know why you're acting like we didn't matter."

The words land with the weight of years unspoken. You meet his gaze steadily. "Because you acted like we didn't."

The silence stretches between you as the truth of it settles. He doesn't deny it. "I didn't know how to end it back then. I was selfish."

"You were a coward," you reply, voice steady despite the burning in your throat. "A call, a text - anything would have been better than disappearing."

"I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "Easier for who?"

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body, his familiar scent mixing with the dim emergency lights that line the floors. "I still remember everything," he murmurs. "Your old apartment with the mattress on the floor. How you'd cry over unfinished articles. The way you'd fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there."

You remain frozen, breath caught somewhere beneath your ribs as he leans in slightly, the air between you crackling with tension. "Do you remember any of it?" he whispers.

The memories flood back unbidden, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tilt your head and deliver the words with practiced indifference. "You're five years too late."

You walk away before he can notice your trembling hands, and he remains rooted in place, torn between the urge to follow and the knowledge that he lost that right long ago.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused. “Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth. “She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up. Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room. Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone.

Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command.

Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger. You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial. Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn’t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it. “Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You maintain your composure, letting the champagne brush your lips as you smile with practiced nonchalance. The air in the room shifts subtly, and with the slightest turn of your head, you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight - transformed from both the idol whose image you curated and the ghost who haunted your hallway last week. There's something raw and deliberate in his presence now, a man who arrived with clear intent. His eyes find you immediately across the room, heavy with purpose, and you notice with a start that he came alone.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up, of all people, leaving you unsure whether to laugh at his audacity or grip your glass tighter.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first. You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He barely acknowledges the model's attention, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the room - on you. Through the evening, his eyes find you repeatedly, not with desire but with careful observation, like he's memorizing every detail. The looks fall into a steady rhythm, yet he maintains his distance while others gravitate toward you.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You offer your practiced, polite smile  But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

Your eyes drift across the room unbidden to find him exactly where he's been all evening, his steady gaze never having left you.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

Without warning or spectacle, Jungkook materializes beside you with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years in the spotlight. His movement is fluid, deliberate - sliding between you and your unwanted admirers with a hand ghosting the small of your back. His body creates a subtle barrier, the gesture so smoothly executed that it appears almost accidental, yet the message is unmistakably clear.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.”

His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this display of protectiveness - the touch, the timing, or the implications. The men's faces fell as their evening plans crumbled, replaced by hasty excuses about drivers and text messages from L'Officiel. They melted into the crowd, leaving as quickly as they had appeared.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.He doesn’t ask.His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him but instead you follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close. Too close. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice. But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in, leaving you dizzy and unsteady.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since. And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as his gaze drops to notice the movement. The knowledge that he can still read your body's reactions makes your stomach twist with loathing.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry. And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down with deliberate intent, finding its target. He squeezes your ass with possessive familiarity, the firm pressure making your breath catch. Though you maintain your composure, your body betrays you - skin flushing hot, thighs pressing together as desire coils in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside the elevator and glances back, waiting with an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should, but instead you step into the elevator with feigned composure, despite your trembling heels.

The doors close with a soft click, leaving you enveloped in thick, electric silence. His presence looms behind you, coiled and simmering, while you maintain your dignity - chin raised, gaze fixed steadily on the elevator doors.

Your mind races as the floors tick by, but you've already surrendered to whatever destination he has in mind.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the calculated editor, the polished image, the embodiment of perfection - if only for one night. And if it has to be Jungkook, the only man who ever witnessed you come undone, then so be it. After all, if he's determined to shatter your composure again, you'll make sure he crumbles right alongside you.

The car ride settles into a weighty silence, charged with unspoken tension that fills the space between you.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

He notices immediately. His hand moves with quiet confidence, as if remembering a familiar path. Fingertips rest briefly on your knee before sliding upward, his thumb drawing lazy circles where silk meets flesh.

Though you avoid his gaze, busying yourself by twisting your hair between your fingers, your body betrays you - thighs pressing together as his touch ventures into dangerous territory. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate the truth of it, hate even more that you don't want to stop him. Your thighs remain locked together as heat builds between them, as if friction alone could erase what's about to happen.

He stays perfectly still, his touch a gentle reminder on your skin. Patient. Waiting. Your body responds to his presence with a familiar ache, your pulse quickening as it remembers his touch.

Through the window, city lights blur past while you try to steady your breathing. There's no denying what's about to happen - you knew it from the moment you followed him from that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman.

Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby's marble floors echo beneath your heels as you follow him to the private elevator, where a thumbprint grants access to the upper floors. The doorman's familiar greeting only amplifies the tension crackling between you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as the elevator climbs to the penthouse. The space unfolds before you - a stunning expanse of high ceilings and concrete walls, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's glittering skyline. But you barely register the luxurious details.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he presses you against the wall, his mouth capturing yours with desperate intensity. 

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been haunted by the memory of your taste. His hands roam possessively over your body while his tongue claims yours in a heated dance of desire. When an involuntary moan escapes your lips, his mouth curves into a knowing grin against yours.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer and he takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then...His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second. Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh. You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud. And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it. “Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge. Your mouth parts. He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length...Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do. His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do. You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned. Then you move. Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there. His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it. He starts to move. Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still except your breathing. And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then he moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again. His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then he pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore. Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to, you’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now. His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

Slowly opening your eyes, you feel the weight of memories flood back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

Your gaze lingers on his sleeping form. He looks peaceful and unguarded, making him all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

You bite your lip hard, fighting back unwanted feelings.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work. You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked. You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast. Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet. Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor again. You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office pulses with energy when you arrive, as your colleagues look up with warm, welcoming smiles.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

With a practiced smile, you offer polite thanks to your colleagues while trying to ignore how your skin still carries traces of last night - a mix of sex and his signature cologne. When an intern approaches with coffee, you accept it with silent gratitude, thinking you've almost made it through unscathed.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash. A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

Meeting her gaze, you watch as Kara's smile spreads across her face, predatory and sharp.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

Without a word, you lift your coffee and stride forward, but she trails behind you through the main office hallway. As you approach the glass-walled door of your boss's office, it swings open to reveal your editor-in-chief - a vision of authority in sharp heels and an immaculate outfit, her penetrating gaze already assessing the situation.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

Time seems to slow as your muscles tense. Your boss's calculating gaze sweeps over you, her expression as impenetrable as marble and twice as cold.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach plummets as you head toward her office, acutely aware of Kara's self-satisfied smirk and the way she bites her thumb, savoring her apparent victory.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse quickens at the message, and you don't need to guess who sent it, you slip the phone into your pocket before knocking on your boss's door.

part 2

.

.

🖤

lets chat here

[hamilton-here]

Hello, I finally found someone who writes about Lewis and it's so hard to find on this app

I can't get this idea out of my head,Lewis married A teacher From a university that is super smart and teaches engineering

It's very difficult to put a profession other than models and singers and actresses, I love when they put the reader's profession as a more normal profession, you know?

Sorry if any words come out wrong, my first language is not English.

Beijos from Brazil���🇷

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝓇𝓂𝓊𝓁𝒶 𝑜𝒻 𝒰𝓈

Authors Note: Hey lovelies! Not to worry, I hope this meets your expections Beijos🙂. I'm still hella unwell but I wanted to post something today since I didn't yesterday. I apologise if it’s bad... Lots of love xx

Summary: The reader is a university engineering lecturer, sharp and respected in her field and married to Lewis Hamilton.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

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

In the sprawling lecture hall of one of London’s most prestigious engineering universities, your name carries a kind of reverence.

Not because of celebrity. Not because of scandal. But because you make thermodynamics feel like poetry.

Officially, you’re the youngest tenured professor in the mechanical engineering department. Unofficially, you’re the one students trust the most - the professor who inspires careers, not just degrees. You bring biscuits during finals week. You stay behind after class for an hour to answer questions you’re not paid to. You make lectures feel like dialogue, your feedback like mentorship, and your presence like safety.

Your classroom runs on curiosity. Respect. The occasional scent of vanilla from your hand cream.

You have that quiet charm - intelligent, warm, a little whimsical. Most days, your hair is tucked into a messy bun or a loose braid that begins to unravel by the afternoon. You wear flowy blouses and trousers with pockets deep enough for chalk and flash drives, and there’s always some hint of white dust clinging to your hands or sleeves by midday.

Students compare you to Miss Honey well if Miss Honey held a PhD in Applied Fluid Dynamics and could dismantle mansplaining with a single raised brow.

The Hamilton surname doesn’t raise many eyebrows. It’s a common name, and besides you don’t seem the type. Your shoes are scuffed from the lab, your canvas bag permanently ink-stained, your watch reliable but worn. There’s no trace of flash, no hint of ostentation. Just you.

You don’t bring up your personal life not out of secrecy, but because it doesn’t seem to belong between lectures and lab reports.

Thursday Morning—Regenerative Braking Systems

Halfway through an electrifying lecture on energy recovery in hybrid drivetrains, a third-year student raises their hand.

“Professor Hamilton,” they ask, hesitant but eager, “are you related to…y’know, the F1 driver?”

A pause. A smile.

“Which one?” you reply, eyes twinkling.

The room erupts into laughter, and just like that, the moment drifts away.

As the lecture ends, students scatter, footsteps echoing down the corridor. You gather your notes, tuck a chalk-dusted flash drive into your pocket and glance at your phone as it vibrates twice on the edge of your desk.

You don’t need to check the name.

Lewis 📩 12:37 PM — Just finished media. Nearly fell asleep on Toto again 😵‍💫

📩 12:39 PM — Miss you already.

Your lips curve in amusement, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

You 📩 12:42 PM — Poor Toto. Miss you too. Teach the tires a lesson today 🖤

Sliding the phone into your coat, you push your glasses up just as Dr. Patel strolls past your door with a coffee in hand.

“You’re always smiling at that phone, huh?” he muses.

You nod, polite but unruffled. “My husband’s traveling. We keep in touch.”

His eyebrows lift just slightly. Most people don’t know you’re married. You’re not exactly secretive. Just private. A polite nod passes between you as he moves on.

Later, as you sit at your desk combing through final proposals with a red pen, Dr. Martin leans casually against your doorway for the third time this month.

“Y/N,” he says, too familiar, “Some of us are heading to that STEM in Schools seminar this weekend. Could be good exposure. You coming?”

Without looking up, you reply, “I’ve committed to judging student prototypes. I try not to overbook weekends.”

“Oh, right. Well…if you change your mind, I’ll save you a seat. Maybe we could catch up about it and I could swing by with coffee, maybe—”

“I’ll be with my husband,” you say, gently but firmly.

A beat. He falters.

“Of course. Well…see you around.”

Only once he’s gone do you let yourself exhale, thoughts already drifting to Lewis.

Not the global icon. Not the record-breaker.

Just your Lewis.

The one who texts you memes of Roscoe mid-snore. The one who brings you tea when your voice is hoarse from lectures. The one who looks at you like the world slows down.

By the time you arrive home the flat is warm with low lamplight and the scent of roasted vanilla. London hums outside, winding down as traffic grows sparse and streetlights flicker gold against puddles from earlier rain.

Inside, a quiet jazz playlist hums in the kitchen. Roscoe lies curled at the end of the couch, belly rising and falling in slow rhythm, paws twitching in some kind of dog-dream race.

You sit with one leg tucked beneath you, red pen in hand, glasses sliding down your nose. You’re deep in grading, thoughts darting between student projects and what scraps might make a decent dinner.

You don’t hear the door.

But you feel him.

That familiar presence. The scent of cologne, travel, and maybe the faintest trace of engine oil. Then arms warm and solid slip around you from behind, and lips press to your temple.

“Hey, brainiac,” Lewis whispers against your skin, voice rough from travel but softened by affection.

You lean back into him. “Hey yourself. You’re home early.”

“Flight landed ahead of schedule,” he murmurs, nuzzling your neck. “Didn’t want to miss your toast dinner.”

You smirk. “I was thinking about it.”

“That’s not dinner. That’s edible depression,” he replies, mock horror in his voice. “Sit tight. I’m cooking.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

So, you do. You stay right there, pen in hand, while he pads into the kitchen with all the gentle confidence of someone who knows his way around a saucepan and your spice rack.

Twenty-five minutes later, you’re seated together at your small kitchen table knees bumping, minestrone soup steaming, wine uncorked but untouched. It’s simple. Perfect.

He tells you about his media day mimicking Toto’s unimpressed face when Lewis nearly fell asleep beside him. You tell him about the student who accidentally set off the fire alarm with a badly rigged capacitor.

He throws his head back in laughter. You reach across the table and squeeze his hand.

“You make everything feel lighter,” you say.

“And you make everything feel like home,” he answers, sincere as ever.

Soon after, in the dim quiet of your bedroom, you lie pressed to his chest with one of his arms looped around your back, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes you can’t quite place.

Roscoe’s soft snores fill the silence like a lullaby.

“No one ever connects us,” Lewis murmurs, low and drowsy. “I think it’s kinda sexy.”

You smile, eyes already heavy with sleep. “You’re not a secret.”

“I know,” he whispers. “But I like being in your quiet world. I like being just your guy.”

You lift your head slightly, brushing your lips against his collarbone.

“You’re not just anything, Lewis.”

He kisses your forehead, arms wrapping around you like a promise.

“You’re the impressive one, Dr. Hamilton.”

“And you,” you murmur, sinking into his warmth, “are hopelessly biased.”

“Madly.”

And the last thing you feel before sleep takes you is his hand tightening ever so slightly around yours like even in his dreams, he’s holding on.

The next morning, sunlight spills into the bedroom in soft, golden ribbons, painting lazy stripes across the sheets. Your alarm buzzes faintly on the nightstand, a quiet, persistent reminder that reality is creeping in.

You groan and reach out from under the duvet, your hand smacking around until it finds the phone and silences the sound. The warmth of the bed is too inviting. The stillness too perfect.

You blink once. Twice. And then you register the steady weight across your waist, the gentle rise and fall of breath behind you, and the soft pressure of lips against your shoulder.

“Lewis,” you murmur, voice raspy and full of sleep. “I have a 9AM.”

“Mmm,” he answers, barely more than a breath against your skin. His face is still pressed into the curve of your neck; his arm curled tighter around your waist. “Don’t go.”

You try to wiggle free, but he only sighs, groaning like the act of keeping you here is a full-time job he’s too dedicated to quit. His leg slides over yours like a lock, pulling you back into him.

“Lewis,” you laugh softly, the sound muffled in the pillow. “Seriously. I have to shower.”

“No, you don’t,” he mumbles, not budging. “You smell perfect. Stay. Cancel class. Let me be the one you teach today.”

You twist slightly, just enough to glance back at him. His eyes are still half-lidded, his curls a tousled mess, his expression smug in that sleepy, endearing way of his.

“You can barely spell ‘viscosity’ before 10AM.”

“I could learn,” he offers, brushing his lips against your cheek. “But I’d probably just stare at your handwriting on the whiteboard and think about how much I miss you.”

You roll your eyes, even as your chest tightens with something tender. You press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose before finally prying yourself from his grip with the kind of determination only coffee and a packed lecture hall can summon.

Ten minutes later, the flat is a scene of controlled chaos. You're sprinting from room to room in a damp towel, muttering under your breath as you dig through your wardrobe for something professional yet forgiving, your wet braid flopping over your shoulder.

In the bedroom, Lewis lounges against the headboard, shirtless and entirely unbothered, Roscoe snuggled up at his feet like they both have nothing but time.

“You’re chaos,” he says, clearly amused as he watches you wrestle with the buttons of your blouse.

“You’re in the way of my shoes,” you shoot back, hopping into one heel and scanning the floor for its match. “Also, remind me to order more oat milk.”

He stands finally, pulling on a hoodie over his sweatpants. “Noted. Breakfast of champions today, I see?” he teases as you toss two cereal bars into your satchel and cap your travel mug.

“I’m a walking health icon,” you mutter.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You turn to him, leaning in for a quick goodbye, lips brushing his.

But Lewis doesn’t let it end there.

His hands catch your waist, pulling you in for a firm and effortless kiss before you can fully process it, his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. The kiss is unhurried but demanding, like he’s trying to make up for the hours you’ll be apart.

You melt for a beat, your fingers curling into his hoodie, your breath catching against his. He tastes like sleep and warmth and something just slightly minty annoyingly perfect, even at 8:30 in the morning.

When you pull back slightly, breathless, he tilts his head and murmurs against your lips, “You sure you don’t want to stay?”

You laugh; forehead pressed to his. “You’re dangerous.”

“You love it,” he says smugly.

You manage to escape with one final kiss and a quiet, “Lock up after you take Roscoe, yeah?”

“Yes, Professor,” he replies with a grin, giving you a cheeky salute.

You catch Roscoe wagging his tail at the sound of your voice and nearly double back just to hug them both again.

By the time you reach campus, the clouds have thinned to a hazy blue, and London’s rhythm hums in the background of honking cars, soft chatter, the rush of students moving between buildings. Your braid drips occasionally onto your shoulder, but there’s no time to worry.

Inside the lecture hall, your first years are already gathering some still yawning, others furiously typing notes from a pre-lecture scramble. The air smells like espresso, pens, and worn paper.

“Morning, Dr. H!” someone calls from the back row, a little too cheerfully for 8:55 AM.

“Morning,” you reply, setting your laptop on the desk and plugging in the HDMI cable. “Let’s dive straight in before your caffeine runs out and someone tries to convince me that DRS is unfair again.”

A few of them groan. One girl clutches her iced coffee like it’s her entire reason for existing. You smile fond, but unrelenting.

“Hey, I’m running on four hours of sleep and granola bars. You don’t see me whining.”

Someone near the front chuckles. “Yeah, but you probably had a good reason. Like solving equations. Or I don’t know maybe you’re related to a hot F1 husband?”

You pause for just half a second. Smooth your blouse like it’s a reset button. “Today’s lecture,” you say coolly, “is on the thermodynamics of hybrid power units. If you’re lucky, I’ll let you rant about Red Bull at the end.”

They settle in quickly. The projector lights up. Your fingers move across the remote as you guide them through slides that are complex, but clear.

You pace gently in front of the room, weaving between rows, voice steady.

“Let’s start with the basics MGU-K. Think of it like a tiny, obsessed goblin living in the car. Every time you slow down, it panics. ‘No! Not wasted energy!’ So, it scoops it up, stores it, and tosses it back at you when you accelerate.”

Laughter trickles in, but more importantly, heads nod. They’re listening. Engaged.

You walk to the board and draw a quick diagram, your handwriting looping elegantly across the white surface. You see their eyes follow you some scribbling notes, others watching intently.

When a girl in the front raises her hand and asks about energy scaling in relation to battery mass, you light up not just because she’s asking a smart question, but because she wants to understand.

“Great question,” you say, walking toward her. “Let’s think about the cost-benefit curve here. What happens when we increase battery mass?”

Hands start to rise. One boy talks about kinetic output: another mentions heat loss. You gently correct a misunderstanding, but never once make them feel small. That’s never been your style. You build confidence like it’s a second language patient, structured and subtle.

The conversation evolves. A few students even start debating hybrid regulation loopholes like it’s a sport. And you?

You thrive in it. Not just the content, but the fire in their eyes. You live for the moment they get it.

When the lecture ends, most students scatter off to their next class, but as always, a few linger. A girl asks about internships. You promise to email a contact. Another asks if you’d mind giving feedback on a research proposal. You nod, writing your office hours on the back of a sticky note.

One boy stays longer than the rest, shifting his weight nervously as he clutches a notebook to his chest. He’s quiet, always has been.

You offer him a gentle smile. “Need something?”

“I um. I just wanted to say thank you. I didn’t think I’d like engineering. I was going to switch majors. But…you make it make sense.”

The honesty of it hits you square in the chest.

You blink, touched. “Thank you,” you say quietly, sincerely. “That means a lot to hear.”

He nods, shyly, and hurries out, the notebook still clutched like a lifeline.

You lean back against your desk, exhaling as the silence settles around you. It’s quiet now just the soft hum of the building, a high window cracked open to let in fresh air, the faint thrum of the city far below.

You glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until your next lecture.

Plenty of time to check your phone.

Lewis 📩 10:23 AM: Roscoe and I both miss you. Send equations to distract us. 📩 10:25 AM: …Or a selfie. That works too 😌

You shake your head, smiling down at the screen, warmth spreading across your chest.

You 📩 10:27 AM: You first. 📩 10:28 AM: Make it cute. You’re distracting a professor at work.

You tuck your phone back into your bag, still smiling as you gather your notes and start setting up for your second class.

They don’t know it, your students. Not fully.

But here surrounded by questions and wonder and learning, you are wholly yourself.

And when the day ends, when your voice is hoarse and your whiteboard filled with diagrams and ideas, you’ll go home to someone who sees that version of you and kisses her breathless at the door.

You belong in both places.

And today, they’re both waiting.

The next day.

The scent of warm cookies wafts through the lecture hall, mingling with the usual cocktail of espresso, highlighters, and the faint hum of overworked laptop fans. You carefully set a large Tupperware container on the desk with a proud little smile, snapping off the lid like a magician unveiling her trick. Your students immediately perk up.

“You baked for us?” one of them gasps, as if you’ve just offered them salvation in the form of chocolate chips.

