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veiled-harvest · 2 months ago

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Kept Woman | Viltrumite!Mark Grayson x Concubine!Reader | Chapter: 1

CONTENT WARNINGS : abduction, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding ,stalking, light violent threats , light gore+ minimal blood descriptions , mentions of adultery/possible cheating , death.

Why were you, of all people, taken from your home? Everything you knew, gone. Who knew you'd enter into one much larger than you could comprehend? Recanting the last day on like loop the second you drifted off or losing yourself in thought. You fall asleep in this small room and are immediately greeted with the world you once knew engulfed in flames. Your family , your friends , all screaming for help. The soreness in your voice from screaming still burning. Which ever day it was now. You vividly recall being lifted into the air. Exhaustion forgotten when you thrashed, attempting to free yourself, but the figure gripped you hard with no room to flee. Everything became so small in your vision. You had never been this high before, even on a plane. Was the world always this small, so tiny you only manage to make out patches of green or red where your home once was? And ever since, you've awoken in this empty place, a pure white room absent of any color , absolved of any life. The bareness of the room was eerie, and every time you awoke, you were terrified; not even the warmth of your dog was there to comfort you. For a while, you assumed maybe you had died and this was the end, but you’d pinch yourself and push away that delusion. All you did for 2 or 3 days was wept and slept. There was no clock to keep time, no door to exit, yet somehow food would appear when you came to from slumber every day and night.

That was until you rose on the fourth day, the pain from your injuries finally becoming bearable , and moving was slightly easier. The bandages on all your wounds still leaked with blood whenever you moved so you had been avoiding exploring the 4 corners of your confinement.

A faint noise from the ceiling, quiet but noticeable in your newly awakened state.

Suddenly, the door opened, and two women draped in grey and white walked in rather quickly. One approached you and spoke very softly about getting you cleaned up. Her demeanor was calm but orderly. She had lightly grasped your hand and led you off the bed offering to use her fully to support your own weight. The other women swiftly moved in, cleared the blood soiled bed sheets, and replaced them with new ones.

For the next 30 minutes, they washed , fed you and tended to your needs, well, as much as you’d allow anyway, still noticeably dazed and bruised. Then they left you just like that, leaving you in that dense silence you became to loathe. You stood still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with yourself. You walked over to the bed and slowly sat on the edge. The bedding was incredibly soft, but that's the last thing on your mind.

Where were you ?

Who were those women ?

Various thoughts flooded your head, good, bad, an endless ambush of possibilities you frightened yourself with. Your mind was racing a mile a minute til the door approached again. It was a man this time. It took you bo longer than a second to process it, one look at his face, and you knew. That familiar shot of adrenaline hit you hard; you became stiff. It was him.

The man who abducted you. His eyes were hollow , fixated on you. This man towed over you with terrifying stature. He scanned you up and down, then moved on to examine the room before he made his way closer to you. You had jumped slightly as the distance between you closed.

"Who- Who are you?" Speaking no louder than a whisper, fearing that it would possibly anger him more than what he was already radiating. Something in your gut told you to proceed with caution. His stare, his demeanor were truly terrifying.

"Have you eaten and bathed?" Completely ignoring your question. You only nodded, taking the hint not to ask again. The man sat down next to you, maybe only a foot of space between you.

"What is your name?" He asked, looking at you with a cold, stern expression. You hesitated, looking away to avoid the weight of his gaze.

“Y/N..” Given the circumstances, stuttering couldn't be helped. You were in an unknown location next to a man whose name you don't even know, in a room so empty you worried simply existing would soil it’s purity .

"My name is Mark.” You nodded, swiftly preparing to ask another question, hoping to get an answer this time.

“Mark..Why did you bring me here?” The carefully chosen words left your lips. He didn't immediately respond as you hoped. His jaw clenched in return; he avoided your bated breath as if he were in any position to do so.

“I brought you here because I thought it would be a waste to let you perish on that planet. You will be taken care of, and in return, you'll give me an heir. " Your throat tightened; all you wanted to do was run, but something in you knew you'd be done for if you did. You couldn't die here. You wouldn’t die here. You have so much to live for. Or had. Although you were told there was nothing left of your home, you refused to give up, there’s some fight left in you even if it was just alittle any bit of push back was enough resilience to cling to.

"And what will you do if I refuse?"

"…Then you will be discarded. But I hope it doesn't come down to that. You seem strong. You will survive and hopefully pass that attribute on to our child." His face exhibited not an ounce of emotion with this declaration, to make such an assumption of who you were. To proclaim, To think he'd propose such a thing when you'd known your Mailman longer than him was absurd.

"Can I at least have time to process this. I haven't even seen past these four walls.” Can you least tell me I'll be stuck here forever. Is what you wanted to say but lacked confidence to confess.

“That can be arranged; Soon enough, you'll be given opportunities to prove your cooperation. In the meantime, rest." His hand briefly touched yours, and he rose from the bed. His heavy steps reached the door, and Mark glanced at you once more, disappearing along with the door, leaving you stunned in this white walled prison.

You might have sat there for hours, you wouldn’t have know, staring across the room at the mirror adjacent to the bed.

Why me ?

All you could think about was your life on Earth. Your last walk in the park while playing with your dog. The child who spilled ice cream on your shoe and his mother profusely apologized while your dog swooped in, enjoying the mess.

The last time you sat on your porch, writing from dawn to dusk, twilight timing in your creative juices kept you writing like you needed it to breathe, forgetting about time itself. The sound of a pencil running along the paper, amused with indulgence in your imagination.

Now, you had to mourn the so-called uneventful life you were lucky to have experienced in that pocket of time. You stared at the reflection for ages. Tears fell, stained, and burned your face. Dried blood at the tip of your fingers from the anxious tugging of skin above your cuticle.

You thought it over a dozen times and decided it was best to simply comply until you found a way out of this mess. What scared you most was how casually he presented the proposal, with the lack of marriage, void of a possible connection between you. Was a child only necessary? Any young lady would have been terrified, fuck, you were mortified, but those faint memories of what Earth looked like in its final moments while you were pulled from the rubble, bloodied and battered. The scattered limbs of other civilians decorating the street, your dog barking frantically, jumping and whining in attempts to save you, quickly turning to cries as you vanished into clouds of smoke. You ran a hand over the already blood-stained bandage on your forearm , which lead to brushing your fingers over a faint scar. You had many small cuts from your dog, though you didn’t mind , it was her way of saying I love you; scare only you could explain.

You had just gotten your dog after moving out with your parents, and like most people, you purchased the puppy to fill the emptiness of new beginnings. Unfortunately, you didn't name the young one. You only rescued it from backyard breeders to avoid letting it end up in the same fate. Chester was her name. They had named ‘him’, assuming ‘his’ sex, but it was too late before they realized it. Truth be told, it was difficult to rename a dog, so there you were. Your big baby with separation anxiety. It hit you that you were now without her. Though you knew that she was gone; the idea of her last moments were trying to save you and incapable of doing so was aching even more than the idea of you being used to possibly make babies.

The daylight from the small window had shifted into dusty blue, and the stars slowly filled the sky. You were drawn to the window as a distraction, but then you saw how high you were and stumbled back, immediately falling to the floor with a light thud. You scurried across the floor to the farthest corner from the window. Hugging your knees to your chest only made the oncoming hyperventilating worse. You bury your head into your legs, letting the silent sobs drench your knees, down to your thigh.

You went through all the stages of grief and rendered yourself exhausted. No energy was left to make your way to the bed, so you stayed put with what little refuge found in the cold corner, Hoping to dream of what once was, you picture your dog curled close at your feet. Tears cascade your face, continuing to empty what you failed to release while awake.

The door appeared once again; Mark entered quietly and approached your sleeping form, taking in the scene as if he was trying to capture and save it for eternity; the way your hair stuck to your cheeks, the tight grip you had on yourself so tight like you'd disappear before him. Mark reached out, carefully collected you into his arms, and headed to the bed. He placed you down gently and tucked you in the best you know how, successfully relieving you of the nightly chills. Your face still showed discomfort, but he had no idea what to do in this minor predicament. So he quietly sat there watching you sleep.

The man with little to no time for his own rest was taking a moment for you. He devoured the sight of your sleeping face. Mark didn't know why, but he was fearful of what would transpire if you spent time together, even when you were unaware. He had the urge to caress your face in an attempt to ease the tension you held with your brows, but Mark knew if, or when he surrendered to this vulnerability, a greater weakness would appear, and Mark could not afford to be vulnerable; but maybe he could just for you, maybe for just a second in the dead of the night.

He left the room with the picture of you sleeping safely wrapped in silk. His thoughts were usually preoccupied with plans to expand the empire yet you effortlessly took up a chunk of focus. Mark had no time for this, but he held that space in his mind for you, the human he had been accidentally dotted and plotted on for months prior to the invasion.

He ventured onto Earth where his people would take control of or destroy, Mark was given the mission no questions asked . He was half-human after all. Curiosity was a common trait amongst he shared blood with; Mark would have been lying if he said a small part of him hadn’t wished he had grown up here. With the numerous cultures to explore and the various unvisited terrain he read about in his father's reports, he fell in love with the planet unbeknownst to those around him.

What really turned him was when he saw you walking with your dog in the park. You were distracted by your phone, furiously typing with one hand, while the other was preoccupied with your dog, leading you through the crowded path. You were a very expressive human, easily entertained by your own intellect. Til this day he wonders why you stood out so boldly. What drew him to your person?

Mark ended up sort of stalking you. Your routine was pretty simple, yet you were always rushing somewhere. In such a short time, his interest in you took up all his time. With each passing day he become more and more intrigued. He witnessed you rushing to work every day; The weak smile you gave unhappy customers at the cafe, There was a few times he almost intervened while not fully understanding why the disrespect upon you bothered him; he watched you come home and collapse on your porch, letting your canine lick away the toubles you faced all day , leaving you in fits of laughter. Whenever you stopped to smell flowers, pick up trash, or said something sweet to a stranger, you bewildered him in such a quaint way. Of course, he observed other humans, but he was drawn to your aura. The light that radiated from your smile captivated him, and he was determined to save you from the inevitable, in the only way he knew how.

Taking you away before it was too late.

His father had already expressed how much time he spent ,wasted focusing on his mother and that he wished he had taken on one or two more women so he wouldn't have ended up with only a single child and the only of-age heir to his father's legacy, which is what led to your immediate capture.

Mark was instructed to take on not two, but three wives at once to meet his father's demands. He'd never do much as had a girlfriend, so obviously he had no idea how he would manage to love you ,cater to the other women all to maintain a bloodline. There was no way this would end well, but he had no choice but to obey his father's instructions—at least for now. Truthfully, there was no room what so ever for ‘other women’ in the future he had been planned for you. But it was the only way to keep you safe and pardoned in the eyes of his people;Masked as a pet, the most precious life in the galaxy.

The new found concept of envisioning you in his state is rest was exhilarating. Ironically before his grand plan of stealing you away, The safest place for you was his mind. Dreaming, Mark hadn't done that before he discovered you. He always thought he'd be this empty shell for hundreds of years. Mark was prepared for the loneliness his mortality brought him, having no idea that a mere human managed to unknowingly change his perspective so quickly.

He reached his chamber and immediately stripped to his shorts, collapsing onto the bed. A hand wandered to the untouched side of the bed, and he pictured you as you were earlier.

Tomorrow was another day closer to you. Another day yearning for the moment you’d finally be able to fill the space on the mattress, where you should have been now, where you belonged.

#viltrumite mark x reader #viltrumite mark #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x y/n #invincible #invincible fanfic #invincible variants x reader #invincible x reader #invincible x you #mark grayson

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wincore · 6 months ago

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I faked my engagement for free cake samples and got sued after I ran away AIO | haechan

pairing: haechan x baker!reader

genre: comedy, fluff, rivals (?) to lovers (?)

warning(s): quite possibly you will be inflicted with cringe, shameless scamming, mild swearing, one (1) innuendo

words: 5.4k

song recs: santa doesn’t know you like i do by sabrina carpenter, too late for chocolate? by kana hanazawa, like a raspberry by 宇宙ネコ子, honey by kara

a/n: ty to my queens lana and cat for gassing up this dumpster fire i wrote in a caffeine haze while watching my bf die every 20 secs in ds3. the initial plot was going to be far longer and more fleshed out but i fear i'm past my prime ( ._. )" i still hope you guys have fun with this one!! i got to play around with hallmark comedy far more this time, so overall it was a fun time writing <3 happy new year, my lovely mooncakes!!

part of a nonsense christmas: reddit edition collab <3

r/AmITheAsshole

u/YeastMode6969 • 3h

I faked my engagement for free cake samples then got sued after I ran away. AIO?

