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yanderedrabbles · 3 months ago

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Yandere Movie Week

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Male Yandere x Fem Reader, 5k words

After your accident, you wake from your coma in fragments and pieces.

There's the blackness first. A nothingness somehow deeper than sleep. Then the voices, snippets of conversation that you're too hurt and drugged to understand. And finally, in those few hours before you fully wake up, there are the dreams.

You're always running in your dreams. Bare foot, the rain pounding down. Running from something you can't see.

When you wake up, you don't remember. The feeling lingers though - that hair raising knowledge that you're being hunted.

You notice the heart rate monitor first. The constant beeping spiking straight into your head.

You groan. Open your eyes.

An IV drip, bland beige walls, a cheap watercolour painting. Voices out in the hall. Painfully bright florescent lights.

You stay perfectly still for a few seconds, feeling strange and out of place.

What happened? How long has it been? Where exactly am I?

You try sitting up. A bad idea. Your whole body is an unresponsive mess, numb and weak all at once.

"Hey, take it easy."

A palm settles on your shoulder and gently pushes you down.

"You've been through an awful lot. The last thing you need is to push yourself."

You try and focus on the stranger, your vision still murky around the edges. He's wearing a surgical mask and a baseball cap, his eyes squinted at the corners like he's smiling at you.

"Where am I?"

"Riverfate Private Medical Centre."

"Isn't that way out in the mountains?"

"Yes ma'am."

Your head hurts. So does your left leg. And your shoulder. And a dozen other places, now that you think about it. It's hard to focus.

"But I live in the city."

He raises a brow. "You don't remember?"

You shake your head. A bad idea. Pain and light lance through your skull.

You hiss and touch your temple. You're met with a thick wrapping of gauze and bandage.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I...um, I think I was supposed to go out to lunch with my boss. I don't know what happened after that."

"Do you know what year it is?"

You tell him.

"Do you know who I am?"

He pulls down his mask and leans a little closer to you, his eyes searching your face. You don't recognise him at all.

He's handsome, in a clean cut sort of way. He's wearing a sweater and jeans, a pair of glasses hooked in his pocket.

"I don't think so. I don't remember you."

"Not even a little?"

You don't like the way he's looking at you. Like he's watching for the smallest twitch or stutter. Like he doesn't quite believe you.

"I'm sorry. I really don't know you."

He leans back and pulls his mask back up, but not before you see his smile.

"That's okay. I'm not offended. You've had a pretty hard knock on the head."

You figured that part out from the throbbing headache and persistent, low grade nausea. But you suppose it's nice of him to tell you.

He raises his hand and you realise he's holding the nurse call button.

"Let's get you properly checked out, yeah?"

It buzzes when he presses it and it doesn't take long for a nurse to pop his head into the room, quickly followed by a doctor.

"How long has she been awake?"

"Not long," your visitor answers, even though you assume it's been a good few minutes.

Your doctor runs you through some basic questions, her lips getting thinner with each answer.

"Post-tramuatic amnesia," she announces, "Not surprising given the nature of your injuries. Some of it will come back to you, some of it won't. For now, I want to keep an eye out for any signs of cerebral edema. Beyond that, it's just a matter of rehabilitation."

"How long until I can take her home?" the stranger asks.

She glances at him. "And you are?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Her fiancé."

You stare at him, not sure you heard him right.

"I'm engaged?"

He shoots you a look and reaches out to briefly rest his hand on yours.

"For a few months now. I'll tell you all about it later, promise."

The doctor raises her brows but doesn't comment.

"She can be discharged in a week or so, bar any complications," the nurse answers.

"Good. I want to get her home as soon as possible. Better to be in a familiar place, right baby?"

You're too overwhelmed and confused to answer him. Engaged? Really? You haven't had any long term relationships, much less had a guy get serious enough to consider marriage.

The doctor shrugs and checks her watch. "I think there are a few police officers who want to speak to the both of you. But it's better if the patient rests for a few hours. You need to take things slow, especially so soon after waking up."

She orders the nurse to give you something with a complicated sounding name, and less than fifteen minutes later you're knocked out. Drifting back into the dark of your dreams.

Your fiancé watches you until you fall asleep, his expression hidden by his mask.

The police officers are tired. You can tell, even though you're still a little out of it yourself.

"You don't know what happened? Nothing at all?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"She's injured," your fiancé snaps, "Of course she doesn't remember. Take it easy."

"What about you? Where were you when your wife was being admitted?"

"Rushing here, obviously."

"The hospital staff said they didn't contact you."

"You must have spoken to the wrong shift. I was here at three, right after they released her from surgery."

The cops sigh, shift in place. You reckon they want to be done with you as soon as possible.

"Seems pretty straight forward," one says, "It was raining heavy last night. Driver didn't see you crossing the road. A bad accident that could have gone a lot worse."

What were you doing walking in the rain at two in the morning? You don't get a chance to ask before they're already standing to leave.

One of the cops pauses at the door and points at your fiancé's mask. They briefly asked him to remove it but now it's right back in place.

"What's up with the mask?"

"I hate hospitals," he says simply. "Can't stand the smell. Or the germs."

The cop shrugs, tries to smile. "You'd hate my line of work, I can tell ya that much."

When they're gone, your fiancé comes to sit on the edge of your bed, wary of your leg in its plaster cast.

"Look what I found. I thought you lost it in the accident, but the nurses kept it aside."

He carefully takes hold of your hand and slips an engagement ring onto your finger. The metal pleasantly cool against the feverish heat of your skin.

You stare at it for a long time. Gold, with a huge rock front and centre.

You don't remember picking it out, don't remember saying yes. But it very much feels like something you'd choose. It looks perfectly at home on your finger.

"Do you like it?" he asks softly.

"Yes." You look up at him and smile, your heart fluttering and the heart rate monitor going crazy. "I love it."

"But it isn't jogging any memories?"

You shake your head.

"Well, guess we'll just have to make new ones." He doesn't sound upset at all.

You look down at his hands. He's wearing gloves, even though the AC is pleasantly warm.

"Can I see yours?"

He chuckles and tugs off his glove. He let's you take hold of his wrist without complaint, watching as you tilt his hand this way and that.

His ring is clearly a twin to yours. A simple gold band scratched a little from daily wear.

You carefully pull it off his finger. He doesn't stop you, though he does lean forward a little. It's a bit too loose on him. Needs to be sized down just a tad. Did he lose weight recently?

There's an engraving on the inside.

"Forever and a day?"

"Mm-hmm. It's what you promised me. From the moment we met."

It's cute, you have to admit.

"You gonna give it back? Afraid our engagement has a very serious no take-backsies clause."

You giggle as you pull him closer.

"We've got to do this properly, you know," you tell him. "So. Will you marry me, handsome stranger?"

He doesn't hesitate even a second.

"Yes. Right now, if I can nab a priest from the hospital chapel."

"I don't think those come with priests."

"What, not included in the comprehensive package?"

You laugh a little and slip his ring back on. It looks good on him. You wish he wouldn't keep covering it up with his gloves.

"It's the germs," he tells you when you bring it up. "And I know you're going to say hospitals are like the cleanest, most sanitised places on earth. But I swear I get sick every time I visit one."

You raise your free hand and press it against his neck, the only bit of open skin on his body. He stills. Hell, you think he stops breathing for a second or two.

"Warm. But not feverish. I think you'll be okay, big guy."

It takes him a moment to reply, his eyes fixed on your face.

"Thanks. Feels good when you say it."

You smile at him, your cheeks tingling.

"You flirt."

He catches your wrist when you start to pull away. You can't be sure, but you think he's smiling.

"Only with you, baby. Only ever with you."

Recovery is a long process, and one that continues even after you get discharged. Your doctor is diligent in monitoring you, and tyrannical in making sure you play all the memory and card games recommended for rehabilitation.

They annoy you at first. Kids games, almost. Remember where the apple is and match it to the other apple. Shuffle the cards and remember where each one goes.

But it's not long before you realise exactly how important it is that you get better at them.

Your brain is awfully slow, never focusing on one thing for more than a few minutes. Your recall isn't nearly as good as it was. You get headaches whenever you think too hard on the blank spaces where your memories ought to be.

Your fiancé watches you from the edge of your bed as you lay out your cards and then lay them out again. He doesn't help you, not even when you get so frustrated you want to hit something.

He just lays a hand on your thigh or your calf and tells you to take your time, that you'll get it right eventually.

You get used to having him around. Find yourself looking forward to seeing him every morning.

The day that you're scheduled to be discharged, he shows up with a huge bouquet of your favourite flowers and a basket packed tight with your favourite chocolate.

"How did you know?" you squeal, your nose buried in the petals.

He laughs and runs a hand through your hair, careful of your stitches.

"You're my wife to be, baby. I know everything there is to know about you."

When he helps you into your wheelchair he presses a kiss against your temple.

"Are you ready to go home?"

You ought to be hesitant. Ought to wonder a bit more about the man with your ring on his finger. But in the confusion of waking and the rush of being around him, it doesn't occur to you at all.

"Absolutely. Rescue me from these awful beige walls, my handsome knight."

He laughs and kisses your cheek.

"As you wish, my lady love."

The discharge papers are a thick stack, and by the time you're done signing, your fingers ache. His name isn't anywhere to be seen, except for as the emergency contact.

"We still haven't updated our health insurance," he explains. You shrug and hand the papers back to reception, glad to finally be going home.

It's only when you're in his Jeep and driving further into the mountains that you think to ask where home actually is.

He tells you the address and laughs when you stare at him.

"Did I not mention it? We moved a few months ago, after you quit your job."

"But I love work. I find it hard to believe I left."

He hums quietly. "I think you'll understand when we get home."

Home. When he says it, you can't help but think of your apartment in the city.

It's coming back to you in bits and pieces. The security guard at the door, the long week spent picking out and assembling furniture when you first moved in, the scramble to get ready for a night out in your cramped bathroom.

You don't remember your fiancé though. No matter how hard you try.

The drive up to his house (yours too, try and remember that) is much longer than you expect. You doze off at some point, and when he wakes you the last bit of sunlight is fading into dusk.

The house is huge. The windows already blazing light, the front door standing open for you. It's all wood and stone, with pretty French doors.

You don't recognise any of it.

"Is it only us out here?"

"Yep. Pretty big place for just the two of us, but you like the quiet. Here, put your arms around me. The gravel will just get in the way of your wheelchair."

"You're going to carry me in?"

He grins at you, half his face in shadow.

"Just like I did on our first night."

He pulls you out of the car and you curl your arms just a little tighter around his neck. No need. He's much stronger than he looks, walking all the way to the door without once loosening his grip on you.

He pauses on the threshold.

"Welcome home, baby."

He carries you into the house, the picture perfect husband to be. It makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks burn. How the hell did you manage to snag a man like him?

"We'll save the tour for tomorrow, yeah? I think it's best we get you to bed."

You nod against his chest. Tired in the bone weary way that comes from medication wearing off and pain setting in.

He takes you to the master bedroom - a sprawling, wood panelled room with a huge fireplace and a balcony that looks out on the trees.

"You should see the view in winter," he murmurs as he sets you down. "White and sky as far as the eye can see."

You're hurting, true. But there's a heat coiling through you wherever his touch lingers. A husband to be... doesn't that mean a wedding night too?

"I can think of better things to do in here than look at the trees," you say softly.

He tilts his head. "And what would those be?"

You still have your arms hooked around his neck. You pull him closer to you, until his hands come to rest on the bed.

"Is this where we celebrated our first night as an engaged couple?"

He freezes up and then nods.

"And did we enjoy it?"

"Yes," he answers, breathless.

"Not fair that only one of us remembers it, is it?"

Your brush your lips against his. Not exactly a kiss, but very close.

He stops breathing.

You let go of his neck and rest your palms on his cheeks. It's a little strange seeing him without the mask, and a little strange to be touching him so intimately. But he's spent almost every waking hour taking care of you. Has been nothing but sweet and gentle. Doesn't that deserve a proper thank you?

"Love?"

He pulls in a sharp breath and pushes you down onto the bed. Crawls on top of you, his knees on either side of your waist.

You laugh, breathless.

"Oooh, didn't think you were so pent up," you tease.

He doesn't answer you. Just drops his head to your neck and buries his nose in your hair.

You heart is going a mile a minute. Your whole body feels electric. Doc said to take it easy but what else is a girl supposed to do when her man is so handsome and so unbearably close?

You run your hands through his hair. He makes a small, choked sort of noise and brings his palms up to cup your face.

"I love you."

A mix of desperation and want. He straightens up, fisting the duvet on either side of your head.

"I love you," he says again.

You smile, reach up to brush your knuckles against his cheek.

"I think I'm falling in love with you, too."

He moves forward and the moonlight catches in his eyes.

You freeze.

That look. That hungry, scorching look...

Adrenaline rips through you and your jerk up, pushing yourself backwards.

He almost falls off the bed, catching the frame at the last second.

"Baby? What's wrong?"

He follows you and you almost scream.

"Baby?"

He stills, one hand reaching for you.

"I don't... I don't know. Just... just give me a minute."

What the hell was that?

It's like your body remembered something your mind couldn't. Threw you right back into a moment where you were terrified, where your heart was racing and a scream was being stifled in your throat.

He reaches for you again and you jerk away without thinking.

You don't want to be touched. Not by him, not by anyone. Not while that awful half memory is still running through your synapses.

"I'm sorry. Can we take a rain check, please? I'm not ready."

He doesn't answer immediately. He drags his eyes down your body, the same searching way he did when you first woke up. Trying to find something in your eyes, in your posture.

"Fine," he manages. "Rain check."

He pushes himself off the bed, his entire body stiff.

"I'm going to take a shower."

He doesn't wait for you to answer.

You pull your knees to your chest and try to tell yourself that it's nothing to worry about. Your brain was rattled loose, of course there's going to be sparks firing in the wrong cylinders for awhile. These strange reactions don't mean anything.

You have no reason to freak out like this. Your fiancé has been nothing short of perfect.

You tell yourself that, but you still flinch when he climbs into bed with you.

You pretend to be asleep when he slings an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. He buries his nose in your hair, sighs like a man coming home at long last.

"It's going to be okay, baby. You and I will be just fine. I'll make sure of it."

He's long gone when you wake up. The sun is slanting across your pillow and you give up on going back to sleep.

He left your wheelchair next to you, and after a few false starts, you manage to haul yourself in. You're still wary of putting too much pressure on your injured leg, and you flinch when an accidental knock sends a sharp pain lancing through your ankle.

Ouch. Not so easy when your man isn't around to hold you. If you needed yet another reminder, the dull throb in your ankle serves just fine.

Whatever happened last night, you still need him.

You take your time exploring the bedroom, opening all the drawers you can reach. Your clothes are neatly packed away, your heels lined up on the floor of the cupboard. Your books are sitting on the shelves, complete with all the knick knacks you've collected over the years.

There's a picture of you and your fiancé on the nightstand. He's got his arm around your waist and you've got your head tilted back to look at him. It's cute. And something about the way he holds you makes you feel warm and safe.

The room door is the only thing that gives you trouble. It's heavy, and difficult to swing open from your wheelchair.

You fiddle with the handle for a few minutes before finally giving up and calling for your fiancé.

You worry that he might not hear you through the wood, but a few minutes later your hear his footsteps.

He swings the door open and smiles at you.

"There she is. How did you sleep, gorgeous?"

"Okay. Was the door locked?"

He shrugs and fiddles with the latch.

"I don't think so. But it does tend to stick sometimes."

He leans down to kiss your cheek. "Don't worry about it, baby. I'm here to save you."

He makes you breakfast, and in the bright light of day its easy to forget the way he looked at you last night.

Easy to relax and laugh at his jokes and admire the way his forearms flex when he works.

You forget about your worries until lunch time rolls around.

He's chopping vegetables for a salad, the light bouncing off the knife. You aren't sure why it catches your attention - maybe you're just attracted to shiny things - but it has no trouble holding it.

There's something in the way he holds his knife that makes the back of your neck prickle. Makes some long dead gut instinct stir.

"Love?"

"Hmm?"

You aren't sure what you're going to ask until the words are already spilling out.