You tilt your head with mock solemnity. “I baked for me,” you say, tapping the edge of the container. “But I’m feeling generous. Thermodynamic modelling deserves a little sugar on the side.”

They erupt into grateful chaos, like puppies let off-leash. Hands shoot out, voices overlap with "thank you, Dr. H!" and "you're actually the best." You wave them off with a dismissive but affectionate shake of your head, already grabbing the remote as the last slide flickers to life behind you.

You resume pacing gently at the front of the room, cookie-crumbling fingers typing notes and shoving pieces into mouths.

“Okay,” you say, brushing invisible crumbs from your blazer. “Before I let you escape in a cookie coma, here’s your homework task for next week: pick any component of the hybrid system that isn’t the MGU-K because I know half of you were already halfway through a paragraph about regenerative braking. One-page minimum, diagrams encouraged. You can—”

The door at the side of the lecture hall creaks open.

You glance up mid-sentence, expecting maybe a late student or a confused TA.

But no.

Oh no.

Standing there leaning casually against the doorframe like this is a rom-com and he’s here to ruin your academic credibility is Lewis. Dressed down in a black hoodie and grey joggers, curls messy under a cap, a brown paper lunch bag in one hand, his phone in the other. Roscoe sits just behind him, tail thumping happily against the floor.

You forget how to breathe.

He raises the bag with an innocent shrug. “You left this,” he says. “Didn’t want you to starve during your lecture marathon.”

Time freezes.

You’re frozen. Your students are frozen. Roscoe may be the only creature in the room still blinking.

Because Lewis Hamilton - the Lewis Hamilton just walked into an engineering lecture hall like he’s dropping off forgotten gym clothes.

One student blinks dramatically and whispers, “Wait I thought it was just a coincidence her last name is Hamilton.”

“No way. No way that’s her actual husband,” another mutters, slowly lowering their cookie like it’s sacrilegious to eat during this moment.

You blink back into reality, your mouth parting slightly. You hadn’t checked your phone since the last class. You had absolutely no idea he was coming. And now he’s here, just existing. In your lecture.

He grins, fully aware of the small academic earthquake he’s just triggered. “Sorry,” he offers casually, scanning the rows of stunned students. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Hi.”

Your throat catches. “That’s my husband,” you say, finally, like it’s the most bewildered confession of your life.

And with that, the room explodes.

“WHAT?!”

“DR. HAMILTON!!”

“YOU’RE MARRIED TO LEWIS HAMILTON?!”

“NO. FREAKING. WAY.”

You drag a hand down your face, trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Please. Focus. Breathe.”

It’s a lost cause. One girl has both hands clasped over her heart. Another is already whispering furiously to a friend, undoubtedly calculating how long you’ve been married, checking Instagram for clues. Someone very confidently says, “This is giving ‘hot professor with secret F1 husband’ energy. I knew it.”

Lewis strolls over like this is perfectly normal, Roscoe trotting behind and sitting politely next to your desk as if he, too, has tenure. He places the paper bag next to your laptop, then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek fully cementing your status as married to a legend.

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t plan this,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

He grins. “Just being a supportive husband. Delivering lunch. Kissing professors.”

A student near the front raises a hand. “Can he teach next week?”

Another chimes in, “Wait, can we all get lunch delivered by world champions if we forget ours?”

Someone else blurts, “Okay, but like you’re beautiful and you bake? And married Lewis Hamilton? Dr. H, respectfully, how is that fair?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re moving on.”

Lewis holds up a hand, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wait, wait. Sorry, just a quick poll.”

You already know you’re going to hate this.

He turns to the students. “Be honest, who actually wants this homework assignment?”

Groans. Boos. Even Roscoe lets out a small yawn for effect.

Lewis grins, turns to you with wide, innocent eyes. “Babe. They’re suffering. Surely you can’t do this to them?”

You shoot him the look. The look that says don’t test me in my own lecture hall, Hamilton.

A tense silence. The class holds its breath.

Then, with the world's most resigned sigh, you mutter, “Fine. You get an extension.”

The crowd goes wild.

Cheers. Whoops. Someone slaps the desk like it’s a drum set. You swear one girl actually starts chanting “Lewis! Lewis!” and Roscoe barks in perfect rhythm.

Lewis gives you a smug little smile. “You’re the best, Professor.”

“You’re banned from this building,” you reply flatly, even as you smile like an idiot.

He kisses your cheek again, showoff - then turns to leave with a casual, “See you at home. Roscoe says thanks for the cookie.”

You glance down and realise he’s already stolen one from the Tupperware.

“Hey!” you call after him, but he’s already backing out the door, hoodie up, dog trotting loyally behind him. “No more freebies!”

“Too late!” he calls over his shoulder. “Star pupils deserve snacks!”

The door swings shut with a soft click.

Silence.

Then your most dramatic student raises her hand and says, voice reverent and absolutely deadpan, “Dr. H…respectfully your life is literally my dream.”

You turn slowly, face in your hands. “I’m giving you all extra readings just for that.”

More laughter. You pretend to scowl, even as your heart is absolutely full.

Cookies, equations, a classroom full of chaos, and your ridiculously charming husband making a surprise cameo.

Just another Thursday.

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

One Week Later…

You should’ve known something was up.

The department secretary had waved at you that morning with the kind of grin usually reserved for lottery winners or people who were about to witness some good, old-fashioned chaos. Then there were the students. Whispering. Glancing at the door too often. Snickering every time, you walked past.

And yet, like the dangerously overworked academic you were, you chalked it up to mid-semester burnout and ignored it. You had cookies. You had lecture notes. You had a paper-cut from opening a box of lab manuals. Things were normal.

Or so you thought.

The lecture hall buzzes as usual. A few late arrivals shuffle in, tripping over backpacks. The usual suspects sit in their usual seats. You boot up the projector, sipping from your coffee like the last line of defence between sanity and another midterm season.

There’s a light laugh when you remind them that their ERS system analysis assignment is due next week an extension, you emphasise, that was entirely the fault of your husband, not your mercy. Lewis had interrupted your last lecture with a lunch delivery and a face so charming it derailed the entire session.

“I expect detailed breakdowns,” you warn, pacing across the front of the room with your clicker in hand. “And no one is allowed to pick the MGU-K just because it’s easier to pronounce. Challenge yourselves.”

A few groans. Some muttered curses. You smirk.

You’re halfway through drawing a block diagram of the hybrid power unit when—

The door creaks open.

You pause.

Every head turns.

There he is.

Lewis Hamilton. In a tailored navy blazer, black shirt underneath, sleeves rolled just enough to show a glint of tattoos and that braided bracelet you gave him for your anniversary. And next to him?

Roscoe. Wearing a little service vest. Tail wagging like it’s his lecture now.

You drop your whiteboard marker.

It hits the floor with a dull clack.

The room goes dead silent.

One student whispers, horrified: “He brought the dog again.”

Lewis lifts a takeaway coffee cup in a peace offering. “Am I late?” he asks innocently. “You said you were covering hybrid systems.”

You stare at him.

He grins - that grin, the one with the dimple and the sparkle that always, always spells trouble.

“I thought you were kidding,” you say slowly, eyes narrowed, “when you said, ‘What if I came in and taught your lecture next time.’”

“I lied,” he says cheerfully, walking down the tiered stairs like it’s a red carpet. Roscoe trots beside him like he’s done this a hundred times.

“I hate you,” you mutter under your breath.

Lewis reaches the bottom, kisses your cheek in front of sixty gasping students, and sets the coffee next to your laptop. “She says that when she’s flustered,” he tells them like it’s a private joke. “I brought visual aids.”

From his pocket, he pulls out a folded sheet of notes and a pen. Someone in the back audibly chokes.

“Do you want the HDMI cable, Mr. Hamilton?” one student shouts gleefully.

“Absolutely not,” you say, glaring at Lewis. “This is my classroom.”

“She makes me flashcards,” Lewis tells them, completely undeterred. “She even colour-codes them.”

“Against my will!” you shout, scandalised.

“Best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he replies, completely sincere.

You stare at your husband, unsure whether to throw him out or throw him a gold star. Your class is already spiralling.

“Okay,” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Guest lecture rules. Be nice, ask questions. And if he gets anything wrong, I swear to God, do not put it on TikTok.”

“I’m right here,” Lewis says, pretending to be offended.

“You’re everywhere and that’s the problem.”

Ten Minutes In…

Honestly? He’s good.

Too good.

He talks about real-time feedback in the car, how the MGU-H lag feels at high-speed straights, how data on throttle mapping can change race strategy in seconds. He references your lecture slides like he memorised them. (He did. You caught him last night reading your notes while Roscoe snored on his lap.)

And when he says, “Of course, I get to test all of this first-hand but none of it makes sense without her. She’s the brains behind my speed,”

You bury your face in your hands as the students absolutely combust.

“Oh my GOD,” someone says breathlessly. “They’re in love and also engineers??”

“Do they do equations together? Is that a thing?”

“I’m gonna cry. This is like academic royalty.”

You glare at Lewis, who only shrugs, basking in their adoration. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a smug smile. “You married this.”

After Class…

They swarm him.

Not about racing. About you.

“Is it true she organises the bookshelf by journal impact factor?”

“Do you really own matching safety goggles?”

“Did she really correct your spelling on the whiteboard that one time on Sky Sports?”

Lewis answers everything. Roscoe gets more head scratches than the last three therapy dogs combined. One girl even kneels down to whisper, “You’re the real star, aren’t you?” to him, like it’s sacred knowledge.

Eventually, the crowd clears, leaving behind crumpled paper, laughter and one sticky note on your desk:

Best. Lecture. Ever. Please bring your husband again. Or at least the dog.

The door clicks shut. You exhale dramatically and toss your notes onto the desk.

Lewis is already spinning lazily in your chair like a smug cat. Roscoe curls up by the door like he owns tenure.

“Well?” Lewis asks, eyes twinkling. “How’d I do?”

“You ambushed me,” you deadpan.

“You loved it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You interrupted my lecture, wore my oversized blazer—”

“It’s mine now.”

“—and then made my students love you more than cookies.”

“That’s unfair. Cookies are unbeatable.”

You sigh, walking toward him. Without hesitation, you drop into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. His hands find your waist immediately, like they always do.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mutter, brushing his hair back gently.

“I’m devastatingly cute,” he whispers.

You kiss him just a quick press of lips that tastes like coffee and warmth and annoyance you don’t really feel.

“Next time,” you murmur, “I’m crashing your press conference.”

He grins. “That’d go viral in five minutes.”

“Exactly.”

“And what will you bring?”

You smirk. “Cookies. Flashcards. A live demonstration of your inability to remember acronyms.”

He laughs into your shoulder, pulling you closer. “Deal. But if you show up in that little lab coat again…”

“You’ll forget your lines?”

“I’ll forget my name.”

You roll your eyes, resting your forehead against his. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Good thing you married me.”

Later that evening.

The house smells like basil and garlic when you step inside not the distant kind from a candle, but the real, lived-in kind. The kind that wraps around you like a hug and makes your shoulders drop before your brain catches up. Your tote hits the floor with a tired thump, coat following in a heap. You toe off your shoes, already half grumbling to yourself.

You’d had full intentions of coming home and sulking on the couch maybe watching trash TV, definitely drinking tea, ideally being spoon-fed sympathy.

You didn’t expect candlelight and a half-set table.

“You’re joking,” you mumble under your breath.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis calls out from the kitchen, and he says it like he didn’t walk into your university classroom like it was his stage this afternoon. Like he didn’t completely upend your very controlled, very professional day by turning your lecture hall into an impromptu press room.

You step toward the kitchen and pause in the doorway.

He’s barefoot, sleeves rolled up, curls soft around his face. Holding two plates of what looks like homemade pasta as if he’s the romantic lead in a movie and you’re just catching the third act.

“You cooked or did you order food to make it seem like you did?” you ask, arching a brow. “After hijacking my class?”

Lewis doesn’t even flinch. He just grins, that dimple-deep smile full of shameless charm. “Seemed like the least I could do.”

You narrow your eyes, stepping closer, hands on your hips. “You mean after showing up uninvited, pretending to be a guest lecturer, and making all my students fall in love with you and Roscoe again?”

“Hey, I was invited,” he says, cool as ever, tapping a spoon against the edge of the pot. “You told me I could crash sometime.”

“‘Sometime’ did not mean today, Lewis.”

He shrugs. “You didn’t hate it.”

You open your mouth to retort, hesitate, then close it again with a sigh. “…You were kind of brilliant.”

He smirks, cocky as ever. “Knew you’d come around.”

With a small kiss, he brushes past you to set the plates on the table, casually turning on the soft jazz that now fills the background like a movie score. And you despite yourself, despite everything let it happen. You settle at the table, your foot brushing against Roscoe’s warm, sleepy body as he curls beneath your chair.

Dinner’s perfect. Of course it is. He’s irritatingly good at everything - cooking, teaching, loving you without trying.

You twirl a bite of pasta, shaking your head. “They’re never going to stop talking about it. Pretty sure one kid asked if we could adopt him.”

Lewis coughs into his water. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious. Another asked if you’d guest lecture for the rest of term.”

He grins, chin in his palm, like he’s never been more pleased. “Would you let me?”

You shoot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“Even if I brought more coffee?”

“…Tempting. Still no.”

“What if I let Roscoe sit in the front row and you pretended not to know him until the end of the semester?”

“Lewis.”

He laughs, eyes softening as he reaches across the table and laces his fingers with yours. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave. Promise.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve literally never behaved.”

“Fair,” he murmurs, leaning in.

The warmth between you simmers something steady and golden in the candlelight, something that smells like tomato sauce and affection and home.

“Hey,” he says after a pause. “You were amazing today.”

You scoff, poking at a tomato with your fork. “I was flustered. I dropped a marker.”

“You were funny. Sharp. Confident. That classroom didn’t know what hit ‘em.”

You smile behind another bite of pasta, cheeks warm. “You’re biased.”

“I’m obsessed,” he corrects softly, “That’s different.”

You pretend your heart doesn’t stumble at the word. You pretend he didn’t just say it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He sees right through it, of course. Leaning in, nose brushing yours, voice a whisper.

“Next time,” you murmur, “Just remember this, crashing your job.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Oh?”

“Press conference. Full audience. Me and a laser pointer.”

Lewis hums low in his throat, all teasing. “Bring the cookies. I’ll make room on the podium.”

You kiss him before he can say anything else - a soft, slow press of lips that says thank you and I hate how much I love you and maybe you were right to crash my class. Roscoe lets out a long sigh beneath the table, like even he knows this is overdue.

When Lewis pulls back, he’s grinning. “So, was today your best lecture ever?”

You squint. “It was alright.”

“‘Alright’? Babe.”

“Well,” you say, gently brushing a dab of sauce from the corner of his mouth with your thumb, “the guest speaker was decent.”

He laughs again full-bodied, delighted and pulls you gently into his lap like it’s routine. Like this is how every dinner ends.

And maybe it is.

After dinner, you groan and start to collect your things. “Okay. I really need to get through these submissions. If I leave them until morning—”

“Nope,” Lewis interrupts, standing up and stretching like a smug cat. “Denied.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a challenge and a gift wrapped in one. “What if I offered a counterproposal?”

You shoot him a look. “What kind of counterproposal?”

He steps forward, slowly. “You. Me. Cozy bed. Cuddles. Optional foot massage.”

“I have three student emails to answer and—”

Without warning, he ducks down and scoops you into his arms, bridal style, lifting you like you weigh nothing at all.

“Lewis!”

“Shh,” he says dramatically. “You’ve been kidnapped. For your own good.”

You smack his chest, laughing, legs kicking in protest. “Put me down!”

“Never. You work too hard and sleep too little.”

You huff. “You don’t even know my schedule.”

He leans in and kisses your nose. “Baby, I’ve memorised your calendar.”

You roll your eyes but let him carry you up the stairs, arms looping around his neck. He kicks open the bedroom door and sets you gently on the mattress like you’re something precious.

(You are.) ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Three Days Later

You're mid-coffee, half-dressed and muttering about a broken printer when Lewis walks in with his phone and a huge grin.

“Hey, babe?”

“Don’t ‘hey babe’ me unless you’ve fixed the—”

“I got fan mail.”

You frown. “What?”

He turns the screen toward you.

Subject: Quick Follow-Up to the Lecture!! (Also Tell Roscoe I Love Him)

From: [malik]@university.edu

To: lewishamilton@something.com

Hi Mr. Hamilton!!! Just wanted to say thanks again for speaking in class last week!

1. Could you recommend any beginner-level telemetry books?

2. What kind of treats does Roscoe like? I’m trying to win over a bulldog.

3. Do you have your own podcast or something?? Because we NEED it.

PS: Please tell your wife she’s really cool. But like you’re cooler 😅

You read it. Once. Twice.

Then you let out an actual scream.

Lewis is already laughing.

“They emailed YOU?”

He shrugs. “I told them they could if they had follow-ups!”

“They are my students!”

“I’m just answering as a supportive co-educator.”

“Supportive co-educator?!” You’re nearly shrieking now. “They’re asking YOU about telemetry and calling you cooler than me—”

“I mean, babe,” he says with a shrug and a wink, “they’re not wrong.”

You throw a pillow at him. Roscoe, entirely unbothered, lets out a snore on the couch.

His inbox pings.

Another email.

You glance at your phone.

Subject: Mr. Hamilton pls do a guest series? Weekly?? We’ll bring snacks

You scream again.

Lewis disappears upstairs, cackling, phone in hand.

You’re going to have to start docking his appearances from your syllabus.

Or file for divorce.

(Probably both.)

But later when you're curled up in bed, grading beside him, and Roscoe is snoring between your legs you’ll admit, very quietly, that it was kind of nice.

Even if your students love your husband more than they love you. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The last week of term arrives like a freight train and you’re standing directly in its path with no intention of moving.

Final projects are flying in like shrapnel, some pristine, others barely held together with duct tape and desperation. Resits are stacked like Jenga towers, threatening to collapse at the slightest nudge. Office hours have morphed into emotional triage sessions. You’ve hugged two students, cried with one, and given another a five-minute pep talk in the hallway that somehow spiralled into a debate about philosophy and the thermodynamics of burnout.

The printers on campus have declared war three of them jamming, beeping, or outright lying about being “out of paper.” You’re running on sour worms, vending machine coffee, and a four-hour Spotify loop labeled “Academic Combat Mode.”

Your desk is a battlefield. Loose pages drift across the surface like surrender flags. Coffee rings mark the passage of time. There’s a half-eaten protein bar lodged beneath your grading rubric and sticky notes that simply read: BREATHE and DO NOT CRY HERE AGAIN.

Your students are running on caffeine, chaos, and increasingly deranged group chat memes.

You?

You��re running on spite, love, and the memory of Lewis wrapping his arms around you last night, his breath warm against your neck, whispering, “They’ll do great. You’re the reason they even believe they can.”

You didn’t believe him.

But then…

They do.

They pass.

Every single one.

You double-check the spreadsheet. Then again. Then stare at the results like they’ve betrayed physics.

A few just scraped through barely crossing the threshold with the kind of messy brilliance that makes your heart ache.

A few soared sharp, elegant, precise.

But all of them made it. All of them.

You sit back in your chair, stunned. Your eyes burn. Your throat clenches. And then you laugh a loud, trembling, relief-soaked laugh that turns into hiccuping sobs halfway through.

You don’t even hear the front door until Lewis appears in the doorway, already out of his post-training gear, curls damp, wearing that hoodie you always steal.

“Hey…” His voice is careful, low. “What’s wrong?”

You spin in your chair, blinking back tears with zero success. “They passed.”

He frowns. “Wait who?”

“My students. All of them. All of them, Lewis.”

He crosses the room in three steps, crouching beside you, his hand firm and warm on your knee. “Are you serious?”

You nod, laughing through your tears. “I double-checked everything. Even the ones who were struggling they pushed through.”

Lewis stares at you like you just won Monaco in a go-kart. He doesn’t say anything for a long second just brushes a knuckle down your cheek. “You did that.”

“They did that.”

“But they had you.”

You don’t know how to explain what’s lodged in your throat the combination of exhaustion, joy, and the deep, giddy sense of oh my god, I actually made a difference.

So instead, you collapse into him and let yourself feel it.

That night, curled up together on the couch, you send off the final marks, pour yourself a victory glass of wine, and open a new email thread.

Subject: SURPRISE ENGINEERING TRIP – Permission Forms + NDAs

Lewis glances over at you when your typing hits a rapid-fire rhythm.

“You look suspiciously productive,” he says, rubbing at his shoulder.

You grin. “Everyone passed. So I’m rewarding them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “With…?”

You spin the laptop toward him. The email subject stares back in bold.

He stares at it. Then at you. “You’re bringing them where?”

“To see real engineering,” you say, practically glowing. “To show them that everything they just learned doesn’t live in a textbook. It lives here. In this.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You want to show me off?”

You roll your eyes. “I want to show them what you do. And what’s possible. I want them to feel it.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead. “You’re incredible.”

You nudge his side. “Start prepping that smoothie-blender metaphor.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Surprise Day – Trackside

The sun is just beginning to rise when you meet your students outside the paddock gate, all of them wearing bright university lanyards and the exact expression of people who thought they were going on a boring lab excursion.