I (24F, small bakery owner) faked my engagement to get free cake samples at my rival bakery but the employee said I needed my fiance to be there. I panicked and grabbed the first guy to come through the bakery door after me. Turns out he’s not just some random customer. To top it off, he was ridiculously attractive even though he pissed me off every two sentences. I had a panic attack, told myself it’s totally not my fault, and moved on by baking fourteen cakes over the weekend. I thought I got away with it, but three days later, I got an email from him—he’s now suing me for “emotional damages” and “theft of pastries.” Am I doomed, or is this just karma with extra frosting?

⥣ 7.7k ⥥ 2,701 Comments

bun_theory0222 • 2h

INFO: Did you at least try the samples? Were they worth the lawsuit? We’re all dying to know here.

➥ Reply ⥣ 3.2k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h

nah cuz why is he suing when he CLEARLY wants to flirt??? this man is embarrassing but so are you. somebody matched ur freak <3

➥ Reply ⥣ 1.7k ⥥

soggywaffle0205 • 6m

YTA why can’t this shit happen to me. AT LEAST I would commit to the bit.

➥ Reply ⥣ 420 ⥥

cerealfordinner0323 • 2h

Bro sued you just to slide into your life again. He’s not slick, and neither are you. Good luck with that wedding cake.

➥ Reply ⥣ 9,011 ⥥

. . .

If you could hop a few steps to the right, feign unconsciousness, and climb right into the active fireplace, it could potentially make everything okay. For you, that is. Not for the poor bakery employees who would have to call the cops.

“I’m sure he’s a handsome one!” The girl behind the counter giggles, light pink dusting her cheeks. “You’re- you’re so gorgeous!”

Setting aside the fact that most gorgeous women you know end up with malformed gargoyles, your current predicament is almost equally sinister. What started as an innocuous process to gain free wedding samples (in other words, a scam) has led to a question that should be obvious but completely escaped your mind following your trailing success.

“We’ll need to have you come in with your fiance for the free wedding cake samplers. Is he around?”

Is he around?! Boy, you sure hope so. Because now you’re also frantically looking around with the employee after you blurted out another lie: “He’s going to be here soon!”

When did you turn into a compulsive liar? You’re not sure if your mom would be proud of you for being so good at nabbing free food, or disappointed that you’re a filthy liar. After all, she did tell the buffet employees you were under 10 all the way till you were 14. So, really, you’re not the source of the problem! You brush your festive red skirt of invisible crumbs, trying to busy yourself.

The cafe itself is well decorated for Christmas—a silver reindeer bores holes into your head from by the front door, a small Christmas tree stands at the center that’s a little emaciated but the cute Sanrio ornaments in Santa hats make up for it, and most importantly, a beautiful Mont Blanc cake sparkles from atop the glass counter. (Seriously, why didn’t you think of this? Your own bakery is all sparkles and no play.)

You move out of the way of other customers, and casually glance at the source of your awe and joy. Powdered sugar dusts the top as idyllic snow, covering the sugared cranberries and sugared chestnuts, not dent in them under the white fondant star. The base of the cake is tied with an edible red ribbon, completing the seasonal aesthetic of it. A sigh rests momentarily upon your lips before it escapes.

You love Mont Blanc cakes, but you never quite get it right. That’s your biggest failure as an up-and-coming baker, and such is the reason for your unhinged serial sampling scam. You swear it started off as a search for inspiration in a creative rut but before you knew it, a lie had spilled from your eclair-sweetened lips, and another, and another.

It is at this point that you briefly consider bolting for the door. Tibet is great around this time of the year. Maybe if you convert to a monk lifestyle and atone for your sins, you’ll be granted a pardon in the form of delicious sweets. Before you can make your escape, however, the front door jingles, and in strides a sight unbelievably reassuring. A man with caramel hair enters, who might as well be wrapped in a giant red ribbon and seated atop a snow-white horse in golden ornaments.

It’s a Christmas miracle. Hallelujah! They still apply to you.

His smile—soft and sweet as meringue hearts—lights up the room as he inhales the warm, sugary air of the bakery. You’re hit with the vaguest sense of familiarity. He might be one of the few customers you get these days. For a moment, you falter. Are you really going to victimize this stranger?

Yes. Yes, you are. The situation is dire.

“Hi darling!” You exclaim within earshot of the employee, before lowering your voice. “Could you help me out a little here?”

The man blinks, dazed for whatever reason. “Uh… sure?”

“Okay, then follow along and ask questions later,” you reply, and loop your arm through his gingerly. The touch of his fuzzy winter coat makes you relax a little. It is chocolate-colored, with beige fluff around the collar. Not now, you think to yourself, You need to stop thinking about sweets for one goddamn moment.

“Here he is,” you laugh sheepishly as you bring the man forward. Gosh, what in the heavens are you doing? You didn’t even ask his name.

The employee stares, jaw agape. What’s with the reaction? He’s not that hot.

“O-oh,” she responds. “That’s quite the surprise. I never knew. Congratulations, sir!”

You turn to look at him. He simply scratches his chin with a sheepish smile, and manages to respond with a “Thanks, Kimi.”

He must be a regular, you think. Oh, (Name), what did you get yourself into? You’re just gonna have to read his name off his coffee order first.

“We have a selection of samples for our wedding cake choices,” the girl, Kimi, moves to the far side of the counter, offering a small menu card to the two of you. “I know you’re not a big fan of wedding cakes, Mr. Lee, but the latest tiramisu flavors should suit your tastes, no?”

Just how close are they?! You chew on your lip and try to calm your depraved little heart.

“Well,” he responds, thinking for a second, “I actually hadn’t thought this far. What do you think, honey?”

He turns to you with a radiant smile, but you sense a hint of mischief. You don’t have time to think of that though—so you just change the topic.

“Actually, do you have a Mont Blanc flavor? I’ve always had trouble perfecting it myself.”

Truth be told, that ‘honey’ had flowed from his lips and struck you straight in the heart. He’s not too bad to look at, you think now. His tousled hair catches the light with a playful sheen, framing his face and accentuating his disbelieving smile, while his fluffy coat adds a cozy touch to his charming, boyish demeanor. If you were to overthink a little, you’d find a hint of mischief in his voice. Alas, you’re a simple girl who only overthinks sweet treats, not boys.

“You bake?” He blurts, before his ears turn red from realization.

Kimi shoots him a puzzled look and your breath hitches in your throat. Was the miracle an idiot in disguise?

“I mean, uh, gosh, you make me so nervous, honey.” He looks like he’s trying his very best to ace an exam he never studied for. “I meant to ask if you're going to bake.. today? Don’t look at me like that.”

Maybe you should’ve picked a candied apple and prayed that a witch had poisoned it. You can’t even force out a smile at that pathetic save.

“You’re a lucky man, Mister,” Kimi jabs, a look of distrust in her eyes before they flash to you. “I’m afraid Miss (Name) in a wedding dress would make me drop dead at the altar.”

“Oh, you- you flatter me,” you choke out, “I promise you wedding gowns aren’t my thing at all. Besides, you’d look beautiful in white yourself.”

Why is she so into this wedding conversation? How close are these two? You’re not sure how to react, and neither do you know how this man is going to explain your mysterious disappearance the next time he visits the bakery. You’re sure as hell not going to continue the act beyond this. It’s time you retired from this scam business. You’re not even sure how you’ll talk your way out of this with the man, currently engaged in small talk with Kimi.

And— is he blushing?! Does he have something going on with the girl—Kimi? Did you just ruin something? Your heart tightens a little, and you have to physically restrain yourself from falling to the floor, head in your hands.

You laugh awkwardly, trying to diffuse the situation. When you open your mouth, you are interrupted.

“Actually, Miss, I think I take back what I said about the handsome part,” Kimi jokes, evident disdain sent towards Donghyuck.

Your natural response is a little laugh that leaves before you know it. Maybe, the feelings you sensed were of unrequited resentment. He does have the kind of face that looks like it’s often smacked by girls. No offense to him.

Kimi hands you the first sample (two delicious slices of Mont Blanc) and excuses herself to fetch the rest. The two of you make your way to a booth with the heaviest silence you’ve ever experienced. You might as well be at a funeral.

“So… free samples are that good, huh?” The man asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“I’m Donghyuck, by the way,” he responds with a youthful laugh. “Might I have the honor of knowing my fiance's name?”

“(Name). And stop looking at me like that.”

He lets out a short breath.

“You know, maybe we should’ve pretended it was an arranged marriage.”

“Quite proficient in the scamming business, are you?”

“Oh, you’re better off not knowing my dirty secrets.”

You couldn’t care less about his secrets but the look you shoot at him is certainly dirty.

He opens his mouth but you interrupt him to absolve yourself first. “Listen, I don’t do this often. And I’ll have you know it’s nothing personal. Well, not against you. The owner of this place maybe.”

Donghyuck blinks. “Oh? Do tell. I’m all for being a hater with my fiance.”

You stare at him, not impressed.

“Sorry.”

“Okay, so this started a month or two ago. I had been working tirelessly, testing recipe after recipe, trying to perfect the Mont Blanc cake. It was my dream to make it iconic, you know? But before I could even settle on the perfect combination of flavors, some smug bastard opens a bakery right across from me. And what does he have as his specialty? Why, the Mont Blanc cake of course. Seasonal! Cute, elaborate new decor every two weeks! Just how rich is he? I bet he doesn't even bother to create his own recipes. This guy didn’t just steal my idea, he’s turned my passion into some overpriced, generic trend!”

You heave, tired from the onslaught of frustration. Chewing on your lower lip, a pout naturally makes its way onto your face, and so do more complaints.

“And that’s not all, okay? I never see him at the bakery. I refrain from entering my competitors' establishments unless I greet them in person. But this asshole is just never there! What, is he too good to work at his own bakery? Too good to grace us lowly bakers with a visit? How could he just swoop in and steal my signature item?”

Donghyuck listens to your rant with intent, cheek resting against his palm. He even looks a little ridiculously charmed right now.

“Wait… so you’re the infamous Free Cake Phantom everyone’s talking about?” He gasps.

You’ve finally turned to your poor, neglected Mont Blanc sample, just for your heart to jump out. “What?”

“Just kidding. Your secret is safe,” he says, digging into the cake with infuriating nonchalance. “But hey, you’ve got good taste. This Mont Blanc though? It’s my personal recipe.”

Your fork halts halfway to your mouth. “Your recipe? What, you work here or something? And, no offense, but it’s overwhipped.”

If that’s a joke, it’s not very funny. The man looks more like a confectionary than a confectioner. There’s no way he works here. He’s probably some jobless guy drifting from bakery to bakery on early Saturday mornings.

His jaw drops. “Overwhipped? Are you kidding me?”

You wave the fork at him like it’s a weapon. “Chestnut puree shouldn’t have the texture of mousse. It’s called finesse, Mr. Lee.”

Before he can respond, Kimi returns with another tray, and you slip back into character, placing your hand on Donghyuck’s. “Thank you,” you coo at her. “I can’t wait to share all these flavors at our wedding.”

Donghyuck stiffens slightly at the unexpected contact, but he recovers quickly, plastering on the fakest grin known to man. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

Kimi laughs. “You’re such a lovely couple. When’s the big day?”

You freeze, and so does Donghyuck. For a moment, neither of you has an answer.

“Oh, we’re still, uh, deciding,” you blurt, glancing at him for backup.

“Yeah, we’re thinking spring,” he adds smoothly. “Cherry blossoms. Very romantic.”

“Y-yes. Maybe the Raspberry Rose should be in the winner’s spot then.”

As Kimi bows politely and walks away again, Donghyuck leans in to whisper. “Should I book the honeymoon now, or…?”

“Don’t push your luck,” you hiss, elbowing him in the ribs.