"I hate to be a bother, but do you think you'll be able to run to town later? I want to make my mum's chocolate mousse and I need a few ingredients. I'm really craving it."

He raises a brow. "Y'know, I've never tried it. You kept promising to make it, but work always got in the way."

"You promised to marry me without trying my chocolate mousse? Terrible oversight. The sort of thing that leads to divorce."

He winks at you. "I had some other sort of dessert in mind when I proposed."

He locks the front door before he leaves, and waves at you before he drives off.

You give it five minutes before you start searching. Enough time to make sure he isn't turning back.

You aren't sure what you're looking for - you just want something to jog your memory. A smell, the angle of the sun on the tiles, a picture or two. Whatever it takes to explain why your body is afraid of a man who's given you no cause to fear.

Most of the rooms are locked. That bothers you. Why would you need locked doors in your own house?

It's his study that seems the most promising. But his laptop is encrypted and you give up after five failed attempts at cracking his password. His desk drawers don't yield much beyond discarded receipts and half empty pens.

Well, until the last one.

It's locked, but after a few minutes of searching, you're rewarded with a key. Taped to the underside of the desk, totally out of sight and reach unless you're in a wheelchair.

Score.

The drawer is stuffed to bursting and it takes you a while to work it open. When you finally succeed, you're met with a stack of meaningless papers. Names and places you don't recognise.

You try to bite back your relief. Don't get too happy too soon. There might still be - if not skeletons - bones in the closets.

You shuffle through the pages without finding anything suspicious. You're about to put them back when you notice the phone.

It's tossed at the very back of the drawer with a few other odds and ends. You dig them out, not sure what you're looking at.

A man's ID. Neither the name nor the picture bear any resemblance to your fiancé. You don't recognise the owner.

Odd, but not insanely so. Maybe he's just holding onto it for someone.

A leather bracelet, with a metal band attached. You flip it over to read the engraving.

Forever and a day.

Still not suspicious, you tell yourself. You don't wear every piece of jewellery you own. It's crazy to expect your man to.

It's only when you power the phone on that you run out of excuses.

The wallpaper is a copy of the framed picture in your bedroom upstairs.

Except it isn't your fiancé that's holding you.

You breath catches in your throat. The man from the ID, his dimples showing as he smiles at you.

The phone isn't locked but you're not sure where to start. There isn't any signal, and when you scroll through the call log you don't recognise any of the names or numbers.

Pictures then. Those ought to clear things up.

They don't. The gallery is messy, but it isn't hard to find the pictures of you. There are hundreds.

Casual pictures of the two of you hanging out - kissing this stranger on the cheek and doing mud masks together. Corporate shots from work conferences - the two almost always next to each other.

You scroll and scroll, a widow into a life you don't remember.

The man is wearing a ring in some of the most recent pics. The same simple gold band your fiancé has.

He's wearing the bracelet too. That promise - forever and a day - pressed against his pulse.

You can't hear your own thoughts over the pounding of your heart. If this stranger is your fiancé, then who the hell was in bed with you last night?

"Baby. What are you doing?"

You whirl to face the door, your wheelchair shrieking against the tile.

Your fiancé (is he really?) is standing in the doorway, his eyes on the phone still clutched to your chest.

"How did you find that?"

You don't answer him. When he takes a step into the room, you back away.

He stops, watches you with his hands raised, palms up like he's calming at animal.

"Who the hell are you?"

Your voice isn't strong, but it's strident. Rough with the edges of panic.

He flinches. "It's not what you think."

"What else could it possibly be? You lied to me. Why?"

A thousand little things are clicking into place. Small mysteries that don't seem quite so harmless with the full picture laid out in front of you.

You have to dig your voice out of your throat before you manage to speak.

"You're not really scared of germs, are you?"

He looks at you for a long time. The sweet, kind, caring man who isn't at all who he claims to be.

"No," he says at last, "I didn't wear the gloves or the mask because of the germs."

You try again, somehow more caustic.

"Tell me who you really are. Don't I deserve that much?"

"I'm the man you're meant to marry. What else matters?"

You grab the sides of your wheelchair, fulling intending to push yourself past him. Let him explain his story to the detectives and the district attorney. You want no part of it.

He jerks forward on instinct.

You blink and he closes the gap between the two of you. Slaps a hand over your mouth before you can scream.

God, how does he move so fast? You remember the hard muscles you felt when he hugged you to his chest last night. He might look harmless on the surface, but you're quickly realising the depths of his strength.

You twist your free hand in his shirt to shove him off but it's useless - you don't have any leverage at all. Your wheelchair rolls backwards until it's pinned against his desk.

He sighs and pulls the phone out of your hand.

You watch helplessly as he scrolls through the gallery, deleting one picture after the other.

"This is just a bit of silliness, baby. A little lapse in judgement. Your mind isn't what it used to be, you can't trust everything you see."

Whatever you try to say is muffled by his hand.

He sighs again and looks up at you, smiles in that prince charming way.

"Don't freak out, okay? This is exactly how things are meant to go. You and I were always endgame, baby. You just... forgot."

Your head is starting to ache. That same sharp, splitting pain you felt when you first woke up. His cologne is different today. Something woody and deep that makes your stomach churn. It's familiar, though you can't remember ever smelling it before.

He shuts the phone off and shoves it in his back pocket, his attention back on you.

His eyes have that awful glint to them again.

You think back to you hospital discharge - his name isn't anywhere on your papers. He's unrecognisable on camera with his mask and his hat. He's a ghost, as far as the investigation goes.

If there's an investigation at all.

As far as the authorities are concerned, you're safe at home with your fiancé. Your friends from the city (do you even have any? It's been so long since the last clear memory) probably assume you're on some incredible honeymoon with no cell service. No one knows where you are.

He tilts his head and runs his free hand down the column of your throat.

"We just need to jog your memory, that's all. You'll calm down once you realise exactly what happened."

His hand falls from your throat to your jeans, his thumb stroking half circles against your inner thigh.

"You were always meant to be mine, baby. That's what you told me, the night you asked me to kill your fiancé. You promised me it would be just the two of us, for forever and a day."

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

Taglist: @jsprien213 @trolleri-trollera @mel-vaz

#yandere #Yandere Movie Week #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere drabbles #x reader #yandere oc #reader insert #yandere oc x you #yandere x darling #Yandere Husband #Yan.txt

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ovadzs · 23 days ago

Text

“sportscar”-

summary: you are an endlessly talented artist/model/influencer and adored by millions of fans, but remain stubbornly single. this doesn’t stop your fans from shipping you with Lando Norris, though. So your best friend (and agent) Clara decides to set some things in motion behind your back. unfortunately, what she didn’t expect was the fact that you fucking despise that man. but it’s only a week of shooting together, for his brand and for your new song: sportscar. so, how bad can it be?

word count: 7.6k

fic content/warnings: female reader, use of you/she, enemies to lovers (one sided), hate/anger, lando is kinda ooc, kinda angsty, not properly proof read!!

author notes: hi gang!! this was SO entertaining to write but longgg and exam season is KICKING MY ASS so once i’m done i have an oscar fic waiting to write 😙 (childhood friends/lovers, fluffy and with posts etc can’t wait!!) this fic is obviously based on tate posting that INSANE video in the lando jersey omg ??? also, pink haired diva Clara might be my new reoccurring character cause i LOVE herrr !! anyway enjoy

Sometimes you forget how truly famous you are. How expansive your fanbase is. An established model, with a mass following. And now you’ve just sold out your first stadium show. You never believed in those ‘I've made it’ moments, but you were sort of feeling that way.

And you managed to do all it, somewhat on your own. Sure, you had a bit of help. People you depended on. Unwavering support from your parents, and your best friend Clara-your agent. Soulmates existed, you were sure of it. She was a great example of that, and you loved her more deeply than you thought possible. She was truly your greatest friend. You meant more like, without a partner. You were too career focused, too determined, to let a man get in your way. A liability, not worth taking. You had a cat, and a fucking massive apartment, and Clara, and a family you adored. What else did you need?

Well, the fans sure didn't feel the same. They clung onto every arm in photos, every appearance. They were desperate to see you with someone, regardless of what you wanted. They really annoyed you sometimes, but you were eternally grateful. Their choice of eligible bachelor at the moment was Lando Norris, the F1 Driver. It was no secret that you enjoyed F1, because you regularly went to watch the Miami Grand Prix, occasionally making appearances at others. And you were often sporting some orange clothes, or sometimes even Lando’s iconic neon merch. So naturally, they wanted to see you together. A definite ‘power couple.’ But funnily enough, you’d never actually met him. Your social circles seemed to refuse to overlap. Sure, he commented on some posts, and vice versa. Consistent story likes and good luck messages. You’re pretty sure he attended one of your shows last year, but you don't know for certain.

However, what you did know is that you LOVED messing with your followers. So you fished through your drafts, and found a video of you in your LN4 jersey, lip-syncing to a snippet of your upcoming song, ‘Sportscar.’ Without thinking, you hit post, grinning to yourself.

And not even a minute later, it's blown up, likes and comments flooding in. And one catches your eye, from the man himself.

‘good taste.’

You smirk slightly but don’t bother to like it, you just wait for the inevitable phone call from Clara instead.

“Okay, as your unspoken social media manager, please please PLEASE!!! warn me before you start posting crazy shit.” comes her flustered voice, her surprise etched clearly on her face through the screen.

“Sorry, I had to. The comments are just SO funny.” you admit, laughing at your fan accounts literally losing their minds. Clara’s hands are stained pink from the damp hair dye in her hair, and you cackle at how overwhelmed she looks. “I promise I'll give you at least 30 seconds of warning, next time, okay?”

She huffs. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, I was going to ask this yesterday and forgot, so this is perfect. I’ve been talking to Lando’s equivalent of me, I think. I don’t really know what he does. And he was hinting how brilliant a collab would be. I didn't agree to anything,” she says hurriedly, “but it would be brilliant. For us, and for them. Just think of the publicity!” she clamours, and you hear a chaotic crash behind her.

You’ve covered this before, so that's why she asks so quickly, because she knows what's coming.

“Clara, come on. You know I don’t want to do any collabs, or anything.” you say truthfully, but she just sighs as you, exasperated.

“Look, you’re like- shockingly famous and successful. You’ve made a name for yourself, and this isn’t going to change that.” she replies, and you know she's probably right, but you just can't do it.

You crave that independence, that knowledge that you’ve never thrown names around or cozied up to anyone to chase money and fame. You worked yourself to death, sleepless nights humming to yourself, sewing outfits. So you didn’t want anyone, even Norris, putting his name near yours. You could deal with the speculation, but you weren’t about to get outshone. Watch as with each photo that dropped, you slowly becoming an extension of him. Sure, you both owned your corners of the world, neither one of you more famous than the other. If anything, you were possibly more known than him. But there was something so horrifying, about your brand slowly becoming infused with foreign faces and strangers that you don't care for. You wouldn't mind having your family or Clara or your close friends dancing with you in a music video, or posing behind you in shoots. But a cash grab, a weak attempt to rise up the charts, you refused. Maybe it was petty. Maybe you were being stupid, but you didn’t care.

“Clara, it just doesn't feel right. Sure, it fits with Sportscar, and yeah maybe the fans would love it. And I'm happy to drop the occasional video or whatever, and I wouldn't even mind meeting him, but I don't want him anywhere near my name or my brand. I don't want anyone to clarify. I’m sure he’s great, it's not personal. You can tell that to HIS Clara, yeah?” you say clearly, and you see her nod, distracted.

And even though you trust her with your life, that faraway look in her eye stresses you out. There are very few things you disagree on, and this is one of them. You both know it. And you know how easily she could make a contract, and that's it. You and Lando, official partners. Of business, obviously. But she wouldn't do that, would she?

***

Funny, how varied your evenings were. Last night, typing away on your laptop, cosied up in bed, facetime Clara. Now, dressed in a tiny outfit and possibly too much makeup for such a dark space, catching the club lights on your belt buckle. You were in the poshest, most expensive club you could find, but the people inside didn't seem to reflect that. Rich, but dickheads. You wondered what you were doing there.

Clara was long gone, dancing under the lights nearby, twirling aimlessly with a group of people as wasted as her. You were often envious of how magnetic she was, easily drawing in people. You questioned how she was in the one in the shadows, and you were the famous one, prancing around on stage.

“HEY! Look who it is. Glad to finally meet you!” came a shockingly loud shout, right into your poor, unsuspecting ear.

“Fucking hell,” you mutter, batting away your assailant. You turn, expecting a crazed fan, but you’re surprised to see an offended Formula One driver instead.

“Oh. Oh! Lando, hey. Sorry about that.” you reply, dropping your raised arm. He comes too close to you again, shouting back into your ear.

“It’s okay!!!!!!” he bellows, and you have to resist the urge to hit him again. He’s slurring his words slightly, and you’re almost surprised he's still standing.

“Can you maybe, not? Shout in my ear, I mean. I can hear you.” you say matter of factly, suddenly feeling much more sober. You always got more irritable when you had something to drink, and right now Lando was getting on your last nerve, even if you’d literally just met.

“Oh yeah, sorry mate. I like your outfit, shame you’re not wearing my top though.” he says simply, swaying embarrassingly to the music. You smile at him gently, trying to stop your skin from crawling. It wasn't his fault, but you seriously didn't want to be there anymore. Maybe it was something about him being such a mystery, or some wild speculation. Him, being right there, barely thinking straight, was not what you wanted to see. You didn't even know why you'd come. You always hated clubs, the music was always too loud and you preferred dancing when you knew the choreography.

“Well, thanks. Didn’t feel like being a highlighter tonight though,” you joke, but it doesn't land. Probably because your arms are folded and your voice is deadly serious.

“Huh.” he says, clearly put off. “Thought you were a fan.” he mutters, rolling his eyes at you. And maybe he's joking too, but the tension isn't right, so you just roll your eyes back at him, and he stiffens.

This was not how you imagined meeting him for the first time. It was almost weird, how dry the air was between you. You just, didnt mind him? He’d annoyed you a bit, sure, but that was forgivable. But there was no excitement, no tension, nothing.

“Do you want to dance, or something?” he asks suddenly, watching you eye up the door.

You pause, trying to be polite. “Sorry, I’m actually exhausted. I promise I'm not usually this tense, really. I’m just going to go home, but I need to let my friend know. The pink haired one, there. You see her?” you point, grinning at her as she points back between you and Lando, but you subtly shake your head at her. You hope he doesn't notice, but unfortunately for you, he does.

He straightens up by you, scowling a bit. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll see you around then, maybe.” he says firmly, and you just nod reassuringly. You let Clara know you’re leaving and she quickly hugs you goodbye as you make your way to the door.

As soon as you step out, and the cool night breeze hits your face, you immediately feel so much better. You almost want to apologise to Lando,since he was clearly just loud and irritatingly happy, but it's too late.

“Hey, wait up!!”

Maybe it isn't too late.

“Huh, Lando? What are you doing out here?” you ask, and he pauses for breath.

“I felt like maybe it was awkward back there? Like I was annoying you or something, and I wanted to apologise, in case I did something.” he says, still hiccuping slightly.

You laugh, it coming out colder than you intended. Like you were laughing at his average apology.

“No, it’s fine.” you say firmly, smiling gently now.

He nods, unconvinced. “So, why’d you shake your head, when fucking Pinkie-Pie in there asked about me?” he replies, sounding sort of angry. You can tell he didn't mean to offend you, but your jaw slackens.

“She prefers other animated characters. Starfire, at least. Although her personal favourite is being compared to Granmamare from Ponyo. However, her name works just fine. Clara.” you say decidedly, giving him one last chance, before you actually do get annoyed.

“Don’t know it, sorry. But hey, that's Clara, huh? She’s been in contact with my agent a lot recently, right?” he replies.

Thankful he dropped the head shake, you nod. “Yeah, but I don’t do collabs.” you murmur, still not warming up to him.

He seems to feel the same. “What, not good enough for you?” he replies snarkily, sneering at you.

“What? Of course not.” you fire back, earnestly, but he’s clearly got that into his head.

“One look at me, and you tell Clara it's not happening. One shake of the head,yeah? Not worth the time, yeah?” he continues, and hitting him crosses your mind for a second time.