They’re fidgeting. Whispering. Clutching clipboards and wondering why there are security checkpoints.

“This is kind of a lot for a factory tour,” someone murmurs.

“Are we even allowed to be here?” another whispers.

You beam. “You’re allowed. Just don’t touch anything with a red sticker.”

Then the gates open and the world as they know it tilts.

The paddock is alive.

Team haulers gleam like spacecraft. Engineers rush past with headsets and carts full of parts. Mechanics joke over laptops displaying real-time data.

The students freeze.

Then, slowly, they realise where they are.

This isn’t a museum.

This is the frontline.

And then Lewis walks into the garage.

He’s mid-discussion with a race engineer, sleeves of his race suit knotted around his waist, fireproof top clinging to his chest, curls still damp. His smile drops the moment he sees the crowd of wide-eyed students.

He stops in his tracks.

Then looks at you.

You wave cheerfully.

“Professor,” a student breathes, clutching your arm. “Thats him. That’s Lewis Hamilton your husband.”

You nod. “Yes. That’s my husband. Welcome to practical applications of everything you’ve ever cried over.”

Lewis walks over slowly, a baffled look on his face. “You said ten.”

You shrug. “Ten-ish.”

He counts. “There are thirty-five.”

“Plus, me.”

He leans close, barely containing his laughter. “You ambushed me with an engineering cult.”

“They’re future legends. Consider it networking.”

He exhales sharply, eyes flicking over their faces. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

He grins. Then turns to the students. “Alright, class. Let’s talk aerodynamics and heartbreak.”

First up was the garage tour -

The moment he starts speaking, it’s over.

Your students descend on him with the fervour of people who’ve spent their lives dreaming of this exact moment.

“Mr. Hamilton, how do you factor side wind into the suspension load distribution?”

“Can we see the CFD simulations?”

“What’s your real opinion on porpoising?”

“Can you feel the difference when they shave two millimetres off the floor edge?”

Lewis takes it in stride answering every question with patience, humour, and the kind of depth that leaves half your students scribbling frantically and the other half open-mouthed in awe.

He pulls up data on a nearby monitor. Demonstrates how telemetry reflects energy recovery curves. Explains corner balancing with an analogy about dancing in wet shoes.

They are eating. it. up.

One student nearly cries when he explains the front wing adjustments in Barcelona last year.

Another practically proposes when he walks them through his feedback loop with his race engineer.

At one point, someone leans over to you, breathless. “I didn’t know real engineering could be this…cool.”

You grin, heart fit to burst.

Later.

Eventually, the group begins to disperse still buzzing, still asking questions. Some exchange social handles. Others ask for internship tips.

One of your quietest students lingers back. Malik. They walk over, hesitant, still absorbing everything.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” they murmur. “I’ve never…I’ve never felt this close to what I want to do before. It always felt like something other people did. People I could never be.”

You squeeze their shoulder. “You can be. You will be. You belong here.”

Their eyes shine. “Because of you.”

And then they’re gone swallowed by the group.

The garage is almost quiet when Lewis walks over and wraps his arms around you from behind. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you melt into him.

“That was insane,” he says softly.

“Good insane?”

He kisses your cheek. “The best kind.”

You lean your head back against his. “You were amazing with them.”

“I think I got asked more technical questions in two hours than I have all year.”

You laugh. “That’s what you get for dating a lecturer.”

“I should’ve known what I was signing up for.”

He spins you gently to face him, eyes still warm. “I meant what I said earlier, you know.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Which part?”

“I’ve never been more in love with you than I am right now.”

You blink, stunned for a second then smile so big it hurts. “Even after I hijacked your garage and brought thirty-five chaotic nerds into your workspace?”

He laughs. “Especially because of that.”

Then Lewis’s phone pings.

A student’s name appears on the screen.

Subject: Follow-up on the CFD airflow demo –

You groan. “They love you more than me now.”

He leans in, forehead against yours. “You love me enough for all of them.”

You roll your eyes. “Ugh. Cheesy.”

He kisses you again soft, slow and grateful.

And in the space between his breath and yours, you realise:

This is what every hard night was for. Every breakdown. Every fight to make them believe.

This is your love. For them. For him.

For everything you’ve built together. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Two Weeks Later.

Your office is a mess again this time not from grading, but from possibility.

Blueprints spill off the desk. There’s a half-eaten croissant sitting atop a textbook on thermal systems, and your whiteboard is covered in equations and mock telemetry graphs. You’ve been working through design exercises with Malik your brightest, most determined student every afternoon since the Mercedes garage visit.

He hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

“I didn’t think someone like me could belong in a place like that,” he told you, voice cracking slightly.

So, you told him the truth: You do. And we’re going to prove it.

When Mercedes posted a summer internship for engineering students limited slots, hundreds of applicants you knew Malik had to apply.

So, he did.

And now you’re waiting.

He’s been pacing outside your office, chewing his hoodie strings and muttering torque ratios under his breath like a prayer. You’ve refreshed your email fifteen times in the last hour. Just in case.

Then your phone vibrated.

Subject: Mercedes-AMG F1 Internship Offer – Malik A.

Your hand flies to your mouth. You don’t breathe. You read it twice, three times.

And then you sprint.

“Malik!” you shout, flinging open the door.

He turns, eyes wild. “Did they—?”

You don’t even say it. Just hold up your phone.

He reads the subject line. Once. And then everything crumbles.

He gasps and covers his mouth, knees buckling slightly as he sits hard on the bench. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

You crouch in front of him, your hands on his shaking shoulders. “You did it. You earned this.”

His eyes are wide, wet. “You believed in me before I did.”

You laugh, heart thudding in your chest. “And now Mercedes does, too.”

He hugs you tight, breath hitching. “I’ll make you proud.”

“You already have.”

That Night...

You walk in the front door, still glowing, still not quite believing the day you just had.

Lewis looks up from the kitchen, dressed down in a hoodie and sweats, Roscoe curled up nearby.

He takes one look at you and smiles. “You look like you just won a race.”

“Better,” you say, dropping your bag and walking straight into his arms. “Malik got it. He got the internship.”

Lewis pauses. “Wait Malik - Malik? The one who asked about the ERS recovery map and almost cried when I showed him the pit wall software?”

You laugh into his chest. “That’s the one.”

Lewis holds you tighter. “He’s brilliant. That’s incredible.”

“I think I screamed,” you admit. “I definitely startled at least three undergrads in the hallway.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes soft. “You’re changing lives.”

You shake your head. “They’re doing the work. I’m just I don’t know. Holding the door open.”

Lewis smiles not just proud, but awed. “You kicked the door off its hinges.”

You exhale, leaning your forehead against his. “This is why I do it. Not the admin emails. Not the late nights. This. That moment when they see themselves somewhere big and believe it.”

He kisses you, slow and sweet, as if he knows that for all your pride in them he’s proud of you.

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

CONGRATS ON 500 BABE! You deserve it and so much more 🖤

I’d like to request Quinn with the prompt. “weird way to propose but yes.”

Love you. Bye.

BUCKLE UP IM IN LOVE WITH HIM

Quinn Hughes - fluff prompt 11 - “weird way to propose but yes.”

WC: 511

CW: none tbh, just fluff

Quinn loved whenever you were able to join him for an away game, didn't care if it was multiple games or just one. He loved having you there, you were his lucky charm. Some people have socks, or underwear. He has you. He’s always had you. It started in college, every game you were at they won. It followed through into the big leagues. You were there the night he was named captain, and the night they solidified their playoff run. You were always there.

The thought of marrying you wasn’t ever a “maybe” thought. To him it was as easy as 1,2,3. Quinn knew very early on how badly he wanted to put that ring, that's been hidden in his closet for the last 4 years, on your finger. Jack had talked him out of proposing to you his freshman year at umich. To which he's thankful for now, he's had time to perfect his plan.

You’d known for a very long time that Quinn was the end of the endings, Quinn was your lifeline. You were never in a rush. You knew it'd happen, you knew that even if you didn't have a ring or his last name he was yours and you were his. Everyone knew.

When the schedule aligned and you were hand in hand with Quinn in the heart of Las Vegas something felt different. Not in a bad way, just new.

Quinn’s stares lingered a little longer, his hands haven’t not been somewhere on you, his kisses felt

more heavy and relaxed all at the same time.

Your mind kind of just off, focused on the way Quinn’s skin felt against yours. On how he always led you where you needed to go, never putting you in any harm.

“Sweetheart,” his fingers gripped a little harder, pulling me back to reality. “You hear me?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, “no, i’m sorry. Can you say it again?”

He looked at you with a tooth rotting grin, “I asked if you wanted the last pretzel?”

“Weird way to propose, but yes. I do.” You giggled.

There was a flash in his eyes, his stance tightening. “You know, we’re in Vegas.”

Humming at the boy as you take a bite of the pretzel he saved you.

“We could go to any chapel in a 2 minute walk, and you could walk out a Hughes and I could walk out your husband.”

“You wanna marry me?” Your voice so quiet you were sure he didn’t hear you.

“More than you know. Have for a long time too. Tried to ask in school but Jack bullied me. Told me

to wait it out a little longer. You’re home to me, you’re it for me.”

He stopped walking, hands finding home on your cheek. Wiping away a tear that made her way down.

“I have a ring at home, in the closet. Top shelf where I keep all my special game pucks. So, what do you say? Wanna let Elvis call you my wife?”

“Yeah, Quinny. I do.”

[dannyriccsystem]

hiii I LOVE YOUR SMAUS/TEXTS RAH THEYRE SO ADORABLE

Can I request a kimi antonelli x reader (potentially SMAU) where the reader and kimi are like childhood bsfs and classmates and he takes her to a f1 race for the first time (she's been to races before just not f1) if you don't want to do this it's OK 💖 take your time 🫶🏻🫶🏻

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

Summary: You, Kimi’s childhood friend, attend a race for the first time, and it’s exhilarating!

Warnings: Altered timeline (Kimi gets a podium in Suzuka)

Featuring: Childhood best friend!Kimi Antonelli x reader

This is such a cute idea!! I hope it’s to your liking ☺️🫶

your.username

liked by kimi.antonelli and others

your.username A post dedicated to my best friend, because apparently he’s getting points 🤔 Good job Kims!

Tagged kimi.antonelli

—

friend1 - “apparently” 😂

♥︎ by author

your.username - Been to lots of F2 races, never even looked at F1 👀 I’m just happy to support a friend

> kimi.antonelli - I’m gonna pretend like you didn’t say that.

♥︎ by author

kimi.antonelli - When are you gonna come watch me race? You’d love it!

♥︎ by author

your.username - And are you gonna pay for my ticket? 😉

> kimi.antonelli - Mercedes will pay!

♥︎ by author

> mercedesamgf1 - Since when 🤔

♥︎ by author

username1 - Anyone else think they’d be cute together?

username2 - As friends? Totally!

username3 - Yeah, but Y/N is focused on school and he’s focused on racing! As they should be

> username1 - Who knows 👀

mom.username - Oh look at that little guy on the second slide ☺️ I remember when he was that small, and now he’s racing in F1 😬

♥︎ by author

your.username - Yeah and now he’s no longer cute 😛

> kimi.antonelli - Well MY mom says I’ve only gotten cuter

♥︎ by author

Y/N’S MESSAGES ☆

Extremely nervous for her flight, Y/N continuously opened and closed her text messages. Her eyes darted around the crowded airport, bustling with both locals and foreigners traveling to and from Italy. She could easily tell apart tourists from people who lived there, evident by how confident they seemed in their travels. Those who were lost were clearly newcomers, while the ones that wandered easily were obvious citizens.

Nothing from Kimi yet. He was probably busy with practice and such, but she still couldn’t help her anxiety. What if plans changed last minute? She’d be flying without WiFi, so if he tried to contact her mid flight, she wouldn’t see. What if something happened on the plane? What if she’s a bad luck charm?

She took a deep breath. Calm yourself, Y/N. She had seen many a race when he was still with Formula Two, so this should be no difference. Besides, it was supposed to be fun, so she was determined to have fun. She opened the ticket on her phone and allowed the attendant to scan it before boarding the plane. She seated herself next to an older woman, who would engage in light chatter throughout the lengthy travel.

With her phone now on airplane mode, she pocketed and leaned back, ready for a long flight.

your.username

liked by georgerussell63 and others

your.username Quick stop in Osaka before Suzuka… 🖤🩵 Let’s go @/mercedesamgf1!!

—

mercedesamgf1 - Running on fuel, tyres, and a new good luck charm!

♥︎ by author

your.username - Let’s hope!

username4 - Y/N IN SUZUKA, THIS IS NOT A DRILL EVERYONE

username5 - WE DIDN’T PRACTICE FOR THIS

kimi.antonelli - Y/N’s first F1 race!

♥︎ by author

georgerussell63 - Excited to meet the girl Kimi is always yapping about 🙄

♥︎ by author

your.username - He can’t help it! I’m unbearably cool

mom.username - Safe travels, topolina! Good luck little Kimsy ☺️

♥︎ by author

your.username - Thank you mamma 🥰

> kimi.antonelli - Grazie mille, signorina! (Many thanks, miss!)

♥︎ by author

username5 - Momma L/N has my heart

♥︎ by author

F1

liked by kimi.antonelli and others

F1 BREAKING NEWS! Three new records set by the aspiring Kimi Antonelli. He officially holds the title of the youngest driver to set fastest lap, youngest podium winner, and youngest F1 race leader. It all happened here in Suzuka!

tagged kimi.antonelli, maxverstappen1

—

your.username - I’M SO PROUD OF MY BEST FRIEND!

♥︎ by author

username6 - Don’t EVEN. WE ALL SAW THAT KISS, GIRL.

username7 - ADDRESS THE KISS ‼️

> georgerussell63 - Yeah guys ADDRESS THE KISS

> your.username - GEORGE?

georgerussell63 - That’s my teammate, so by default I also have all these titles

kimi.antonelli - Wish I was the youngest winner, but P3 isn’t bad! 😂

♥︎ by author

username8 - Yeah, yeah. TALK ABOUT THE KISS

redbullracing - Not for long. Project Max 2.0 is coming 2026

♥︎ by author

mercedesamgf1 - Don’t even joke, lad

♥︎ by author

The race was nothing like anything Y/N had seen before. There was always the exhilaration that came with Formula Two, but it wasn’t on this level. The driving was so much more aggressive, the cars were so much faster, and the drama was a lot juicier. She watched everything with bated breath, her nervous gaze never leaving the track as she paced anxiously.

Everyone had greeted her with kindness, making her feel at home in the Mercedes garage. Even George Russell, a man whom she had been warned about, was surprisingly warm. It was a totally new experience, despite the fact a lot of faces were familiar.

Her closest friend didn’t win, but for a rookie, he made so many accomplishments. He was leading the race for an astonishing amount of time, breaking the record of youngest race leader. Ultimately, he landed at P3, putting him at the youngest podium winner as well. One more thing— Youngest driver to get the fastest lap, all in one place.

He hopped out of the car and lifted his helmet, taking the baclava off directly after. His messy curls stuck out in funny patterns, making her giggle as he ran towards her. His arms reached out over the barriers, a boyish grin on his devilishly handsome face. Y/N was expecting a bear hug, one that made all her joints crack and lifted her feet off the ground.

But no. Right as cameras clicked, paparazzi flooding him, his lips crashed against hers, and Y/N found herself melting against his warmth, despite the unwanted attention.

When he was pulled off and away to continue addressing the fans, she couldn’t help her dorky smile. Who cares if the entire world saw?

f1gossipofficial

18.1k likes

f1gossipofficial Breaking news! Kimi Antonelli is allegedly dating lifelong best friend, Y/N L/N, who he kissed after P3 in Suzuka! New Mercedes WAG?

tagged kimi.antonelli, your.username

—

kimi.antonelli - So disrespectful 🙄

♥︎ by author

your.username - “Oh man I missed a girl publicly and now everyone thinks we’re dating” no way!

♥︎ by author

> username9 - clocked

username10 - NO WAY

username11 - WHAT I DIDN’T SEE THE KISS?

username12 - CAN SOMEONE UPLOAD A CLIP?

> username9 - YEAH I HAVE IT ONE SEC

> username9 - JUST UPLOADED IT

username13 - I NEED TO SEE

georgerussell63 - 😂😂 Welcome to F1, Kimi

♥︎ by author

kimi.antonelli - I asked for the full experience and I am getting the full experience…

♥︎ by author

kimi.antonelli

liked by your.username and others

kimi.antonelli Got P3, broke three records, and got the girl!

tagged your.username

—

your.username - I love you ☺️🩵🖤

♥︎ by author

kimi.antonelli - I love you more ❤️‍🔥

georgerussell63 - Congrats, mate! Proud of you

♥︎ by author

georgerussell63 - FYI they forced me to take that first pic.

mercedesamgf1 - Happy to welcome a new lucky charm to the Mercedes fam!

♥︎ by author

Comments on this post have been limited.

[starsinthesky5]

you are in love: l'amour de ma vie || joe burrow x reader

description: a little bridge between the last part of YAIL into part 5 which will be coming soon! little moments from the france trip and some stuff from home 🖤

universe: you are in love (click for parts 1-4 of the series)

a/n: been in my drafts since June of 2024. and here she is :) would love some feedback and if you’d like to see more of this for this series!

taglist: (ask to be added): @joeyfranchise @joeyb1989 @joeyburrrow @softburrow @burrowbarbie @yelenasbraid @lovelyburrow @majestic87 @grittysbiggestfan @definitelynotdomanique

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

📍cannes, france

liked by: joeyb_9, lahjay10_, killatrav, y/bsf_21, taylorswift, and others

tagged: joeyb_9

y/n_y/ln: ocean blue eyes, looking in mine

comments:

joeyb_9: la plus belle fille que j'ai jamais vue

——— y/n_y/ln: tu me rends le plus heureux 😙😙

——— fan14: he said she’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever laid his eyes on. shut the fuck up oh my god

——— fan938: did she just say he makes her the happiest? oh pack it up fellas it's wraps

fan6: i can’t believe we’re back to her casually posting my relationship era. thank you joe burrow for your services 🫡

fan1348: i don’t even know who’s winning in this relationship like they’re both HOT as fuck

y/bsf: 🛥️ the ship has sailed folks

fan_71: the heart on his back? god when is it my turn

fan273: they’re so cute 🥲

fan28288: that caption feels oddly like song lyrics y/n 😟

fan1717: i am so happy for her 🥺 she deserves this after all these years

loading 21,226 more…

----------------------------------------------------------

📍cannes, france

liked by: y/n_y/ln, lahjay_10, jjetas2, killatrav, y/bsf_21, and others

tagged: y/n_y/ln

joeyb_9: photo dump?

comments:

y/n_y/ln: he’s learninggg 🤞

——— joeyb_9: creds to the best 🧎‍♂️

y/n_y/ln: wear that alo two piece more often. damn 🤤

——— joeyb_9: yes ma’am 🫡

—————— lahjay_10: aye 🤨

fan226: y/n has joe doing photo dumps now? are we in heaven?

fan9191: everytime they pop up on my feed my jaw drops because I still can’t believe it’s true

fan8877: he brought her with him to the events 🥺

fan5874: atta boy joe! winning on and off the field like a true king

fan2727: that last photo of her...hello. HELLO

lahjay_10: i was in baton rouge for 5 seconds and shiesty went hollywood? damn

loading 12,328 more..

----------------------------------------------------------

📍french riviera

liked by: enews, bengalslover47, y/ncollective, ybsf_21, wasitover_10, and others

tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9

gridback_news: love is officially in bloom under the french riviera sun! 🌹✨ multi-platinum and grammy award winning artist, y/n and superstar NFL quarterback of the cincinnati bengals, joe burrow were spotted on an intimate stroll through the charming streets of cannes, looking completely smitten with one another. from soft smiles to stolen glances, the chemistry between these two is undeniable. after months of speculation, their outings in france seem to confirm what fans have been buzzing about: romance is in full swing and the fans are here for it! could this be the new power couple we’ve been waiting for? 🖤

#cannesinlove #yxj #couplegoals #romanceinfrance

comments:

bengalslover47: the king of cincy has finally found his queen everyone. may she bring us good luck and make joe the happiest he's ever been. amen

y/ncollective: ARM PLACEMENTS? and she looks so small next to him 💗

y/nfan0: oh joey b you are so loved by us.

fan8: qb1 scoring touchdowns on and off the field. y’all are the ultimate power couple

fan38: can we talk about how joe went from breaking defenses to breaking hearts? he just bagged the woman of the CENTURY

——— fan.18: every man and woman in america just fell to their knees

fan9_: oooooof her new album is going to HIT

——— fan!6: new album? did i miss something

—————— fan9_: grammy's coming up...she always goes out with a bang then 👀 just connecting some dots

rulethejungle5: and they said i was crazy when i said i heard some things around town about these two

xoxogossipgirllover: i need to get the scoop on these two! damn 😍🔥

fan3893_0: INJECT IT INTO MY VIENS MY WORLDS ARE COLLIDING

fan84: anyone notice y/n's best friend liked the post? tea ☕️

fan82828: oh the album is coming everyone. it’s coming soon. WE MADE IT

loading 1,328 more..