He makes a pained sound, but recovers quickly.

The second flavor is dubbed “Marble Eclipse”, a decadent blend of rich chocolate and vanilla, perfectly balanced with a luscious buttercream frosting. You try to focus on the taste, but Donghyuck’s smug grin as he watches you take a bite is more distracting than you’d like to admit. You’re not easily flustered, not by men. Unfortunately, he would have been the exact type you’d have tried to nab in college.

You shake your head. Focus, (Name), you think to yourself, You’re in the enemy’s lair right now!

“So… I might as well come clean,” Donghyuck says with a serious tone, right after you’ve taken a bite. You pause in horror. What arcane knowledge is he going to use for your humiliation this time?

“I visit your bakery often, and I must say your selection is just as good, if not better.”

You exhale.

“Oh, it’s better alright,” you retort, before realizing the unwarranted passion in your voice. You compose yourself. “I mean, maybe their Mont Blanc is… a solid competitor.”

Donghyuck laughs, clearly amused by the bashfulness on your face.

“Wait, are you patronizing me?”

“Of course not!” He places his hand over his heart in mock hurt.

“I think the difference is that this one keeps up with the youth.” He waves his fork about, explaining his point further. “Everyone loves new, shiny things. Cycle those as much as possible. Have you ever considered holding blind box events with your cupcakes? I’m sure the kids would love to find out which flavor of panda bear cupcake they got—matcha, my personal favorite, or coconut cream, or… god forbid, chocolate mint. Ugh. Have you considered removing that from the menu? Anyway, that shouldn’t take too much time and money, right?”

The youth? What is he, forty? However, however, the look on his face as he describes your own baked goods to you is enough to make you intensely flustered. Has this man visited so often? And you never noticed him? How could you miss that easy-going smile?

A familiar figure saves you from whatever awkward, garbled response you were going to muster.

Despite Kimi’s arrival, Donghyuck has a hard time taking his eyes off you. Lashes swaying with each flicker of his eyes over your face, he’s hardly taking a bit of the delicious marble cake, in fact. What, have you got something on your face?

Kimi apologizes profusely before you can say anything to greet her.

“There’s only one slice prepared for the Tiramisu Dream sample,” she explains. “I’m so sorry about this. Would you mind sharing this one? I apologize again.”

“No worries, Kimi,” Donghyuck responds, laughing a little. You shake your head and reassure it’s alright too.

Anyway, that slice is going to be yours. You’re ready to pry it from his cold, dead hands.

To your surprise, though, he shoots a friendly smile at you.

“Want the first bite?”

“May I?” You ask, just to be sure.

“By all means,” he says, gesturing grandly. “After all, what’s mine is yours, fiance.”

You swear, if he calls you that one more time, he’s going to end up in the cake display.

Kimi stares at the two of you blankly for a moment. It instantly flusters you and Donghyuck both, so much so that the idiot digs his fork into the cake slice and holds it up to your lips with a soft ‘ah’ —and so much so that you actually accept it graciously.

And all that only for Kimi to not even notice as she excused her way back to the counter. So now you’re just two idiots deep in your romantic charades. Donghyuck clears his throat, too late to cover his coral-tinted cheeks and ears. You’re certain you wear a similar expression.

“You’re- you’re so weird,” you jab, unable to come up with an insult higher than middle school grade.

“What, you wanted me to do airplanes too?!”

“Take that fork and drive it through your tongue, will you?”

“Woah, woah, no need for violence, Miss (Name). Peace and Love.”

Unexpectedly, it makes you break character into unbound laughter. The weariness of the act and the silliness of the whole situation leaks into the sound, and it’s enough to make Donghyuck join in. For passersby, you are just a couple already past your third, fifth and seventh dates.

“Any comments for the tiramisu cake?” Donghyuck asks, grinning ear to ear.

You catch your breath, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “Yeah, I have a comment: who puts this much cocoa powder on top? Are you trying to choke your customers?”

“Awh, and I thought you were gonna be nice,” he whines, “Your smile is just so… inviting.”

As if on cue, he chokes on the cocoa powder.

“I still like it,” you continue. “I’d just do it better.”

“I have the utmost confidence in that.”

Gosh, his smile is nauseating—too bright, too easy, like he’s actually enjoying this. Maybe he’s a rising actor, and you’re the one being hoodwinked. After all, who looks at someone like that on a first meeting?

A moment passes, and suddenly his thumb is at the corner of your lips, brushing off the cocoa powder with a touch so casual it feels anything but. “Got it,” he murmurs, and the air between you shifts, warm and oddly heavy.

“So, how do you know all this?” you ask, changing the topic. You’re forcing yourself to focus, to breathe.

He leans back, a small laugh slipping out like he’s grateful for the lifeline. “You- uh- you could say I’m a connoisseur of pastries,” he offers, his voice lighter now. “I like to sample the best around town—just, you know, legally. I even take notes of my favorites.”

He gestures towards you, and you scoff.

The words settle between you as you toy with the edge of your skirt, smoothing the fabric down over your lap. There’s something about the way he speaks—so casual, so effortless—that needles at you. For a man so annoyingly confident, he sure seems relieved to have redirected the conversation.

Your hand grazes the tiny snowman buttons on your cardigan, tracing the cold plastic absentmindedly. His gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face, a smile tugging at his lips like he’s trying not to laugh. You don’t know what’s more embarrassing—getting outed as the Cake Thief or the fact that he’s bound to know he flusters you.

You tilt your head, giving him a skeptical look. “How professional of you.”

The bite in your tone is softening, and you don’t like it one bit.

He holds up his hands, feigning surrender. “Hey, it’s an art. Someone’s gotta appreciate it, right?”

The faint chatter of other patrons fills the room, but his presence sharpens the moment, making it feel like it’s just the two of you. For a fleeting second, you catch yourself wondering what kind of person would take notes on pastries for fun. It’s so bizarrely specific, so utterly unnecessary—and yet, so like him.

His smile deepens, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” he teases.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the traitorous grin threatening to break through. You refuse to indulge him, even as you feel the faintest crack in your defenses.

"Maybe,” you say, finally.

He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, before leaning back against his chair with a satisfied air, as if he’s won something. You glance at the tray, willing yourself to focus on anything else.

How awkward. How warm.

You spot a napkin fluttering off the table, carried by a sudden draft from the door. Instinctively, you step out of your chair to grab it, but Donghyuck beats you to it, scooping it up with an exaggerated flourish and a bow.

“Your knight in shining armor,” he declares dramatically, holding it out like a trophy.

“More like my nuisance in sugar-stained armor,” you retort, snatching it from his hand.

He laughs, unabashed. “Ah, so sharp. Yet here you are, sharing cake with said nuisance. Life is full of mysteries.”

“I’m just here for the cake,” you deadpan, dusting your hands off.

For a second, his smile falters—not in hurt but in sheer disbelief. He tilts his head, studying you with an incredulous expression, and you suddenly feel like a frog under a magnifying glass.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he says, almost to himself, his voice low but still playful.

“Get what?” you ask, genuinely confused.

Donghyuck presses his lips together, fighting back a grin. He steps closer, leaning in just enough for you to catch the faint scent of chestnut cream. “I mean, I could spell it out for you, but that might ruin the fun.”

“Spell what out?” you press, a little flustered now.

He straightens with a laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing, you airhead. Absolutely nothing. Is your head full of cotton candy, by any chance?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can respond, he’s already pulling his chair back, resuming his seat with a sigh.

“Mont Blanc, Marble Eclipse, and Tiramisu on the first date,” he states, deep in thought. “Maybe Matcha Lemon, Lavender Peach, and White Chocolate on the second… Perhaps a Red Velvet and a Strawberry Shortcake before you realize I literally own this place?”

You feel the heat intensify on your cheeks. You almost miss the last part, clouded by the implications of the rest of his words. He… wants to go on more dates with you? Was this a date all along? You’ve been swindled into having fun with a man somehow. He even knows the ins and outs of a baker’s life. And he’s charming in an oddball sort of way. You shouldn’t be feeling solidarity with this weirdo. But then again, somehow, his laugh is very… endearing.

Wait a minute.

“You- you really own the place?!” A scream dies in your throat.

Donghyuck looks positively taken aback. “So you actually weren’t aware?!”

“What do you mean? How the hell am I supposed to know?! You described yourself as a connoisseur of pastries. I thought you were some kind of freelance failure so I didn’t pry!”

“Excuse me?!”

“Well, either that or you’re unbelievably rich. But then you don’t look it. Your sleeves have flour and oil stains on them, and your shoes are all dusty too, and there’s gold flakes in your hair—okay, how did I miss this?”

“Geez, way to judge someone by their looks. I’m not taking that from the local tart snatcher.”

The retort barely registers because your brain is too busy replaying the words “I own this place.” The realization hits, and before you can think better of it, the chair screeches back as you bolt upright.

“Wait, where are you—” Donghyuck’s voice is cut off by your shrill, mortified “Bye!” as you make a beeline for the door, leaving behind a very startled staff and a half-empty tray of cakes. Immediately after your exit, you let out a shriek.

What the hell are you doing?!

Your face burns as you speed-walk down the street, each step punctuated by the memory of your impulsive retreat. You must have cast your senses away at that moment, like some wide-eyed fool in a fairy tale, almost charmed by that silly man and his absurd little quirks. It’s not your fault, of course—it’s his, with his flour-dusted sleeves, that stupidly endearing laugh, and the way he talked about pastries like they were a love language. What was wrong with him?! you think, conveniently ignoring the fact that it was your awkwardness and runaway theatrics that had caused the scene. You’d blame it on sugar overload if it weren’t for the nagging realization that maybe—just maybe—he’d gotten under your skin, and the fact that you deserved it.

. . .

You hadn’t expected to hear from him again. Not after your embarrassing getaway. But three days later, you’re staring at an email with the subject line: "Notice of Legal Action for Unauthorized Sampling."

You open it with trembling fingers, only to find what can only be described as the world’s most dramatic—and definitely fake—lawsuit.

Your jaw drops as you scroll through the email. He’d even attached a fake case number: #CAKE-404-NO-FUN.

The body of the email was littered with ridiculous legalese. Phrases like "egregious acts of confectionery negligence" and "failure to properly appreciate artisanal craftsmanship" were scattered between absurdly specific accusations.

There is a diagram. An actual diagram. Arrows pointing to "Exhibit A" (the Mont Blanc) and "Exhibit B" (the empty spot on the tray), annotated with notes like "victim of hasty consumption" and "left to fend for itself."

And then, at the very bottom, there it was—the pièce de résistance:

“This suit may be settled by one (1) heartfelt apology and one (1) coffee date at the aforementioned bakery. Should you require legal counsel, I suggest bringing your A-game. I am, after all, a connoisseur of arguments… and pastries. 😉”

You groan, head thunking against the back of your chair. The audacity. The drama. The fuckass emojis.

This man is getting to you.

Your first reaction is, of course, panic. Your second? Rage. And by the time you storm into the bakery at ass o’clock before it even opens, Donghyuck is waiting for you, leaning against the counter like he owns the place. (Which he does, actually.)

He’s propped on his elbows, his posture easy and unhurried, as if he’s been expecting you. The black apron around his waist is slightly askew, and his beige T-shirt bears faint streaks of flour across the chest, a testament to an already busy morning. His fluffy brown hair is an artful mess, the kind that looks unintentional but infuriatingly perfect, with a few errant strands curling over his forehead. There’s a streak of something golden—sugar, maybe?—on his cheek, catching the light as he tilts his head to regard you with an expression that’s equal parts curious and smug.

“You’re early,” he remarks, his voice low and teasing, as though he isn’t the root of all evil.

“You think this is funny?” you demand, shoving your phone in his face.

Donghyuck grins, unbothered. “Hilarious, actually. Did it get your attention?”

“You can’t just send someone a fake legal notice!”

“Worked, didn’t it?” He shrugs, leaning back with infuriating calmness. “Besides, you owed me an explanation for your Houdini act. You know, poor Kimi had to clear your tray. She almost cried.”

“She did not!”

As if on cue, Kimi pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, she absolutely did. It was tragic,” she deadpans before ducking back in.

You groan, feeling your cheeks grow hotter by the second. “You’re unbelievable.”