“Oh, get over it! It’s not about you. You’re too loud, and too drunk. I don’t even know you, what are you doing right now? Coming up with another bullshit apology? I told you I was tired, how egotistical can you be?” you shriek, and it all comes spilling out of you.

You rarely take your anger out on anyone, but here he is. A drunk, angry, confused, Lando, who keeps fucking looking at you like you’re some elitist snob, like he isn’t filthy rich too. An easy easy target.

“Fucking hell, I chased after you because I DID want to get to know you, and thought I’d blown it just cause you’re in a bad mood. But no, turns out you’re just, mean? I’m not egotistical, just aware. Don’t try and act like I’m wrong.” he calls back, matching your volume.

You scoff loudly, stomping towards him. The air isn't dry now, it's full of venom and anger. Also, you’re freezing, and he’s evidently warm from his flushed face and the way you can feel his hot breath and the heat radiating from his body.

“I’m not mean, dickhead. You called MY best friend Pinkie-pie!!” you protest, and as soon as the words leave your mouth, you realise you’re definitely drunker than you thought.

He laughs at you, and you lose it.

“You know what, you’re right. I don’t do collabs, like ever. But I was close to thinking about reaching out to you. I thought you’d be cool, or whatever. And instead you're just a little boy, who can’t handle alcohol and bellows in people’s ear. You’re obnoxious!!” you shout, your faces practically touching.

He opens his mouth to speak, but you shake your head.

“No, no I’m not done!!” you continue, spinning away from him, laughing. “Yeah, maybe it was bullshit. I’m not tired. You just made me irritated. Like, those two lines of talking with you dampened my fucking mood. But you know what? What if I was just tired? Tired, and drunk, and walking home. And you were going to come over and what? Hound me for answers about some weird gesture I did to my friend. Call me an angry, mean, antisocial bitch?” you ask, letting all your emotions fly out viciously from your hoarse throat.

He’s visibly hurt, but also visibly impressed. He just blinks, unsure of what to do next.

“Soooo, Mr Norris. No, I will not be seeing you around, maybe. Thank fuck we aren’t collaborating together, huh? It would've been a nightmare.”

“A trainwreck.” he agrees, clearly bemused.

“Wow, glad we finally agreed on something!” you say sarcastically, turning around to begin your walk home. But you pause, flipping him off first, and you stare at him long enough to see him return the favour. And the only thing you can think to do, to essentially get the last word, is to stick your tongue out at him.

And then he's blinking again, surprised, and you speed off before you see any other of his facial expressions.

“For the record, I didn't call you a bitch.” he calls out, but you keep your finger firmly extended in the air.

***

The next day flies by, but you spend almost all of it in bed, replaying the night before. His stupid, smug, face. You actually start to hate him more now. Who was he, to think he had some claim to getting to know you?

What a pathetic little man.

You were desperate to ramble about your interaction with Clara, but she was knocked out, you presumed. She hadn’t been online for almost 18 hours.

So when her little icon changes from an offputting grey to vivid green, you grin, eagerly calling her.

“Oh my GOD Clara. He was not what I was expecting at all! Insufferable, really. I’ve been thinking about how I dodged a bullet, and I’m so seriously grateful I can avoid him indefinitely now. Might have to burn my merch.” you joke loudly, properly waking her up.

She freezes, guilt clouding her whole face. And then she bursts into the loudest fit of giggles you’ve heard in a while.

“What if I told you you didn’t dodge that bullet, like, at all? And at 10am tomorrow you have a shoot with him? Wearing his brand?” she stammers, still giggling and you feel a laugh bubble in your throat.

But when she looks at you, suddenly deadly serious, that laugh sours and viciously burns you. And you've never wanted anything more than to strangle her. So you hang up instead.

CLARA:

im sorry

lol

not that sorry

no wait yes i am

i shouldnt of gone behind ur back like that, ofc

but im not sorry that lando is an asshole

can i come watch pls

YOU:

stfu

ur lucky i havent fired you

wait

why havent i fired u yet ??

consider this a formal warning

CLARA:

hes hot tho

YOU:

this is ur boss

what r u talking about

CLARA:

lando ?

liek sure maybe hes annoying asf but

like***

you’ll defo look good together

YOU:

idk what ur talking about

hes not even the best looking driver on the grid

also hes punching

CLARA:

its just a shoot babe ur not betrothed

btw the contract goes both ways

ur not just modelling for him

YOU:

whatthefuckdoumean

clara

what did u do

…

clara this is ur boss

reply immediately

CLARA:

“boy dont make me choose”

guess whos playing said ‘boy’ in the sportscar mv

thank me later???

YOU:

oh my

please be joking

have u READ??? those lyrics

ur taking the mick

im going to kill you

this actually cant be happening

has HE READ THOSE LYRICS?

oh my god

cnacnel

abort immediately

CLARA:

10am tomorrow

ill send u the address later

enjoy x

btw u legally have to go

like u might get sued if u dont

not might, will. please go!!

YOU:

i want u on the set for sportscar too

CLARA:

umm, why? as your intimacy co-ordinator

hah im SO funny

YOU:

so i can run u over

you can admire him up close as you both become speedbumps

that wasnt funny btw

***

You barely sleep, and when the sun rolls into your room, you sigh, waving it away. Doomsday is a mere few hours away, and you can’t get his stupid fucking face out of your head. You actually hate him. Truly, hate him. And you hate hating people, so this really isn’t ideal.

Also, ‘sportscar’ is kind of insane, by your standards. Unhinged, maybe. You didn't even WANT to make a music video for it, but they are sort of your thing. So you thought something cool, you driving around or something. A strategic orange car (again, you enjoyed messing with fans.) but you hadn't thought about having really anyone else but you. It was an awkward video to film with anyone, sure. And you weren’t exactly, not awkward?

You raise your head from your pillow, just to throw it straight back down, exasperated. A shoot, you could get through, just. But some of the lyrics, the general impression of the song? Even you wouldn't be able to pass that off as a little joke, that was actually crazy. What was Clara THINKING? You curse her again, for the millionth time that day, and you watch the clock tick. Until you seriously do have to get up.

She’d instructed you to come with no makeup, nothing. Just show up, and his stylists would take care of the rest. The silence, the lights, flashes would all be bearable. But posing with him, fake-smiling at him? Definitely a challenge. You actually felt the life being sucked out of you at the thought. So you breathe, cracking a grin, and you let your face get used to it. Since you’d be plastering that all day.

***

The studio is nice. Modern. Not too big, but not cramped either. Plenty of make-up artists, hair stylists, designers flit around, but you aren't claustrophobic. That is until he walks in, and then suddenly the walls collapse on you.

He grins straight at you, overly cheerily, and you instinctively scowl back. Oops. Good start. In response he mimes like he’s just been shot, deeply wounded, on the brink of death. You just shake your head, rolling your eyes at his immaturity. That practiced smile, immediately disappearing.

About half an hour later, you’re both dressed and ready. You sport a more subtle LN4 themed outfit, with small details sewn throughout your matching top and bottom half. He’s wearing a more masculine outfit, in a darker colour, but you both look incredibly harmonious. And surprisingly, you realise Clara is right. You actually do sort of look brilliant together. Shame he’s so fucking annoying.

The photographer seems blissfully unaware of how much you detest the man to your right. Either he’s an idiot, or you’re an incredible actor. You assume it’s a bit of both.

So when he asks you to sit on a block beside Lando, and rest your head carefully on his chest, you almost start a riot.

Lando winks at you, and you swear you might just kill him, right there on camera. But you just breathe, not looking at him any longer, and you smile gently for the flash in front of you.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asks, murmuring into your ear. It's an improvement from when he deafened you, but you hate how close he is.

“Immensely so.” you hiss back, and he laughs at you bitterly.

So you decide to ram your pretty large heel straight into his foot, bitterly. And although he doesn't yelp, like you hoped, he grimaces and you feel him stiffen. Good enough.

“Sorry, are you uncomfortable? You sure look uncomfortable.” you whisper back, and you watch his bared teeth shift into a dazzling smile. ANd you realise Clara is right, yet again. A theme you were not liking. But admittedly, he was attractive. And that just made you even more annoyed.

The rest of the day went by about the same. You basically either looked like you wanted to die, or you wanted him to die, until you heard the click. Then you were smiling, like you actually didn’t mind staring at him warmly as the photographer walked around you.

Then came an unexpected brief- just talk naturally. Candids, they wanted. So they positioned you next to each other, spread out on the same sleek couch, your legs occupying the same small space, and told you to have a conversation.

You had nothing you wanted to say to him, so you waited for him to speak first. So he did.

“You truly are a professional, huh?” he comments, a permanent gleam in his eyes.

“Can’t say the same for you. I wouldn’t quit your day job.” you snap back, absent-mindedly.

“Wasn’t going to. I love racing.” he replies, shrugging, and you decide to give him a moment of respite from your disgusting looks and harsh words.

“Okay, that's common ground. Let's talk about it, alright? That way he’ll get his photos, and I can get out of here.” you say firmly, and he cocks his head to the side, staring at you inquisitively.

“Alright. Sure. So, what’s your favourite race you’ve been to?” he asks, and you pause.

“Miami, last year, was pretty good.” you admit, forgetting one crucial detail about that race.

He didn't, though. His eyebrows shoot up, hidden behind his curly hair.

“Are you kidding? My first race win, and that’s your favourite. And I thought you HATED me! Hah.” he laughs, triumphantly, and you groan.

“Shut up. And I didn’t hate you then. Cause I didn't know you then.” you say slowly, not realising how truly harsh your words are.

“You don’t even know me, now.” he replies, not missing a beat.

“I know enough.” you shoot back simply, but he just shakes his head at you, exasperated.

“You really don’t. Come on, you could give me another chance.” he mutters, and you hum back at him.

“Yeah, I could. But I pay a lot of attention to first impressions.” you fire back, and he smiles slightly.

“Pretty sure you flipped me off and then stuck your tongue out at me all in the space of two seconds, and I don’t hate you, so?” he sighs, and you just roll your eyes at him, suppressing your own smile.

‘I don't hate you, so.’

You think deeply, ignoring him getting up. Ignoring the photographer packing up. It isn’t until Lando sticks his calloused hand directly above you, helping you up, that you realise you’re finally done. How relieving.

And you take it gracefully, hoisting yourself up. But you just can’t help it. His smirking face. So you yank him backwards, throwing him back onto the couch, and you burst into laughter. The only genuine smile you’ve shown all day. And then you hear it, and you freeze. That stupid click.

And you see that idiot photographer, his face literally beaming. Like he’s just won the lottery. And as you admire the bewildered expression on Lando's face, you realise he has. It’s a great shot.

***

And two days later, your end of the bargain is over. You don’t give Clara any updates. You refuse. She doesn’t deserve the drama. All you tell her is that he’s as annoying as you expected, and you still truly loathe him, but you like his team. And it's funny, making fun of him. You tell her you preferred the Quadrant half of the deal, since you met the designer. How you thought she would love her. And how much you hate her for what’s happening at the weekend.

That’s when he messages you.

LANDO:

whats sportscar actually about?

me??

YOU:

ew no

i thought i blocked u??

get out my dms

LANDO:

harhar

seriously

drop those lyrics

YOU:

you don’t like surprises?

LANDO:

no,i do, but i see the way u look at me when i mention it

like u wanna scratch my eyes out

so go on

YOU:

u asked for it

*photo

LANDO:

i see

that will be fun

YOU:

careful

or i actually will block u

LANDO:

no u wont

your fans will notice

and then u cant randomly drop references of me anymore

which u clearly love to do

YOU:

“harhar”

goodbye lando

LANDO:

see u soon

YOU:

unfortunately

***

The weekend came too soon. No one knew just how much content you and Lando were about to drop. You’d agreed to drop the music video simultaneously with his new collection, so the explosion happened once, and you could face the aftermath together.

And this time, when you arrived at your own studio, your own set, you felt much more relaxed, even though the filming was much more daunting. This was your team. Photos of you and them scattered around. Your favourite director, waving at you. Costumes and lights and greenscreens. Your name, on a door. Clara’s, beside yours. So when he walks in, scouring the scene, your stomach sours. You’d almost forgotten he was coming, to disrupt the peace.

“So, your turf, huh?” he announces, reading your mind.

“Yup. You ever been in a music video before, Norris?” you ask, arms folded.

“Nope.” he replies honestly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. And for a moment, a tiny moment, you think he might just be a little bit nervous.

“Well, you’ll be fine, I'm sure. I said Clara could look after you. She’s more of a fan than I am.” you joke, signalling her over.

She practically skips over, grinning at you. “She’s lying. Not a clue who you are, really. She’ll never drag me to a stupid race. I just called you hot once. To annoy her, may I add. Alright ‘boy’, let's go.” she says rapidly, but choosing to drag the word ‘boy’ heavily, glaring at you.

“Hey, Pinkie-pie. I was looking forward to meeting you, truly. I would've introduced myself the other night, but we all know how that went.” he replies, mimicking her dramatic tone, and she laughs at him. And you hate that they immediately fit together, really well. There's no fire in his eyes when he looks at her, only light.

And she drags him away, so you sidle up to your director. Bardia smiles at you.

“I must admit, I was surprised that you brought Lando here. I didn’t realise you were actually together, I thought it was a big joke.” he huffs, and you stare at him, absolutely horrified.

“Please, never say that again. Lando and I are NOT together- that would be- actually-” you begin, trying not to gag. You’re glad disgust is your main emotion, because for a brief moment you were worried there. That maybe you didn’t hate him anymore. But with what you feel at that suggestion, you’re reassured that you do still detest that man.

He looks at you, confused. “You know we’re filming for ‘sportscar,’ today. Yes? As in, this song.” he begins, playing it from the speakers. And when you watch Lando hear it for the first time and his breath hitches, you find yourself pausing too.

“Yes, I know. Don’t remind me. Clara was an idiot. But seriously, we’re just acquaintances.” you stress, trying not to listen to your own voice.

He scoffs. “Fine, I’ll cut out some of the ideas I had. They definitely won't work if you don't get along, but you’ll have to act like you’re together, alright?”

You blink and nod, trying not to think of what ideas he was thinking of.

***

You love Bardia’s vision, as usual, and paired with Brett’s styling, you both look admittedly phenomenal. And other than a brief moment, when you accidentally exploded at him for getting in your way (you said a lot of things that were unbelievably cruel), it goes quite well. Although, after your outburst, he seemed to shrink a bit. He didn’t argue back, just listened to instructions. Pulled faces when you needed him to. And honestly? You liked him more like that. You were just happy to be almost done with him.

A lot of it was solo work, or you and a few backup dancers. So you made an effort to not watch him and Clara joke off set, laughing to each other. You just focused on the carefully curated choreography, satisfied when you hit each beat. But because you weren't looking at him, you didn't see him looking at you. Staring. His laughs to Clara were absent-minded. He focused entirely on each move you made, admiring your determination. Your subtle skill.

Bardia always shot in chronological order, so you were fucking finally nearing the end of the song, and your torture could end. So when you catch Clara staring at you wide-eyed as he tells her his plans for the outro, you realise this was going to become an actual nightmare.

A train wreck, as someone you know would say.

She rushes over to you as you sip on some water, trying to avoid eye contact with Lando.

“You’re about to blow up again.” she announces, a disgusting smile stretching up her face.

“What.” you say sullenly.

“How comfortable are you sitting on Lando’s lap?” she asks wickedly, and your jaw drops.

“Um, that isn’t happening?” you reply quickly.

“Well, you wrote it in. ‘We can share one seat,’ and all that.” she sings, and you drop your head into your hands.

“No, I refuse to do that.” you respond, shrugging.

“Huh, Lando said you’d refuse. Funny, knows you better than you think.”

“No, he just knows I hate him.” you mutter, shaking your head profusely.

“I don’t think it's that. He thinks you’re scared of him. That you don’t want to be too close to him, but not because you hate him. He’s very cocky, I’ll admit that.” she says, shrugging back.

“You’re JOKING. He doesn’t think it's that, trust me.” you shriek back, and she nods sarcastically.

“I think I’ve spoken to him more in the last half an hour than you have, well, ever. He definitely thinks you’re into him.” she laughs, and you get very very angry again.