----------------------------------------------------------

📍paris, france

liked by: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9, usweekly, bengalslover47, y/ncollective, ybsf_21, wasitover_10, and others

tagged: y/n_y/ln, joeyb_9

gridback_news: spotted: y/n and joe burrow turning heads in paris, strolling hand in hand and serving effortlessly chic looks 👀✨ with fashion week just around the corner, fans are buzzing about whether this stylish duo might make an appearance. whatever the occasion, one thing’s for sure—they’re absolutely owning the parisian streets!

an exclusive source has confirmed their relationship, revealing that joe and y/n are very happy together and share a connection built on trust, understanding, and mutual respect. their relationship has been growing behind the scenes for much longer than anyone realized, and their bond is stronger than ever. y/n has fully embraced life in cincinnati, and together they’ve created a solid foundation that balances their busy lives with a love that feels effortless. right now, they’re focused on enjoying each other and making memories—and it’s safe to say, happiness looks good on them. 💕

#parislove #yxj #styleandgrace #fashionweekvibes

comments:

fan9493: FIRST PAP WALK? IN PARISSS? oh we are so back y/n nation. that girl is in LOVE

y/ncollective: they look phenomenal

y/nfan0: manifesting a fashion week appearance

fan02: peep both their likes on this post...

fan-19: wonder if their gonna go to vouge world?

——— gridback_news: 👀👀

fan521_: this photo would do numbers on wattpad a few years ago

fan91: she seems so much happier and comfortable with joe. that’s how you know she’s thriving again. just look at them

fan18_brq: embraced life in cincy? and that’s a big fuck you to her ex! wack him again for me HAHAH

xoxogossipgirllover: i heard that they'll be at YSL's show tomorrow...watch this space

fan0101: wait…how long have they actually been together because-

fan3939: i need football season to come faster. need her in the stands this year!!! she has such great style

loading 14,398 more..

----------------------------------------------------------

📍paris, france

liked by: joeyb_9, lahjay10_, jjetas2, y/bsf_21, taylorswift, gracieabrams, ysl, sabrinacarpenter, and others

tagged: joeyb_9

y/n_y/ln: thank you for an amazing night @ ysl 🖤

comments:

y/bsf_21: god damn you look amazing

——— y/n_y/n: i love you 💞

joeyb_9: starry skies 🌌

——— y/n_y/ln: ...starry eyes?

—————— joeyb_9: ....darkest nights?

———————————— fan3010: what are they talking about 🤨

lahjay10_: lookin fly mademoiselle

——— y/n_y/ln: feelin fly uno 😴

fan9393: oh they absolutely ate this up. 10/10 no notes

ysl: thank you both for joining us!

joeyb_9: beautiful as always

——— y/n_y/ln: lover 💘

bengals: 👑 🐅

loading 50,332 more..

----------------------------------------------------------

📍vogue world

liked by: tmz, y/ncollective, rulethejungle, bengalsfan4949, enews, and 1.5 million others

tagged: y/n_y/ln

gridback_news: breaking alert 🚨: y/n spotted looking absolutely stunning at the vogue world fashion show, where rumors are swirling that her boyfriend, joe burrow, is set to make his runway debut alongside friend and fellow nfl star, justin jefferson 🏈✨ sources say y/n is here to cheer joe on as he steps into the world of high fashion for the first time, sharing in what’s sure to be a monumental moment for him. from the field to the runway, this power couple is proving they’re unstoppable 🔥

#vogueworld #joeburrow #yxj #fashionmeetsfootball

comments: have been limited under this post

----------------------------------------------------------

📍pfw

liked by: y/n_y/ln, jjetas2, lahjay10_, bengals, y_bsf21, samhubbard, vouge, killatrav, and 5.6 million others

tagged: vouge, y/n_y/ln

joeyb_9: with @ vougemagazine doing some new things :)

comments:

y/n_y/ln: i am so so so proud of you joey ❤️

——— joeyb_9: my biggest cheerleader. ilyttmats

—————— fan383: did he...did he just quote "seven"? OH MY GOD HE QUOTED SEVEN

—————— fan29: im going to be sick this is so 🥲

jjetas2: shiesty in all black

samhubbard: nice 😎

fan302: peak couple behavior is the matching loubitans. we're witnessing the couple of the decade y'all. buckle up

y/n_y/ln: put the back away joseph lee there's people around 😦

——— joeyb_9: why don't you come help me out then ;)

—————— y_bsf21: guys...there's people watching

————————— y/n_y/ln: oopsies 🙊

bengals: alright joe! 🐅

killatrav: 🔥

vouge: a natural star 🌟

loading 42,928 more..

----------------------------------------------------------

📍fashion week

liked by: joeyb_9, lahjay10_, y/ncollective, rulethejungle, bengalsfan11, y/bsf_21, taylorswift, and others

tagged: joeyb_9

y/n_y/ln: come here dressed in black now

comments:

joeyb_9: bestest week with l'amour de ma vie

——— y/n_y/ln: 🥹

—————— y/ncollective: joe please keep her this happy im not okay :(

——— fan39: LOVE OF HIS LIFE!! HE SAID LOVE OF HIS LIFE

—————— fan30303: WHAT

taylorswift: love it!!!! you both killed it :)

——— y/n_y/ln: 💗

fan3003: love seeing them happy together! they both deserve this

fan1991: has anyone noticed the black theme/aesthetic she has going on? her last few posts have been…dark

——— fan181.y/n_: wait a second. you’re onto something??

fan111: give me that album now rachel. GIVE IT TO ME.

loverofy/n: girl we need new music. like NOW

fan9339-_: already the most iconic couple we've seen in years.

lahjay10_: y'all killin it 🙂‍↕️

——— y/n_y/ln: we miss youuuu

——— joeyb_9: dinner at our place when we get back?

vouge: a beauty ✨

fan2882: how much y’all wanna bet that her caption is song lyrics

y_bsf21: STUNNER? HOT? JOE MOVE OVER

——— y/n_y/ln: im in tears joe's giving me a frowny face because he feels threatened

—————— y_bsf_21: good.

——— joeyb_9: I will NOT be moving over ma'am

enews: setting the streets of paris on fire as well as all our hearts 💕🥰

loading 32,928 more..

----------------------------------------------------------

joeyb_9 via Instagram Stories

----------------------------------------------------------

y/n_y/ln via Instagram Stories

----------------------------------------------------------

--The End--

stay tuned for you are in love V

[sweetromanova]

Crisis Management: Part Two🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relateable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

Chapter Two

The problem with press events wasn’t always the press.

It was the people.

All polished smiles and curated soundbites, the room filled with the kind of performative charm that could make even Tony Stark look humble. You’d been to enough of these events to know the drill, gloss over the truth, glam up the heroes and sell the illusion of unity over entrees and expensive champagne. They were less about valour and more about vanity. Tonight was no exception. 

Or at least so you’d thought.

This one had started with a glimmer of hope and just a flicker of change.

Natasha Romanoff had shown up in heels, willingly and in a floor-length dress that she hadn’t threatened to set on fire. A slinky, dark crimson number that shimmered under the lights like wet blood and fit her like it had been tailored by a spy with too much time on their hands. 

Another notch of progress.

But hope has a short shelf life when you're dealing with assassins and political theatre.

“Try to keep the murder-eyes to a minimum.” You’d whispered as the two of you stood at the entrance, side by side beneath the glow of a chandelier that probably cost more your whole apartment building.

She turned just enough to give you that same dry, flat look, equal parts boredom and threat. It said No promises louder than words ever could.

She was supposed to be the guest of honour, ‘hosting’ the pretentious elite of the Upper East Side. You almost laughed when at first invitation, she refused to ‘host’, the word that here meant playing diplomat, smiling just enough to be disarming, shaking hands with people who funded wars in countries she’d once bled in. It was a performance, one she hadn’t signed up for but couldn’t quite walk away from.

You watched her scan the room with that calculating stillness, the same kind she used before a mission went sideways. Something in her expression told you the evening was already unraveling. Or maybe it never even stood a chance.

After an hour of polite smiling and whispered profiles, you’d left her alone with some congressman that had brought his daughters, teenagers that looked at Natasha like she hung the moon. She’d smiled politely, engaged in conversations about academic interests like she’d ever even been to high school. 

After a quick dismissal, you’d gone to get some water, leant across the bar to take it in and before you could think about what and where you needed to show her off next, you caught her eye.

The congressman and family were still stood with her, joined by another older couple with kind eyes but her eyes were locked across the room. On you.

You didn’t notice at first. The intensity had made goosebumps appear and you turned away for a brief second to catch your breath when a body almost slammed into yours.

“NO WAY! Oh my god, it’s you!” Catching a glimpse of the person who just body checked you into the bar, you almost rolled your eyes at your new companion. Emily Martins, a reporter that had begun her career around the same time as you and nearly tanked you both in the first week. You had been assisting in a press conference for some young influencer that was about to break out into the music industry, given the important job to brief the press on what questions were appropriate and what questions were going to get both of your necks on the chopping block. 

She was the second person to put her hand up eagerly once it had commenced and the third person to ask her question. A question that had been forbidden by yourself.

So it took exactly 30 seconds for the influencer to stand up and walk off the stage and leave you with the fall out. She was the last person you wanted to see ever again.

“Emily. It’s… surprising to see you.” You politely smiled, stiffening as she’d hugged you warmly, like it was familiar.

“You look good!” She smirked. “Running PR for the Avengers is really paying off, huh?”

You grimaced. “In migraine and stress ulcers, mostly. But sure.”

She laughed and you thought maybe she had changed. The industry of journalism was cut throat, maybe she had shaped up. She looked a hell of a lot healthier than she did fresh out of college. Her eye bags were non-existent, her hair looked like she’d spent the better half of the day getting styled and her dress was flattering, hugging every curve like a second skin.

You couldn’t deny she was attractive, in that natural kind of way. Soft jawline, warm eyes, the kind of girl who didn’t have to try. She just had a calm, easy presence that drew people in without saying much.

What you didn’t realise was that somewhere across the room, Natasha Romanoff was gripping her wine glass like it was a live grenade.

She should’ve been circulating. Instead, she stood in the corner like a living security breach, every muscle tense, like she was calculating exactly how many steps it would take to cross the room and ‘accidentally’ spill red wine on her dress.

“So, what are you up to nowadays? Apart from babysitting Earth’s mightiest egos?”

You coughed up a laugh and smiled. “Honestly not much. All work, no life.”

“Nothing’s changed then.”

“I guess not. What about yourself? Still entertainment reporting?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Actually, I’m an editor now. It’s different but it means I don’t have to stand on red carpets for six hours in 7 inch heels and a corset.”

“Editor? Nice. Anything else on the cards?”

“Well I’m learning to balance it. Every friend I ever had I college became my adversary in the industry but I’m trying.” She jokes, leaning in just a little closer. “If you ever wanted to learn a bit of work-life balance then I’m sure we could arrange-“

You felt her presence a second a second before she spoke. “Hi.” All threatening eyes and an even more threatening posture.

“Hi! Natasha, right?”

“You’re standing in my way.”

You and Emily both blinked, caught off guard. “Uh- Nat-“

“Yes! Yeah, sorry!” Emily excused, stepping aside to let the redhead come directly between you. 

“Don’t apologise.” She simply uttered, her shoulder brushing yours as she turned her back completely to Emily.

You stared at her. “Natasha, this is-“

“I know who she is.” She still didn’t look at her.

Emily looked between you, confused and more than a little awkward. “I was just saying hi to an old friend. But it’s great to meet you, Natasha. Thank you for your service.” 

Natasha’s mouth curled, not in a smile. “Did you say hi?”

“Sorry?” Emily questioned.

“You said you were saying hi, did you say hi?” Emily glanced at you, her eyebrows knotted in confusion as she now tried to avoid the redhead’s gaze.

“Yeah-“

“Then what are you still doing here?

“But-“

“Natasha!”

Emily exhaled, almost a scoff as her cheeks flushed. “Emily, I’m sorry-“ You attempted to apologise but the damage was done, she simply gave you one sold nod and quickly retreated into the crowd.

Then you turned to her.

“What the hell was that?”

She didn’t flinch. “You don’t need to waste your time on people like that. A reporter? Seriously?”

“People like what? She was an old friend, not even that. You were supposed to be hosting, not playing bodyguard.”

She didn’t answer, just scanned the room again, jaw tight.

Then someone called her name, a panelist for the charity presentation. You’d agreed on it earlier. Easy lines, rehearsed points. She just had to show up and say the words.

She walked up to the mic like she was walking into a battlefield.

“Hi.” She spoke. No warmth. No inflection. “This organisation does… good work. With kids.” Pause. “Or gardens. I don’t know.”

You closed your eyes, the anger seeping through your skin.

“Anyway…” She continued. “It’s all very... important. Give them money.”

Someone near the front coughed. The host smiled too tightly. You wanted to disappear.

By the time she walked off-stage, you were already waiting for her.

“We’re leaving.” Your voice was sharp and quiet.

She shrugged. “Fine.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car was silent at first.

Then she spoke. “I don’t get it.” Natasha said, voice low and dangerous. “You say you want me to be real. To be myself. But the second I stop playing nice, you act like I’ve gone rogue.”

You exhaled, slowly. “What you did tonight wasn’t ‘being yourself.’ It was sabotage.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She snapped. “Was I supposed to just stand there doing everything while you’re stood making heart eyes at Ms Hollywood reporter?

You turned to her, eyes blazing. “You are the person of interest so YES! You were meant to be working the room. I stepped away from your for ONE second. I wasn’t making heart eyes at anyone. That was a conversation. You know, those things normal people have?”

Her laugh was humourless. “Right. Normal people, with normal pasts, normal trauma, normal ways of pretending to be someone they’re not.”

You looked at her then and under the anger you felt, the anger she was also expelling, you saw it. Not jealousy or pride.

Fear.

“Natasha.” You sighed, softer now. “I don’t want you to fake anything. I don’t want a script. I want you. But I need the version of you that tries. Not the one that pushes people away just to feel safe.”

Her jaw clenched. “You don’t get to tell me how to protect myself.”

“I’m not. But you don’t get to burn the place down and call it a security system either.”

She turned away, toward the window. Her reflection was stark against the glass, sharp cheekbones, haunted eyes, a woman built to disappear.

You didn’t speak again.

But as the car turned toward the Tower, you caught her hand twitch slightly between you on the seat.

Wanting to reach you but not quite ready.

As the car pulled into the assigned space, armed guards already waiting to escort you both inside, you felt the gentle press of fingertips on the back of your hand.

“I’m sorry.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning, you knocked on her door at exactly 9:00am sharp.

No tactical gear. No detailed briefing. Just your well-worn jeans, your favourite shirt that smelled faintly of coffee and a little checklist with directions folded into your back pocket.

When she opened the door, barefoot and wearing a simple black tee, suspicion etched across her face, you raised your phone like a peace offering.

“What’s this?” She asked, eyeing the screen warily.

“Itinerary.” You said with a grin. “Today’s mission? Deep infiltration into New York’s worst influencer trends.”

Natasha blinked slowly. “This is a joke.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “If I’m going to manage your image, I figure I should at least know what people think ‘normal’ looks like these days. Plus, you still owe me for threatening Emily with those infamous eyebrows.”

She smirked, a flash of amusement softening her guarded expression. “They’re very expressive.”

“And yet, surprisingly not listed as a weapon. That’s what gets me.”

Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, assessing. Then she relented, voice clipped but willing. “Fine. But if I end up on someone’s Instagram wearing a flower crown, I’m going to need bail money.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The cafe felt like choreographed chaos, walls sheathed in fake grass, neon signs buzzing with relentless brightness and at least three ring lights stationed on each table. It felt more like being sat at an interrogation desk than a marble counter where the drinks names were longer than the street addresses. 

The barista behind the counter had a nose ring, half a dozen bracelets jingling on her wrists and the kind of energy that suggested she could recite your entire birth chart before asking your name.

You pointed at the menu with uneasy smile. “We’ll take one... iced matcha-lavender-oat-milk-foam latte with the edible flower garnish.” You could feel Natasha’s eyes looking at you like you’d just chanted a witches spell. “And one upside-down dirty chai, extra espresso, vegan whipped cream, shaken, not stirred latte.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You’re making that up.”

“I wish I was.”

When the drinks arrived, Natasha stared at the green foam like it might lash out. “What’s the garnish for?”

“How do I know? Drama?” You guessed.

Snatching up the straws, you led her to a corner booth, half hidden behind a towering ficus. She leaned in, watching you snap a picture of the drink with a look of concern.

“Why post it if you’re just going to drink it?” She asked.

“Well what else am I supposed to do with it? It won’t stay pretty forever.” You said. “Anyway, real influencers don’t even drink it. They just tilt their heads and act mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes but took a tentative sip of the matcha, immediately grimacing. “That tastes like a garden and regret.”

You choked back a laugh. “That’s the lavender.”

She scrunched her nose. “Who decided flowers belong in coffee anyway? What’s next, a rose petal cappuccino?”

“Look at the third item under seasonal drinks on the menu. It’s already there.”

She gave you a sideways glance, passing you the next drink to try. “If I wanted to drink sadness and dirt, I’d stick to my morning kale smoothie. At least that doesn’t cost $10.”

You nodded solemnly. “I’m not mad at the chai though.”

She stared at the cup like it might bite back. “Promise me we’re not doing any beetroot lattes next.”

“Scout’s honour. Unless it’s trending.”

For the first time in days, she looked lighter like she’d momentarily shrugged off the weight she always carried. The door chimed once more, letting in a tidal wave of meticulously styled mayhem, all matching pastel sweat sets, cheeks flushed with heavy blusher and three girls leaning in close, whispering into their phones as they recorded an ASMR coffee review.

You both watched quietly.

Then Natasha leaned in, voice low and amused. “Which one do you think would cry first if her phone battery died?”

You pointed without hesitation. “Middle one. Definitely middle one.”

She smirked. “I was going to say left. The fake lashes scream ‘emotional fragility’.”

You sipped your ridiculous drink and sank back into the booth. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you all week.”

“I like judging people. It’s relaxing.”

“Noted.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Next, you stepped into a pop-up installation that felt like a haunted version of TikTok’s algorithm meets Stranger Things. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows as cold fog swirled around your ankles. Broken mirrors lined the walls, reflecting twisted, stretched versions of your faces. In the corner, oversized inflatable props lay half-deflated, their warped shapes looking more like creepy creatures than anything playful.

Natasha eyed a giant swing, complete with plastic tentacles, with a deadpan stare. “Is this supposed to be a sex thing?”

“No. But I’m sure someone’s turned it into one. You muttered, walking a little closer to her than necessary.

She didn’t smile but suddenly shoved you in to the swing. The air turned inexplicably colder as she pulled out her phone, the screen casting a ghostly light across her features. She snapped a quick photo, catching your wide-eyed expression against the flickering background. “NATASHA!”

“Sorry.” She said, utterly unapologetic, smirking away at the photo.

In the mirror room, she struck a mock dramatic pose beneath a sputtering neon sign that buzzed ‘I am the vibe’, the letters glitching like a dying transmission from another world.

You leaned in, voice low. “That’s definitely going in our next press kit.”

She groaned but her eyes kept darting to the shadows, ever-alert for the jump scare she knew was coming “Let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t even acknowledge it, just turned and started walking, a little too fast until a prickle of instinct made you glance over your shoulder.

She wasn’t there. “Nat?”

A cold breeze swept through the corridor of floating bubbles, each one bursting with a hollow pop that echoed too loud in the silence. You froze for just one second.

Then you bolted.

You just made it to the exit before a figure lunged from the darkness, fingers curling around your arm as you jumped a mile into the air.

“Gotcha!” Natasha grinned, voice low and teasing but with just enough menace to make your stomach drop.

“NATASHA!”

Once your heart stopped trying to beat its way out of your chest, you both doubled over in laughter, though your nerves still buzzed, raw from the eerie atmosphere that clung like smoke.

As you stepped into the harsh light outside, Natasha tried to play it cool, hiding a shiver behind her usual smirk.

She failed spectacularly

⋆⋆⋆⋆

“It said it was a walk. A moderate walk. This is not a walk.” You gasped, clutching your chest. “This is an incline from hell.”

“It’s barely a slope.” Natasha said, unfazed, striding ahead with her hair now tied up and sunglasses perched on her head, untouched by the exertion that was killing you softly.

You collapsed dramatically against a tree stump. “I’m filing a formal complaint.”

She glanced back, smirking. “Want me to carry you?”

“Want to be stabbed with a compostable straw?”

“I don’t think you brought one.”

“Don’t test me, Romanoff.”

Eventually the incline flattened and the city skyline stretched before you, all shimmering glass and fading sunlight, hazy and golden.

You stood side by side at the lookout’s edge. Natasha’s eyes followed the shifting light, watching people slow down to snap selfies. “I’ve never understood that.” She murmured.

“What? Sunsets?”

“No. The need to prove you were here.” She nodded toward a girl fiddling with her phone’s timer. “To capture a moment instead of just living it.”

You met her gaze, steady and thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not about proving it.” You said after a moment. “Maybe it’s just wanting to remember who you were in the moment, who you were with.”