Donghyuck leans back, smug as ever, and gestures to the email still open on your phone. “Unbelievable or resourceful? Let’s review: I sent a single, harmless message—full of creativity and wit, I might add—and look where we are.”

“At me wanting to strangle you?”

“At you running right to me,” he corrects, his grin widening. “What, were you worried?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap. “I’m here because—”

You stop, realizing you don’t have a decent answer. “I didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of thinking I took you seriously.”

“Oh, you absolutely took me seriously.” He nods sagely. “I saw the panic in your eyes. Admit it: for a second, you thought you were going to have to pay me a hundred grand or grovel at my feet.”

“I- ugh- fuck you!” is all you can muster, stepping forward without thinking.

He mirrors your movement, the space between you shrinking by degrees.

“But seriously, you ghosted me, and I had to get creative. What the hell was I supposed to do? I figured the legal drama might get my point across.”

“What point?”

“That I wanted to see you again.” The words come out so easily, so matter-of-fact, you don’t know how to respond. When you finally glance up, he’s watching you closely, his expression uncharacteristically sincere.

“Just because you’re all cute and covered in flour like the star of some indie chef movie doesn’t mean you get to toy with me.”

“Ha! You’re presumptuous—despite all the fine details on me you seem to observe.” He leans in. “But guess what, I’m a greedy bastard that loves attention. So, look closer.”

And you look anywhere but his lips, too pink and too plush, as your face grows hotter than a convection oven on broil.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you manage, staring resolutely at the display of cakes. “That hardly counts as details.”

“Details,” he echoes, his grin growing wider. “Like the way I look at you?”

“You’re just a flirt,” you mutter.

He gasps, mock-offended, and gestures dramatically to the kitchen. “Kimi, did you hear that? I’m just a flirt!”

“You said it, not me,” Kimi calls back without missing a beat.

You laugh despite yourself, the sound surprising you. And Donghyuck doesn’t miss it. His gaze softens, the teasing edge in his voice dropping slightly. “There it is. I knew you could laugh without running away.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

For a moment, the air shifts, the humor giving way to something quieter. Donghyuck’s gaze lingers—not on your awkward posture or flushed cheeks, but on you, as though trying to piece together something he doesn’t quite understand.

“What?” you finally ask, defensive.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but there’s a small, genuine smile now. “Just... you’re such a fidgety person.”

“Are you trying to shell out an insult?”

“No, I mean, I always see you scuttling here and there. Always on the move. Always observing, but never stopping long enough to be seen. You just… don’t seem like someone who takes much time for yourself.”

You blink, caught off guard. He tilts his head, like he’s trying to figure out if he’s crossed a line.

“I’m wrong?” he asks, almost sheepishly.

“I—” You pause, unsure of how to respond. “You’re nosy, that’s what you are.”

“That’s a yes,” he decides, grinning again.

Donghyuck chuckles, leaning just a little closer, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours. “Tell you what,” he says, his voice dropping to a murmur, “I’ll prove I’m not just nosy. Let me take you out. Somewhere you don’t have to bolt out the door halfway through.”

“You think I’d agree to that?” you retort, though your words lack bite. The proximity is doing something to your brain, and you’re acutely aware of how close he’s leaned in.

His grin is confident and infuriating. “I think you’d be curious enough to say yes.”

Your breath hitches as you realize how little space is left between the two of you, your noses almost brushing. “Woah,” you whisper, trying to play it off, “my mommy warned me about boys like you. All up close and personal with flour in their hair.”

He raises a brow, unrepentant. “Smart woman. But she didn’t tell you we’re pretty good at first dates, did she?”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes, soft but genuine. “Fine,” you say, straightening up and taking a step back before your pulse betrays you further. “But you’re paying. And no weird cakes this time.”

“Deal,” he replies, his smile softer now, more sincere.

And for a moment, you believe it—not just the act, not just the cakes and the banter, but the idea that maybe, somehow, this strange, sugar-dusted series of events has led to something real.

. . .

r/AmITheAsshole

u/YeastMode6969 • 16h

UPDATE: I faked my engagement for free cake samples then got sued after I ran away. AIO?

Fine, you guys were right. We’re dating now. Let’s just say we’ve been filling my cream puffs lately 🫠

Edit: I also got the Mont Blanc recipe!!

⥣ 7.7k ⥥ 3,297 Comments

kimikakes • 13h

KIMI HERE, REPORTING LIVE FROM THE SCENE: they literally argued over frosting consistency for half an hour yesterday. This relationship is built on chaos and croissants.

➥ Reply ⥣ 7.1k ⥥

bun_theory0222 • 2h

Hellooo where are the recipes. Priorities, OP :/

➥ Reply ⥣ 4.1k ⥥

lil_sugar_daddy0813 • 1h

man i was betting on donghyuck dying alone i dont wanna lose my $20

➥ Reply ⥣ 1.3k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h Give me your money NYEOW ➥ Reply ⥣ 1.7k ⥥

soggywaffle0205 • 6m why are you suddenly a furry ➥ Reply ⥣ 1.1k ⥥

muffinbutdrama1122 • 1h pays the bills ➥ Reply ⥣ 2.7k ⥥

#nct x reader #nct dream x reader #haechan x reader #nct fluff #nct dream fluff #haechan fluff #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 fluff #haechan x you #moonwrites #ok so initially it was way more long drawn bc hyuck was abt to make her do the 12 labors of hercules (bakery ver) to call off that lawsuit #would have been fun but i do not have the energy for it :((#so have toothrotting fluff instead #i know im late by 2 days but my friend went to the er on the 31st and i got piss drunk last night at a party

559 notes · View notes

octaneink · 4 months ago

Text

Not just you, not just me. Us.

Harry Lewis x Reader

Summary : The Reader and Harry go golfing on Valentines, even though the Reader has never gone and isn't really enjoy it but it ends on a high when they get some food and watch a film Warnings: None Notes: Happy (late) Valentines Day All 😚💕Also I hope this was alright!

You woke up to the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the curtains, the warmth of the blankets cocooning you in a sleepy haze. Your phone buzzed on the night stand, and you reached for it, squinting at the screen. A text from Harry lit up the display: “Good morning, love! Happy Valentine’s Day! Wear something comfy—we’re going golfing!”

Golfing? You blinked, trying to process the words. You’d never played golf in your life. The closest you’d ever gotten to a golf course was watching Happy Gilmore on a lazy Sunday afternoon. But Harry sounded so excited in his text, his enthusiasm practically radiating through the screen. You didn’t want to disappoint him, so you dragged yourself out of bed, showered and threw on some comfortable clothes, and texted back, “Can’t wait!”

When Harry picked you up, he was practically bouncing with energy. He had a big grin on his face, his golf bag slung over his shoulder, and a thermos of coffee in his hand. “For you,” he said, handing it to you with a kiss on the cheek. “I know you’re not a morning person, so I thought you might need this.”

You smiled, taking the thermos gratefully. The coffee was perfect—just the way you liked it—and you felt a little flutter in your chest at how thoughtful he was. “Thank you,” you said, sipping it as he drove. “So, golfing, huh? What made you decide on that?”

He glanced at you, his eyes sparkling. “I just thought it’d be fun to do something different for Valentine's Day, I’ve never heard about it being a date. Which is a big missed opportunity. Plus, I’ve been wanting to teach you how to play. It’ll be a blast, I promise.”

You nodded, trying to match his enthusiasm, but a tiny knot of anxiety formed in your stomach. What if you were terrible at it? What if you embarrassed yourself? But Harry was so happy, and you didn’t want to ruin his plans. So, you pushed your worries aside and let him lead the way.

The golf course was breathtaking, a sprawling expanse of rolling green hills that seemed to stretch endlessly under the vast, open sky. The sun hung high, casting a golden glow over the perfectly manicured fairways, and a crisp, refreshing breeze carried the faint scent of freshly cut grass. The sky was a flawless shade of blue—which was surprising for the UK—dotted with a few wispy clouds that drifted lazily overhead. It was the kind of day that made you want to stop and just breathe it all in—the beauty, the peace, the quiet.

Harry was practically vibrating with excitement as he led you to the first tee, his golf bag slung over one shoulder and a wide grin on his face. He handed you a club, his eyes sparkling as he began to explain the basics. “Okay, so first things first,” he said, positioning himself behind you. “You want to hold the club like this.” He gently adjusted your grip, his hands warm and steady against yours. “And stand with your feet shoulder-width apart. Keep your knees slightly bent. Yeah, just like that.”

You nodded along, trying to absorb everything he was saying, but your mind was racing. Golf seemed so complicated—so many rules, so many tiny adjustments. When it was finally your turn to take a shot, you took a deep breath, swung the club, and… the ball barely moved. It rolled a few feet and then stopped, pathetically short of the hole.

Harry chuckled, the sound warm and light. “It’s okay!” he said, stepping closer. “You’ll get the hang of it. Here, let me show you again.” He demonstrated the swing, his movements smooth and effortless, and then handed the club back to you. “Try it like that.”

You tried again and again, but no matter how hard you focused, your shots were either too weak or veered wildly off course. One particularly bad swing sent the ball flying sideways, straight into a cluster of trees. You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m hopeless,” you muttered, your cheeks burning with embarrassment.

But Harry just laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re not hopeless,” he said, walking over to you. “You’re learning. And honestly, you’re doing way better than I did my first time. I think I whiffed—like, completely missed the ball—at least five times.”

You peeked at him from behind your hands. “Really?”

“Really?” he said, grinning. “It’s all part of the process. You’re supposed to be bad at it at first. That’s what makes it fun.”

By the time you reached the third hole, your arms were already starting to ache. The sun felt hotter now, and the breeze that had been so refreshing earlier did little to cool you down. Harry, on the other hand, was in his element. He was practically glowing with enthusiasm, his laughter ringing out across the course as he effortlessly sank one shot after another. At one point, he made a particularly difficult putt and celebrated with a little victory dance, spinning around and pumping his fist in the air. You couldn’t help but laugh, despite your growing frustration.

“Show-off,” you teased, shaking your head.

He grinned, walking over to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Hey, I’m just trying to impress you,” he said, his voice warm and playful. “Admit it—you’re a little impressed.”

“Maybe a little,” you admitted, leaning into him. “But I’m still terrible at this.”

“Nah, you’re doing great,” he said, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s your first time. You’re supposed to be bad at it. That’s part of the fun.”

You wanted to believe him, but as the hours passed, your frustration grew. Your arms ached from swinging the club, your feet hurt from walking the course, and you were pretty sure you’d developed a blister on your hand. Meanwhile, Harry was still in his element, laughing and joking as he effortlessly sank one shot after another. At one point, he even started narrating his swings in a dramatic commentator’s voice, making you laugh despite yourself.

By the sixth hole, you were starting to feel the strain. Your hands were sore, your back was stiff, and the blister on your hand had definitely gotten worse. You tried to hide your discomfort, forcing a smile every time Harry looked your way, but it was getting harder and harder to keep up the act. When you completely missed the ball on your next swing, sending the club flying out of your hands and into the grass, you let out a frustrated sigh.

Harry rushed over, his expression concerned. “Hey, you okay?” he asked, picking up the club and handing it back to you.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… clumsy, I guess.”

He studied your face for a moment, his brow furrowing. “You sure? You seem a little… off.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, your voice a little sharper than you intended. “Really. Let’s just keep going.”

Harry hesitated but then nodded, his smile returning. “Alright, if you say so. But if you need a break, just let me know, okay?”

“I will,” you said, though you had no intention of doing so. You didn’t want to ruin his fun, not when he was so clearly enjoying himself.

By the time you reached the ninth hole, you were exhausted. Your arms felt like jelly, your feet were throbbing, and the blister on your hand was now a full-blown annoyance. But Harry was still grinning, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he slung an arm around your shoulders. “This is so much fun, isn’t it?” he said, his voice full of enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “So much fun.”

You wanted to mean it, you really did. But as you walked back to the clubhouse, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, you couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that the day was almost over. You loved Harry, and you loved seeing him so happy, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t how Valentine’s Day was supposed to feel. It wasn’t until you were sitting in the clubhouse, sipping a drink and staring out at the sunset, that Harry finally noticed something was off.