“Well, he can fuck off. Fucking idiot. Tell Bardia I want this done, so let's hurry up.” you mumble, and Clara runs off. And across the room, you meet his stare, and you shake your head incredulously at him. He just blinks back.

***

“How come you’re looking at me so funny?” he asks, sitting comfortably in the driver's seat of the car they’d rolled onto set.

While you were dancing, they’d done some outdoor scenes with him, and you’d heard him rambling about the drifting he’d done, grinning about the car. He did look like he belonged behind the wheel -in all fairness.

“Because Clara told me about your stupid ideas.” you mutter, ignoring the confusion on his face as you clamber over the gap between the passenger seat.

“Um, okay. This is new. What ideas?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably as you climb onto him, trying to hide your awkwardness.

“That I was into you.” you huff, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I didn't say that, but you are literally all over me.” he responds, sitting up straighter. He gently lifts your legs, giving him space to move to get comfortable, and you pretend to ignore how his hands burn your bare skin.

“Oh, come on.” you say, turning to face him. But the genuine innocence on his face is so believable you actually realise what happened.

Clara was SO lucky they had started recording. You’d never hated her so much as you did right now.

His comment earlier about you being a professional was absolutely correct though, and you were proving it. You sang along quietly, so quietly that Lando was probably the only person who could hear you, but it kept you on beat.

And every word you moved, leaned, gestured. To anyone watching, it would seem like you belong there, your limbs intertwined with his. That he isn’t making you uncomfortable, no, merely the opposite. That you dont want anything more than to get away from him, the skin to skin contact actually driving you insane. And with each thought, with each shiver, you press further into him, feeling the music. It was your song, after all. Clara was right, you had written this in. And as much as you despise her, that snake, you are absolutely loving the bizarre look you are getting from Lando. He has a cap on, that matched your top, and that was very lucky for him. Because he was, like you’d said, NOT a professional. His obvious confusion, and the way he kept looking away from you, was hilarious. So you pull down his cap, so it almost completely covers his face, meaning his curls poke out the back.

“Stop blushing, Norris. And stop looking like you want to run away. I’m trying my very best to act like I don't want to throw up right now, please do the same.” you whisper, your lips grazing his ear.

He doesn’t respond, but he reacts instead. He throws the cap off his head, as if to prove to you he isn’t flushed, but you’re not very convinced.

“Brilliant. We got exactly what we needed. I can’t think of a better scene for the outro, really. You should pay Clara for her originality, alongside her services. IF I’m not careful, she’ll be taking my job soon.” jokes Bardia, and if looks could kill, the one you shoot Clara would’ve had her dead instantly.

You practically leap off Lando, like he was burning you, and you charge straight for her.

“You need to fuck off, Clara.” you say, seething.

You very very rarely argue, and you’ve never been so mad at her, so this was new. This hostility. Between her and Lando, you couldn’t tell who was worse.

She looks taken aback. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I was just, I thought it was funny. I was going to tell him to change his plan, but he had a vision by then, and you’d already got on set-” she starts, but you just shake your head at her.

“Cut the bullshit apology. You’ve been such a pain about this whole thing. I let it go, that you even did this, and I shouldn’t have. But I did, because I love you. And every fucking day that I spent angry, and irritable, and stressed, I tried to not blame you. I think that's why I hated him so much. Because I just didn't want to be mad at you, because I NEED YOU. You’ve always been there. One of the few people I trust with my life. And you stabbed me in the fucking back. And here I am, anxious and angry and way out of my depth, and then you pulled out the knife, just to stab me again. But yeah, hope that was real fucking funny.” you shout, ignoring her cringing eyes and the sudden silence of the room.

“Leave Pinkie-Pie alone, yeah? Come on, let's get some water or something.” comes a voice, and a hand on your shoulder. And why he thought you’d want to talk to him, of all fucking people, is absurd.

“Her name is Clara. You two aren’t friends, unless you’re part of some fucking club to piss me off, maybe? I do not need you wading in here, okay? Leave me the fuck alone. We’re done, contracts over. Video launches in a week, and that's it. Never have to speak to each other again, Norris. Let's start now. Get out of here, please.” you snarl, not looking him in the eyes.

You pause.

“Actually, no. I’ll leave. You two can have a chat or something, maybe about how else you can go behind my back, and how you can then make me want to shoot myself!” you shout, shrugging, looking from Clara to Lando. And you turn and storm out, practically running home.

***

Its ‘sportscar’ release day. You've seen the video. It was actually great. And setting the emotions aside, the ending made sense. But you can't really watch it, past the first minute, without wanting to scream. So you don’t.

The fans however? They go mental. Like, inconsolable. Losing their minds.

Comments flood in, endless. All the same, your name and Landos. A few, about the song being great. A few, crediting the designers of Lando’s new merch, but it's a few. And it's exactly what you knew was going to happen, that you were so upset by.

Everyone, violent and relentless.

‘‘The way they look at each other!”

“this is an insane hard launch omfgg??”

“wait , r they actually together?”

“I KNEW IT.”

“Lando, one chance please.”

“They look so good together”

“i just died omfg”

Millions. Literally millions of comments all like that. And you hate it, that you were so not in control of this. That now, everyone thought you were dating a man you didn't even like. Someone who had made last week one of the hardest of your life. Every comment, a reminder of Clara, laughing. But you didn’t want to let everyone view you like this. So you had to do something.

Photos, videos. Of you and Lando, at each other's throats. Your arguments. Someone had even managed to get a video of you from that night when you first met. So you made a somewhat innocent photo dump, throwing in the occasional fight. In a way that genuinely presented you both as insufferable.

Your caption was harsh, but honest. “Crazy couple of weeks. Nice to meet Norris finally, but didn’t expect him to be so annoying!!. Anyway, hope you all like ‘sportscar!’ thanks everyone xx” @landonorris

He commented almost immediately.

“yeh, crazy is a good word. thanks for the new experience. sorry for being such a pain in the ass.”

It was sad. Not even that flippant. And you almost, almost, felt bad. Your anger, maybe misplaced. But, he was still undeniably annoying. Regardless if he deserved your wrath or not, that was still true. It always was going to be.

But someone who definitely DID deserve your anger was Clara. You hadn’t spoken since, which was shockingly unusual for you two. But you were hurting, and she still hadn’t really apologised.

CLARA:

hi! i know you probably dont want to talk, but can u open the door? can we talk anyway?

You huff, and get up. Classic. She hated knocking, never did. She just came in. She literally had a key.

You open the door, to see her sad face. Red, probably from exhaustion. She didn't cry often.

“Come in.”

And she does, sitting on your sofa.

“Look, I’m so so sorry. Like really. I just, I didn’t think about how you were feeling. I just thought about the numbers. And, you know, you. I thought that maybe you only hated him so much because you liked him, and you were scared. It wouldn’t be the first time. And, look, I know this is awful of me, but you know I’ve always loved meddling. And I didn’t say it back, but I love you too. Always. You’re literally my sister, and I don't know what I’d do without you. I mean, this week nearly killed me. I know forgiving me won't be easy, but I didn't have malicious intentions. Yeah, maybe I thought it would be humorous. I didn't think you really hated him that much, that you'd say yes just to prove him wrong.That's unlike you, really. I was surprised.” she explains, her voice cracking.

“I just, the fans, you know. They wanted it so badly. It seemed almost unreal. I don’t know, I just thought you were making a big deal out of nothing. And although I could totally see how and why he pissed you off, he was more tolerable than I was expecting. “ she finishes shakily, and you really stare at her.

Her bloodshot eyes. Her messy pink hair, plaited lazily. Still dressed in her favourite pyjamas, like she came here in a frenzy. Like this was eating her up. And you just couldn’t. You just couldn’t let this ruin you.

So you hug her tightly, feeling her melt into your shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m okay. We’ll be okay.” you murmur reassuringly. And you realise that you will be, definitely.

“You didn't give me 30 seconds, by the way. Again. Before you posted that clear hatepost.” she mutters, her voice muffled.

You laugh. “Yep, sorry. The shipping was annoying. Thought that might make them back off.”

She sighs. “You don’t know your fans at all, do you? They think you rejected him, or something. Or you’re keeping it a secret. Or it was a joke, to cause drama. But most of them just think you’re madly in love, so. This isn’t going away. I’m sorry.”

***

Miami weekend. Upcoming anniversary of your favourite race, was how Lando was thinking of it. And you were coming. You’d been spotted around, a week early. Lando was also here early, because he loved Miami too.

You didn’t know that, though. So you weren’t expecting to bump into him in the city, surrounded by people in the busy street right by the track.

“Oh. Lando. Hi.” you say briskly, trying to walk on, but he stops you.

“Coming for the race? I’m going to win again, you know. Unless that would annoy you.” he replies, smiling weakly, but you know he doesn't mean it. That comment clearly hurt.

“Yeah, I am. Have your new hoodie in my bag, if you don’t mind me wearing it.”

He shrugs. “Of course not. Assuming Pinkie-Pie isn’t with you, I can get you into the garage, if you want.”

You pause. “No, don’t worry. And, you know I only posted that to try and shut up some of the fans. I didn't mean it.”

“Yeah, you did. It's okay. And I’m assuming you don't want to be seen with me then? All these fans, taking photos. Sorry. I’ll let you go now.” he nods, and he drops your hand. You hadn’t even realised he was holding it.

Shit, that wasn’t going to help, was it? Suddenly, you're hyperaware of everyone. Cameras, fans laughing and pointing, waiting for Lando to sign caps, or for a photo with you.

“You know, I’m sorry we can’t be friends. You know, maybe if we’d met differently. If we weren't stuck doing those stupid shoots. If we’d met, like here. Naturally. If the fans hadn’t built us into something. I don't know.” you mumble, thinking, and turning away.

“Well, I realised I didn’t want to be friends, like after we first met too.”

That takes you by surprise.

“Huh, was it the head shake? Or the middle finger? Or calling us an inevitable nightmare?” you ask, teasing. You walk back towards him, interested in what he was going to reply.

He shakes his head. “No, I meant I didn't want to be friends.” he responds, lowering his voice.

Oh.

And before you have time to figure out what to say back, or if you can run away, he looks directly at you.

“You know what? Fuck it.” he mutters, and then he’s right there. His face, right against yours. But he doesn’t move, just stares at you expectantly.

“Tell me not to. Push me away. Hiss in my face, tell me how fucking annoying I am. How much you hate me. Say it, right now, and I’ll fuck off. Genuinely, you’ll never see me again, like you wanted.” he whispers, daring you.

And you look at him, dead in the eyes. Admiring his curly hair, and the slight nervousness etched on his smile. And your heart is beating so loudly, it drowns out all the things you could say to him. So you say nothing.

And that's what he wanted. His lips crash onto yours, and your hands snake around his neck and into the bottom of his hair, while he wraps himself around you. You can feel him grinning against your mouth, and you pull away to laugh at him, and he laughs with you.

And he seems a lot less annoying when you go back to kiss him again.

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 #fanfic #lando norris #lando x reader #lando x you #formula 1 #tate mcrae #fanfiction #music #fame au #enemies to lovers #angst #fluff #cute #best friends #pink #mclaren

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capuccinodoll · 8 days ago

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The boyfriend act, part 16: "The one with the unnamed surprise" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Domesticity wraps itself around your days with Frankie. He asks you to cover your eyes. In front of you, an unnamed surprise. In front of him, a named one. WC: 9K

A/N: So, here’s the thing... yesterday I said I was going to post a snippet, but when I sat down to choose one, I got distracted writing, and one thing led to another and I ended up writing and editing the whole chapter so here it is part 16 YAY!!! Also, sorry for being MIA. I had a minor surgery this week (I’m okay, don’t worry) and I have two exams next monday (not yay). Thank you so much for your comments and messages—I promise I’ll reply to all of them 🤍🫶🏻 In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Sunday, October 27th

You stepped out of Helena’s front door and into the soft warmth of late-morning sun, your cheeks catching the light like it had been waiting for you. The front yard smelled faintly of leaves and old roses. Behind you, Frankie’s shoes thudded against the wooden steps.

“It was really lovely to see you, sweetheart,” Helena said, her hand settling gently on your shoulder. “Don’t wait so long next time, okay?”

Before you could answer, Frankie cut in automatically. “I won’t, Mom. I promise.”

Helena turned to him with a half-laugh, rolling her eyes. “I wasn’t talking to you. Although, frankly, you could stand to come around more too, don’t you think?”

You smiled, unsure where to look. Frankie exhaled a soft laugh behind you, his hand brushing your back.

Mai came out then, barefoot, a Tupperware container clutched to her chest.

“Here,” she said, holding it out. Her hair was messy, in a effortless way that made her look even younger. “Apple pie. Still warm, so don’t tilt it or whatever.”

You nodded, the pie heavier in your hands than you expected. “Thank you.”

Mai lingered for a second, then added, “I’ll text you about the party, okay?”

“I’ll be waiting.” You smiled, already imagining her message appearing on your phone screen later that evening. Then you felt it—Frankie’s hand sliding onto your waist, just resting there.

“And what about me?” he said, a crooked smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “You’re not gonna text me?”

Mai didn’t even look at him. “You’re part of the package deal.”

You lingered after that—talking a little more with Helena about your next visit. She insisted on dinner. Mai, predictably, lobbied for a restaurant this time. There was laughter. And comfort. And something that felt like belonging.

It had changed, coming here now. It wasn’t performance anymore. You didn’t have to manufacture the way your shoulder leaned into his, or time your glances like stage directions. You didn’t have to imagine the tension. It existed, dense and unmistakable and terribly real.

And maybe that made everything more complicated. Because now, it mattered.

You wanted them to like you. Not because you were pretending to belong—but because, somehow, you already did.

A few days ago, Frankie had mentioned that his sister, Sofía, was organizing an event at her flower shop. She did it every year with her best friend Caroline, who owned a small bakery a few blocks away. People would gather at the shop to read poems, short stories, essays they’d scribbled into journals or typed up on quiet Sunday afternoons. Frankie admitted it wasn’t really his thing—he said it made him tired, that he never stayed long when he did go. But he looked at you as he said it, a crooked half-smile at the edge of his mouth, and told you he thought you'd enjoy it. So he wanted to take you.

And he was right. You spent most of the afternoon in the flower shop, the scent of eucalyptus and dried lavender hanging in the air around you. There were too many folding chairs and not enough standing room. The walls were lined with pale wooden shelves holding glass vases and hand-lettered signs. Helena had come, too, along with Grace, and the four of you drifted in and out of conversations while people took turns reading at the front. Grace stayed close to you, asking you questions with a curiosity that didn’t feel invasive. She spoke with this open, thoughtful cadence that made her seem older than she was.

At one point, she leaned toward you and whispered, “I’m glad you’re dating my uncle. You’re a good person. It’s kind of a relief.” You turned toward her with a small, surprised smile.

You thanked her softly, genuinely, but there was a slight weight tugging at the corners of your expression. That word relief had a way of sticking. You didn’t ask what she meant by it, but you thought about Rachel. You didn’t even want to think about Rachel, but your mind circled back anyway. That vague, unfinished narrative that hovered somewhere behind Frankie’s eyes whenever her name was mentioned. You didn’t have the full picture.

Later, when the readings ended and the chairs were folded and stacked near the counter, Helena invited you both to her house for lunch. You said yes without thinking. It felt easy, natural.

And now, days later, you were in the car, the sky clear and quiet above the windshield, your hand resting on the gentle curve of your stomach. Full. Content in that lazy, familiar way that comes after a big homemade meal.

“Your mom is such a good cook,” you murmured, stretching your feet out and leaning your head against the window. The glass was cool and the sunlight flickered through the leaves. “I could go over there more often.”

Frankie chuckled under his breath, eyes still on the road, one hand loosely on the wheel.

“I mean, no pressure,” you added, glancing at him. “You don’t have to be there. I can go on my own. Girls’ day, you know?”

He turned slightly, just enough to catch your face. “Oh yeah? And what would that look like?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. Talking about books, stuff… things you probably wouldn’t care about.”

“I like girls’ days.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you?”

“Sure. I can blend right in. You won’t even notice me. It'll be like I'm part of the decor.”

You laughed. “I really don’t think that’s how it works.”