She didn’t say anything but her eyes lingered on yours a little longer than necessary.

You held up your phone. “Let’s take one. Just for us.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Did you hear me say I don’t get it?”

“Exactly. So let’s try, for science.”

With a dramatic sigh, she leaned in. You both fit awkwardly into the frame, your heads tilted together as the fading sun lit your faces in warm gold. You snapped the photo then grinned at the screen.

“It’s good.” You said, surprised by how much you meant it. The colours in the background bled together, creating the perfect lighting for the both of you. Natasha’s face held a soft smirk, even softer eyes as you smiled next to her.

“Let me see.” She reached for the phone, studied the image. “Not terrible.”

Then after a pause, quieter. “Let me take one of you.”

You blinked, a little caught off guard. “Seriously?”

“I want to see something.”

“See what?”

“Just let me. Please?”

With a huff, you agreed and awkwardly posed in front of her. You stood for a second. “Did you take it yet?”

“Hold on, it’s a little bright.”

“When did you turn into a photographer?”

“Just be patient and smile.”

“Take the photo already!”

With a laugh, you reached out for the phone in her hands and pushed it down. “Times up!”

“You totally ruined the shot!” She groaned but with a smile, opening the photo. The photo did look like something pulled straight from Tumblr circa 2012. Soft edges, motion blur, an almost dreamlike quality. You were mid-laugh, hand stretched toward the camera like you were reaching for her.

“You look beautiful.” She said, quiet again.

You looked up, only just registering how close she was now. The moment held for a second, you both enjoying the quiet.

Until… “Oh my god! So cute! Slay queens.”

You turned to find a young couple, both dressed in pastel pride jackets and sparkly eye makeup, grinning at you like you’d just won a reality show. One of them clutched a bedazzled tote that said ‘Gay Rights Or Else’.

“You two are adorable!” The taller one gushed. “Like peak sapphic excellence. Want us to take one of you together? We’ll get your good sides. Promise.”

You hesitated for half a second but Natasha was already nodding slowly, eyes narrowed in confusion. You were in a state of shock as she pulled you next to her, positioning you just a little in front of her.

Natasha suddenly held up her hand. “Wait. Sapphic, what?”

“Slay. Gay rights. Love to see it!” The shorter one added, positioning Natasha with the skill of a seasoned director. “Okay, just like that! Gaze longingly. Soft but powerful. Beautiful but not trying. Ok, put your hands around her!” Kill me now.

Natasha surprisingly did as she said, wrapping her arms around your shoulders from behind and resting her head on to the top of yours. “Oh my god, so perfect! Sapphic queens!”

Click.

They handed the phone back with theatrical bows and a chorus of compliments before flouncing off into the sunset like a rom-com ending you hadn’t asked for.

You glanced over at Natasha, who was still staring after them, slightly stunned.

“What just happened?” She asked.

“I think we were blessed.” You commented, looking at her with wide eyes.

She blinked. “By the queer pantheon?”

“Exactly.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

For the final act of the day, you entered a tall building, buzzing with neon signs and clusters of teenagers loitering around the entrance.

Because if you were going to commit to irony and indulgence, why not end the night on a rooftop, playing glow-in-the-dark mini golf and sipping neon-blue alcoholic slushies that looked like they might permanently dye your tongue?

You high-fived her after she sank a hole-in-one.

“Damn it!”

“You’re doing good!” She laughed.

You were definitely not doing good. You hadn’t finished a single game yet without being at least two over par.

Leaning closer, you whispered. “Let me win and I won’t make you do a TikTok for the rest of the week.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I get so much more enjoyment watching you pout.”

“I don’t pout!”

“You do.”

“Do not!”

“Take your shot!”

You laughed, trying to line up your shot but completely distracted. “You like this, admit it.”

She watched you for a beat. “I like you like this,” She said quietly, honestly.

Then just as casually, she took another sip of her radioactive slushie, like she hadn’t just lit your entire nervous system on fire.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The elevator ride back to the Tower was wrapped in the kind of warmth that made your bones soft. Laughter still buzzed in your chest, cocktails lingering on your tongue and Natasha’s low voice echoing in your memory. ‘You’re actually not bad at mini-golf. Don’t let it go to your head.’

You’d leaned into her somewhere between floors fifteen and thirty, a little too tipsy to realise. She didn’t pull away, she didn’t even shift. 

When the doors slid open, you expected the usual, silence, the faint hum of late-night electronics, maybe a half-eaten pizza slice left to fossilise on the coffee table, courtesy of Stark.

Instead…

“And here they are!” Tony’s voice rang out like an announcement at a red carpet premiere, arms spread like he was presenting a scandal and thoroughly delighted about it.

You blinked.

The common room was full. Steve, Bucky, Sam, Clint, Wanda and Pepper were clustered around the massive screen, which had been paused mid-scroll on a random assortment of screenshots.

Instagram posts.

X threads.

Reddit conspiracies.

Tumblr GIFsets with aggressively emotional fanfic tags already stacked like a digital shrine.

And there, in perfect, high-definition clarity on each them.

You and Natasha.

Everywhere.

“I- What the hell?” You half-laughed, half-choked, stepping into the room like you were about to be interrogated.

Clint leaned over and tapped the screen. “Turns out your little day out was the world’s most successful soft launch.”

“Soft what?” Natasha deadpanned, crossing her arms.

Wanda beamed, leaning forward like she was discussing her favourite ship. She was. “It’s like a tease of a relationship before the people actually announce they are in a relationship. I read that earlier!”

Bucky piped in, dry as ever. “Someone made a thread claiming you’ve been secretly married since Budapest 2019. Then some say you’ve been dating since Nat was papped leaving that hotel at like 4am.”

Steve looked genuinely baffled. “I thought it was just a coffee run.”

Clint, practically vibrating, added, “There was sunset lighting. That’s like…. digital intimacy.”

Tony clicked through the evidence like he was presenting a case to a jury, all candid photos that you had no idea were being taken displayed.

A photo of the two of you at the cafe, Natasha holding a drink out to your, steadying the same straw you had your mouth around.  A blurry video of you in the tunnel installation, your laughter echoing with Natasha’s arms loosely round you after she’d made you jump. A snapshot halfway up the hike, Natasha gripping your wrist, steadying you over a rock like she’d done it a thousand times. The sunset photo. You hadn’t even known it was taken. Silhouettes framed in fading light, shoulders touching, her head tilted the slightest bit toward yours. And finally the rooftop golf shot. Her arms around your waist, helping you line up the putt, your grin wild, hers softer than anything she’d ever shown in combat.

You turned, baffled. “Who even took that one?”

Tony smirked. “Drone. Probably. Or a very determined member of Gen Z.”

Natasha leaned in, studying the screen. “Why does this one have three hundred thousand likes?”

Sam answered with zero hesitation. “Because the internet’s never seen you smile like that.”

A silence settled, you glanced at her, expecting some dry deflection, maybe a sarcastic ‘it was fake’ and a storm-out.

But instead she tilted her head slightly. Eyes focused and narrow. “I don’t smile.” She said at last, voice low and unreadable. “That’s Photoshop.”

Clint let out a dramatic groan. “No, no, this is full ‘I’d kill for her and also bring her flowers after’ energy. Like, peak sapphic.”

Steve actually choked on his water. “Sapphic?”

“Why does everyone keep talking about ‘sapphic’ today?” Natasha groaned.

Tony looked far too satisfied. “They said it. Not me.”

You groaned and dragged both hands down your face. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t.” Wanda said sweetly, giving your arm a pat.

“Can we delete these?” Natasha asked but there was no real bite in it. “They’ll never leave us alone.”

Tony just shook his head. “Too late. They’ve been reposted, TikTok’d, translated into at least three languages and someone made a Spotify playlist already.”

Pepper held up her phone. “It’s called ‘SpyPR Agenda: Enemies to Lovers.’”

You looked at Natasha.

She didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t frown. She didn’t escape through the nearest window.

Instead, she looked at you.

And she said, voice quiet like it was just for you. “People can think what they want. They always do.”

But the way she looked at you then, unblinking, curious, soft, said something else entirely.

Let them.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The next morning had all started with a bet.

Or maybe it was a dare. You couldn’t quite remember but by 9:14am, Natasha was standing in your borrowed room at the Tower, wearing grey sweatpants that looked too soft to be real, a hoodie three sizes too big and that blank, almost haunted expression of someone who’d been dragged far outside her comfort zone. You knew, without a doubt, that this was going to be fun.

You were already nursing an iced coffee, mostly oat milk, barely any caffeine, she eyed it like it was a suspicious potion.

“This is cold.” She gagged, not even taking the drink from your own hands, just pulling the straw towards her to take a sip.

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Why? Why do you want to drink something this cold on a morning?”

“Because it’s comforting… and trendy.”

She took another cautious sip. “Tastes like vanilla and weakness.” 

You grinned, savouring the victory. “Just wait. We’re only getting started.”

Not ten minutes later, you were stood in the bathroom, opening bottles of glass and plastic, looking very pleased with yourself. You handed her a neatly wrapped headband, complete with tiny, perky cat ears.

She held it like it might explode in her hands. “I’m not wearing this.”

“Yes, you are.”

Natasha sighed but after a long pause, tied it on, the ears standing at strict attention. You pulled out your phone and against all odds, she let you snap a picture. You even caught the faintest twitch of a smirk.

Then came the serums, the facial mist and the gua sha tool, which she immediately wielded like a weapon.

“Stop looking for arteries!” You warned.

She muttered something sharp in Russian and began delicately patting on hyaluronic acid with all the enthusiasm of someone defusing a bomb except the bomb was sparkly. “Okay, moisturiser next.” You said, pointing at a pink tube promising ‘dewy goddess energy’. She was still rubbing in serum.

“Why is this so wet?!” Natasha murmured. “I’ve killed people with less effort.”

“Exactly. This is effort. Discipline. Self-care.”

She glanced in the mirror. Her skin was glowing, annoyingly perfect for someone who’s actual skin care routine consisted of ‘soap’.

“I hate how good this looks.” She muttered.

Next, you settled her at the kitchen island, laying out a spread that could have been ripped from an Instagram influencer’s morning story. Avocado toast with chilli flakes and a bright squeeze of lemon zest, a mason jar of overnight oats dotted with chia seeds and a perfectly ‘Instagrammable’ iced coffee.

She took a bite of the toast, chewed thoughtfully. “…This is good.”

“Thank you.”

“I still hate the headband.” You laughed and took your matching toast to the couch. Natasha followed, stretching out beside you, a sigh escaping her that could have melted the ice in your coffee.

For a long moment, the apartment held peace, warm sunlight pouring through the windows, lo-fi beats humming softly from your speaker and Natasha Romanoff, legendary assassin, curled up beneath your throw blanket like a cat who’d never taken a life.

“This is what you do every morning?” She asked.

“Yep.”

She blinked slowly, contemplative. “I think I get the hype.”

You smiled, resting your hand on her knee. “Everybody deserves to have peace in the morning.”

Without a word, her hand found yours and squeezed lightly, like she was saying ‘thank you’.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Regret set in the instant you opened your eyes.

“Up!” Came her voice, sharp as a blade and way too awake for 5am.

You groaned. “It’s still dark. That means it’s illegal.”

“Illegal is subjective. Come on.”

She’d stood over your bed, fully reclaimed, she was dragging you into hell.

You stumbled out of bed, barely awake. She was already in full gear, sports bra, compression leggings, hair braided back with terrifying efficiency.

She tossed you a set of clothes. “Wear that. We run in fifteen.”

“Run what?”

“Your dignity into the ground.”

The workout started with a bodyweight circuit so merciless, it should’ve been banned by the president herself. It was borderline torture tactics. 

Push-ups, lunges, Russian twists, which felt almost like a personal attack and something ominously named ‘core obliteration’.

You collapsed, face pressed into the mat. She stood over you, sipping water like it was the blood of her enemies. “You lasted ten minutes.”

“I have a desk job, Natasha.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You have no excuses.”

Then, she made you run five miles.

Five.

Miles.

You begged for mercy. She gave you one deal, if you didn’t puke, she’d carry you home.

You barely dragged yourself up the last incline, feet like lead.

She jogged backward, grinning like a menace. “This is fun for me.”

“You’re evil!” You wheezed.

“You agreed.”

“While vulnerable and emotionally compromised.”

“Still counts. Come on, get on.” You tried not to lose your head when her hands wrapped around your thighs as she piggy backed you on the way home.

Back at the Tower, Natasha tossed you a towel, grinning. “Sparring.” 

You blinked. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Then you won’t feel the pain when I flip you.”

And flip you she did.

Every time you thought you had leverage, she slipped out like water and turned it back on you. You were pinned in seconds, again and again.

“Is this a dominance thing?” You panted, letting her help you up after she pinned you for the third time.

“No.” She smirked. “This is foreplay.”

You completely short-circuited and she took the opportunity to swipe your legs out from under you. “Come on. Time for breakfast.”

Breakfast, Natasha explained, was black coffee, a hard-boiled egg, oatmeal without sugar and fruit measured out to precise macros.

You stared at your plate. “Where’s the joy? The zest?”

She gestured at your battered, barely standing body. “You already had it.”

You glared. “I hate you.”

She took a sip of her coffee then leaned over just slightly, tapping your spoon with hers. “But you survived.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It was rare to have the Tower so quiet. After you spent the morning being tortured trained by her, you needed a massage, a vacation and at least a 10% increase on your pay for every time you were taken down during sparring.

Natasha was tucked away behind closed doors with Maria Hill, discussing whatever high-level, confidential and likely mind-numbingly dull intel they had received. You, on the other hand, were curled up on the common room couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, a glass of iced coffee within reach, and your favourite playlist humming low through the speakers.

For a few golden minutes, it was peace.

Then the door opened.

Sam walked in first. Then Bucky. Then Clint, followed by Tony, already sipping something suspicious from a monogrammed tumbler.

You didn’t look up but you did lower the volume. “This smells like a trap.”

Clint flopped into the nearest chair with all the energy of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. “Relax. We just came to talk.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “And observe.”

“And probe your emotional weaknesses.” Tony added, far too cheerfully.

You blinked. “Was there a memo I missed? I thought this was ��sit quietly while your terrifying Russian Assassin shadow does Important Spy Things’ hour.”

Sam smirked. “Speaking of terrifying shadows… how’s that going?”

You tried for casual but the pause before your answer was just a little too long. “Fine.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “‘Fine’? You’re going with fine?”

You sighed, nudging your laptop shut. “We’re getting along. She’s… warming up. We’ve managed to turn the horror show of her press image into something halfway human. It’s actually kind of fun.”

“Fun?” Clint repeated, incredulous. “You just described working with the Black Widow as fun?”

“She’s got a sense of humor!” You defended. “You just have to dig past the murder stares and death aura.”

Bucky leaned forward, teasing. “And do you… like that death aura?”

You shot him a look. “Absolutely not.”

“No to the aura?” Sam asked, feigning confusion. “Or no to the liking?”

“I am not doing this with you guys.”

“Oh but you are.” Tony said, settling beside you. “Because we’ve seen the photos and the videos and the body language. She let you put glitter on her face?!”

“It was part of the skincare.” You defended, turning slightly away so they wouldn’t see the blush rising in your cheeks..

Tony grinned. “She let you touch her face. You do understand she once shattered a man’s wrist because he offered her sunscreen, right?”

“She was exfoliating.” You pouted. “And glowing.”

“And glowing.” Clint echoed with a dramatic hand to his chest. “God, she’s so gone for you. I can’t wait to tell Laura this!”

You tried to hold firm but your expression was already cracking. “You’re all absolutely unhinged.”

“Maybe.” Bucky said, with a shrug. “But we’re not wrong.”

You leaned back, groaning softly. “We’re working closely, that’s all. I’m good at what I do. Making her look human, even likeable, is the job. If we get along? Great. It makes things easier.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then from behind you, a voice chimed in, quiet, amused but impossible to ignore. “But do you like her?”

You turned, startled. Wanda had somehow appeared without you noticing, her arms folded, head tilted like she already knew the answer. Of course she knew the answer, her eyes fading from that scarlet red told you enough.

You sighed. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You have a livestream to do!”

She smiled. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Tony leaned in, resting his chin on his hand like he was front row at a drama. “Come on. You can tell us. It’s just the entire Tower watching you unravel like a 2000’s rom-com.”

You opened your mouth and faltered. 

Because now all you could think about was her. You were remembering her giving you her hoodie when you shivered at mini golf, blinking at an iced coffee like it was alien tech, her fingers brushing yours under a blanket, her hands wrapping around your waist when she tugged you back into her when she knocked you on your ass for the sixth time. Her laughter, rare and genuine, when read a stupid comment about one of the guys online.

“She’s-" You swallowed, voice quieter now. “She’s complicated.”

“She’s got you.” Bucky teased, softly.

You looked at him, the vulnerability obvious to everyone in the room.

“And you’ve got her.” He reassured. “Even if neither of you are ready to admit it yet.”

This time, no one laughed. The teasing faded into something quieter, there was no smugness now.

Clint finally broke the silence. “We’re not judging you. If anything, we kind of love it. She’s less terrifying with you around. And you? You’re way more fun when you’re not alphabetising press kits by tone.”

“I’ve always been fun.”

“You once laminated a media itinerary.”

“I still do!”

Sam grinned. “Yeah but now you do it while in sweatpants while flirting with assassins. That’s called growth.”

You didn’t have time to retaliate. 

The elevator chimed and everyone turned at once. 

Natasha stepped out, jacket slung over her shoulder, eyes immediately scanning the room. When she found you, her expression softened.

You straightened up without thinking, flashing a soft smile back.

She crossed the room with quiet, purposeful steps, pausing beside the couch. “Everything okay?”

Everyone tried, and failed, to look casual.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… talking.”

Her eyes flicked to the others. “Interrogating?”

They all smiled a little too innocently.

She turned back to you. “Did you survive?”

“Barely.”

“Then I taught you well.” Natasha studied you for a moment longer. She breathed out a sigh, her eyes flashing to the watch on her wrist. “Ok I’m going to get a quick workout in.” Casually, she reached down and brushed a strand of hair from your face, her hand then falling to your shoulder with a soft squeeze.

The entire room froze.

“I’ll be in the gym.” She said simply, already turning to go. “If they bother you anymore, come get me.”

Once the doors closed behind her, Tony exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “That was so intimate.”

You buried your face in the throw pillow and groaned. “I hate every single one of you.”

But you were smiling.

Because maybe they weren’t wrong.

[devilish-cherry]

hihi! i really enjoyed ur “jjk men with a s/o who has social anxiety” hcs, and i was wondering if i could request something similar :)? like jjk men with a s/o who’s a really bubbly social butterfly 🩷 (yk like the “social anxiety is scared of her” typa joke ^^?)

thank uuu and please take care of urself 🩷🩷

ᨳ♡₊➳ jjk men with a social butterfly s/o

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: hihi!! first of all, thank you so much for reading and enjoying my last set of hcs!! i love this request—i had so much fun writing this, i hope you enjoy it just as much!! thank you for the request, please take care of yourself too! 🖤

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

Gojo thought he had energy. He thought he was the social guy. But then he met you—an unstoppable, extroverted force of nature who treats human interaction like a sport. You will walk into a room and have three new best friends by the time you leave. Every time he turns around, you’re in the middle of someone’s conversation like an NPC triggering a side quest.

“Satoru, this is Hanako! She makes ceramics and is going through a divorce, but she’s feeling really empowered—”

“WHO is Hanako.”

“My friend! We met in the elevator just now.”

He swears you have an actual side quest log in your head because you remember everyone. The random McDonald's worker? You know their favorite band. The old man at the grocery store? You just found out he was in a jazz band in the 70s. It is both impressive and terrifying. Gojo, who is used to being the center of attention, now watches in horror as you steal his thunder in every social interaction.

That being said, he has no sense of social shame, and since you have zero shyness, this means the two of you are a problem in public. You encourage his worst behavior. You once dared him to high-five every single person at a store, and he did it without breaking eye contact with you.

Gojo absolutely loves being around you. When he’s being too much of a menace, you expertly wrangle him. If he’s annoying people, you redirect his energy like a professional handler. And he finds it adorable how much you adore people. When he’s feeling down, he’ll just listen to you tell some wild story about the Uber driver you befriended that morning, and it instantly makes him feel better.

Gojo loves how you make people feel welcome. You drag him into wholesome, friendly conversations he would’ve never bothered with otherwise. He watches you work a room like a pro, chatting up old ladies, hyping up random people’s outfits, making even a cynical barista laugh. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he adores how effortlessly kind you are. He’s never felt more at home than when he’s watching you shine.

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

Geto genuinely finds your social skills fascinating. He loves watching you work a room, effortlessly charming people, drawing them in like moths to a flame. You could walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with three new best friends, two people who now consider you their therapist, and a waiter who promised to give you free drinks forever. Geto stands beside you like a proud museum curator. Yes, this is my partner. Marvel at their charisma. They are an experience.

Geto is your designated crowd wrangler. If someone is overstaying their welcome, he smoothly redirects the conversation. If he senses you’re too nice to turn someone down, he steps in effortlessly. “Ah, unfortunately, we have somewhere to be.” (You do not. He just saved you.)