Harry tilted his head, studying your face with a soft, concerned expression. “Hey,” he said gently, reaching over to take your hand. His touch was warm, grounding. “Are you okay? You’ve been quiet for a while.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around his. You didn’t want to ruin his mood—he’d been so happy all day, so full of energy and joy. But the way he was looking at you, his eyes searching yours with such genuine care, made it impossible to keep it all in. “I’m just… not really a golf person,” you admitted, your voice quiet. “I’ve never played before, and I’m not very good at it. I didn’t want to say anything because you were having such a great time, but… it’s not really my thing.”

Harry’s face fell, his brows knitting together in concern. “Oh no,” he said, his voice filled with regret. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about that. I just got so excited about sharing something I love with you that I didn’t stop to consider whether you’d enjoy it too.”

You shook your head quickly, not wanting him to feel bad. “No, no, it’s not that I didn’t enjoy it at all,” you said, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, I loved spending the day with you, and watching you have so much fun made me happy. It’s just… I think I would’ve enjoyed it more if it wasn’t Valentine’s Day, you know? Like, maybe if we’d done this on a random weekend, it would’ve felt different. But today felt like it was supposed to be… I don’t know, more us, you know? Something we both love equally.”

Harry’s expression softened, and he squeezed your hand. “I get that,” he said, his voice gentle. “I really do. I guess I got so caught up in the idea of doing something different that I didn’t think about how it might feel for you. I’m sorry if it felt like I wasn’t considering what you wanted.”

You looked down at your hands, feeling guilty for bringing it up. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier because you were so into it,” you admitted. “You were laughing and smiling, and I didn’t want to ruin that. I thought maybe if I just pushed through, it would get better. But by the end of it, I was just so tired and frustrated, and I couldn’t keep pretending.”

Harry’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand, his touch soothing. “You don’t ever have to pretend with me,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “I want you to tell me when something’s not working for you. I never want you to feel like you have to suck it up just to make me happy. Your happiness matters just as much as mine, okay?”

You nodded, feeling a lump form in your throat. “Okay,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to disappoint you. You seemed so excited about today.”

“I was excited because I was with you,” he said, his tone earnest. “Not because of the golf. I mean, yeah, I love golf, but I love you more. And if you’re not having a good time, then I’m not having a good time either. Not really.”

You smiled faintly, your heart swelling at his words. “I did have fun, though,” you said. “Just… not the way I thought I would. I loved seeing you so happy, and I loved being outside with you. It was beautiful out there. I just think maybe golf isn’t my thing. Or at least, not for Valentine’s Day.”

Harry chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Noted,” he said. “No more golf on Valentine’s Day. Got it.” He paused, then grinned. “How about we make it up to you? Let’s grab some food—your favourite—and then we can go home and watch a movie. Something you pick. No golf, I promise.”

You laughed, the sound light and relieved. “That sounds perfect.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “And next year,” he said, “we’ll do something we love. Deal?”

“Deal,” you said, leaning into him. And as the two of you sat there, hand in hand, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the hills, you realised that even though the day hadn’t gone exactly as planned, it had still been pretty perfect. Harry’s arm was warm around your shoulders, his presence steady and comforting, and you couldn’t help but smile as the tension of the day melted away.

“Come on,” Harry said, standing up and pulling you gently to your feet. “Let’s get out of here. I think we’ve both had enough of golf for one day.”

You laughed, the sound light and relieved. “I think you mean I’ve had enough of golf for one day. You looked like you were having the time of your life.”

He grinned, slinging his golf bag over his shoulder and taking your hand. “Yeah, well, even I have my limits. And right now, my limit is how hungry I am. Let’s get some food.”

The two of you walked to the car, the cool evening air brushing against your skin. The sky was now a deep shade of indigo, dotted with the first few stars of the night. Harry opened the car door for you, his hand lingering on yours for a moment as you slid into the seat. “So,” he said, leaning against the door frame, “what are you in the mood for? Takeaway? Something greasy and delicious?”

You pretended to think about it for a moment, tapping your chin dramatically. “Hmm… greasy and delicious sounds perfect. How about that little Indian place we love? The one with the amazing samosas?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Yes. A thousand times yes. And we’re getting extra naan. No arguments.”

“Deal,” you said, laughing as he closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side.

The drive to the takeaway was short, the streets quiet as the evening settled in. Harry kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your knee, his thumb tracing little circles as he hummed along to the radio. When you arrived, he insisted on going in to pick up the food while you waited in the car. “You’ve had a long day,” he said, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “Just relax. I’ll be right back.”

You watched him disappear into the restaurant, a soft smile on your face. Despite the chaos of the day, you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. Harry had a way of making everything feel right, even when it wasn’t.

When he returned, he was carrying two large paper bags, the smell of spices and warm bread wafting through the car. “I may have gone a little overboard,” he admitted, setting the bags on your lap. “But I figured we deserve it.”

You peeked inside, your stomach growling at the sight of samosas, butter chicken, biryani, and, of course, an absurd amount of naan. “This is definitely overboard,” you said, laughing. “But I’m not complaining.”

Back at Harry’s place, the two of you spread out on the couch, the coffee table piled high with food. You insisted on putting on Four Lions, one of the films that the both of you can enjoy without complaints, and the opening credits were just starting as you dug into the food.

“You know,” Harry said, tearing off a piece of naan and dipping it into the butter chicken, “I think this might be the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

You raised an eyebrow, popping a samosa into your mouth. “Really? Even after the golf?”

He laughed, leaning back against the cushions. “Especially after the golf. I mean, yeah, it wasn’t exactly what you’d call romantic, but it was… us. And now we’re here, eating amazing food and watching an amazing movie. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

You smiled, leaning into him. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork,” he corrected, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close. His grin was wide and playful, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. But as he pulled back, you noticed a faint smear of butter chicken sauce on his lips—and now, unfortunately, on your cheek.

“Harry,” you said, trying to stifle a laugh, “you’ve got sauce on your lips. And now I’ve got sauce on my face.”

He blinked, then glanced at the naan in his hand, which was dripping with the rich, orange sauce. “Oh,” he said, his tone mock-serious. “Well, that’s just a bonus. Now you smell delicious.”

You groaned, eyes rolling in mock annoyance and shaking your head as you reached for a napkin. “You’re actually so annoying.”

But before you could wipe it off, he stopped you, his hand gently catching your wrist. “Wait, wait,” he said, his voice teasing. “I think I missed a spot.” He leaned in again, this time deliberately pressing a sloppy, exaggerated kiss to the same spot on your cheek, leaving an even bigger smear of sauce.

“Harry!” You squealed, half-laughing, half-trying to push him away. “You’re the worst!”

“No, I’m the best,” he said, grinning as he pulled back, his own cheek now slightly smeared with sauce from where it had brushed against yours. “Now we match. Couple goals, right?”

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as you grabbed a napkin and started wiping your cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he shot back, his tone dripping with exaggerated cheesiness. He even winked, which made you groan and throw a small piece of naan at him.

“You’re impossible,” you said, shaking your head, but you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

“Impossibly charming,” he corrected, catching the naan midair and taking a triumphant bite. “Admit it. You love me.”

“I do,” you said, leaning into him and resting your head on his shoulder. “Even when you’re covered in butter chicken sauce.”

He laughed, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you close. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere. Sauce and all.”

As the movie played, the two of you laughed until your sides hurt, the stress of the day completely forgotten. Harry kept stealing bites of your food, pretending to be offended when you did the same, and by the time the credits rolled, you were both stuffed and happy. The room was warm and cosy, the soft glow of the TV casting a gentle light over the two of you as you lounged on the couch, tangled up in each other.

Harry shifted slightly, turning to face you with a mischievous grin. “So,” he said, his voice playful but with a hint of seriousness, “next year, no golf. What do you want to do instead?”

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin dramatically. “Hmm… how about a spa day? Massages, facials, the works. Just pure relaxation.”

He groaned, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Fine. But only if I get a massage too. And maybe one of those cucumber things on my eyes. I’ve always wanted to try that.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No, no, don’t worry, I’m only joking. We need to think of something we both want to do. Not just me, not just you. Something that’s… us. You know, like, our thing.”

Harry tilted his head, his expression softening as he considered your words. “Okay, fair point. So, what’s something we both love? Something that feels like us?”

You paused, letting the question linger in the air for a moment. The two of you had shared so many moments together—some big, some small—but you wanted next year to be something special, something that reflected both of your personalities and passions. Then it hit you.

“How about a weekend away?” You suggested, growing more excited as the idea took shape. “Somewhere cosy, with a fireplace and a big bathtub. We could go hiking during the day—you know, explore some trails, take in the views—and then come back and relax in the evening. No golf, no spa, no pressure. Just us.”

Harry’s face lit up, his smile widening as he leaned in closer. “That sounds perfect,” he said, his voice warm and full of enthusiasm. “A little adventure, a little relaxation. Best of both worlds. And I love the idea of being somewhere quiet, just the two of us. No distractions, no schedules. Just us.”

“Exactly,” you said, feeling a rush of excitement as the plan began to take shape. “We could find a cute little cabin in the woods or maybe a cottage by the lake. Somewhere peaceful, where we can just… be.”

Harry’s eyes softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “I love that idea,” he said, his voice low and tender. “And I love that you’re thinking about us—about what we both want. That means a lot to me.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “It means a lot to me too,” you said softly. “I want next year to be about us. Not just you, not just me. Us.”

He nodded, his hand resting gently on your cheek. “Us,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “I like the sound of that.”

You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with affection. “And we can take turns planning the details,” you added, your voice light and playful again. “You pick the hikes, I’ll pick the cosy cabin. Deal?”

“Deal,” he said, sealing it with a kiss. His lips were soft and warm against yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining with a mix of love and excitement. “Next year, it’s all about us. Just you, me, and a lot of adventure—and relaxation.”

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “I can’t wait.”

“Me neither,” he said, his voice filled with warmth. “But you know what? I don’t need a fancy weekend or a perfect plan to know that I’m already exactly where I want to be. Right here, with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you felt a lump form in your throat. “Harry,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I mean it,” he said. “Today wasn’t perfect, but it was still one of the best days I’ve had because I got to spend it with you. And next year, no matter what we do, it’ll be the same. Because it’s you. And you’re my favourite person.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away, laughing softly. “You’re such a romantic,” you said, your voice teasing but filled with affection.

“Only for you,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug. “Always for you.”

And as the two of you sat there, wrapped up in each other and the warmth of the evening, you realised that Valentine’s Day didn’t have to be perfect to be special. It just had to be with him. And next year, it would be exactly what you both wanted—a day that was truly, completely yours.

What do we think? This story was inspired by a couple I was serving while working as a waitress. They were out for Valentine’s Day, and it was clear the woman wasn’t enjoying her meal. I overheard her saying she was allergic to seafood, which was wild because the restaurant’s whole gimic was seafood.

It got me thinking about how couples navigate moments like that—where one person’s idea of a perfect day doesn’t quite align with the other’s. I hope the way I wrote their conversation came across as realistic and reasonable. Let me know your thoughts!

#harry lewis x reader #harry lewis #harry lewis x fem!reader #harry lewis x female reader #w2s #w2s x reader

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hamilton-here · 29 days ago

Note

Hiii! I really love your work, you're the first full LH writer I found and followed. I read and re-read all your fics and loved them. I was wondering if you could please write one in where reader is Lewis private chef and he falls for her...? I really thank you in advance if you decide to write it and if not for also reading my request :) (English is not my first language so I hope that makes sense lol) Have a good day <3

𝒯𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒 𝒯𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I’ve still got three more requests to work through, but I’m trying my best! I’m so glad you love all my fics! Have a wonderful day, lovely. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis Hamilton falls for his private chef as shared meals turn into something more.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

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

You’ve cooked for A-listers, Olympians, and people whose names are whispered more in boardrooms than on red carpets. Your work is quiet, behind-the-scenes, and exactly how you like it. You know the rhythm by now book the gig, learn their preferences, adapt, excel, move on.

So, when your agent sent through the request for a new high-profile client, the message felt routine. Until one name jumped out, as if someone had taken a marker and underlined it twelve times:

Lewis Hamilton.