He grinned, unfazed. “You could have your girls’ day. I’ll just be in the background. Silently appreciating your dynamic. Maybe even bring snacks.”

“Or,” you said, playful now, “you could have your own boys’ day. With Santiago and the rest of the guys. Talk about cars, or fishing, or whatever ancient rituals you people do to reaffirm your masculinity.”

Frankie looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I think I’d prefer both.”

You groaned. “God, don’t be corny.”

“A little corn never hurt anyone.”

“Yes, it did,” you said. “It hurt this conversation.”

Frankie rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked real irritation.

“Okay,” he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he was preparing to make a point. “But you've been to a lot of those hangouts with the guys too, don’t you think?”

“Sure, because Santi invited me. Or Benny. Or someone else who actually wanted me there.”

He glanced at you with a crooked grin. “And what, I’m not included in this girls' night elite invitation circle?”

You crossed your arms across your chest, leaning back against the car seat.

“Nope. You're not.”

He made a sound with his tongue and tilted his head toward you.

“Wow. Okay. I guess I won’t show you the really interesting and extremely cool thing I had planned.”

You laughed under your breath. “You don’t have anything to show me.”

“I do, actually.” He looked over at you again, sideways this time, as if the full force of eye contact might give too much away. “Something you would’ve loved. Not just liked—loved. Like, told-Emma-about-it kind of loved.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Guess I’ll just take you home then. Let you sit with your own bad decisions.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, don’t even try it, Francisco. You’re not going to manipulate me. That routine doesn’t work on me.”

He let out a genuine laugh this time, brief and low in his throat, shaking his head as he returned his attention to the road.

Ten minutes later, you were standing at the threshold of his house. Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and slid it into the lock. The mechanism clicked. He paused before pushing the door open and turned toward you with something mischievous flickering behind his eyes.

“Okay,” he said, stepping in closer. “I need you to close your eyes.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“I’m deadly serious.” He moved his hand up and gently placed it over your face, fingers spanning nearly the whole length from your forehead to your chin. “Eyes shut until I say. Do you understand?”

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth of his palm against your skin oddly reassuring. “I promise.”

“Good.”

You heard him exhale, the door creaking open. The sound of hinges, followed by his fingers slipping away from your eyes. A moment later, he took your hand. His grip was easy, steady. He guided you through the doorway and into the house, and you could hear the sound of the door closing softly behind you. You let him lead you, each step unfamiliar in the darkness behind your eyelids. The scent of something floral lingered faintly in the hallway—laundry detergent, maybe, or whatever candle Helena had dropped off last time she visited.

You felt the soft shift of air as you entered the living room. Frankie’s hand never left yours.

There was a strange sound from another room, and Frankie let go of your hand.

“Okay,” he said, already stepping back. “I’ll be right back. Just don’t open your eyes. Got it?”

“I won’t,” you said with unnecessary urgency. You clamped your palms over your face like a child playing hide-and-seek, and you grinned into the darkness of your own hands. You didn’t understand what was happening. None of it made sense, and yet you felt giddy—completely, irrationally light.

One, two, three… The seconds moved unevenly. You listened for Frankie’s footsteps, the shift of weight in the boards. A faint scuff. Silence. Then movement again, closer this time. You could feel him standing in front of you before he spoke.

“Okay, when I say—” he started, but his sentence was cut short by the softest interruption.

A high-pitched, unmistakable sound.

“Shit,” Frankie muttered.

Then—clearer this time—a meow. Thin and sharp and impossibly small.

Your hands flew from your face, your eyes wide, your mouth already forming words before they reached your tongue.

“No way.”

Frankie stood just inches away, his hands lifted carefully near your face. Between them, resting in the cage of his fingers, was a tiny gray kitten. The animal looked impossibly fragile, like something made of silk. It couldn’t have been more than three months old.

You stared at it, stunned.

“Frankie,” you whispered, as you extended your arms without thinking.

He gave the kitten to you and his face broke into a smile.

You cradled the small body close to your face, kissing its downy head with a tenderness that made something in your chest ache. The kitten let out another soft meow, its voice small but certain. Your heart did something strange, an internal somersault.

“I adopted him yesterday,” Frankie said, running a hand down the kitten’s back. “Doesn’t have a name yet.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, eyes still fixed on the animal now curled into the crook of your arm.

He shrugged. “I wanted to surprise you. Thought you’d like it.”

You glanced up at him then, holding his gaze for a few seconds, long enough to see the affection that sat just beneath the mischief in his expression. Then you looked back at the tiny creature curled against your chest.

“How did he sleep?”

“He followed me around all night,” Frankie said, his voice softer now. “He's really affectionate. At first I thought he was hungry or needed water, but he didn’t. He just wanted to be close. Eventually I put him on the bed, but I was terrified I’d roll over and crush him. So I set his little bed right next to me. Figured it was safer. He still cried for a while, though.”

You smiled. You couldn’t stop smiling. The kitten was pawing at your fingers now, then gently nibbled one, its teeth more curious than sharp.

“You’re just the most beautiful little thing,” you murmured, stroking its impossibly soft fur.

Frankie watched you quietly.

Frankie nudged the bedroom door closed with the side of his foot, careful not to spill the two mugs in his hands. The scent of the tea rose with the steam.

You were already stretched out on his bed, legs tangled loosely in the sheets, wearing one of his T-shirts that hung off you like it had been made for someone else, which it had. Underneath, nothing but a soft pair of underwear. Your hair, still damp from your recent shower, clung to the sides of your neck and the cotton collar.

Sunday was drifting by in its usual, hazy rhythm. After arriving at Frankie’s place and being introduced to the skittish little kitten he had just brought home, the two of you had spent some time lying around, throwing out names—nothing had stuck. Every suggestion felt either too much or not enough. At some point between giggling over how serious he looked when he vetoed “Frankie Jr.” and the slow weight of contentment settling in your limbs, you’d dozed off.

He hadn't minded. A nap after a good meal felt like the natural conclusion to a Sunday afternoon. He normally reserved these hours for fixing things around the house or grabbing a beer with one of the guys. But with you here, in his space, smelling like his soap and stealing his shirts, the idea of doing absolutely nothing became not only acceptable, but preferable.

It was nearly four now. The TV hummed in front of the bed, soft and unobtrusive. The white curtains were drawn shut, letting in a gauzy sort of light that made everything feel suspended in time.

He placed both mugs on the nightstand, then eased into bed beside you, careful not to jostle the tiny, curled-up kitten resting on your chest. You were propped against the headboard, your fingers stroking absent-mindedly over the kitten’s fur, eyes on the screen.

Friends was on—your choice. The London wedding episodes. He remembered you saying they were your favorite, though you claimed not to like Ross all that much.

“The tea’s hot,” he said, his voice low as he leaned in a little closer. He took one mug. “Give it a minute before you try it.”

You turned your head toward him, a small smile ghosting your lips.

“Okay. Thanks,” you said softly, taking it from his hand only to place it gently on the nightstand next to you.

Frankie exhaled, a quiet breath through his nose, and turned his attention back to the television. It happened every time—you'd put something on, usually a show or movie he wouldn’t have chosen himself, something with fast-talking characters and emotional subtext, and without realizing it, he’d be completely pulled in. He told himself it wasn’t his taste, too light or too messy or too sentimental. But here he was.

“Jesus, I don't get it,” he murmured. “I never understood people who obsess over weddings.”

“Yeah, you seem like someone who’d get married in your backyard, on a random Tuesday, without warning.”

“Yeah? I wouldn’t mind that.”

You turned your head slightly, studying him now. “Without warning, though? Like, totally unplanned?”

“Wouldn’t that make it more romantic?”

You lifted a shoulder, then let it fall again. “Eh. Maybe. Depends on the context, I guess.”

“What kind of context?”

“I dunno,” you said. “Just… depends how it all feels in the moment?”

Frankie nodded like he understood, though maybe he didn’t, not completely.

“Well. If I did get married like that, it’d probably be because something forced my hand. Like—some kind of bind.”

“Forced your hand? A bind?” you repeated, laughing now. “Good thing I didn’t ask you to be my fake fiancé, then.”

You were teasing, but your voice was warm. The kitten had migrated from your chest to the space between you, burrowing under the quilt.

You shifted onto your side, pulling the pillow beneath your cheek. Your face was close now. Relaxed. Peaceful. He could see the faint dampness at your hairline, smell the familiar scent of his shampoo, his laundry detergent—all of it mixing with something that was purely you.

Then you asked, your voice quiet: “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

The question caught him off guard. It wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t nothing either.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the TV and back to you.

“I used to,” he admitted. “A while ago.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I thought about it.”

You turned your face toward him.

“With Rachel?” you asked, voice soft.

He gave a small nod, his brows lifting a fraction, like the whole thing felt absurd in retrospect. As if that version of his life had belonged to someone else entirely. Someone naive.

For a second, he considered brushing it off. Letting the moment pass. But there was something about the way you were looking at him that made it impossible.

“I was ready to commit to her,” he said. The words felt strange, but not painful. He hadn’t spoken them out loud in a long time. And for once, they didn’t come with the usual sting.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said simply, turning his eyes to the television, as if that might steady him. “I thought I had everything mapped out. Marriage, maybe a family. It felt like, like it made sense.”

You made a soft sound, not quite agreement, not quite disbelief. Just something that acknowledged the weight of what he’d said. Then you went quiet again, eyes shifting back to the TV.

Frankie waited, listening to the faint background noise of the sitcom. But he looked at you again, and something in your face had changed, barely—your mouth a little tighter, your eyes distant.

“I was wrong,” he said then. “So wrong. And honestly? Her leaving… that might’ve been the best thing she ever did for me. Who knows where I'd be if she'd never ended it.”

Your mouth curled into the hint of a smile. “Yeah. I mean, you definitely wouldn’t be in bed with me and a kitten right now.”

That made him laugh, softly. It was absurd, when he thought about it—how different his life might’ve looked if things had gone the way he wanted them to, back then.

If Rachel had stayed, maybe he would never have unraveled. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten to the point where getting out of bed felt impossible, where everything tasted like dust and felt like noise. Maybe he wouldn’t have had to start from scratch.

He might still be with her. Maybe engaged. He remembered thinking about it right before she left—rings, apartments, timelines. He’d known he wasn’t in the right place for any of it, but he’d considered it anyway, hoping commitment might anchor him somehow.

And you? You would’ve stayed exactly where you were then—Santi’s younger sister. Someone he vaguely tolerated, someone who rolled her eyes at his jokes and didn’t bother to hide it. You probably would’ve kept ignoring each other, kept your distance.

The thought landed heavily in his chest. Not dramatic or painful, just strange. Like something important could’ve slipped past him without him ever knowing what he missed.

Because now he understood what it felt like; being near you like this, existing inside the gentle bubble you created just by being close. It startled him sometimes, how long you had been in his life without him realizing the possible weight of it. Five years orbiting each other, brushing past in doorways, exchanging sharp looks or dry remarks and fights. All that time, and he’d never imagined what it could mean if he let the distance between you collapse.

You spoke then, cutting through the quiet and his thoughts. “No matter what happens, I think I’ll end up being the cat lady anyway.”

He looked at you, startled by the sudden shift in tone, the slight smile playing on your lips as you cradled the kitten in your hands. You were touching its tiny ears like they were the most delicate things in the world. Frankie had the absurd urge to be jealous of the kitten.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I dunno.”

He watched you for a moment longer. “Don’t you want a family?”

You let out a small laugh. And Frankie realized a second too late how personal the question had been. Too direct. Too much, maybe. But you didn’t seem bothered.

“Of course I do,” you said, gently. “I mean, yeah. I’d love that. It’s just… if it doesn’t happen, I don’t think it would destroy me. I know I’d be okay. I’ve made peace with the idea that some lives don’t go the way we plan. And anyway, Santi’s definitely going to have, like, four kids at least. I can always be the fun aunt who spoils them and teaches them weird facts about everything.”

Frankie smiled. “Yeah. I get that. I feel the same way, I think. And I’m already the cool uncle, so I’ve got that covered. Lucky me.”

You laughed, then reached out to tap his arm lightly with your fist. He reached for you instinctively, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you into his chest. You came easily, your body folding into his.

“I always thought I’d have a daughter,” you said after a minute, your voice muffled against the fabric of his T-shirt. “I mean… I’d like to. If I ever become a mom.”

“Just one?”

“For now, yeah. I think I’d have to see how it goes first. Test the waters. Parenting seems like the kind of thing you can’t really prepare for, doesn’t it?”

“You’d be good at it.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Darcy can confirm.”

You smiled again. “I'm not sure it's comparable. But yeah. I’m already a great cat mom.”

The sound lingered between you for a moment before dissolving into the quiet of the room. On the screen, Monica was spiraling; her mother had said something sharp at the rehearsal dinner, something small but wounding in the way only a parent’s words could be. Neither of you commented on it. The glow of the TV washed your faces in warm color, but the air between you shifted.

Frankie felt it. Not something visible, exactly—just a subtle tightening in your body, a pause that wasn’t there before. He had learned to notice these things with you. How your energy moved. How your breath changed. His body, attuned to yours now, picked up on every slight retreat.

You leaned further into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, and let out a soft breath.

“I had a scare once,” you said quietly, eyes fixed on the television. “With Harry.”

He didn’t move. Just listened.

“My period was late and we’d only been dating two months. I remember this one day, how everything just kind of… froze. Like time stopped working the way it was supposed to. I couldn’t focus on anything. It was like my body had slipped into this other version of my life and I couldn’t get out of it until I knew for sure.”

You paused. The kitten shifted between you, curling into a tighter ball.

“I didn’t tell him. I went out and bought a test, did it alone. It was negative. Then, after I was sure, I told him.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked if I needed anything. That was it, really. No follow-up questions. No conversation.” You gave a small, humorless huff of breath. “I started taking the pill that same week.”

Frankie looked at you then, but you kept your eyes on the screen.

“Sounds smart.”

You clicked your tongue, not quite annoyed, but something close.

“Of course. But I still needed more than that. I needed to feel safe. And I didn’t. Not with him. That was the thing—I realized how completely terrified I was at the idea of having a baby with him. And I couldn’t even say it out loud. Couldn’t tell him how scared I was, because I didn’t trust what he’d do with that information. I was afraid of his reaction, of whether he’d be happy, make it about him or minimize it or just… shut down.” Sheepish now, your voice softened. “It made me wonder why I was with someone I couldn’t even share a fear like that with. But I was so sure of how much I loved him, I just... I didn't care.”

“Harry’s an idiot, baby.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah. I think he is.”

“He is—”

“So you wanted a family with Rachel?”

He blinked at the TV for a moment, trying to decide how to answer.

“You’re very direct,” he said finally, a little surprised. A small laugh escaped him. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I like it.” He shook his head, the smile still pulling at his mouth. Then he exhaled. “Yeah. I did. Of course I did. I thought I wanted that. Which feels kind of absurd to say out loud now, because looking back, I don’t think I was ready. Not even close.”

He paused, considering.

“I still don’t know if I’ll ever be ready, to be honest. It’s not just a wish, it’s... a whole reality. One that I’d like to live in, maybe. But I’m afraid I’m not built for it. Or that if I am, I’ll do it wrong. Like, ruin something I can’t take back.”

You were quiet for a beat, then asked gently, “Why do you think that?”

He hesitated, then let the words come.

“I mean… a child. That’s not just a responsibility. It’s a person. Someone with their own thoughts and their own pain, eventually. And I’d be part of shaping all that. That’s terrifying. I want to be good at it, I really do, but what if I mess it up? What if I do something without realizing and it sticks with them forever?”

Your fingers brushed over his arm in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. Then you looked at him, your expression soft, eyes warmer than he felt like he deserved. A faint smile curled at the edge of your mouth, and for a second Frankie thought about tracing it with his thumb. Just one second of indulgence.

But he didn’t.

“No one knows everything about parenting before they’re in it,” you said. “Even the best people make mistakes. There’s no such thing as perfect parents, or perfect kids.”

“Oh I know that.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’d be a good father, Frankie. You’re patient. Kind. You actually listen. You’ve been great with Jamie.”