He’s also incredibly selective about who gets access to you. You’re too nice to shoo away weirdos, but Geto? Oh, he can spot a red flag from a mile away. You befriend a suspiciously cryptic guy? Geto casually leans in. “So, what exactly do you do for work?” (Translation: Do I need to eliminate you?)

And if anyone tries to use your kindness against you, Geto gets scary fast. His voice stays calm, his smile never falters, but suddenly the air shifts. “Ah, I see. You’re taking advantage of their kindness. How unfortunate for you.” The offender immediately rethinks their life choices.

Despite his reserved nature, he loves indulging in your extroverted antics. You make him do goofy couple’s challenges? He sighs but secretly loves it. You drag him into spontaneous adventures? He pretends to complain, but he’s always down. He’s your calm anchor, letting you shine but always ready to step in when needed.

He loves the way you love people so deeply. Even when he’s feeling cynical, even when he’s at his lowest, you remind him why he once cared so much. Every time he watches you laugh and joke with strangers, it makes him believe—even just a little—that the world might not be so bad after all.

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

Nanami did not sign up for this. He thought he wanted a peaceful relationship. He thought he wanted to come home to someone quiet and gentle. Instead, he fell in love with you—a human form of a limited-edition energy drink who knows everyone’s life story within five minutes of meeting them.

Nanami doesn’t understand how you have so much energy. You could talk to anyone, anywhere, at any time, and somehow enjoy it. He watches in exhausted admiration as you make small talk with a stranger in line, effortlessly charming them while he stands there like a tired bodyguard.

You once told him you think every person has an interesting story, and now he has to physically stop you from getting too invested in people’s lives. The mailman? Your bestie. The lady next to you in line? You’ve got her entire life story in five minutes. If someone breathes in your direction, you will strike up a conversation. You’ll start a conversation with a cashier and leave knowing their entire backstory. Nanami will be halfway through paying when he hears, “Wait, what do you mean you were almost in a boy band?”

You are also a HUGE Nanami hype woman. If he so much as breathes, you’re like, “Did you guys see that? My man is so cool.” You have no shame. When he’s on the phone? You’re in the background hyping him up. If he wears a nice suit? You’re loudly gasping like he just walked a red carpet. It embarrasses him so much.

"Please stop calling me ‘CEO of Looking Good’ in public.”

"I will literally never stop.”

Despite all of this, Nanami loves you so much. Your energy can be exhausting, but it’s also the light of his life. You make every room warmer, every interaction easier. When he’s had a rough day, you don’t just talk—you listen. And sometimes, when he’s tired, you’ll just sit beside him, happily chatting about your day while he rests his head on your lap. And for that, he’d endure a thousand social gatherings.

But Nanami’s favorite thing about you? The way you make people feel comfortable. You’re warm, open, welcoming—things he sometimes struggles with. He loves that about you. He doesn’t always say it, but if you look closely, you’ll notice the way his shoulders relax when you’re around. Plus, you bring him pastries from random bakeries you find, and that alone makes you the love of his life. You make life easier for him, and for that, he’ll love you forever.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

Choso watches you interact with people like a cat watching a Roomba—confused, fascinated, and slightly concerned. You once told him you love meeting new people, and he just stared at you like you were a cryptid. “On purpose?”

You adore Choso. He is just some guy. A very confused, socially awkward guy. You have made it your life’s mission to drag him into human interaction. He does not get it. If you take him to some social event, he just stands in the corner like a haunted victorian child. Meanwhile, you’re in the middle of the room, talking to everyone.

Despite this, he follows you everywhere. He doesn’t talk much, but he is always there—just standing behind you, towering silently, while you chat away. If someone’s rude to you, he just stares at them until they get uncomfortable and leave. You never notice, but people constantly feel like they’re being hunted when they talk to you.

But the true horror? You keep forcing him to talk to people. Once, you pushed him into a conversation with a group of old ladies at a café, and now they all love him. Every time you go back, they call him “sweetheart” and ask how his day is. He is so confused.

Choso never starts conversations, so you carry the entire interaction while he just stands there looking mildly concerned, but he adores the way you make him feel included. You always introduce him to people, looping him into conversations with ease. You hype him up constantly—“This is Choso! He’s amazing.” Even if he just stands there, nodding along, he loves that you always make space for him.

Choso has no idea how socializing works, but he does know one thing: you are the best at it. And because he thinks you are perfect in every way, he follows your lead without question and tries his best for you. You taught him small talk, and now, when he meets someone new, he proudly says, “Nice weather today.” (You clap for him. He is pleased.)

Unfortunately, Choso now overuses the phrase to fit every occasion when there's an awkward silence. It’s raining? “Nice weather today.” You’re inside? “Nice weather today.” Someone sneezes? “Nice weather today.”

He lets you dress him up for social events because he trusts you with his entire being. If you say he looks good in a certain outfit, he believes you 100%. If you tell him he should make more friends, he tries. Does he fail? Yes. Does he care? Not really—because he has you, and that’s all that matters.

Also, he has never let you walk anywhere alone. “I don’t trust people,” he firmly says. “You’re too friendly. You’re going to get kidnapped.” You try to argue, but he just folds his arms. “No.” And that’s the end of that.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

Toji thinks your social skills are the most insane thing he’s ever seen. He watches you befriend entire groups of people and just shakes his head. “What the hell are you made of?”

He has never once needed to introduce himself since dating you. You handle everything. Toji barely opens his mouth before you’re already charming the socks off whoever you’re talking to. He abuses this power constantly. You once found out he had been dodging a debt collector by making you talk to them instead. “They like you,” he shrugged. “Figured you’d get me a discount.”

That being said, Toji has zero patience for people who waste your energy. If someone talks to you for too long, he physically pulls you away. “That’s enough socializing for today,” he mutters, dragging you off like a caveman.

Despite his rough exterior, he actually adores how bubbly you are. You make friends everywhere, and he finds it hilarious. He has absolutely no filter, and you have no fear, which means you two are absolute menaces in public.

He won’t admit it, but he loves how you drag him into social situations. You get free food, free drinks, random perks just by being too likable. One time, you sweet-talked a café owner into giving you a discount just by complimenting their menu font.

"You scare me," Toji says.

"You love it," you reply.

"..."

He does. Deep down, Toji loves you because you make everything better. The world is cruel, but you remind him that people can be good.

[emeritusemeritus]

Ooo longtime no talk!! If it’s okay, can I please request a Fred x fem!muggle!reader where they are married and she’s pregnant with a little girl, and Fred is such a loving and protective Husband and future father (it honestly makes her cry because she loves him sm and he’s so sweet) and they go to the Burrow to stay for the weekend with the whole family. Everyone is all doting on her, Molly loving taking care of her, everyone using magic to help her, and she bursts into tears right as Fred walks in the room (he’d so be like “why is my sweet wife crying??”) and it’s because she’s (alongside the pregnancy hormones) feeling kinda self conscious about being the only muggle in the family and worries she’s not enough🥺

Hi love!! So nice to hear from you again, I hope you’ve been well?! As always it would be my pleasure, I hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: PregnantWife!Reader, mentions of pregnancy and brief sickness, feelings of inadequacy, tears, hormones. Pregnancy hormones are no joke. Sweet Fred.

Word Count: 1.9k

Song for writing: No Surprises by Radiohead.

Just The Muggle [Fred Weasley]

Logically, you knew that you were just feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, but that didn't stop you from breaking down in tears the minute you finally got a moment alone.

You couldn't fault a single thing that had happened that day, nor could you fault a single member of the family congregated downstairs but for some reason you still felt overwhelmingly sad. You were one of the lucky ones, a woman that had married into a wonderful family that were warm, welcoming and accepting. A large family, much larger than your own, all with their own distinctive personalities that slotted in perfectly to create a mosaic of life and laughter in the Weasley family.

Arthur was quiet but sweet, always pottering about or tinkering, inquisitive with his questions and always an active listener who had the best intentions. Molly was the ideal warm matriarch who seemed to never stop, always helping her family in some way or another. She was wickedly quick with her wit and almost omniscient, an inviting character that you wished to never see the bad side of. Percy and Bill were quiet in comparison to the other children whilst Charlie was the sensitive one, a little more relaxed in his approach to life. Audrey was shy and quiet but very nice and Fleur was charming yet fierce, which you loved about her. Ron was a grumbler, usually a little moody though his sweetness shone through, usually counteracted by Hermione who balanced out Ron perfectly. Ginny was the one you were perhaps the most fond of except George, her fearless determination was to be studied. Harry was nice too, though sometimes a little quiet around the larger group.

You loved George like your own brother, a virtue considering he was so often by Fred's side that any rift would have been detrimental to all the relationships involved. He was funny and kind, a little gentler than Fred but you loved him all the same.

Fred, your husband, was your perfect man. His sparkling eyes, freckled cheeks and fiery hair, not to mention his towering height and wide shoulders that could make your mouth water. He was the funniest person you'd ever met and you adored his mischievous side, though you had heard he'd mellowed in recent years.

All of them were perfect in their own ways, and then there was you. The muggle.

Getting married to Fred Weasley had been the best decision you had ever made. Sure you had your regular spats just like any other couple, a few crossed words and little digs every now and then but there was never a day that you weren't happy. You'd never doubted your love for him or your futures together, feeling with assured certainty that Fred was your end game. You'd live a life with Fred that couldn't be matched, filled with fun and laughter. You'd grow old together and cause havoc right up until your last breath, exactly the way life should be.  

It had been a shock finding out that the man you'd met had been a wizard, a very, very big shock. You'd assumed he was joking at first, knowing he was a natural prankster that had told you that he owned a joke shop with his brother. But it wasn't a joke and was very much real. Your world had opened up that day and though you had to live under the veil of secrecy, it was an incredible life to lead. At first it had been wondrous if not a little overwhelming, suddenly the idea that anything was possible and learning about everything that was so foreign to you. Sure some of your friends had married out of their culture and you'd watched as they blended their lives together and created a melting pot of language and culture at home. But this had always felt different, bigger somehow- special.

But you couldn't deny that surrounded by so many witches and wizards with incredible talents you would never be able to replicate, you felt completely inadequate to be in their lives.

Especially now you were pregnant.

Molly had been your biggest support, offering and insisting to help out wherever she could. They didn't have much in the way of money but that didn't stop her and Arthur from helping in ways that you hadn't even considered at first. Molly had taken it upon herself to knit your unborn daughter an entire wardrobe, specifically saving her last reel of golden thread to embroider her initial onto the clothes once her name had been chosen.

It was the little things you noticed the most, like always making sure you had somewhere comfy to sit, your cushion plumped for you, your random craving foods already stored in. Seeing Molly in this way made you realise just how alike her and Fred were in that way, the little acts of service showing their love when it didn't need to be verbalised. She'd given you tonics that were tried and tested in the family to help with your sickness when regular muggle medication couldn't help.

The magic was a big help of course. On the days when the pregnancy exhaustion set in and you could hardly make it through the day without a nap, Molly would be round straight away without question to help out. She never overstepped your boundaries, never pushed you and never overstayed her welcome. With a flick of her wrist, your house would be immediately tidied, with the pots in the sink beginning to wash themselves and an array of other magical help.

There was one undeniable question that had bothered you almost from the moment you found out you were pregnant. Would the baby be magical too?

Fred had told you about purebloods, half bloods and muggleborns a few times, mostly at the beginning of you finding out about the wizarding world. You'd met Hermione of course, a muggle born witch who was apparently brilliant, her childhood being based in the non-magic world not hindering her abilities at all. But you also remembered Fred mentioning something called 'squibs', which you believed to be people born to magical parents, one or both, without magical abilities.

Ironically, only after you were pregnant did you ever consider the fact that you might give birth to a child with no magical abilities despite your entire life having been without the knowledge of magic up until meeting Fred. Once your mind got ahold of this thought, it became consumed by it, your mind spiralling from your insecurities.

What if your daughter was born without magical abilities and was treated like an outsider for rest of her life? With a family like Fred's it would hardly be possible to hide the wizarding world from her, especially considering Fred's job. Their family was known for being pureblood, how could you have come and ruined that? Or what if your daughter was magical and grew to be embarrassed by a mother who couldn't perform the simplest of spells? What if she loved her dad more than you because he had special abilities that made him fun that you couldn't even dream of and you just became the boring muggle mum she tried to hide away? You couldn't fathom the hurt it would cause either way and yet your mind couldn't help but wander to these dark thoughts.

"Sweetheart, what is it?" You heard from the doorway, alerting you to Fred's presence. Apparently you'd been too consumed by your thoughts and your tears to realise he had entered. You were sat in his childhood bedroom, whether it was Fred or George's bed you didn't know, with tears still stream in down your face.

Fred immediately jumped into action, as he always did when he saw your tears. He closed the door behind him and took a seat on the bed beside you, reaching his arm around your shoulders to pull you into his body.

"What's made my sweet girl cry? If it's Ron he's dead." You can't help but let out a chuckle through the tears at his words, knowing he'd jump at the chance to mess with his younger brother even at hive age.

"No, it's no-one," you say, trying to reassure him whilst also trying to calm yourself down.

"Is it too much for you? We can go home, mum will understand."

"No, well yes but no," you say quietly, not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings by leaving when they had been nothing but accommodating for you. He stays quiet now, sensing that you would open up to him and you pause, trying to find the right words and hope that all your thoughts don't tumble out of you all together.

"I'm not magic," you say quietly, wiping your slightly puffy eyes on your sleeve as you fight to hold back more tears.

"Debatable but go on," he interjects, using your little inside of joke of you seducing him being magic to try and cheer you up. You simply nudge him gently, telling him to shut up.

"What if our daughter is magic and she's embarrassed by me?" You sniffle, averting your gaze from his as more tears threaten to spill from the weight of your words.

"Baby, there is nothing about you that could make our daughter be embarrassed. Maybe your singing could be improved but really that's-."

"Fred I'm serious," you say, annoyance spilling into your voice as you lose your temper with his attempts to joke. "What if she hates me because I can't do all the amazing things you can do? I can't magic up twinkling lights or make things walk up walls. You have this incredible ability that I'll never have, I'm just going to be her boring mum that holds her back, the reason she can never be a pure blood."

"First of all, how dare you talk about my wife like that, and secondly, there's not a way on this earth that could ever be true. You aren't magic no, but she'll have enough of that from us, imagine all the incredible things you can teach her that I never knew about. The things you've shown me, taught me, the movies and the music and everything else in between. She'll have the best of both worlds."

His words actually do work to make you feel better. You hadn't thought of it like that, that your role in all of this could be her little sanctuary away from the wizarding world.

"And what if she's a squib? What if she has no magic?" You say, heart breaking at the thought that your precious baby could ever be seen as an outcast. Your tears start anew, your shoulders involuntarily moving up and down with the force of your tears. Fred's hand reaches out to cup your chin, his fingers hooked underneath so he can gently raise your point of vision towards him.

"Then we will figure it out, but regardless she will be the most loved little squib anyone has ever known. She'll still have the best of both worlds and she'll be a tiny version of her mummy, exactly like I've always wanted."

[unconventialsailormoon]

Between Takes

Part two

Pairing: Micheal B Jordan x Reader

Warnings: Jealousy, Miscommunication, Angst, Comfort, Fluff

Summary: Jealousy grows during his tour with Hailee. You pull away - until Michael reminds you you’re the love of his life.

You don’t even mean to watch the interview.

It plays automatically, tucked into your “Suggested For You” feed while you scroll TikTok in the dark. Michael’s voice pulls you in,familiar and smooth, laced with charm, but the laugh that follows? That laugh isn’t his.

It’s hers.

Hailee.

And suddenly, your full attention is on your phone screen.

He’s sitting on a press couch, fresh in a tailored suit, legs spread comfortably. She’s beside him in some designer outfit, shining like she belongs next to him. Like they were made to be a pair.

The interviewer makes a joke about their on-screen chemistry - “some of the most natural we’ve seen in years” and Hailee smiles, turns to Michael and says, “I mean, we did click right away.”

Michael chuckles. “From day one.”

Your stomach twists.

You click the comments—worst mistake of your life.

“They have insane chemistry.”

“I can’t even tell when they’re acting.”

“Okay but imagine if they dated for real 😩”

“Sorry not sorry—Hailee x Michael >>> anything else.”

“Ugh they look so good together.”

You swallow hard.

The top liked comment?

“This is giving ‘they’re secretly in love off camera’.”

You lock your phone.

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t reply to his “Goodnight, baby 🖤” text.

⸻

You were never supposed to feel this way.

From the beginning, Michael was careful with you. Gentle. Constant. Never making you feel like a shadow in his world.

He’d bring you to set during night shoots. Let you nap in his trailer. Kiss you before every take. Whisper “Mine” in your ear when he pulled you into him at wrap parties. Even when the cameras loved him, his eyes only ever loved you.

But that was before the movie dropped.

Before the chemistry between him and Hailee started trending.

Before people started making edits of them with captions like “we’re never getting a love like this.”

You tried to ignore it.

But fame has a funny way of making the real feel fake and the fake feel real.

Now?

You don’t answer his FaceTimes right away.

You send short texts. Excuses. “Tired” or “Busy today.”

You watch him light up stages and interviews and red carpets with her and every time you look in the mirror, you feel smaller.

Forgettable.

Not red carpet material.

⸻

Day Four of Distance.

Michael notices.

You know he does, he always does.

Your texts get quieter, your replies more delayed. He sends you a photo from backstage, he’s holding a slice of pizza, smiling like a goof and instead of the usual heart-eye emoji response, you send a single-

“Looks good.”

You know it hurts him.

But you can’t help it.

He calls that night. You ignore it. Blame sleep.

Even though you stare at the ceiling for hours.

⸻

Day Six.

The last straw is a TikTok.

A paparazzi video of Michael and Hailee leaving the wrap party of a screening event. He’s in his black tee and chain, she’s in a silver dress, and her hand is on his chest as they say goodbye. They’re laughing. She’s leaning in.

The comments section lights up again:

“THEY’RE DATING IDC.”

“Look at the way she touches him 😭”

“Why tease us like this if they’re not real?”

“I’m manifesting this couple.”

You close the app.

You close your heart.

⸻

Day Seven.

He shows up at your door.

Unannounced.

You hear the knock just as you’re sinking into your hoodie on the couch, hair up, eyes swollen from crying the night before. You check your phone, no text, no warning.

Another knock.

“Baby” he says from the other side. “Open the door.”

Your chest tightens.

You want to stay hidden.

But part of you knows if you don’t open it now, you’ll lose him.

So you do.

He’s standing there in a hoodie and sweats, cap low over his eye, jaw tight. Not red carpet Michael. Not movie star Michael.

Just yours.

His gaze rakes over you, messy, silent, raw.

“You been avoiding me?” he asks lowly.

You swallow.

“I’ve been tired.”

He steps in, closes the door.

“No. Try again.”

You can’t look at him.

His voice hardens. “Did I do something?”

You shake your head. “No.”

“So why are you acting like I did?”

“Because I’m trying, Michael!” you snap suddenly. “Trying to not let the world get to me. To not let those interviews, those videos get to me. But I see how she looks at you. How you look at her. And I-”

Your voice cracks.

“I can’t compete with that.”

Silence.

“You think this is a competition?”

He steps closer.

You step back.

“You think I’d do all this with you- love you, just to play pretend with someone else for the camera?”

Tears well in your eyes. “I think people are seeing it, Michael. I think they believe it’s real.”

He grabs your chin gently, forces you to meet his eyes.

“I don’t care what they believe. I care what you believe.”

His voice is thick with pain.

“Do you trust me?”

You’re quiet.

His eyes soften.

“Baby,” he whispers. “I love you. You know that, right? You think I’d fly home between cities just to see you if I was in love with someone else?”

You blink fast, trying not to let the tears spill.

“You weren’t answering. You pulled back.”

“Because I felt like an idiot,” you choke. “Sitting on the sidelines, watching everyone fall in love with a version of you that wasn’t mine. Watching them tell you she was better for you.”

He cups your face.

“And what did I say the first time I brought you on set?”

You whisper, “That I was the only thing that made it feel real.”

His thumb swipes under your eye.

“You still are.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Let them guess. You’re the one I come home to. You’re the one I wake up thinking about. She’s not you. She could never be.”

You close your eyes. A tear slips down.

His voice breaks.

“You been crying?”

You nod.

His arms wrap around you tightly, pulling you against his chest.

“You gotta tell me,” he murmurs into your hair. “Don’t shut me out. That’s how this stuff eats us alive.”

You nod again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just felt… disposable.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

His voice is barely a rasp.

“Let me remind you how irreplaceable you are.”

[theemporium]

ok ok hear me out

everyone knows james as the "super cocky and loud guy" right?

well what about when reader (his gf/partner) is near him and he just gets all quiet and sweet with her like maybe she walks in as he's bragging or talking about (for example you don't have to use this ofc) winning a quidditch match and he doesn't notice until she's right beside him and he just stops the conversation with whoever and greets her and is just super soft

idk if this makes sense but i hope it does

this was so cute!! thank you for requesting!🖤

.

James Potter was a loud guy. 

Loud presence. Loud voice. Loud personality. 

You could hear him before you could see him. You would be able to locate him in a crowded room in seconds. You would know if he was within a mile radius of you. And he knew that, he knew that the spotlight had a tendency to find him and he loved it.