You blinked. Read it again. Then leaned back in your kitchen chair, letting it sink in. Not just any world-class athlete. The seven-time Formula One World Champion. Vegan. Socially conscious. Globally adored. And, yes, drop-dead handsome in a way that didn’t make you flustered but did make you keenly aware.

You weren’t nervous not really. You’d cooked for the best, fed entire sports teams, crafted tailored menus for Oscar winners. But this felt different. Not because he was famous, you were used to that. But because something about his request felt intentional.

He wasn’t just after someone to cook vegan meals. He wanted someone who could travel with him, fuel his body through the most physically demanding season of the year and this was the line that stuck with you “someone who understands that food is connection.”

Aww

The tasting was scheduled at his Monaco apartment, which was a sleek, minimal space overlooking the shimmering water, all muted stone and soft lighting. You arrived early, allowing yourself a moment to take it in before the doorbell echoed.

When Lewis opened the door, he was in black sweats and a sleeveless hoodie, his curls damp and tousled from a recent shower. His smile was polite but distant in a professional, cool, like a champion used to people hovering around him, wanting something.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside. “I’m Lewis.”

“I figured,” you replied with a grin, which earned the smallest amused huff.

He led you into the kitchen a stunning open-plan space that looked more like a set for a photoshoot than a functional cooking zone. But it was well-stocked. Sharp knives gleamed under soft lighting. Spices lined the shelves. A gleaming Vitamix sat ready. You raised a brow.

“You cook often?” you asked, unpacking your carefully prepared ingredients: jackfruit, creamy avocados, cashews soaked from the night before, lentils cooked just right, flaky sea salt, rich maple syrup, shaved dark chocolate.

“Sometimes,” he said, leaning against the island, arms crossed casually. “Not like you. I mostly blend stuff and hope for the best. This is where I unwind, you know?”

You liked that answer. A lot.

He poured himself chamomile tea, no sugar and you noticed the deliberate calm in his routine. As he made it, his gaze flickered to your hands focused, precise, moving through familiar motions.

“You sure you don’t want me out of your way?” he asked, watching you pour a blended cashew creme into a small saucepan.

“Not at all,” you replied, glancing up with a small smile. “You’re part of the process. Remember? Connection.”

That earned a real smile, the kind that lit up his eyes.

While the jackfruit cooked low and slow with smoked paprika, you talked. About expectations. Logistics. Travel. The gruelling hours of race weekends.

Lewis was straightforward, precise. “I train in the mornings, usually want something light after like smoothies, easy digestion. Bigger meals in the evening, when I have time to relax. But race weekends? Different story. I’ll need food packed, labeled, heat friendly. No microwave stuff. I don’t touch that.”

You nodded. “Understood. Heat-friendly means things that reheat well, no soggy textures. I can prep stuff that keeps its flavour and integrity.”

He nodded approvingly. “Good. I’ll have to trust you with my nutrition. My performance depends on it.”

“And it has to taste good,” you added firmly. “You shouldn’t feel like you’re missing out just because it’s healthy.”

He met your eyes, a little challenge in his own gaze. “No compromises.”

You smiled, “None.”

He glanced over the ingredients you’d laid out, then tilted his head. “Why jackfruit for the main? You think it’s the best for post-training recovery?”

You explained, “It’s a versatile meat substitute rich in fibre, low in fat, and it absorbs spices well. With the smoked paprika and chipotle, it adds a smoky depth without overpowering. I balance it with the chipotle cashew crème to add healthy fats and creaminess. Plus, pickled red onion gives a sharp contrast to refresh the palate.”

He crossed his arms again, nodding slowly. “I like that you thought it through. Not just throwing something together.”

As you moved to plate the dishes for jackfruit tacos, lentil-stuffed sweet potato drizzled with lemony tahini, and a tiny chocolate chia mousse topped with flaked sea salt and a shard of candied hazelnut - he watched you like it was a performance. Not judgmental but invested.

He picked up the taco first, took a deliberate bite, and paused.

Then looked up at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Not doubt. Not surprise. Just quiet disbelief.

“You did this for me?” His voice was low.

You nodded, “Of course.”

There was a pause.

Then a smile. The real kind. The one that curved slow and soft and warm across his face like maybe something inside him settled.

“Alright,” he said, licking his thumb where some crème had smudged. “You’ve already ruined every other chef for me.”

Before you could respond, a soft shuffle echoed across the tile floor. You turned just in time to see a floppy-eared bulldog trudge into the kitchen, blinking sleepily and plopping down next to Lewis’s bare feet.

Roscoe.

His collar jingled softly as he sat, then turned those soulful brown eyes up toward you. And then at the plate you assembled.

“Roscoe,” Lewis warned lightly, nudging him with a foot. “No begging, mate.”

But Roscoe didn’t move. Just stared at your food with comical intensity, then gave a soft, hopeful whine.

“May I?” You asked giving Lewis a quick glance and he gestures a nod of approval.

You crouched down, offering Roscoe a small, safe piece of sweet potato. He accepted it like royalty.

When you looked up again, Lewis was watching you - not your food, not your technique, but you. Something thoughtful in his gaze.

“You’ve thought about everything,” he said quietly. “Packaging, textures, timing. How do you manage this on the road?”

You smiled, “Routine. Prep meals that reheat well, pack them in reusable containers labeled by day and time. I use silicone bags and glass containers as it’s good for the environment and the food.”

He nodded, impressed. “Sounds like you’re ready to hit the track with me.”

You felt your pulse quicken. “I am.”

He studied you a moment longer, then his expression softened, something almost vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.

“So, do I get the job?” you asked, trying to steady your heartbeat.

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think you do.”

And just like that, the next chapter began, one you’d never seen coming but already felt like it was meant to be. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains of your small but efficiently packed carry-on as you double-checked the last containers sliding into your insulated bag. Everything was labeled by meal and day, exactly like you’d promised. The precision felt satisfying, even if your nerves buzzed just beneath the surface.

You caught your reflection in the mirror of the hotel room: calm, composed, but wide awake and ready. This was the real test. You weren’t just cooking you were becoming part of Lewis’s rhythm, his routine, his relentless world.

A soft knock on the door announced your cue. Lewis stood in the doorway, dressed casually in a fitted black track jacket and joggers, his curls pulled back loosely. He looked up at you and smiled less reserved than before.

“Ready for day one?” he asked, voice low but steady.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied with a grin, zipping up your bag. “You?”

He shrugged, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “Depends. You sure you can keep up?”

“You’ll be the judge of that.”

The car ride to the airport was quiet but comfortable. Lewis’s phone buzzed with incoming messages from his team, but he silenced the notifications as soon as you climbed in.

“Alright,” he said, glancing over at you. “Tell me what you’ve got planned for the flight food.”

You pulled out your meal plan sheet, laying it on your lap. “Light and easy to digest for the flight I made chia pudding with fresh berries, cashew and vanilla overnight oats as well as a handful of raw nuts for crunch and energy. I’ve packed it all in a small cooler with ice packs, so it stays fresh.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows. “No junk food?”

“Junk food never made a world champion,” you teased, earning a chuckle from him.

“Fair enough.”

Once on the plane, the cabin dimmed for takeoff, and you unpacked the meals with quiet efficiency. Lewis watched with genuine interest as you prepared his tray not just assembling the food but explaining why you chose each element.

“Chia seeds are great for omega-3s and slow energy release,” you said, spooning the pudding into a small container. “The berries add antioxidants and the oats give you complex carbs to keep you steady.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. You’re like my nutritionist and chef rolled into one.”

You laughed softly. “I get that a lot.”

The flight passed quicker than you expected, punctuated by small conversation, a few questions from Lewis about ingredients, and a surprising amount of laughter when Roscoe curled up in your lap under the seat.

At your first hotel stop - a sleek, modern building overlooking the circuit you had just enough time to set up the kitchen space before Lewis’s training session.

He watched you unpack your supplies, then gave a slow nod. “I can tell you’re used to this. Everything’s got its place.”

“It has to,” you said. “When you’re on the move, you don’t have the luxury of chaos.”

Lewis smiled. “Good. I like order.”

Later, after training, Lewis swung open the kitchen door, sweat still clinging to his brow. You were plating up a post-workout meal quinoa salad with roasted veggies, a bright lemon-tahini dressing and a side of grilled tempeh.

He leaned against the counter, watching you work. “I’m going to be picky,” he warned, “but I want honest feedback too.”

You raised a brow. “Bring it on.”

He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “The dressing is great fresh, not too heavy. But the tempeh? I usually prefer something a bit less chewy after training. Maybe baked tofu or seitan?”

“Got it,” you said, jotting down notes. “Texture matters.”

He smiled, clearly pleased you weren’t offended. “You’re already adapting. That’s good.”

By the end of the day, something had shifted. The professional distance had softened into something more real. You felt the edges of exhaustion from jet lag, the new routine but also a quiet thrill.

Lewis caught your eye as he packed his gear for the next morning. “You’re good at this. Better than I imagined.”

You shrugged, cheeks warm. “I’m just getting started.”

He grinned. “Good. Because this season’s going to demand everything.”

You met his gaze and, for the first time, felt less like the new person trying to fit in and more like a part of something bigger.

Your routine with Lewis built itself with the kind of quiet rhythm most people search their whole lives for effortless, unspoken and steady. It was the way his mornings began, how your days folded neatly into his and how the world seemed to fall away in the simple sanctity of shared moments. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Breakfasts were always early, the sun barely awake when you slipped into the kitchen to prepare his first fuel of the day. You crafted smoothies thick with spirulina, flaxseed, hemp protein, and frozen blueberries - a blend dense with nutrients yet light enough to stir awake without ever weighing him down. You knew the delicate balance between flavour and function and you found satisfaction in seeing the way his lips would twitch in approval with every sip.

Sometimes he’d shuffle in, still tangled in the remnants of sleep, hair tied loosely back as if still caught in a dream. His voice would come out gravelly, a half-mumbled compliment on your “magical” abilities to make healthy taste like indulgence.

Post-workout meals followed with an almost ritualistic precision: vibrant bowls filled with roasted vegetables like sweet potatoes, red capsicum and tender zucchini mingled with fluffy quinoa, creamy avocado, earthy black beans and bright citrus tahini drizzled just so. Each bowl topped with something crunchy such as toasted pumpkin seeds, crushed almonds, or crispy chickpeas adding texture and life to every bite. Next to each meal, you placed a turmeric-ginger recovery shot, chilled just enough to soothe his muscles without dulling the sharp zing of spice.

You didn’t need to be reminded that food was fuel. But with Lewis, the act of cooking was becoming something more a language of care, a quiet offering in a world that never stopped moving.

Traveling with him was a whirlwind, a blend of jet lag and adrenaline and the constant shuffle from one city to the next. Back-to-back Grand Prix weekends, testing days in Bahrain under the blistering sun, simulator sessions in Brackley where you’d both grin at the virtual tracks, and media runs in cities so unfamiliar you lost track of their names.

No matter where he went, so did your knives, your spices, and your laminated, colour-coded meal plans of those colourful little guides you’d painstakingly assembled to make sure the menus never repeated, and the macros never slipped. You’d unpack and set up kitchens in sleek hotels or cramped paddock spaces turned temporary culinary stations, sometimes improvising with whatever was available.

Lewis made it easier, in his own quiet way.

He never hovered, but he was always there through the way he’d casually help carry bags of groceries, rinse berries without a word of thanks, or hand you a clean towel just when your hands were slick with moisture from washing produce. Sometimes, he’d drift into the kitchen mid-prep, hair damp from a post-gym shower, the faint scent of eucalyptus and citrus clinging to him like an invisible cloak. He never asked for much just leaned on the counter with soft curiosity shining in his eyes, and would say something like:

“You don’t mind cooking at mine all the time?”

You’d smile without looking up. “Not when your kitchen’s nicer than most restaurants.”

And it was. Sleek marble counters that caught the light, industrial burners that roared to life without hesitation, a double oven, and a fridge so advanced you half-expected it to suggest new recipes. But none of that was why you liked it.

It was because it was his.

Because the moments in between those small pauses and shared silences were becoming the parts you treasured most.

Like the way he always brought you a fresh glass of sparkling water without needing to be asked, catching your tired eyes with a quiet smile.

Or how he hummed under his breath when he was relaxed, a soft sound that blended with the whirl of your blender and the chopping of knives.