Frankie sighed. “That’s different. He’s my nephew. I can always hand him back. I don’t have to make the hard choices. If I was in Henry or Luna’s place, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging a little. “I don’t think anyone really knows until they get there. You can plan, sure. But life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. All you can do is love the kid, pay attention, and try not to let anything get in the way of being there for them.”

“Yeah, well...” Frankie said, reaching out to stroke the tiny kitten curled up in front of you. His hand moved gently, fingers threading through its fur like he was trying not to scare it. “Anyway, I doubt it’ll happen. In the meantime, I guess I’ll have to figure out how to take care of a cat.”

“I doubt it too,” you replied. “I swear, there’s nothing that messes with my head more than the thought of being a mother. Or not being one.”

“How come?”

You exhaled, your eyes fixed on some invisible point in the room. “I’m terrified of not becoming a mother. And also, equally terrified of becoming one. It’s like... both possibilities feel too big.” You laughed, but it was a thin sound. “Infertility scares me. Fertility scares me.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. He was breathing in the faint scent of your hair, and it made everything feel a little more real than he wanted it to. Conversations like this were difficult for him—not because he didn’t care, but because the thought of a future that stable, that rooted, felt like trying to imagine himself on another planet. There was a version of him that could handle it. He just wasn’t sure that version existed yet.

“You’ve got time,” he said at last, his cheek pressed against the pillow.

“I’m almost thirty, Francisco,” you said, smiling as if to soften it. “And as much as I hate the phrase, the idea of a biological clock is very real.”

“Thirty’s nothing,” he said, matching your tone, rolling his eyes.

“No, I know,�� you agreed. “It’s not. But still.”

He shifted beside you. “Maybe by forty you’ll have it all figured out.”

You let out a laugh. “Wow. That’s a lot of confidence in my decision-making abilities.”

“I’ve seen you order at restaurants. That took several minutes.”

“Hey. That’s important. You don’t want to mess up your one meal.”

Frankie grinned, then looked over at the kitten, now kneading the blanket with its tiny paws.

“Also,” you added, “did you know that after thirty-five it’s technically called a geriatric pregnancy?”

“That’s absurd.”

“It’s true.”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up. You rolled away from him to check it, and the space where you’d been moments ago felt immediately cooler. Frankie didn’t say anything, just watched you. The kitten padded across the bed toward him and climbed onto his chest. He picked it up in both hands.

What a tiny creature, Frankie thought, watching the kitten as it curled into itself, like a little comma. Its paws were absurdly small, its ears too big for its head. It looked like something you’d win at a fair, a prize made of felt and buttons, only this one breathed and blinked and yawned so wide you could see the pink of its gums. It didn’t seem entirely real. He found himself hoping it would grow big, sleepy and adorable. Like Mr. Darcy.

You were scrolling through your phone beside him, your head propped on one hand.

“Mai sent me the invite,” you said without looking up. “It’s a QR code. They’ll give us wristbands when we get there.”

He nodded, eyes still on the kitten. “Sounds fancy.”

The Halloween party was an annual thing hosted by Kairos, some artsy production company Mai had been involved with for years. She designed the wristbands and the promo graphics, and always managed to secure passes for her friends. Frankie had heard about the Christmas parties too, and the over-the-top New Year’s events where people drank champagne from plastic flutes and danced in dimly lit warehouses. He didn’t go to things like that—loud rooms, too many people, the pressure to make conversation. But earlier that day, over lunch, you’d said something about loving Halloween. Mai had overheard and invited you on the spot. Which meant now he was going too. Because Mai was his sister, and you were—well, you were you.

And honestly, he didn’t mind the idea.

You tapped your phone screen off and turned to him. “Do you know what you’re dressing up as?”

He looked over, smiled faintly. “I don’t know. What about you?”

You shrugged, almost bashful. “I have a few ideas. Nothing definite.”

“Well,” he said, settling back into the cushions, “I’m really, really sure I’ll like and enjoy whatever you pick.”

You didn’t respond right away, but your expression changed—something flickered behind your eyes. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it made him feel warm.

The kitten yawned again and then fell asleep.

Tuesday, October 29th

Frankie leaned back in the lawn chair and took a long sip from his beer. The fire in Santi’s backyard cracked and hissed, sparks rising briefly into the night. The guys were in their usual rhythm (half teasing, half storytelling) revisiting the time Will’s pants split wide open during a yoga class he’d tagged along to, trying to impress a girl.

Frankie wasn’t really listening. His phone rested in his hand, screen dimmed to almost nothing, thumb brushing across it idly. You were texting him.

Earlier that afternoon, you’d gone to try on Halloween costumes, and by some stroke of good fortune—at least in his opinion—you’d decided to keep him in the loop. One by one, the photos came in. A zombie nurse. A ghost bride. A pirate. A vampire in fishnets. Then a Victorian lady. And at some point, absurdly, a towering Marie Antoinette wig that made you look like you'd walked out of a Sofia Coppola film.

Frankie had been more than happy to offer feedback. Encouraged, even. He’d wanted to go with you, truthfully, but work ran late, and he already had plans with the guys. This, this stream of selfies and little captions, felt like the next best thing.

Then finally:

[🍓]: Christine Daaé

And a second later, a photo of a white corset. Silk. Lace trim. The implication was clear.

Frankie had grinned at the screen, then exhaled through his nose like he couldn’t help himself. Of course, that meant he was going as the Phantom. Erik. You’d declared it so.

A bottle cap hit his thigh.

He blinked, looked up from his phone.

Santi was smirking at him from across the fire pit.

“So, can you?” he asked, lifting his chin.

Frankie furrowed his brows. “What?”

“Victor’s boat.”

Frankie shifted in the chair, stretching out his legs. “Ah, right. This Friday?”

“Yeah,” Benny said, yawning as he leaned back, arms behind his head. “You free or what?”

Frankie scratched the edge of his beard. “Actually... I... I’ve got something.”

Santi grinned, like he already knew. “Right. The Halloween party.”

Frankie nodded once, keeping it casual.

“What party?” Will asked, suddenly interested.

“Kairos,” Santi said, turning toward him. “My sister told me. Mai works for them, remember? Costumes, DJs, probably too many people. And look at this guy—ditching me for my little sister.”

Frankie narrowed his eyes, shook his head, and let out a short laugh. He raised the bottle to his lips again, the glass cool against his mouth.

“I’m not ditching you,” he said, though he didn’t offer anything more than that.

And across the firelight, Santi just kept smiling.

“Well, by the way,” Benny said, adjusting forward on the edge of his seat, arms braced on his knees, “why couldn’t you come by last weekend?”

Frankie didn’t flinch. “I was with Mai and my mom,” he said, voice even. And it was true. Mostly.

Sunday had been at his mother’s house. You were there, too. Of course.

Benny wasn’t done. “And Saturday?”

Saturday had been yours. The morning, the afternoon, the parts of the night that bled into morning again.

“Same,” Frankie said, not missing a beat. He didn’t look away.

Across the fire pit, Santi shifted. He leaned into his right arm, elbow pressed into the chair, and tilted his head like he was squinting at a puzzle that had just gotten more interesting. There was something annoyingly pleased in his expression.

“Yeah, I don’t buy it, Fish,” he said, eyes wide, eyebrows lifted. A grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Frankie laughed—short, breathy, too defensive. “Yeah. Right. You guys are unbearable. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

And the second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Santi’s face changed, like a switch being flipped. The amusement faded. He leaned forward slightly, not dramatically, but enough to close the distance. His eyes reflected the movement of the flames, sharp and unreadable. His jaw didn’t move, but his voice came out even, almost quiet.

“Okay. When the hell were you planning on telling me you’re sleeping with my sister?”

The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed. Frankie’s heart dropped so fast it left something hollow behind. His body went rigid. He didn’t blink. He felt the blood drain from his face, felt it pool somewhere in his shoes. The entire backyard blurred at the edges, just orange firelight and too many, many eyes.

He didn’t say a word.

Benny shifted uncomfortably. Will looked down at his beer.

Santi didn’t move. He kept his gaze locked on Frankie, his expression perfectly unreadable.

And then, just as Frankie opened his mouth—he had no idea what he was going to say—Santi broke. A sharp laugh burst from his chest, and he leaned back in the chair, shaking his head.

“I’m messing with you, man.”

Frankie exhaled. It didn’t feel like relief. His skin was too hot, but his fingertips were cold. He ran a hand through his hair, tried to laugh along with them, but it sounded weak, like an echo of something genuine.

His pulse was still racing. His body wasn’t convinced the danger had passed.

And the worst part was: he hadn’t actually denied it.

A breath left Frankie’s chest, short and shaky. “Jesus, man.”

Will and Benny exchanged a glance, laughing in that unsure, uneven way people do when they’re not totally sure it is a joke.

Santi grinned, still riding the high of his own performance.

“You should’ve seen your face,” he said, pointing lazily in Frankie’s direction. “Fucking priceless. Relax, will you? I’m messing with you.”

“Right,” Frankie muttered. “I know. I know that.” But his voice betrayed him. “You just—you look so damn convincing when you do that.”

Santi shrugged, all casual confidence. “It’s my talent.”

Frankie shook his head and stood, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his jeans.

“I gotta take a piss.”

“Did you shit yourself, Fish?” Benny called after him, laughing.

Their voices followed him as he crossed the patio and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The silence inside the house felt abrupt. It made the rush of blood in his ears feel deafening. His heart was still hammering against his ribs—each beat too fast, too hard. Like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was just a joke.

Just a joke.

In the bathroom, he leaned over the sink after washing his hands, gripping the porcelain with wet fingers. His reflection looked too pale under the overhead light, his mouth tense like he’d been grinding his teeth. He pressed his palms to his face, exhaled into the space between them. Tried to shake it off.

The truth was: he felt like he’d been caught. Like it was written on him somewhere—I’m sleeping with Santi’s sister. Bold print. Centered.

He stayed there for a minute longer, trying to even out his breathing. Trying to look normal. He wasn’t sure it was working.

When he finally stepped out, the hallway felt colder somehow. As he passed the kitchen door, a voice called out.

“Frankie.”

He stopped. Turned his head.

Will was standing by the open fridge, hand already wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. He looked casual. Not suspicious. Not accusing.

“You want one?” Will asked, nodding toward the bottles.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Frankie stepped into the kitchen fully, nodding once as he accepted the bottle from Will. The glass felt cool in his palm. He leaned back against the counter, the edge of it pressing into his spine just enough to remind him he was still in his body.

Will moved with efficiency, pulling three more bottles from the fridge, setting two on the counter with a dull clink, and uncapping the third for himself. He sat across from Frankie, perched casually on one of the stools, the bottle already pressed to his lips.

They stayed like that for a few seconds. Frankie watched the floor. Will watched Frankie.

Then, finally, Will spoke.

“So,” he said, drawing the word out. “How long has this been going on?”

Frankie lifted his head. “What’s been going on?”

Will tilted his head, eyebrows raised in mock innocence. ��You know Santi’s basically your brother-in-law now, right?”

Frankie smiled—tight, crooked, tired. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, a quiet laugh escaped him, as if the idea were absurd. But it didn’t feel absurd.

“No... I mean—”

“I saw you at the bar,” Will cut in, one eyebrow arched. “On Benny’s birthday. You two were talking. I was heading over to order another round, and I saw you leave. Together.”

Frankie clicked his tongue, a quiet, defensive sound. “That’s not—”

“And,” Will said, leaning in slightly now, clearly enjoying this, “the next day, Santi told us you said you'd spent the night with someone. Said you wouldn’t say who. And then, that day at the river, you said you were seeing that woman. What a coincidence, huh, Fish?”

This time, Frankie didn’t try to argue. He looked at Will, really looked at him, and saw the certainty there. Not speculation. Not a guess. Certainty.

There was no point in denying anything anymore.

Frankie sighed and shifted his weight.

“You can’t say anything. You hear me?”

Will threw his head back, a triumphant laugh spilling from his chest like he’d just solved a mystery no one else had noticed.

“I fucking knew it.”

“Shh,” Frankie hissed, glancing toward the hallway. “Man, shut the hell up.”

Will shook his head, grinning like he’d just heard the punchline of a joke that had taken too long to land.

“You two really aren’t being discreet, you know that?”

Frankie narrowed his eyes, exasperated. “You can’t say anything.”

“I won’t,” Will said, holding up a hand in mock solemnity. “Promise. No need, anyway. The others will probably figure it out without my help. You’re not exactly subtle.” He gave a small shrug, then leaned back in his seat. “To be honest, I still wasn’t totally sure. I had my suspicions, yeah. But the look on your face out there?” He let out a low whistle. “Jesus, man. I thought you were about to pass out.”

Frankie let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. I kind of thought that too.”

There was a pause. Will’s expression shifted, softened. He took another sip of beer and then sighed, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink against the counter.

“So?” he asked, his tone more curious than nosy now. “What’s going on? How did that even happen? I mean, how did things change between you two?”

Frankie didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted. First to the far wall, then to the patch of floor just beside Will’s foot. He searched his memory, trying to locate the exact pivot, the precise beat where everything had begun to shift. But it was like trying to pinpoint the first moment he started falling asleep. You just wake up in the middle of it, already half-under.

How had things changed?

When?

He could think of a dozen interactions that might’ve mattered. But the one that surfaced—the one that rooted itself in his mind now—was less cinematic than he wanted it to be. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even particularly romantic. But it had cracked something open in him. And after that, he started noticing you differently. Or maybe not differently... just more.

It embarrassed him, how fast it had happened for him.

"Your mother, your sisters, your aunts and uncles, your mom’s friends—they’re all going to be watching." You had said that night, the day before his mom's birthday.

Frankie exhaled, the sound half-sigh, half-growl, and pressed his hip against the edge of the kitchen island.

"It’s different." He muttered, voice weighed down by something that felt like exhaustion

"Different how?"

"Because Santi’s my best friend. And you’re his sister. It was weird."

"And this is all fake, Francisco," you gestured vaguely in the air between you, where the tension had been gathering like dust. "How old are you again? Forty?"

"Thirty-five," he corrected automatically.

"Right. Almost forty. And you can’t do something as simple as kiss a woman. Yes, I’m your best friend’s sister. Yes, you clearly dislike me. And yes, I clearly dislike you too. But it’s just a kiss," you were speaking with that infuriating kind of calm that always had annoyed him. "A fucking—"

Frankie’s hands were on your face before he processed the shift. Fingers at your jaw, thumbs resting just beneath your cheekbones. His grip wasn’t rough, just firm. And then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t timid. It wasn’t theatrical either.

He kept kissing you longer than he should have. He knew it, could feel the line being crossed even as he leaned into it, even as his heart stammered in his chest.

And then—just as suddenly—he stepped back.

His hands dropped, and his expression shifted into something smug and irritatingly collected. He clicked his tongue, the sound almost playful.

You weren’t moving. Your posture was stiff, your breath uneven. He noticed the subtle rise and fall of your collarbone, the slight part of your lips, the fact that your eyes were still on his mouth.

He turned from you and folded his arms across his chest, like that might hide something.

“I can do that, no problem,” he said, trying to sound flippant. “Stop being so fucking insufferable all the time, and maybe this whole thing would be easier.”

Your mouth opened—probably ready to snap back, but the words caught somewhere between fury and shock.

He didn’t say anything else. Just leaned against the island, pretending to study the floor, as if that helped him ignore the sound of your breathing.

“Thank God you’re not my real boyfriend,” you snapped. “I’d rather kiss a toad.”

Frankie’s mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. "You’ve got a lot of experience with those, don’t you?"

He pushed away from the counter then, dragging a hand over his stomach before reaching into his pocket to check for his keys. An instinctive gesture, like trying to remind himself he still had an exit.

He walked over to the couch and gave Mr. Darcy a half-hearted pat, then turned back toward you. You hadn’t moved. You looked pissed.

He didn’t blame you. Not entirely, anyway.

“I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow. Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Or what? You're going to leave without me?”

Frankie paused, hand already on the door. He looked at you. Then he stepped aside and held the door open.

"I’ll come up and get you," he said, like a warning.

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just walked out, jaw tight, the echo of his shoes fading with every step. The door clicked shut behind him, a final-sounding noise that filled the quiet he hadn’t noticed until then.