He was cocky in that way that was endearing. He wasn’t condescending or arrogant, he just acted like he was the best thing in the world because he was. He had the personality and the charms to back it all up, he wasn’t just all talk. But he was as kind as he was cocky, a balance that was hard to find but James seemed to personify perfectly.

James was undoubtedly a handful to deal with and everyone knew that.They expected him to find someone who would match his energy, who was as loud and vibrant as he was. So, it was a shock when they saw you hanging off his arm. 

And it was a bigger shock when they saw how much you mellowed him down—not that you meant to at all. But it was just one of those things you had to witness to believe. 

“Who’s your fucking daddy!” 

The boy raised the trophy above his head, basking in the cheers and the applause as he walked into the common room with a wide grin plastered across his face. Gryffindor had just won the Quidditch House Cup and James Potter was over the fucking moon, having led his team to victory for the third year in a row as captain. 

“Potter! Potter! Potter!” The crowd chanted as everyone slapped him on the back as he made his way through the crowd, standing up on the table to thrust the trophy in the air once again as the cheers washed over him and the stolen bottles of firewhiskey popped open. 

He was three drinks in with adrenaline and victory pumping through his veins by the time you made it to the party. You had promised a younger student you would help them study after the match, and despite the guilt you felt, your boyfriend only kissed you on the lips and muttered how hot it was that you were so kind before making you promise you would show up after your tutoring session. 

Now, here you were, pushing your way through drunk and cheery party-goers as you tried to locate your boyfriend.

“PADS, YOU’RE GETTING IT ALL WRONG!”

You could have snorted when you heard his voice booming over all the others, as well as the bass of the music blasting through the speakers you suspected Sirius had smuggled in from the Muggle World.

“I COULD SEE IT THE WHOLE BLOODY TIME! IT WAS RIGHT THERE AND—”

You flashed an apologetic smile as you pushed past a few more students before you saw him, standing in the middle of the circle of his friends and other students. His curls were unruly and his cheeks were flushed pink. His hands were moving animatedly as he loudly spoke, grinning as he recounted the events that led to Gryffindor winning. 

“AND I SWOOPED DOWN—” But before James could continue his story, his eyes found yours and his smile instantly widened. Not caring about the others, he pushed his way out of the circle and made his way towards you, engulfing you in his arms. “Hey, princess.” 

“Hey,” you laughed as you wound your arms around his waist, lifting your head to look up at him. “Enjoying the party?” 

“It’s better now that you’re here,” he mumbled, long gone was the booming voice and boisterous laughs, and the others could have snorted at the sight. He lifted his hand to push some hair behind your ear before he cupped your cheek. “How was your tutoring session? Lil’ Jimmy give you any trouble?”

You rolled your eyes. “He was a delight as always. Told me I was practically dating a celebrity, you know.”

James grinned. “I knew I always liked that boy.”

“Oi, Potter, you gonna finish your story?” 

But James just waved them off, muttering that someone else would finish the story before he led you towards a table where drinks and snacks had been set up. 

“What do you wanna drink? Have you eaten today? Have you eaten enough today?” James rambled off as he grabbed a paper plate, beginning to pile a large amount of food onto said plate before you stopped him.

“I’m fine,” you laughed, shaking your head. “C’mon, let’s go celebrate your win, captain.”

“Hmm, they can wait,” he murmured as he tugged you towards him once again, this time dipping his head down to kiss you. “I think you need to properly congratulate me.”

You snorted. “Yeah?”

James grinned. “Yeah.”

“Whatever you say, captain,” you teased. 

“Fuck, it’s kinda hot when you call me that.”

.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

self-doubt. l Harry Castillo

💔 a few ways to break your heart 💔

Summary:  they decided to show you your place

Warnings:  Self-doubt, complexes, imposter syndrome, gossiping, crying, breakups

A/N: I thought a lot of us struggle with this so I wrote this… will I fix it?

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

a few ways to break a heart [masterlist]

"I really don't understand why Harry showed up with that thing. Have you seen her dress? It was in style last season."

A soft giggle echoed through the bathroom, mixing with the sound of running water and the clicking of heels. Your heart was pounding so hard in your chest that it was strange that the women fixing their makeup in front of the mirror hadn’t heard you in one of the stalls.

Finally, the voice of the second woman rang out. "I heard they met at a café."

"No kidding! She probably worked there, huh?" the first one snorted. "She looks like she works at a café because she couldn't make it anywhere else. Harry's too good for her."

"Mhm. She'll probably get pregnant soon and inherit his fortune."

Someone slammed their hand on the marble counter, and the owner's voice rose noticeably. "Spit it out, Susan! Harry should at least have a little more sense. If he wants to have fun, fine, but he should watch her hands more closely. I'm telling you, she only wants his money!"

"And she's not even pretty."

You couldn't move. When the women finally came out of the bathroom and you knew you were alone, you realized you had been holding your breath and welcomed the oxygen in your lungs. Your fingers were icy cold and when you looked down at your hands, you saw they were shaking.

They were talking about you. You were sure of it, you had seen them earlier, watching Harry and you at that stupid sponsors' party. The best of the best, beautiful people with lots of money. Champagne, oysters, and other expensive food you've never tried.

You felt like you didn't fit in there, but now you were sure of it.

These women weren't wrong, though. You met Harry Castillo at a coffee shop when he accidentally spilled coffee on you. Plain and simple. But no, you didn't work there. You went there regularly and sometimes you saw a tall man with broad shoulders and a prominent nose. Once or twice you exchanged friendly glances and smiles.

It was easy to fall in love with Harry Castillo. He was charming, sweet, sensitive, and really listened. You quickly fell in love with his brown eyes, and on the third date he told you that “you were more than that.”

You had your insecurities, and your self-confidence had been shaken for years. How could you blame yourself? Growing up in the age of social media, magazines, and the constant rush to be perfect took its toll on everyone. You were no exception.

And even though Harry did everything right, and you felt like the most beautiful woman in the world, in that moment, in that fucking toilet, at that awful party, it all came crashing down.

Only, miraculously, the tears that were gathering in your eyes hadn't ruined your makeup yet. You stepped out of the stall and saw your reflection in the mirror. Despite the tears glistening in your eyes and the slight shock on your face, you still looked the same as when you arrived at the party.

The dress you and Harry had chosen complimented your figure beautifully. The makeup highlighted your eyes, and you could still picture Harry's look in your mind when he saw you like that.

"I don't know, maybe we should stay home..." he said tenderly kissing your neck "But I want to show everyone how lucky I am."

But in that moment, in that fancy bathroom of that damn expensive hotel, you felt like someone you weren't. You didn't belong to this world, to these people. All your fears and insecurities had found an outlet, and no rational words could change that.

What if they were right? What if Harry was just playing with you? Would he be capable of that? No, Harry wasn't like that. The man had a heart of gold, and you were sure of it. But he would soon see for himself that you weren't on his level, that you were far below him. The imposter syndrome kicked in.

Harry would find out soon. He would soon discover that you weren't who he thought you were.

The approaching voices brought you back to earth. To avoid anyone noticing how bad your condition was, you headed for the door.

You noticed him immediately. Your eyes searched for Harry and easily found him in the crowd. Damn, he looked so good in that perfectly tailored suit, his shirt collar slightly loosened. For a moment you wanted to go to him, but then you saw the woman he was talking to. She was beautiful. Her hand lightly grabbed his arm as she let out a sweet laugh. You wanted to be her so badly...

The lump in your throat was becoming unbearable. You didn't dare go back to the party, instead you headed for the exit. Yes, you were a coward. You were one too when you called Harry from the taxi you caught.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but this is pointless."

"What? I'm sorry, darling, but I don't understand. Where are you? I'll be right there." he replied. Concern was barely noticeable in his voice.

"I'm not there anymore." The silence on the other end was terrifyingly loud. Finally, you heard Harry take a deep breath.

"Okay, so where are you, love? We'll talk."

“Harry…” You stopped for a moment, feeling the tears already streaming down your cheeks. “Please don’t come to me. I don’t think we should see each other for a while.”

"Darling..." Harry started, but you interrupted him again. In the background, you could clearly hear him moving around, probably trying to find his driver and car.

"Harry, please. Respect my decision." you said, trying to keep your voice calm. "I need...space. This is too much for me. I'm sorry, but it's over."

And before he could say anything, you hung up. You were a fucking coward. You didn't care about your makeup anymore, you let the tears flow.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[derbydevil]

wendigo

remmick x indigenous!f!reader

content: violence, blood, 'n sex

wc: 1.8k

(skoden = let's go, then) (for my non native readers 🖤)

crossposted from my ao3 cuz i'm proud of dis 🥹

Life on your measly reservation home was humble. Wake, tend to the animals, eat, sleep, then repeat. And, on a good night, narrowly escape the feral dogs on your property to visit the casino in town with your friends.

You gaze into the mirror before you as you finish tying off the otter wraps framing your face, lashes fluttering at yourself as you imagine your reflection to be some hot snatch, a smooth talking coyote of a man - you hope, you'd be able to meet tonight. God knows you need it. You break away from your own gaze and sigh as you hear heavy knocking on your rickety wooden door. "I'm comin'!" You shout, sitting up from your vanity and grabbing your deerskin clutch. You hastily crack your front door to be met with your friend on your porch in her own get-up. "Skoden. Took 'ya long enough." You roll your eyes and step out, heading towards your automobile with her hot on your trail. You turn the ignition and the car steadily rolls down the gravel road leading to town - your friend humming a tune she'd heard at the train station.

You come to a rolling stop as you pull into the casino lot. To the average passing eye, it doesn't look like a casino; and maybe that's the point. "C'mon." Your friend impatiently barks, glancing at you counting money from your clutch. "Shut it. We wan'a have a good night, don't we?" You huff, waving the cash in her face. You walk ahead of her and hear from behind her voice thank someone for opening the door. You hadn't seen anyone else pull in the lot after you, but you spared no glance to the stranger behind you. She catches up to you, grabbing your shoulder to point to the dingiest, darkest corner of the casino - the bar. "Eh, some drinks first?" She suggests, already dragging you over. You scoff, "Right, s'we can blow every game later?" You argue, but still follow her lead. She immediately settles at the bar, already finding conversation with a man beside her. You signal the tender over, but not before the man on your right gets his attention. "I'll have, ah, a whiskey. And one for the miss." He gestures to you. You raise an eyebrow. You take in his appearance; white skin, dark hair, some scruff, round face. "Not from here, I take it?" You glance at him. He gives you a toothy smile. "Nah.. How'd'ya know?" You hum as the tender sits a whiskey in front of you. "This here's Indian country. How'd ya know I favor whiskey?" You take a quaff of your drink.

"Lucky guess." He rumbles. "Fitting 'fer a missus like you." You gaze at him, assessing him completely as you take another sip—a deeper sip—this time. "I'm flattered." You cross your legs and for a moment, his eyes flit to your thighs. He licks his lips, and looks at you with a lopsided smile. "Y'know, miss, if I didn't know any better, I'd think ye'd be deerwoman." You break into a cackle and reach out to squeeze his bicep. "Hah! What does white man know 'bout deerwoman?" You playfully sneer at him, clearly now tipsy. He shakes his head with a smile on his face. "Now.." he grins, baring crooked, yet charming teeth. "You'se just so doe-eyed." You flutter your eyelashes at his remark. "Oh, my.." You huff, leaning forward. His grin turns into an offputting dopey smile, and you notice drool creeping out of the side of his mouth. Endearing, slightly offputting. You ghost over his lips, just barely touching him, then pull away with a mischievous look. He snaps his eyes from your collarbone to your eyes with a pathetic look. "Say, white man.. What's yer name anyways?" You drawl, adjusting your legs to ride up your slip dress the tiniest bit. He gathers himself, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth. "Ah, It's Remmick, miss." You smile, tucking a wrapped section of hair behind your ear. "Remmick..." You sigh thoughtfully. He looks at you expectedly, and you become enraptured in his eyes, almost faintly glowing. You falter for a second, breath hitching as your gut screams at you to leave with your friend - not to associate with this man. Your fogged brain forgets all about your friend, you want to snag someone tonight.

"Say, how'sbout I take you to my dig?" You suggest, rising from your seat. "Your home? My, a miss shouldn' have'ta be the one ta' take a man home." He stands, hand reaching to rest on your lower back. "Should be the other way 'round." You reach behind and playfully peel his hand away, peeking over your shoulder at him. "S'not like you've got a place 'round here. Don'tcha, white man?" You begin walking with purpose, hips lightly swaying to impress him. He follows on your tail. "Hah, th'aint my name." ... "Right... Remmick..." you grin, opening the door into the night. Your flats crunch the gravel from under you and you reach out to your automobile's handle. Remmicks hand dwarfs yours and he leans over you to open it himself. "Allow me," he smiles, and you slide into the driver's seat. He hops over the passenger door, spreading his legs out in the seat beside you as your turn the ignition and pull out of the casino. His hand finds a place on your thigh as you quietly roll down the road to the reservation, Remmick whistling a song. You hastily interrupt him, "Whistlin' at night? It's not good, y'know?" You chuckle at him.

"How'sbout I sing then?"

Coyotes yip in the ambience of the night as Remmick's song comes to an end and you pull into your gravel driveway, suspiciously, no rez dogs in sight. You have a lingering feeling you're forgetting something important, but you have everything. Your clutch, a hot snag... what else... You open your door and loosen the straps to your slip as you turn around, noticing his lingering on your porch. You tilt your head as a silent question. "Ah, just tryin' ta' be polite." Your face softens. "Come on in." You gesture, and he comes in, each step creaking under your old porch. He kicks your door closed with his foot and begins slipping his suspenders off of his shoulders. You make quick work of your slip dress and strip to nothing, turning to slink to your bedroom. He follows suit. You lay on your bed, bare, as he unbuttons his shirt, revealing his soft chest. He hovers over you as your hand smooths over his chest. He leans into your touch, and dips down to nip at your ear. "Ah, Remmick." You sigh, trailing your hand down to his crotch. Your hand catches his zipper and you reach deeper as his nipping redirects to sloppily kissing all over your mouth. You pull him out of his pants, he's big, and you're sure he doesn't even know it. "Mighty cute pecker you've got there." You tease, licking into his mouth. He moans in return, your soft hand stroking him delicately as he humps into your hand. "Shit, doe, can smell 'ya.. So excited from helping me out, ha?" He pulls away from your touch.

He falls to his knees and pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, legs falling over the side. A big hand grips your thigh as his head dips down to spit directly on your cunt. You flinch, completely caught off guard, but spread further out for him. His other hand reaches up to lightly push down on your lower stomach as he presses rough kisses against your cunt, tracing his tongue around your clit, to then dip into your hole. "Fuuuck! Remmick!" You wail, his face pressing deeper, nose bumping your clit as he eats you whole. Your knuckles are white beside you, clutching for life onto your patterned sheets, otter wraps falling loose from your squirming. He hums against you in acknowledgment, moving up to pay attention to your clit while applying steady pressure to your lower stomach. "I'm, ah, I'm coming!" You whimper, legs shaking as he presses his tongue to make hard circles against that spot. You gush all over his face, babbling nonsense - some sounds resembling his name and pleads to God. He relishes in your afterglow as you pant, wiping perspiration from his brow and he gets up.

Your hair splays along your pillow like a glowing halo, your appearance almost angelic. Remmick leans over you to grasp your face, devouring your mouth once more. You press upwards to deepen the kiss, cradling his face, feeling his scruff. He moans into your mouth, drool spills out of your mouths and you pull away with a string still connecting. Spit continues to pour from his mouth, your tongue catching it shamelessly. He sits on his hackles, grabbing your legs to rest around his hips. He takes his cock in hand and presses it into you, slowly, tantalizingly. You mewl. His puffy tip slightly stretches you already, but you endure, his length filling you as he groans and shakes with every passing second, saliva still running from his mouth as he is clearly not being subtle about his thirst. Finally, his base meets you, and he fully sheathes himself inside of you. You both moan out. "Mm'fuck baby. You're perfect." He grits, his sweaty palms readjust for a firmer grip on your hips, he braces to begin a steady, hard pace. Your hands reach to thread behind his neck, Remmick's pace turning into pounding as he becomes obsessed with your body - your soul - he whimpers out your name, which you weren't even sure you gave him, and he hammers harder, deeper, head craning to rest into your neck as his thumb traces circles on your hip.

"Oh, God, Remmick," You cry, hands moving to claw at his clothed back. His face buries deeper into your neck, and you feel him open his mouth, though you pay little attention to it. You feel a sharp pain in your collar as he thrusts into you harder, almost offsetting the pain in your neck. The pain worsens, but you're nearing orgasm already, and he is too, his hips sloppily chasing after both yours and his release, his thumbnails now pressing into your skin. You try to moan out, but its futile, you silently spasm around his cock as he groans and growls into your burning neck, releasing inside of your cunt. Your collar is throbbing and dripping with sweat as he now pulls away from your neck, only to find your neck wasn't dripping with sweat.

His mouth and teeth are stained red, your neck trickling out as your labored pants from sweet release turn into shallow breaths, blood staining your sheets and pillow. He pulls out of you slowly, semen dripping from your struggling body as you try to piece together words. "You... Weh.. Wendigo..?" You rasp, holding a shaking hand to your gaping wound. He grins with his stained teeth and shakes his head. "Nah, baby. Ain't no Wendigo.." He drawls, his voice now sounding distorted as your vision fades.

" 'Ma vampyre. "

[achromatophoric]

At the climax of a series of misunderstandings of epic proportions, a furious Wednesday faces off with an equally enraged Enid. Their eyes meet and, in unison, they begin to shout.

Wednesday: I am an utter fool for deluding myself into even thinking you could ever return my wretched feelings!

Enid: *simultaneously* WHY?! Why can’t you just LOVE me, like I love YOU?! After everything we’ve been through!

Enid/Wednesday: *stunned silence*

Enid/Wednesday: What? / Pardon?

Enid/Wednesday:

Enid/Wednesday: Return your feelings? / You love me?

Enid/Wednesday:

Enid/Wednesday: You go first.

Wednesday: *scowls and gestures for Enid to speak*

Enid: You have feelings for me?

Wednesday: *briefly glances away*

Wednesday: I… do. My chest is naught but a wound agape and empty, rent asunder by your vulgar charms…

Wednesday: *bows head* … for you have long since stolen my besotted heart.

Enid: *obvious confusion*

Enid: Wait, I don’t get— But she told me you two were—

Bloodied nails rake through pink and blue hair as Enid chokes out a tight scream of frustration.

Enid: *points at Wednesday* The bitch who’s been all over you. Amanda. What about HER?

Wednesday: Buckman? An annoyance from childhood, prone to boasting and exaggeration. Nothing more.

Enid: *wets lips* Uh… oh. Really? Um. Okay.

Enid/Wednesday: *awkward pause*

Wednesday: *hesitantly* So you… love me?

Enid: *reddens* Y-Yes. Totes. Like so crazy much that I can’t even.

Wednesday: And what of that contemptible wolf? Your— *spits in disgust* —betrothed.

Enid: How did you— *groans* Moon above, I told that dumbass to keep his mouth shut!

Wednesday: *expression darkens* So you intended to keep it a secret.

Enid: What? NO! No, it’s not— It wasn’t a secret!

Wednesday: *expression darkens further*

Enid: Shit. I mean that it’s NOT true!

Wednesday: Go on.

Enid: *anxiously* Look, it was all an act. He was supposed to just help get my mom off my back, but then he got freaking weird about it.

Wednesday: *pensive expression* I… see.

Enid: I’m really sorry, Willa. I should have told you. It was such a dumb idea, but he offered to help and I just— My mom was being so—

Wednesday: *holds up a blood-stained hand* Enid, you need not explain yourself further. I understand. You were under duress—

Wednesday: *grits teeth* —and that miserable wretch took advantage of your state. An unforgivable act that he can no longer repeat.

Enid: *covers her face and whines* Oh my moon, this was such a mess.

Wednesday: *crosses the distance to Enid* That may be undeniable, but so are my feelings for you.

Lowering her hands, Enid finds herself gazing into a face alight with adoration. She can’t help but gasp when cool arms encircle her.

Enid: Oh gosh. Oh gosh oh gosh! You like me. You LIKE me.

Wednesday: Enid, you do me a disservice. I do not merely like you. I would worship you… should you allow it.

Enid: *wraps Wednesday in a crushing hug* Of course I do! Like O M G. You don’t even know how much I love you!

The two share in a much-desired embrace, mirroring their hug from that fateful night. The scene would be innocuously romantic, were it not for the hints of gore.

Enid:

Enid: Hey, um… Willa?

Wednesday: Mm?

Enid: Are you wearing a necklace of teeth?

Wednesday:

Wednesday: There are claws a well.

Enid: Oh. Okay.

Enid:

Enid: *worriedly* Are uh… are those maybe like… werewolf teeth and claws?

Wednesday: 😒

Wednesday: Is that a blonde scalp peeking out of your pocket—

Enid: 😬

Wednesday: —woven through with what appears to be fashionably manicured human fingernails and toe-mmph!