Or those rare evenings when you found yourselves both lingering in the kitchen after a long day Lewis perched on a barstool, watching you finish prep, and he’d look up from whatever he was scrolling on his phone and ask how you were doing. Not just the polite “how are you?” but really asking, like he wanted to hear your answer.

And then there were the snack boxes.

You started them as a practical solution of bite-sized fuel that could live in his bag, waiting patiently to bridge the gap between qualifying and race briefings or long travel days.

Protein bites dusted with cinnamon and cacao, coconut-date balls rolled in shredded coconut, seaweed crisps for a salty crunch, almond butter-stuffed dates that melted with every bite.

At first, your notes were purely practical:

“Don’t forget to hydrate.”

“This one’s got extra turmeric, I know you hate ice baths.”

“Packed extra energy - you’ve got this.”

But slowly, the notes began to shift.

They grew softer, more personal, and somehow more you.

“Hope this one makes up for how early your wake-up call was.”

“A little sweet for my favourite speed demon.”

“For when you need a quick win just like you on the track.”

You didn’t mean anything by the “favourite speed demon” line. It was just a joke; a casual phrase scrawled in purple ink on a sticky note you found at the bottom of your bag one day.

But later, when you were reorganising his pantry, you found that very note folded once, tucked carefully inside a drawer beside his magnesium powder and zinc capsules.

You stood frozen, hand resting on a vitamin bottle, heart doing a quiet flip.

He hadn’t pinned it to the fridge or stuck it where anyone else could see. He had just kept it quietly, privately.

And then something changed.

Lewis became warmer, more present.

He lingered in the kitchen longer, even when he had somewhere else to be.

He started texting you mid-flight, checking if you’d remembered to eat.

He noticed when you wore your hair tied up instead of down and he offered you his jacket without a word when a breeze caught your shoulders one night after dinner in the paddock.

One evening, you found a note waiting for you in your own snack box.

It was small, written in his unmistakable hand on a folded slip of paper:

“Thanks for making even the busy days feel like home.”

From then on, little notes from Lewis started appearing tucked into your bags, slipped between cookbooks, or left on the kitchen counter.

They weren’t grand gestures.

Just quiet messages like:

“Don’t forget to breathe. You’re doing great.”

“Found this spice you love - thought you might want to try it.”

You smiled more than once, your chest warming with each one.

You noticed him too.

Not the famous Lewis Hamilton who’s the racing legend or the icon but the man who double-knotted his shoes before a run, who softened when Roscoe climbed into his lap, who looked at you with quiet curiosity not trying to solve you but wanting to understand.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it was something.

Something simmering, unfolding quietly in the spaces between the roar of engines and the flash of cameras.

Something that smelled like rosemary, sea salt, and something else - something you hadn’t found words for yet. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Your phone vibrated sharply on the kitchen counter just as you were about to start dinner for yourself. Lewis’s name flashed across the screen, yanking you out of the quiet comfort of your evening routine. The soft hum of the city outside mingled with the distant sounds of traffic and occasional footsteps in the hallway.

“Hey,” you answered, surprise threading through your voice. “Everything okay?”

There was a breathless edge to his voice, as if he’d been running or rushing. “Hey. Listen, last minute my dad and Linda want to come by tonight. They want to check in, see how I’m doing. Could you come over and whip up something? Nothing fancy, but nice. I don’t want to be caught off guard.”

You glanced at the clock on your stove just over an hour before they’d arrive. Your mind kicked into high gear, the familiar thrill of being thrown into the deep end mixing with a flutter of nerves that had nothing to do with the race.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your bag and keys with steady hands, trying to mask the little surge of excitement that bubbled inside.

The city air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of rain and blooming jasmine as you stepped into Lewis’s apartment building. You pushed open the door to his place, and immediately, the quiet buzz of controlled chaos hit you. Lewis moved through the space with a jittery energy on the phone with his manager, half-folding a shirt draped over a chair, the sharp, clean scent of his cologne lingering in the air: crisp eucalyptus layered with a subtle hint of musk.

“I’m so sorry for the rush,” he said, running a hand through damp hair that clung slightly to his forehead, eyes darting anxiously. His usual calm, effortless confidence was replaced by a restless edge. “I just didn’t expect them to want to come so soon.”

You gave him a warm, reassuring smile, setting your bag down carefully on the counter. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

You slipped into the kitchen and flipped on the stove with practiced ease, the familiar click and whoosh grounding you. You pulled out fresh ingredients you’d brought along: bright, glossy cherry tomatoes, fragrant cloves of garlic, a handful of fresh basil leaves, creamy mozzarella and a colourful medley of vegetables. The rhythmic chopping soon filled the room, mingling with the soft hum of the extractor fan and the faint city noises drifting through an open window.

The sizzle of garlic hitting hot olive oil made your mouth water as you stirred gently, the warm, rich aroma wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. You slid a tray of vegetables into the oven, watching the soft golden edges promise a perfect roast.

As you worked, your fingers moved with smooth confidence, even as your mind kept track of the ticking minutes. A soft melody hummed in your throat, blending seamlessly with the sounds of the city outside and the distant revving of engines somewhere far away.

Meanwhile, Lewis flitted around the bedroom like a restless spirit, trying on shirts and adjusting his braids before checking his reflection in the mirror. His glances toward the kitchen were frequent, filled with a rare mixture of admiration and quiet gratitude reserved just for you.

“Do you need help?” he asked suddenly, leaning casually against the doorframe, an amused eyebrow raised.

You held out a spoon dripping with sauce. “Only if you want to taste-test.”

He laughed, taking the spoon cautiously and nodding with approval after one careful sip. “Definitely better than anything I could make.”

You smiled, the tension in the room softening between you.

Together, you set the table. You unfolded crisp napkins with gentle care, polished the silverware until it caught the soft light just right, and arranged fresh wildflowers in a small glass vase delicate bloom that brought a touch of life and colour to the sleek apartment. The room, with its clean lines and subtle shadows, transformed into a cozy sanctuary a warm refuge from the relentless speed and pressure of Lewis’s world.

“Okay,” you said, brushing flour from your hands. “Ready for company.”

Lewis grabbed his jacket and ran a hand through his hair once more, attempting to summon that effortless charm that came so naturally but felt just a bit elusive tonight. “Yeah. Just need to look like I have my life together.”

You laughed softly, the sound mingling with his as you shared a quiet, steady moment before the inevitable storm.

Lewis walked you to the door, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm, a silent thank-you. His eyes caught yours deep, steady, and sincere.

“Thanks for this,” he said, voice low and earnest. “Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart fluttered, a warm rush blooming in your chest. You smiled, steady and sure despite the sudden wave of emotion. “Anytime.”

You took a small step back, ready to leave his place and opened the front door however everything seemed to freeze.

Standing just beyond the threshold, bathed in the soft glow of the light outside the door, were Anthony and Linda. They had arrived earlier than expected.

Anthony’s smile was steady and warm, eyes full of the kind of cautious kindness that had softened over the years. Linda’s face was bright, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth and curiosity as she took in the scene of the neat kitchen, the flowers on the table, the subtle tension still lingering in the air.

For a long, breathless moment, no one spoke.

Lewis cleared his throat, stepping forward with a calm that belied the nervous energy humming beneath.

“Dad! Linda!” he said, his voice steady, welcoming, carrying an unspoken promise of a better evening to come.

You exchanged a glance with Lewis, the unspoken question hanging between you, how was this night going to unfold now?

Anthony steps inside first, his gaze settling on you with a mixture of curiosity and quiet respect. Linda follows, taking in the thoughtfully arranged table and the soft hum of city life filtering through the open window.

There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Anthony clears his throat, glancing at Lewis. “Lewis, we don’t often get to meet the people who mean a lot to you. And we don’t believe we’ve met this lovely lady before. Who is she?”

Lewis looks at you, and for a second, you see the hesitation in his eyes like he’s weighing how much to say, how to protect both you and himself.

You step forward, steadying your voice. “I’m Y/N, Lewis’s personal chef. I’ve been helping him tonight with dinner, and I guess I’m lucky enough to be here now.”

Linda smiles warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lewis speaks highly of you even if he’s been a bit secretive.”

Lewis chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean to keep you in the dark. I just wanted to make sure it was the right time.”

The tension begins to ease, replaced by a gentle understanding. Anthony nods, stepping closer to the table. “Well, we’re glad you’re here. Let’s eat, get to know each other If you aren’t in a rush to get home of course.”

You exchange a look with Lewis a mixture of relief and something quietly hopeful.

As you all sit down, the conversation starts to flow, sometimes hesitant, sometimes easy. The evening stretches out like a fragile promise that maybe, just maybe, this new chapter could be something steady, something real. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was after Silverstone when everything began to shift.

You’d flown in early that week, slipping quietly into Lewis’s flat like you always did before a big race arms full of market bags, fingers smudged with ink from handwritten meal plans and shopping lists. His fridge had been half-empty when you arrived, his pantry stocked with old protein bars and two near-empty jars of almond butter. You sighed, rolled up your sleeves, and got to work.

Silverstone was different. It wasn’t just another Grand Prix. This was his race. The energy around him was different - charged, frantic, and buzzing like electricity in the bones. And you felt it, even in the kitchen. Especially in the kitchen. You knew him well enough by now to sense when he was just a little too quiet, when the weight of expectations pressed into the back of his neck and down his spine.

You felt it too, but your job was to anchor him. Not with words, but with routine. With quiet comfort. With nourishment.

Race morning, you were up before dawn.

The city was still cloaked in blue-grey quiet, the light just beginning to break through the blinds. You padded barefoot across the cool tile, pulling your hair into a loose bun as you lined up ingredients like a surgeon prepping for an operation. Sliced banana. A scoop of almond butter. A dash of maple syrup, just enough to sweeten but not overwhelm. You poured oat milk into the blender and calculated macros in your head as it whirred to life. Spirulina, maca, oats, hemp, chia every spoonful measured, every decision deliberate.

When Lewis walked in hood up, curls damp from the shower, sleeves tugged over his hands he looked like he hadn’t fully landed in his body yet.

You handed him a glass. “Try this.”

He blinked at you sleepily. “What’s in it?”

“Banana, almond butter, maca, oats, a little maple, and love.”

He cracked a grin. “Heavy on the love, I hope.”

Before you could answer, Roscoe trotted in, tail wagging, toenails tapping against the tile.

“I didn’t forget you, bub,” you murmured, crouching to add warm lentils, steamed sweet potato, and nutritional yeast into his bowl. Roscoe responded with a happy little sneeze, tail thumping wildly as he buried his face in the food.

You stood, turning back to Lewis. He was still watching you with a softness in his eyes that he rarely wore in the morning. You handed him a small container.

“Eat this between FP3 and quali. Chia, coconut milk, goji berries, almonds. All your All your favourites.”

He glanced down at it, then back at you. “You sure you don’t want to drive today? I think you’re more prepared than I am.”

“You’re joking,” you said with a wink, “but I’d still lap a few people.”

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine as he leaned in, brushing a kiss to Roscoe’s head before heading out. “I’ll see you there.”

You kept a low profile in the paddock.

Press passes tucked deep into your jacket pocket. Roscoe’s leash looped securely around your wrist as he trotted beside you like he owned the place. You stayed on the periphery of team meetings, close enough to be needed, far enough not to intrude. You watched Lewis with quiet pride as he moved through the garage focused, poised and magnetic in that way only he could be. When he came in for lunch, you were ready. When he needed quiet, you gave it.

This was how you showed up for people through quiet acts of care. Through food, through forethought. You didn’t need thanks, not really. But every now and then, when his eyes found yours from across the motorhome, holding that long, unreadable look, your heart gave something away.

He finished on the podium that Sunday.

P3 at home. Union Jacks waving like waves on a sea of roaring faces. The noise was thunderous from press, fans, photographers. But when he found you behind the garage, away from the chaos, all of it seemed to fall away.

He looked exhausted. Euphoric. Alive.

“Did you eat?” you asked, holding out a water bottle before he could say anything.

He laughed, hoarse and bright. “I just finished a race and you’re asking me that?”

“Yes,” you said seriously. “Because that’s my job.”