Frankie took the stairs two at a time. Something urgent buzzed beneath his skin—irritation, maybe. Or something that required irritation as a cover. When he hit the street, he didn’t hesitate. Got into his car, turned the key, pulled out of the space like it owed him something.

But a few blocks later, a red light caught him. The first real pause.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

His fingers lifted, almost without thought, brushing against his lips. They felt warm, too warm—like they’d been branded. His mouth still remembered yours. Not just the pressure or the shape, but the feeling. The pull. The part of it he hadn’t expected.

He sat there, one hand on the wheel, the other grazing his mouth, eyes unfocused and fixed on nothing.

That was the moment. The first one that counted.

That was when it started for him.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Frankie said quietly, his thumb pressing against the condensation on his beer bottle. “It just did. One day I hated her, and the next day I didn’t. And that confused me as much as it probably confused her.”

Will raised his eyebrows, leaning back slightly.

“Well, doesn’t confuse me. I knew it from the start—remember? Everything makes sense now. I was right, wasn’t I?”

Frankie let out a sigh and nodded faintly. “I couldn’t tell her, though.”

Will blinked. “You mean all those years you two were at each other’s throats was because you couldn’t be honest with her?”

“No,” Frankie said, laughing in spite of himself. “No. I genuinely didn’t like her after that. I wasn’t pretending.”

Will looked at him, unconvinced. “Okay, sure. But what about now? Did you tell her how it?”

Frankie shook his head. He didn’t explain why. He didn’t know how to.

Will nodded again, slower this time. “And is this—whatever it is—serious?”

At first, Frankie laughed. A short, instinctive sound. Because the question felt too big, too final. But then the laugh faded. His smile disappeared, and his gaze dropped to the floor.

And just like that, the answer was there.

You placed your toothbrush back in the cup and flicked off the bathroom light with the back of your hand. The apartment dimmed into quiet shadows as you padded barefoot toward your bedroom. Mr. Darcy followed you, tail held high, as if he too were ready to call it a night.

But before you got into bed, you paused beside the vanity and looked once more at the costume hanging on the door. Just one last look.

You hadn’t found it in one of those over-lit costume shops filled with synthetic capes and plastic tiaras. You’d gone to a small gothic boutique tucked between a tattoo parlor and a record store. The corset had been waiting there for you—white, embroidered, delicate.

The idea had arrived in your head fully formed: Christine Daaé.

Once you had the corset, everything else followed easily. You found the dress online and paid for priority shipping without hesitation. It was arriving tomorrow morning, and you had already cleared a hanger for it. The pictures online had shown a soft, off-white fabric with dramatic bell sleeves and a neckline that dipped just low enough to make you blush. It ended just below the knees, but a single slit ran up the side of the left leg, high enough to make it interesting.

You had paired it with white thigh-high stockings that fastened with lace, the kind that sat snug against your skin. The whole outfit was beautiful. Romantic, theatrical, sensual. You couldn’t wait to wear it.

Frankie hadn’t protested when you told him your idea. In fact, he had agreed almost too easily. You bought him a white half-mask online and found a soft, 19th-century-style shirt with ruffles at the collar. The woman at the shop, who had probably seen a hundred Phantom couples come through in October, still smiled when you told her what you were planning. She even helped you pick out a black vest with subtle embroidery. Frankie said he’d handle the rest.

You had always loved Halloween in the way certain people love early autumn or thunderstorms—something about the atmosphere, the anticipation, the slight eeriness that made everything feel more heightened, more alive. It was one of your favorite days of the year. Or at least, it used to be.

Lately, the holiday had come and gone like most other days. Last year you’d planned a solo horror movie night. Candles lit, snacks laid out, a carefully curated film queued on the screen. But you’d fallen asleep before the opening credits had even finished rolling. You woke up sometime around midnight, your head slumped against the couch cushion, the room dim and quiet and too still. You didn’t try again after that.

This year, though, there was the party.

It was happening Friday night—even though Halloween fell on a Thursday—because that was how adults did things now. Convenience before tradition. It didn’t bother you. The point was that someone had invited you, and more than that, you wanted to go.

You hadn’t been to a Kairos party in years. The last time, you’d gone with Emma, and the two of you had danced for hours, stealing sips from each other’s drinks and rating costumes like it was a red carpet. But Emma hadn’t been able to make it the past few years and your other friends always had other plans. So, you stayed home.

But not this year.

You folded the corset carefully and placed it back inside its tissue-lined box. The shoes were already tucked away on the top shelf of your closet. You smoothed your hand over the duvet before pulling it back, ready to settle in for the night. Mr. Darcy was already curled up at the foot of the bed.

And then the doorbell rang.

You paused. Checked the time on your phone: 10:03 p.m.

A crease formed between your brows as you walked toward the kitchen, the soft shuffle of your slippers brushing against the floor. You turned the corner and peered out through the narrow window that faced the street. And then you smiled. Frankie.

You didn’t bother asking what he was doing there before heading downstairs. The air outside was crisp when you opened the door to the street, the pavement still holding the warmth from the day.

He was standing there with his hands in his denim jacket pockets, looking at you like he hadn’t really meant to show up but had ended up there anyway.

“Hey,” you said, stepping toward him, slipping your hands up to his shoulders and leaning in to kiss him—just a quiet press of lips, familiar now, but still electrifying. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you at Santi’s?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in a tired kind of smile, the kind that suggested he’d had a long day but was happy to be standing there with you. His hands found your waist almost without thinking and he stepped past the threshold as you moved aside for him. Before you could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed you again.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “but I needed to see you.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Did something happen?”

Frankie let out a low laugh. “Well, first of all, Will knows about us. Did you know that?”

You blinked. “What? Wait—what do you mean he knows?”

He lifted his shoulders in a helpless little shrug. “I’ll explain everything upstairs, okay?”

There was something in his tone that told you it wasn’t urgent, but it still made your stomach flutter.

You nodded anyway. “Yeah, okay.”

You let go of him to close the door behind you, then turned to find him already looking at you with something unreadable in his expression.

“And,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What? Don’t say it like that. You’re scaring me.”

Frankie shook his head immediately, pressing his lips together like he regretted phrasing it that way.

“It’s nothing bad. I promise. It’s just… something about when we first met.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @thedilfdiaries @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @deatt @yslgreen @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk @billionairecowgirl @blub-senpai @madpanda75 @joelmillerpascal @thatdbeagoodsticker @dtftheavengers @jessthebaker @yourallaround-simp @vingtetunmars @deatt @pedges-world @vickie5446

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magickizu · 2 months ago

Text

Shop Repairs

Crossover dp x dc. So I've got this time line in mind, for my crossover AU and this is a snippet of it. Master Post: Lost Retirement

Jason has to find a solution, quickly: during the last mission his bike received more damage, than he had planned. Bringing it back to the cave will take too long, not to mention the repair time, that he can't make time for! And here's another thing: for like the past week or so, the pits have been acting extremely weird. Bubbling and flaring up randomly, like this pissed off but not revenging rage, if that makes sense?? What is going on???

Jason absolutely hated his luck: not only did these bastards get away, not only was it a pain in the ass anyway to hunt them down, not only did they take their goods with them as they fled after, not only kicking Hood's ass- ohohoho no! Of course his sweet baby had to be pulled into it! They used his bike as shield!! HIS FUCKING BIKE-!!!

The silvered raven groans annoyed, the pits are flaring up again too! He can't even get to the bat cave and fix her up, because he needs her by tomorrow and he does not have the right parts. Let alone the time, since he's got this meeting with this building company to talk over the plans for the Alley's new community gardens he wants to build. So naturally he's on his way to bring her to the only guy he trusts with her, when suddenly the pits flare up again!- right, rightrightright... Of course that wasn't enough, since the pit seemed to have even more problems in the past week, with him feeling like he got run over by trucks. The constant whispering and screeching and hissing about an intruder in his territory, inside his head- ...at this point it's just tiring.

Red Hood was deep in thought, in fact he was so deep in thought, that his feet have carried him all the way to the little mechanics shop and maybe, just maybe, he could be a little lucky today? Please? And they have everything and the damage wasn't as bad as it seemed? The pit is rumbling and gurgling disgustingly and he can see the green tinge slowly creeping into the corners of his eyes. Panic floods him, there's not a single one of the birds or bats around to help him now-

Hood tried his best, to take deep breaths. Steady his thoughts and fight back, imagining Dick would be there helping him concentrate. The mental image of his family just being there for him, helped a little, lately their bond has gotten better and Jason can definitely tell- snap out of it! He can't have a panic attack in the middle of the road! Not as the Red Hood at least... With one last, deep breath Hood's feet begin to move again, as he rounded the corner and pulled into the open garage door or the workshop.

"Ah-hah! The Red Hood," the old man behind the little counter laughs and stands up, Hood's shoulders relax at the sight and sound of him. "Tell me, tell me niño, what can I do for you? Have not seen you in a while, eh?" Mateo, the owner, shakes the vigilante's hand with a big smile and a small hug.

"Hey Tío," he greets back, hugging back briefly and gently. "My bike got... Involved in the action... Please tell me you can fix her by tomorrow, Tío." If it wasn't for the modulator in his mask, Hood would have sounded tired, which Mateo must have known, as he started to laugh out loud before answering.

"Alright, alright. I'll take a look, eh? But no promises." Mateo leaned down slowly with a huff and a grunt, until the man kneeled in front of the motorcycle. He called out for someone, after trying his best to look at the machine. Hood couldn't hear what Mateo said, he was too distracted with suddenly being confronted by Mateo's high age. Neither Jason, nor Red Hood have been here in a while and he mentally scolded himself for it. Jason helped out here and there, ever since he came back, ever since before Bruce... Mateo has always been there- been right here. Hood just wasn't ready yet; Jason wasn't ready. He hadn't realised how old the man was really getting, until now. Now that he sees him squinting at the details, sees him having trouble with finer motor skills of the machinery and now even so much as getting back up again after kneeling down. Hood forced himself back to reality, when Mateo tried to get back up but only grunted, he was about to take a step closer, help, something when-

"¡¡Tío!!" Suddenly a young man was faster. Analysis; same blue overalls as Mateo, just that the upper part is tied around his waist, dirty white t-shirt, work gloves, steel toed work shoes and one black sleeve, seemingly some kind of compression cuffs, on his right arm covering it completely- must be working here, well enough acquaintaned with Mateo, was in the back probably does the work now. Pale skin, dark raven hair with a few snow white streaks- good style! Hehe... And bright blue eyes, that are full of worry and- "Tío, how often did I tell you, just say something! ¿¡Eres estúpido!?" The young man scolded the older, grinning and chuckling one, but Hood didn't listen he was just staring... Jason couldn't look away from these electric blue eyes, that reflected in a strange neon green, that he just knows. The pit was bubbling over, growling and screaming at him and panic rose up like a lump in his throat, nearly clogging it and slowly suffocating him, as his vision is tinging green, bit by bit. This is not happening now, not now!! Shit!! What is he supposed to do!?

Suddenly the same voice breaks through to him; "...fuck, it's you..." And they both look at each other for a moment, then Hood reached for his gun immediately, the second the other man moved- He is the intruder! Shred him... "Wait! I-I'm so sorry! Ancients... I had an offering, but I forgot it at home. I swear, I do not mean any harm, to your haunt nor people nor you! I never meant to be disrespectful." The man held his hands up in surrender and the green subsided slightly from Jason's vision- how?? "-look; if it's good for you, I'll have her ready by tomorrow, as you asked, free of charge. Can that be my offering? Would that be acceptable for you?" And the pits calmed down... Hood stood there, frozen in place, overwhelmed and absolutely shocked, yet strangely relieved. The man also didn't sound hysterical, just calm enough to make it believable that... He wasn't scared... Against every bit of sanity left in his brain, the Hood nodded, his hand no longer hovering over his gun's holster. He straightened up.

"Explain." He growled, shocked by himself how much venom there was in his voice and how deep the rumbling of the growl was... As if it's coming from his chest. But moreover: what does this guy have to do with the pits!? And why the F U C K can he calm it down by T A L K I N G!?

"Okay, listen..." The man sighs, then contemplates something, looking Hood up and down, asassing him. "Alright, uhm... Name's Danny, my siblings and I just got here. We won't make any trouble and just need a place to stay, for now. The only reason I'm entering your haunt is because I work here and it's the only place that would hire me. Again my offering of doing a full round up on your bike still stands. If you don't wanna accept, that's your choice and I'll find something else, somewhere else. Okay?" Hood did listen; the man's alone, apparently desperate for money or else other places would do, he takes care of his siblings and cares for people seeing his instant worry about the old man, peaceful indeed with immediate surrender... And even a useful offering. ...what?

"Fine." Hood sighed, the other man, Danny, also sighed probably from relief. Wait... Where the hell did Mateo go?? Upon realisation, the larger one looked around,

"...Mateo's in the back office. I just... I just sent him back. Uhm..." He fidgeted a little, then stuck his hand out awkwardly. "How about this: Hi, I'm Danny. I take care of the work here now... And you're the Red Hood, that's kinda cool- I mean you are cool, like,... Sorry, I'm new to Gotham." Then Danny smiled awkwardly at him, as if he didn't just threaten to get shot. Hood stared but slowly reached out to grab the hand and Danny's smile widened, revealing the smallest hint of fangs. Hoods guard should be up but for some reason... This somewhat aggressive friendliness was welcome, somehow. "Right! The Ducati!" Danny reminded himself and moved his attention and body to the machine straight away.

"...and you'll be able to get her ready by tomorrow?" Hood asked after a moment of watching him looking through his bike. Danny perked up, seemingly ripped from his focus;

"Huh? Oh, uh... Yes, definitely! Seems like nothing too vital got hit. The tank is still good, the engine and the battery are also unharmed; a blessing in disguise, it's just...maybe a handful of tubes and a couple cables. I'll get you a round check, change the oil and clean up the painting. Be back at..." Danny thought about it. "Would five sound good?" He offered and that was admittedly fast, yes. Hood hummed in agreement.

"Make it six, deal." The vigilante held his hand out to the mechanic, who shook his hand for the deal and then made a little surprise yelp, as he got hoisted back up. Surprisingly light, but lean built. No directly visible muscles, but Danny still holds up strong. With one last look at his baby, then a warning glare at Danny, who ironically seemed to understand as he lifted his hands in surrender again and a small smile.

"I promise, I'll take good care of her. Will make her purr like a kitten." Because if not... What is he talking about? That guy has his family waiting at home and can't even change locations properly. As Hood walked out and began to his closest save house, it suddenly clicked in his mind, when he realises one fundamental thing, as he listened to the streets in Crime Alley and nothing else... That's exactly it, for once Hood didn't hear anything from the pit... As if it's completely gone. The static sensation in his mind, only picked up again slowly, the further away he got.

So this Danny guy has something to do with the pits and Jason will find out how...

"Ta-da!" Danny grinned proudly, as he showed Red Hood his bike, looking brand knew right out the factory. His eyes grew wide under the mask,

"Holy shit..." Hood rounds the machine, softly gliding over every visible surface. Checking even some of the nooks and crannies, after all he has to make sure it's all in proper order. Danny crossed his arms, sure of himself. "... I'll admit, that's good work." Danny nods, his smile widening in appreciation for the man's work.

"Rev her." The smaller man instructed, Hood for once did what he was told without hesitation and it paid: as he ignited the engine and let her reel, the machine simply purred. Litteraly just purred. Low, menicing bass and silent efficiency...

"Holy shit!" He shut her off again, for now. "That..." Hood gestures in slight disbelief, "that's real good work. Thanks man." He holds out a hand, Danny looks down at it, less smiles and a little more perplexed but nonetheless, the shorter one grabs it. What he seemingly didn't expect was for Red Hood to haule him in shoulder bumper- ey, he may be the Red Hood, but he's still from the hood. Danny just starts smiling again. "I mean it, damn fine. I'll bring her around more often, when she needs it. How much?" He reaches for his wallet, cash only of course, but he got waved off.

"Nonsense. Is the least I can do." Danny made his way already around the counter, typing away at the computer and scribbling something in a black book.