Enid: *silences Wednesday with an impassioned kiss*

Wednesday: *kissed senseless*

Enid/Wednesday: 🩷🖤

[baronessvonglitter]

Just a Ride

dbf!Dave York x f!Reader | wc: 3.6K

Summary: When a date goes bad you call your dad's best friend Dave to come to the rescue.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Explicit. Dave is your dad's best friend. Mention of his daughter but none of Carol - what happened to her? Is she dead? Did she leave him? Don't know don't care, but she doesn't exist because for once I didn't want to write an adulterous Dave. Age gap (reader is 20s Dave is in his 40s). Bad, handsy date. Reader wears a dress and makeup but is otherwise not described much. Protective!Dave. Mention of drinking alcohol. Mutual pining. Pet names (princess). Fingering. Car sex. Unprotected p in v. (Dave can hit it raw with me anytime). Wistful/sad ending. No use of y/n. Never beta'd because fuck it we ball.

a/n: Hi, my name is Adriana and when I was a kid I had two pet baby turtles named Michaelangelo and Raphael (I was planning on getting two more to be Donatello and Leonardo) but they "ran away" (parent-speak for they died) and I think about them every day.

So this is the fic that won out. It was 97% done and I just needed to fill a couple holes (hehe). I don't think I've ever read a dbf!Dave fic before, though I highly doubt mine's the first. I'd gladly accept recommendations below if you know any! Please enjoy 🖤❤️

dividers by @thecutestgrotto 👑

DAVE YORK MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

Dave sits at the bar, pretending to find his Scotch very interesting, doing his best to stay unnoticed. He's dressed casually in jeans, a black tee and a leather jacket, blending in. Now and again he checks his watch or his phone, but he's secretly got you in his sights.

In his peripheral vision he sees you at your table with your date. You're talking, laughing, charming each other. Seemingly having a good time. But he's good at reading people. That smile on your face doesn't quite reach your eyes, and when you laugh at one of your date's lame jokes the sound is hollow, not how you usually peal out in laughter.

He knows a lot about you, having known you nearly your whole life as your dad's closest friend. He knows the date isn't going great and that you deserve better than the jackass who's sitting across from you, leaning in a little too close to you, fixing the shoulder strap of your red dress and using that as an excuse to touch you without your permission. Dave's blood starts to boil.

He waits for your signal, ready to pounce though he looks to all the world like he's relaxing with a drink.

Suddenly his phone lights up with a call from you. He briefly glances your way, seeing you trying to be discreet about your call while hiding your phone in your lap as your date is seemingly in the dark. When your gazes meet you give a small, nervous smile and an almost imperceptible nod. Dave immediately jumps into action.

He's jammed up by a couple of wait staff with loaded trays, and he manages to dodge them, but by the time he gets to your table you're struggling with your date, his hand around your arm in a vise grip.

"Hey!" He shouts. "Let her go. Now." He stands protectively at your side, giving this idiot a chance to do the right thing and walk away. His stance is intimidating to the much younger man, and he watches with a calm air of authority as your date slowly releases your arm.

"You need to leave, now. And don't even think about coming near her again," he growls.

Defeated, and not wanting to cause a further scene, your date puts his hands up and leaves, muttering under his breath. Dave makes sure he's gone from the restaurant before turning his attention to you. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

"I'm okay," you tell him, wiping a little tear away. "Thank you for that.."

His expression softens, his temper melting and giving way to concern. "Don't mention it. I told you I'd have your back." His hand is on your arm now, gently soothing where your date had grabbed you just moments before.

"Would you.." you softly hiccup through your tears. "Would you take me home? He was my ride."

"Of course," he says, glad to be able to escort you safely back home. "Let's get you home."

You settle into the passenger side of Dave's SUV, the same one that not many years ago he'd driven you to volleyball practice in when your parents were too busy to do so. It still smelled of leather and coffee and Dave's own special scent, the one you'd only ever gotten whiffs of during a rare hug.

You were close with his daughters until the three of you went your separate ways after high school. You're the only one who stayed behind, preferring to be closer to home.

Maybe a part of you stayed because you have a crush on your father's best friend.

Not that he'd ever notice you that way. He'd always maintained a polite, never-overly-friendly persona with you. It had changed when you'd started dating, and he and your father became a pair of ultimate authority figures when it came time for your date to pick you up. When you were younger and yearning for your freedom, you hated how they questioned your dates, asked for photo IDs, wrote down license plate numbers "just in case".

Now, having known what the dating pool was like, you appreciate Dave's overprotectiveness. It was actually you who'd reached out and asked him to be your emergency getaway if you'd needed it. You never had until tonight.

He starts the engine, looking over to you to make sure you're buckled in. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, of course.. but what happened?"

"He was really insistent on going back to his place after dinner.. even after I said no," you mumble,

His fingers grip the steering wheel too tightly as he maneuvers the SUV out into the late Saturday traffic. "I see. I don't like the sound of that. Good thing you called me when you did. You never know what could have happened."

"Yeah," you agree, shivering when you think of the look in your date's eyes when you'd rejected him. "I'm just glad I called you."

"You know you can always count on me to be there for you, no matter what."

"Thank you." You place your hand lightly on his knee, a touch meant, at first, to be of the friendly sort, but in the dark of this vehicle you feel the spark of something more.

"You don't have to thank me," Dave deflects. "I would do anything to keep you safe." True, he'd felt a jolt of electricity at your unexpected touch, and his heart rate speeds up momentarily. His mind races with a mixture of unexpected feelings.

"You always look out for everyone, Dave.. who looks out for you?" You watch him as he drives, see his handsome silhouette in the city lights. He's chuckling now, caught off guard by your question. The truth is, he's so used to being the protector that he often neglects his own needs and feelings. He gives you a sidelong glance, contemplating your question.

"Nobody, I suppose.. not really. I'm usually the one doing the looking out."

"Must be lonely," you say, your hand still resting on his knee.

His thick fingers tap against the steering wheel as he considers your comment. It stings a bit to hear it, to have his own loneliness acknowledged, like a mini-autopsy of his middle age. But he knows you, and that you're asking from a place of pure empathy.

"Maybe a bit, yeah. But it's a role I'm used to. Besides, you're here now, aren't you? That keeps the loneliness at bay, for a little while at least."

A smile grows over your lips, heat filling your cheeks at the compliment. "I like that.."

Dave's usual stoicism melts away under your soft demeanor and youthfulness. You're young and haven't yet had the weight of the world on your shoulders.

The ride passes in quiet comfort, even as with each moment he can't help feeling your hand on his knee, knowing it's not going to be easy to just drop you off and go back home to what is a less exciting life than you might think. He pulls up to your house and into the driveway he's parked in hundreds of times before to visit your dad.. and lately, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of you.

"Thanks again.. for everything," you tell him, not making any move to leave.

"Anytime," he says quickly. "It's what I'm here for. And hey.. if you ever need anything or just want someone to talk to, don't hesitate to call, okay?"

A smile graces your lips, forced because everything he's said is exactly what you'd expect him to say. And if the charge between you tells you anything, it's that there's unexplored business between you.

His gaze roams over your face, seeing you for your own person rather than just the product of your parents. Your lips are plump and glossy, and he has a feeling he knows just how they'd taste if he were to kiss you.

He shouldn't be thinking like that.

If he were a real gentleman he'd hop out and open the door for you, walk you up to your parents' house and bid you good night, maybe step in and have a beer with your dad and say hi to your mom. You could go your separate ways and that'd be that.

But you're here, and you're not making any motion to leave, not the feeblest attempt. In fact you're looking at him so expectantly that it pulls at his heart, floods his dick with need so that he's already getting hard.

You shouldn't be looking at him like that.

Without a word he reaches out and touches your cheek lightly, his fingertips running delicately over your jaw. Your breath catches in your throat, which makes his own pulse miss a beat. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against your bottom lip, slightly sticky now with your gloss but he doesn't care. He's wound up tight, watching your eyes flit to his own lips and remain there, likely imagining the very thing he's imagining.

Unable to resist any longer, his hand cups your chin and gently tilts your face up, his dark brooding eyes studing yours for a moment before he leans in. The gap between you disappears as he presses his lips against yours, the kiss gentle yet possessive. The electricity between you could light up a small town, and both of you give into the feeling.

His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours, exploring your mouth with an urgency fueled by desire. The heat builds between you, the air filled with the heady mixture of forbidden lust.

Your hand cups the back of his neck while you kiss, fingers combing through the short strands of his hair. It sets a shiver through him, knowing he's in your parents' driveway, kissing their only daughter like he's some twenty-something idiot thinking with his dick.

You don't push him away, you encourage him further, letting him pull you forward by the small of your back as he tries to erase any vestige of space remaining between you two. The kiss grows rougher, hungrier, the pent-up tension between you finally reaching its breaking point as you press together, seeking each other's heat.

Like-minded, you pull him down on top of you in the passenger seat as he presses you down, neither of you thinking of anything except what comes next, the desperate need to get as close as possible. Your hands slip under his jacket before he removes it, growling softly in pleasure that you want this too, as he settles between your thighs.

He kisses down your jaw, nipping at your skin, exploring the soft flesh of your neck. Your whispers of encouragement as you rake your fingers through his hair only goads him on, responding diligently, his kisses growing more fervent and urgent with each passing moment as he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses and soft bites.

He watches you as he starts to unbutton your dress. "Is this okay?" he whispers. The straps of your dress are already slipping down your shoulders, revealing their softness.

You whisper "yes," and he gently pulls the top down until your satin bra is revealed. He's transfixed by the sight, your bra doing nothing to hide the rise and fall of your chest. His eyes darken with desire, his gaze heavy-lidded. He's torn between wanting to devour you and wanting to savor this moment, though who knows how much time you have?

"We really shouldn't be doing this," he murmurs, pressing hot kisses to the tops of your breasts and smiling when you arch up into his touch. "We could get caught."

"I don't care," you tell him, and he believes it.

"You want this?" he asks, nuzzling your soft skin, knowing he'll be devastated if you say no.

"Dave," you say in a soft and sweet chuckle. "I've wanted this for a long time.."

He lifts the hem of your dress, pressing wet kisses along your skin as he works his way down your torso, his fingers curling into the edge of your underwear waistband. Red satin to match your bra and your dress. You were expecting to get fucked tonight and he's going to see to it that you are.

You pull him down and he settles on top of you, his body slotting perfectly between your legs. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his stiff cock trapped in his jeans as he rubs against you.

Lifting your hips to his, you grind on him, making a wet spot on his crotch through the dark denim. Dave groans softly, his mouth millimeters from yours. "That's it, princess. Use me," he says with a gruff edge to his voice. Your hands grip his shoulders as he starts to rub against you, the friction growing hotter by the second. "You like using me, huh?" he whispers, his hips moving in time with yours.

"Yes," you eke out, your panties already soaked through. Dave feels it, your heat radiating through the sheer material. Your intoxicating scent is all around him and he breathes it in.

"You're making a mess of me, you know that?" His voice is rough, thick with need as his hands slide under your panties, his fingers seeking out the wetness that has already begun to pool between your legs. Your back arches at the deliciously forbidden glide of two of his fingers easing in, filling you up and stretching you. "Tell me what you want."

"I want- I want to come," you gasp, unable to concentrate on much else besides the feel of his fingers inside you.

Dave's already hard cock is painfully erect, but he's focused on your pleasure first. His fingers glide in and his mouth waters at how tight, hot, and wet you are for him. He leans down and gives a gentle bite to your bare shoulder. "You want to come for me? I'm giving it to you, you've got to take it."

Your body grows taut under his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. He can see you teetering on the edge, balancing on the precipice of bliss. "Come for me, princess. Let me hear you," he commands. His fingers curl inside you as the pad of his thumb rubs your clit and he smiles when you start to come for him. Your hips lift up and your thighs threaten to close around his wrist. Colors dance behind your eyes as pure exhilaration warms you from head to toe. He keeps rubbing you in soft circles, coaxing you through your orgasm and his other hand gently cradles your cheek as he leans in for a kiss, swallowing up your sweet moans as you melt on his fingers. He doesn't stop until he feels your body relax, and then he removes his hand from between your legs and sucks your sweetness of them. He lets out a soft hum, his dark orbs never leaving yours. "You taste like heaven," he says, and you pull him down for another kiss, tasting yourself in his mouth.

Your hands fly to his belt, undoing it and pulling down his pants with it. He dares a quick glance at the front of the house but all is still. You're so eager there's no way he'd even want to stop. Even if your dad were to come out with a shotgun aimed at him-

All other thought flies out the window as he feels your hand grasp him through his boxer briefs. "Big," you say with a gasp. His hips buck involuntarily against your hand. "Yeah? You like that?"

Nodding, you whisper, "I want it," and reach your hand inside to start stroking him. He's already too turned on for any further teasing. His only thought is to get inside you.

He pulls his boxer briefs down and positions himself between your legs, his body covering yours in the passenger seat, his hips aligned with yours. "Ready, princess?" He nibbles at your ear.

"Yes," you reply breathily, the ache growing inside you. You've been waiting for this for years and now, as the thick tip of his cock presses into you, he starts to open you up, sinking into your channel, slowing to let you adapt to him inch by blessed inch.

God, you've never felt so full, no one has ever made you feel like this. Dave bottoms out, careful not to hurt you, though his hips twitch when you mewl with pleasure. "You feel so good, so wet," he says, holding you in place as he starts shallow thrusts.

"So do you.." Your legs are hooked over his arms as he controls the pacing, leaning in to brush a small kiss to your cheeks, forehead, lips and nose.

"You like the way I'm filling you up? No one's ever been this deep inside you, I can tell. You're so fucking tight."

"You're so big," you sigh, melting around him as he starts slow. "I think I can feel you in my stomach."

"You're taking it so well though." He withdraws slowly, savoring the way you feel around him, before plunging back in with a little more force, watching your breasts and belly jiggle with the movement.

"Fuck!" you gasp as he drives in again, your cunt squeezing around him as if to keep him there. But he starts a slow and sensual pace, his hips rolling against yours smoothly, your body moving with his as if in a dance, as if there's no hurry to finish this. His gaze is locked on you, watching as you writhe beneath him. "You feel amazing," he groans. Every sound you make feeds into his pleasure and so he moves a little faster, checking in with you to see if that's okay, noticing that hitch in your breath when he presses in deep, hitting that hot spot deep inside that makes you see stars. He increases just slightly, just enough to send you right to the edge before he slows down again.

"You're teasing me," you whine as he slows, your heart rate picking up speed as your pleasure ebbs.

"And what if I am?" Dave smirks, his thumb brushing your clit again.

"Dave," your body tenses as he adds the pressure, crying out in delight. He loves the way you lose control and he's desperate to make you moan over and over again, he needs to hear his name flow from your lips that way.

"Come for me," he rumbles, so close to the edge himself. He needs you to come first, needs to feel you quake and clench around him before he even thinks about coming.

Your legs encircle his hips, and he thinks there's nothing better than to be housed between your sweet thighs. He slows his thrusts, moving inside you until you demand more, your nails on his shoulders leaving crescent shaped marks under his shirt.

He watches as you come, memorizing the beauty of how you look, completely undone in this moment, keeping himself moving even as you squeeze and shudder around his cock.

"Good girl," he says. "Tell me where you want it." His breathing is getting heavier and his cock is starting to swell, starting to pulse and there's not much time.

"Inside," you tell him, and he's thankful for that. He's not sure he'd be able to pull out anyway, the way your sweet pussy is gripping him like it owns him.

That's all it takes to send him over the edge. Dave lets out a guttural groan, his body shuddering as his hips stutter then still while he comes, painting your walls with his spend.

The car windows are fogged up, the two of you still trying to catch your breath. The scent of sex and your perfume are in the air. Dave shifts a little, lifting himself enough to look down at you, his eyes dark and hooded. He can't help but push the loose strands away from your face, his touch gentle and almost reverent. His eyes soften and his lips brush your forehead.

"I sure didn't think that would happen," you giggle a little, coming down from your high.

"Life is full of surprises, princess," he responds, his eyes glittering with playfulness.

The lights above the garage come on and you remember that you're parked in your parents' driveway. Both of you scramble to get your clothes on, not wanting to get caught in such a compromising position.

"I guess I should go," you tell Dave once you're both decent. Though the last thing you want to do is leave him. Especially when you can still feel him inside you, his stickiness, the imprint of himself left behind.

"Yeah," he nods, his visage returning to that of the protective family friend.

"Do you want to come in?"

He chuckles darkly at that. Your dad would know. He'd know and Dave would be in a world of shit. "That's not a good idea right now."

Instead he watches as you walk to the door, your key fumbling in the lock until your dad comes and opens it. He's in his night robe, hair mussed, probably just awoken from his sleep. When he spots Dave's car in the driveway he raises his hand in acknowledgement and Dave does the same.

But he doesn't drive off. He waits.

The light comes on in your bedroom, and you appear at the window. You blow him a kiss and he hesitates before deciding not to catch it. He knows you'll understand why. So he nods, giving a smile and wishing you could feel the lurch of his heart as he turns on the engine and drives home.

tagging those interested: @sunshinehaze1 @letsgobarbs

@iamladyp @milla-frenchy @probablyreadinsmut @604to647

@inept-the-magnificent @sexydeadgirlxxx @teddybonkers1960

@dugiioh @everybodylovedcontractors @cuppajoel

@not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @myhusband2cool

@joelmillerisapunk @itwasntimethatdidit40

[drak3n]

TATTOO ARTIST/PIERCER!CHOSO

CONTENT WARNINGS: unestablished relationship, smut, public sex, mentions of body modifications, cunnilingus, implied blowjob at the end, choso has a prince albert-, tongue- and a vertical eyebrow piercing

sena’s note: i know there’s a lot of tattoo artist choso already but i folded — anywaysss up next is my man gojo 🖤

MINI-SERIES MASTERLIST

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who was very well-known for his talent despite being so young; who was always pretty gifted with his hands and used peoples’ skin like a canvas, gracing it with the prettiest designs, simple and small, or detailed and large

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who shared a studio with a few fellow tattoo artists and piercers, but had a goal of having his own studio someday

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who had just finished a 5h back piece on his last client and walked towards the front desk to retrieve his cigarettes and take a break, just for his hooded, brown eyes to set on you

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who saw you standing next to your friend and encouraging her to hand in her data sheet for her tattoo, and who watched as your friend was immediately guided into one of the rooms by a tattoo artist, just to leave you all by yourself

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who came back from smoking minutes later to see you sitting on one of the leather seats, flipping through pages of the shop’s magazine that showed many different designs of tattoos, and also piercings

“you want to get anything done?”

nearly flinching at the cold voice sounding a couple of feet away from you, your eyes met choso’s, who was leaning against the wall, revealing fully tattooed forearms through his loose-fitted t-shirt. he looked very… unique, to say the least.

“oh, no, i’m just waiting for a friend,” you smiled kindly, “she’s getting tattooed right now. think it’ll take some time.” you felt guilty that you stared at the man like he was some kind of alien. his features were just really captivating, the plethora of tattoos peeking out from his short sleeves and from the collar leaving little to the imagination that they continued even beneath that shirt.

his eyebrow tattoo shone under the light, but when he opened his mouth, your jaw nearly dropped at the sight of a tongue piercing.

you suddenly remembered what they said about guys with tongue piercings, and felt deeply ashamed about getting such thoughts about a hot stranger.

“come,” he invited you towards the room he usually worked in, “you’ll get bored here. you’ll get a piercing on the house.” he didn’t know why he offered that. maybe, just maybe it was because he didn’t want the other piercers and tattoo artists to charm you first.

at the end of the day, you left the studio with your freshly tattooed friend and a pierced nose.

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who hoped you’d walk in again, and whose shoulders nearly slumped in disappointment upon seeing your friend coming in by herself a few days later to get her tattoo checked, without your company

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who — totally on accident — saw that the studio had been tagged in multiple stories on instagram, one of which being yours, a spontaneous picture taken of your side profile that showcased the gem he had pierced into your cute nose

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who absolutely didn’t follow you after that, just to see mere minutes later that you did, and before he could stop himself, he followed you back

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who really wasn’t the best texter, which left you wondering if you should even try and talk to him at all; whose eyes went wide in surprise when you waltzed into the studio to get your thigh tattooed weeks later

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who showed you that same day how it felt to get eaten out by someone with a tongue piercing

“c—choso… fuck— what if someone—”

your hand clamped in front of your mouth to stifle a moan threatening to force itself out when the ball of metal on choso’s wet muscle bumped against your bundle of nerves. you were seated on the couch he’d previously tatted on, both of your bare legs thrown over his shoulders as he feasted on your delicious pussy.

“let them,” he spoke gruffly into your cunt as his tattooed hands dug into the underside of your thighs. he didn’t hide the smirk displaying on his lips at the way you drooled from the sensation of his piercing coolly gliding against your wet pussy lips.

“c’mon. use your words. i’ll let you cum if you do.”

“pleasepleaseplease let me cum… please choso.”

“cute. you want to feel what the piercing on my dick feels like?”

➩ TATTOO ARTIST!CHOSO who totally did make you beg on his thick dick adorned with a shiny prince albert piercing, and who couldn’t even be mad at you when you flashed him a tongue piercing you had gotten at another studio to surprise and make him see stars just like he’d done for you