"For what? You did the work-"

"-Woopsies! Looks like I already started closing our only register! Oh man, I'm such a dummy! Urgh! My clumsiness...!" Danny exaggerated dramatically, then leaned onto the counter with one elbow. The other hand on his hip, "forget it, the register's closed, we don't take payment anymore." That smug little bastard then had the audacity to start grinning and daringly lift an eyebrow. ...and honestly, the vigilanty couldn't help but smile at this. Danny can be a little shit, apparently, just as he himself which by all means is entertaining. Hell, even the pits began flairing up in an unusually positive way, almost like a low but friendly rumble in his rest.

"Okay, fine... But I can't let this stand unattended." Danny, yet again, waved him off. But there, just for a brief moment, the way his eyes sparked like an idea, he rushed to scribble something out. Then Danny came over.

"Alright... when you're done with your mission, shoot me a message. There's something I'd actually like to talk about..." The mechanic said, shifting a little nervously, but never loosing the hint of a smile on his lips. The pits gurgle a little shrill, almost like dieing chirping... Oh!- uninted, but good one, heh. But now Hood was definitely intrigued, for the lack of better words.

"...Sure." He agreed, with that he swung himself onto his sweet baby and nodded the other bey, who mirrored the action as response and took a few steps back, to give Hood enough space to start up. As he did right in that moment, then he was gone again, into the night.

Even the pits have massively quieted down again, after deeming the young mechanic non-threatening. Yeah, he still needs to figure out, what that guy has to do with the lazarus pits, but right now he's got one real big fish to catch, fillet and fry for what he did and did to his machine.

@georgiefreddie0829 @shirasorin

#alternate universe #fanfic #danny phantom #dc x dp #danny fenton #danny nightingale #jason todd #red hood #Lost Retirement #dead on main

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mintedwitcher · 1 month ago

Text

in honour of the transfer mention in canon (which I will be choosing to believe is still Buck's plan until s9 starts and ruins all my fun once again), let's have a slice of my 'buck leaves the 118 fic', shall we? we are finally at his first day.

==============

.“Heard you prefer to go by ‘Buck’, right?” Captain Deluca asks. Buck nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “There were, uh, three Evans in my class at the academy, so uh, ‘Buck’ kinda stuck, I guess.”

“And when did you get out of the academy? Last week?” One guy across the loft asks, a tone in his voice that immediately reminds Buck of Eddie. He bristles, but Deluca beats him to the punch.

“Roy!” he barks. “Don’t get bitter now just ‘cause we got someone prettier on the team.”

Laughs rise up from the rest of the team. The guy – Roy – raises his hands in surrender.

“Alright,” Deluca says, clapping Buck on the shoulder with a heavy hand. “Go put your stuff away, then come back and meet your squad.”

“Yes sir,” Buck says.

“And don’t call me ‘sir’, jeez, I ain’t that old,” Deluca groans, but he’s smiling. Buck grins, quick and nervous, and nods. Deluca gives him a bit of a shove, and Buck heads down to the locker room.

One of the lockers is decorated with streamers, and a handwritten sign that declares ‘For the new guy!’ in a curlicue font. Buck smiles, but he still stands cautiously back as he opens it up. Thankfully, nothing pops out at him. He peeks inside to find it empty, and sighs in relief. He’d already put his uniform on at home before coming in, so he shoves his bag into the locker, and takes a minute to breathe.

This is good, he tells himself. This is a good thing.

He closes the locker, smiling again at the streamers. When he turns around, Roy is in the doorway. Buck’s guard goes up immediately. Roy sighs, and steps forward, extending a hand.

“Sorry, man,” he says. He sounds genuine. “We don’t know each other well enough to joke like that yet. I’m Roy.”

“Thanks,” Buck says. He takes the hand extended and shakes it. “Buck. Are you, uh, on the same shift?”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “Cap actually picked you as my partner. Sorry I made a bad first impression.”

“No, it’s uh, it’s okay,” Buck says. Their hands drop. “I should tell you about how I acted when I met my new partner, at my old house. I was a bit of a dick.”

“You?” Roy snorts. “Can’t picture it, Buck. Anyway, come on up, say hi to the rest of the guys. I promise, we’re not all assholes. Just Cap, sometimes.”

===============

tag list: (since we're so close to this fic getting posted, I won't be adding any more people to the tag list, but all of my posted snippets so far can be found under the tag 'buck leaves the 118 fic' on my blog, and of course, I'll post the AO3 link once it goes live. thank you to everyone who has kept up with this fic so far, yall are so wonderful, I love this community so much ❤️)

@littlepaws9 @loulou-land @dashing-disaster @kinardstits @tyrusshipper12

@samjohnssonvt @magdalyna @sweaters-and-silly @safelycapricious @onceuponatmi

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#911 abc #bucktommy #bucktommy fic #buck leaves the 118 fic #fic update #fic excerpt #my fics #wip #evan buckley #sal deluca

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mashtatosworld · 2 months ago

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your love is my favourite song (1)

summary: you're stepping into the music scene as a solo artist for the first time but when a mishap occurs, your boyfriend is there to support you through it.

a/n: a collab!! Zenny and I have a love child. We hope you enjoy!! Writing by @mashtatosworld and SMAU by @aizshallnotbefound <3

Part 2 will be posted on her account!

You were on your third cup of coffee, fourth playback of the bridge, and somewhere around the seventh time talking yourself out of severe self doubt.

This would be your first album as a solo artist.

Your producer leaned over the mixing board, gently adjusting a level. “That’s the one,” he said, nodding. “Feels clean. You wanna go again or are we locking it?”

You hesitated.

The song was good.

But… it was that song.

The one you and Jiyong wrote in that haze of inspiration weeks before his tour.

The one meant to be shared together, a moment in the album where it would be just the two of you, lyrically tethered in plain sight - only no one could know it was real.

Your management had said no.

Too complicated.

Too risky.

Too close.

With Jiyong on tour too, you both finally agreed that his verse should go to another artist even though the words were his.

You were still staring at the audio waves glowing across the screen when the door clicked open behind you.

You turned.

He was there.

Wearing a black hoodie, a crossbody slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, exhaustion written across every line of his face - but he was there.

“Jiyong?” you breathed, blinking. “What - how - I thought you were in Japan?”

“Oh, my flight got in early,” he said, voice rough from travel, fatigue, or both.

You played with the cord of your headphones. “We, um, we were just finishing the last song on the album.”

"Ah," He looked to Teddy with a smile. "Hey, Hyung."

"GD. Can't believe you're still standing. Did you come straight from your show?" He asked with raised brows.

“Yeah,” he nodded, dropping his bag onto the couch and falling into the space beside it with an exhausted sigh.

You moved your eyes back to the screen, bouncing your leg, more nervous than ever. Of course you had shared snippets of the album with your boyfriend, but he had yet to hear a full version.

And that was because you were scared.

Even though Jiyong was nothing but supportive, he was a master of music and perfectionism.

You'd seen him make artists repeat the same line twenty times until it was flawless.

So when Teddy pressed play and the sound of your voice filtered through the speakers, you tightly held onto the arm of your chair, waiting for him to waltz over, lean across the soundboard and begin working his effortless magic.

Except he remained where he sat, tapping his foot as he listened, nodding his head along to the beat as you and Teddy worked through the tempo and pitch.

Your eyes couldn't help but occasionally cast back to his silent form, just watching you, the corner of his lips tugged upwards.

Why wasn't he saying anything?

You sighed and turned back to the soundboard, asking Teddy to add another layer to the harmonies, all the while acutely aware of Jiyong's eyes on you.

Eventually, your producer stretched and exhaled with a nod. "I think we got it."

You looked at the screen, then turned to Jiyong.

He stared back at you with a gentle smile, his eyes tired but warm.

"Well?" you prompted.

He laughed, arms casually crossed over his stomach. "What?"

"Any notes?"

"I love it, y/n."

You looked to Teddy and he laughed too. "You heard it from the legend himself. I don't think we can get better praise than that."

You twisted your lips and shot Jiyong a sidewards glance.

Teddy saw this and stood with a groan. "Ah, I think it's time I take a break." he said, grabbing his phone and heading for the door. “Don’t touch anything, Hyung.”

“No promises,” Jiyong said, eyes locked on you the whole time.

Once the door clicked shut, you twisted in your seat and nodded to the empty one beside you.

"Ok, lay it on me then. What is it? Shall I re-record the final verse? Is it the bridge?"

Jiyong stood and slowly walked over, except he didn't sit down, instead, he chose to stand behind you. His arms rested on the arms of your chair, the curve of his cheek grazing yours.

Then, softly: “So… can I finally touch you now?”

You laughed as his lips met your jaw in a quick succession of kisses before he trailed them to your lips. They lingered there and you sighed into the kiss, feeling your anxieties dissolve.

You withdrew slightly to look at him.

His hair was disheveled and up close you could see the dark rings around his eyes. They weren't traces from wiped staged make-up, but sat sunken into his skin.

Gently, you ran the pad of your thumb over them. "Hi."

"Hi," he repeated softly. "Come here,"

He pulled you up from your seated position and into his arms, curling around you and rousing a soothing tranquility within you.

Jiyong had always been someone you looked up to, a guiding light when you first debuted with your band, even when your relationship changed over the years.

You had both respected and feared his musical judgement.

Yet now, he had established himself as your supportive comfort, rather than mentor.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into your hair, his hand gently trailing down your back. “So bad.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered, fingers fisting into his hoodie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make your show in Tokyo. But I watched the whole thing on live stream.”

He pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up. “I understand Jagi." His smirk then turned teasing. “Want a private showing? I can give you a real performance later.”

You pushed him, laughing. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m in love,” he shrugged, quickly pulling you back. “Let me love you."

That made you go quiet. Your eyes softened. He noticed instantly.

“What?” he asked.

You hesitated, then looked up at him. “Will you be at my first show?”

The words came out smaller than you intended. Shy. Vulnerable. You bit your lip. “I know you’ve got your tour, and travel, and press - ”

“I’m going to be there,” he cut in, sure and solid like he always was when it came to you. “Don’t even question that.”

You exhaled, some invisible weight lifting off your chest. “It just feels weird. Going out there without the girls. Without Big Bang. Like I’m… alone.”

“You’re not,” he said, thumbing gently at your cheek. “We’re all gonna be there. Just… a little further back than you’re used to.”

You nodded, trying to picture the moment that sent panic down your spine.

Jiyong smiled softly. “You’re not stepping out of the shadows, baby. You are the light. They’re just finally seeing it.”

You buried your face in his hoodie again. “I love you.”

He held you tighter. “And I love you."

"Is the track really ok?" You mumble into his chest and you feel it vibrate with his laughter.

"Jagi! It's perfect. You're perfect. Stop doubting it. Now let's ask Teddy to wrap it up before I fall asleep on your shoulder.”

You smiled, the tension and fear crumbling away.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

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𝒀/𝒏 ✓ - 𝗬/𝗡 1𝘀𝘁 𝗔𝗹𝗯𝘂𝗺 Tour [𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬]

🔜 2017.09.19. (FRI) 5PM (KST)

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𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

You were pacing in your heels, a bottle of water clutched too tightly in your hand, heart pounding louder than the music spilling from the stage monitors.

The last song was moments away.

One more song - your final performance of the night.

The song.

The one everyone had been waiting for.

The one that was supposed to end your debut solo stage with a bang.

And your feature still wasn’t here.

You looked at your assistant again, wide-eyed and breathless. “Where is Jiyong?”

“He’s coming! I swear - VIP section was a madhouse but he’s on his way!”

“Shit - ” You tugged at the hem of your outfit, trying to focus, trying to breathe, but your nerves were unraveling fast. “What am I supposed to do?! That verse isn’t even covered - he was supposed to - he - fuck!”

A soft hand pressed between your shoulder blades. “Yah, calm down.” CL’s voice was soothing but firm, grounding. She looked effortlessly cool, having just wrapped her feature with you two songs earlier. “You’re gonna be fine, baby.”

“No I’m not, Chae,” you snapped, voice cracking. “I’m about to go out there with half a song - ”

“You’re gonna go out there,” she said, smoothing down your hair, “and own that stage. No matter what. You’ve worked too hard for this night.”

You tried to nod, but your throat was closing up.

And then -

“Jagiya.”

His voice cut through the noise like a damn spotlight.

You turned, relief crashing into your chest so fast it nearly knocked you over.

Jiyong pushed through two stage crew members, still in his VIP lanyard and designer jacket, eyes sharp and locked on you.

He looked like he'd sprinted from the other side of the building -flushed, breathless, hair slightly mussed.

And the second he reached you, his arms were already around your waist, grounding you, his forehead brushing yours without shame.

You didn't care for the staff fluttering around you, the way their gazes widened and lingered. You just needed him.

“Baby,” you whispered, clutching him. “He didn’t show. He just - he bailed. I don’t know what to do.”

“She’s been freaking out,” CL added, arms crossed, looking equally frustrated. “That asshole didn’t even call. She's supposed to be on stage now.”

You felt Jiyong’s jaw tighten, his hand soothing along your back even as fury flickered in his eyes. “Fucking coward. Leaving you like that?” He looked down at you. “You don’t deserve this shit.”

“What do I do?” you whispered. “They’re waiting.”

“You go out there,” he said, calm but sure, thumbing under your eye to fix a bit of smudged liner. “And I’ll handle it.”

You blinked at him. “Ji - ”

“Ten seconds!” a crew member called, frantically waving.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

CL gave you a tight squeeze. “You’ve got this.”

You looked back at Jiyong one more time, and the way he was staring at you - unshaken, unwavering - made the panic ease just a little.

The lights dimmed.

Your name was being chanted.

You ran out, stage lights blinding, cheers deafening.

And you pushed through, no choice but to keep going.

You danced. You sang. You lost yourself in the high of it - and then it came.

The verse.

You turned your head - and there he was.

Stepping into the fog, bathed in spotlight, mic in hand like he’d been born to be on that stage.

Jiyong met your eyes, smirked - delivering the rap like it had always been his. As it was supposed to be.

Smooth. Confident. Dynamic.

The crowd screamed.

You moved in sync without planning, falling into the rhythm, your voices tangling perfectly.

And when the final beat dropped and the track ended, he stepped back again - giving you your moment - as CL strode back out to join you for the encore.

The three of you together. A full circle ending.

Your solo debut complete.

And somewhere offstage, the internet was already spiralling.

But all you could think about was Jiyong’s smile.

And how, even when the lights went down, he was still the one who showed up for you in the dark.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Liked by gossip_loverVIP , YG_familyupdates & 1,509,899 others

Koreadispatch - 2NE1's maknae, Y/N, made her solo debut tour “Scarlet Dreams”, in which BigBang’s very own, GDRAGON, made a surprise appearance on stage for the final song replacing the original featured artist. Fans have noticed their close interaction many times before, but this performance has only fuelled more suspicion of their long time rumoured off screen relationship. Are the two idols dating? If so, how long has this been going?

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User_lvstabi - do i wanna be them or be with them

bigbang_OT4 - omfg i absolutely hate dispatch for this, yeah ik they are one of the most popular artists of yg but invading their personal lives ? thats a low

User_188 - /@bigbang_OT4 - istg this is so true now i bet dispatch about to release paparazzi pics of them just existing

Userlalala - i absolutely SCREAMED when he came like omg??? Absolutely loved the show so much especially theirs

User_ishighhigh - their chemistry was to die for i swear

Userforverr - IT couple of yg

Userlvs_yn - intruding kpop artists personal lives is kind of idiotic but even if they are dating VIP’s and blackjacks will always support them <3

Userxbb8 - these rumours are hilarious i already thought it was obvious they are together

User_steve - their chemistry on stage and interviews are very obvious i swear. I keep rewatching 2ne1 and bigbang clips just to see them lol User991 - i lost my man and my girl to EACH OTHER View 10k more comments

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

hope you all enjoyed our collaboration piece! go to part 2 for more!

also im working on a new diva fic and a love triangle series... so those will be out soon!

love mash xxx

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @maskedcrawford , @breakmeoff , @emmiesoverthemoon , @rafesbunniebby , @ricecake9999 , @fleabagspurplewife , @sylviavf , @ldydeath , @wonyluvi , @deliciousmagazinequeen

#mashtatosworld #bigbang #kpop #gdragon #kwon jiyong #kwon jiyong x reader #gdragon x reader

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