He stepped closer, his smile softening into something quieter, something more personal. “You’re more than your job.”

And then he reached for your hand. Just for a second. A quick squeeze but it said everything.

That night, back at his flat, the windows were open, and the air was heavy with the scent of rain on asphalt. Roscoe was curled in his favourite corner, snoring softly. You stood at the stove, stirring the butternut squash risotto he always asked for after a good race your own little post-podium tradition.

Lewis hovered nearby. He always did. Sometimes he asked questions, sometimes he just watched. Tonight, he didn’t say much at all.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He nodded slowly, leaning on the counter, his eyes following the movement of your hands. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

You smiled, still stirring. “Because of the risotto?”

But he didn’t smile back. Not fully. “No. Because of you.”

Your hand stilled.

He stepped forward. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his skin, smell the salt on his collarbone, the faint trace of soap from his post-race shower.

His fingers reached up and gently brushed a smear of coconut cream from your cheek.

“You take care of everyone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But who takes care of you?”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Not because you didn’t know the answer because, for the first time, you were beginning to understand it.

He didn’t press you. Didn’t push. He just stood there, looking at you like he already knew.

And maybe just maybe you were ready to let someone take care of you for a change.

The confession came weeks later, in Tokyo.

The air in the city buzzed, thick with neon and noise, but inside his rented apartment, it was quiet low lights, a candle flickering on the coffee table, and the smell of miso broth warming on the stove.

You hadn’t meant to stay for dinner. You rarely did. You liked your boundaries, liked giving him space to wind down, to rest, to be just Lewis and not Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion. Still, that night, when he asked you to stay to sit, to eat you said yes. Maybe because of the way he asked. Maybe because of the way he looked. Or maybe because your heart had already stopped pretending.

You plated the food together, your hands brushing occasionally as you moved in sync without thinking. Bowls of soba noodles with sesame glaze, crisped tofu, steamed bok choy dressed in tamari and ginger. A side dish of Japanese sweet potatoes roasted until golden.

“I feel bad letting you cook for both of us,” he said, settling into the floor cushions around the low table, Roscoe snuggled into a blanket behind him.

“You paid for the groceries,” you teased. “And the entire apartment.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I just show up and drive. You’re the one making all the magic happen.”

You tried to laugh too, but your cheeks flushed as you looked down at your bowl. Something in the air felt different tonight weighted and delicate, like a moment balancing on the edge of something new.

Halfway through the meal, between casual chatter about free practice sessions and a ridiculous story involving Toto, Roscoe, and an unfortunate eggplant, he went quiet.

You glanced up, catching the shift. His shoulders were tense, chopsticks stilled midair, eyes fixed on his bowl but not seeing it.

“Everything okay?”

He set the chopsticks down gently. “Yeah. I just…”

Then he reached for your hand across the table.

It was tentative barely more than a touch, but it sent a ripple through you. You didn’t move. Just stared down at where your hands met. His thumb brushed the side of your finger, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I know you didn’t sign up for this,” he said, voice low and unsteady. “To be anything more than my chef.”

You looked up slowly, heart thudding, pulse skipping.

“But I think about you,” he said. “Even when I’m not hungry.”

The words settled into the silence like a secret being laid bare.

“I think about your smile,” he continued, eyes searching yours. “Your stupid little notes. The way you hum when you cook. And the way everything tastes better when it comes from you.”

You couldn’t speak. Your throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something that felt too much like hope. Your fingers curled around his instinctively.

“Lewis…” you whispered, unsure what you were even going to say.

“If it’s too much,” he said quickly, stumbling over his own breath, “tell me. I’ll drop it. I swear I’ll drop it. But I had to tell you. Because if I didn’t, I’d regret it.”

You stared at him for a long, heartbeat-heavy moment. At the vulnerability stretched raw across his face. At the way he looked both terrified and hopeful all at once.

And then softly, like something inevitable you let go of his hand.

Only to rise from your place at the table, heart pounding so hard you felt it in your ribs, and step slowly around the corner of the table. You lowered yourself onto the cushion beside him, knees brushing.

He turned to you; lips parted like he might say something else.

But you didn’t let him.

You kissed him instead.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow. Delicate. Nervous.

The kind of kiss that trembled on the edge of something fragile and new. Your nose bumped his slightly, and you both let out a tiny, breathless laugh against each other’s mouths, barely breaking contact. His hand rose to your cheek, featherlight, fingers trembling as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You could feel the tiny tremor in his touch the same nerves that were making your own hands shake.

You deepened the kiss just barely, lips molding softly to his, like a secret passed between you. His other hand slid to your waist, anchoring you gently, and for a moment, you forgot everything else. The race. The world outside. Even Roscoe, snoozing in the corner. It was just this - warmth and want and the wild beating of two hearts afraid to say too much.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of you a little breathless, a little dazed.

There was a second of silence, then:

“Okay,” you whispered, voice still catching. “Okay.”

He blinked, brows lifting with surprise. “Okay?”

You let out a tiny giggle nervous, giddy, and overwhelmed. “I just kissed you, didn’t I?”

He laughed too, that quiet, full-bodied sound that always made your chest ache. “You did. Definitely did.”

You peeked up at him, grinning now, cheeks flushed and lips tingling. “And I didn’t mess it up?”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

Your nose brushed his again, a breath shared in the small space between you.

Outside, Tokyo glowed. Inside, the whole world had shifted and neither of you would ever taste dinner the same way again. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It’s been three months since that night in Tokyo.

Three months of shared kitchens and tangled limbs in bed. Of early mornings where he pads in quietly behind you, barefoot and warm from sleep, wrapping his arms around your waist while you blend frozen bananas and almond butter into something silky. Of whispered goodnights and murmured dreams, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets, Roscoe snoozing at the foot of the bed like he’s claimed the space as much as you both have.

Three months of racing and resting and falling deeper into something neither of you had planned but both of you now held onto with quiet, grateful hands.

You still cook every meal. You still leave notes.

Only now, they’re part of a rhythm. A ritual. Kisses over coffee. His chin resting on your shoulder as you stir something on the stove, his voice still rough with sleep as he mumbles, “Smells amazing, babe,” and drops a kiss to the side of your neck. He picks at ingredients like a kid stealing cookie dough nibbling raw cashews, sneaking tofu cubes before they crisp. You swat him away, but he always gets his way with a smile that crinkles his eyes and a dimple that still weakens your knees.

The notes still live in his containers tucked beside overnight oats, quinoa bowls, roasted veggie wraps. But now they’re folded into tiny hearts. Sealed with silly stickers you found at a grocery store in Milan a grinning avocado, a winking sun, a turtle in sneakers. You don’t know if he ever shows them to anyone, but you do know he saves them. You found him once, sitting cross-legged on the floor of his dressing room in Barcelona, fingers brushing over one you’d written weeks ago:

Carrots for your eyes. Kale for your heart. And a kiss for everything else.

His smile, when he caught you watching, was quiet and reverent. Like he’d been caught holding a treasure.

This morning, in the soft grey light before dawn, you handed him a smoothie in a frosted glass bottle. He was half-dressed in his team gear, hair tied up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. You’d packed it all carefully into a cooler bag: the smoothie, a small container of baked tofu bites, a banana and a warm square of oat crumble from the batch you’d made last night.

The note was simple.

Win or lose, I’m already proud of you.

He read it just before leaving for the track.

You were rinsing out the blender, humming softly to yourself, when the front door clicked open again. You froze, sponge in hand, turning just as the quiet thud of his boots came back down the hall.

“Lew—?”

He didn’t say a word. Just crossed the kitchen in four purposeful strides, dropped the cooler bag to the floor and cupped your face with both hands.

The kiss was sudden, fierce but not rushed. It was grateful. Deep. Like he needed you to feel everything he didn’t have time to say. Like the note wasn’t enough. Like you were the thing grounding him more than any steering wheel ever could.

When he pulled back, his lips brushed your cheekbone. The tip of your nose. Then he whispered it against your skin.

“I don’t care if this is too soon, but god I love you.”

The words were quiet. Steady. Familiar now, like your name on his tongue. But still enough to make your stomach flutter like it was the first time all over again.

You smiled, pressing your hands to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his team hoodie.

“I know,” you murmured. “You murmur it to me under your breath every time you finish your vegetables. I love you too.”

He laughed into your shoulder, the sound muffled and warm. “Well. I’ll finish them forever if it means I get to keep you.”

You turned your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth. “You already do.”

When he left again, it was with three kisses: one on your lips, one on your forehead, and one pressed right above your heart. The door shut gently behind him, and you stood in the kitchen a long while, smiling to yourself. Roscoe wandered in, stretching before curling at your feet with a huff, as if to say, He’ll be back soon. He always comes back.

Later that afternoon, between race debriefs and stretching Roscoe’s legs in the garden, you decided to bake.

“Come help,” you called, already tugging a mixing bowl from the cupboard.

Lewis padded in a few minutes later, barefoot and curious, a towel slung over his shoulder. “What are we making?”

“Oat cookies. With dark chocolate chunks and orange zest,” you replied, measuring oats into a bowl. “Help me stir?”

He reached for the wooden spoon. “You just want me to get messy.”

You grinned. “I like you messy.”

He smirked but didn't argue, and soon enough you were both shoulder to shoulder, ingredients flying, laughter bubbling between measurements. He leaned in close, whispering something cheeky in your ear, and you nudged him with your elbow, sending a small puff of flour into the air.

That’s when he did it.

A smudge of flour, right on your nose.

You froze. Narrowed your eyes.

“Oh, you did not.”

His grin widened. “I did.”

You lunged for the flour bag. He yelped, dodging as you smeared a cloud of it across his cheek, the both of you giggling like children. It turned into a full-on war with flour in your hair, streaks on his hoodie, laughter so loud it startled Roscoe in the next room.

By the time you finally calmed, both of you were coated in white dust, breathless and flushed, arms wrapped around each other in the middle of the flour-covered kitchen.

He looked at you, eyes soft. “You’re the best thing I never saw coming.”

You leaned in, brushing your flour-dusted nose to his. “And you’re the best mess I’ve ever made.”

He kissed you again slow, sweet, warm and you tasted oranges and chocolate and everything you’d built, one note, one kiss, one morning at a time.

Because love, like food, is better when it’s shared.

And you’re just getting started.

There will be more notes. More flour fights. More airports and early flights. More quiet nights and chaotic afternoons.

And always, there will be him.

Coming back to the same kitchen.

To you.

To home.

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton x reader #f1 x reader #lewis hamilton imagine #lh44 #x reader #lh44 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton x you #lh44 imagine #lewis hamilton one shot #team lh44 #f1 one shot #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1

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lizzyiii · 9 months ago

Note

just wondering 👉🏼👈🏼 when the next update of his lady love will be? i’m just so excited for the next chapter im OBSESSED with the story 👻

I'm so sorry I took this long, I've been having a mental block with this

His Lady Love (9)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the taglist just add your username to this DOC

word count | 3,8k words

summary | finally you make your return back to king's landing and reunite with aemond

tags | hurt/comfort,

note | I'm so sorry I took so long

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

The storm had raged for a week, battering the old farmstead with rain and howling winds. Inside, the small prince had finally begun to show signs of recovery. Jaehaerys, once pale and on the verge of death, now had the flush of life back in his cheeks, thanks to the small doses of your ancient vampire blood. His eyes, once glazed and distant, now held a quiet strength. Despite his reserved nature, the boy had grown fond of you in his own way, calling you “munās”

The crumbling farm had served its purpose. Though it was no Red Keep, the rations you had scavenged from Tym’s meager cupboards had been enough to sustain the both of you. Tym, the unfortunate soul whose blood had been your own sustenance, now lay rotting in a closet—his death no more significant than a footnote in a much larger story. The smell of his decaying body was thick in the air, but it hardly bothered you. In your long life, you had smelled far worse.

Outside, the rain had finally ceased. The journey back to King’s Landing would be dangerous, but necessary. You could already envision the uproar awaiting your and Jaehaerys’ return. Let them fret; it was no concern of yours.

You gathered what little provisions were left and tucked them into a satchel, slinging it over your shoulder. The food wasn’t for you, of course, but for the prince. He would need his strength if he was to survive the coming days. As you approached Jaehaerys, he looked up at you with a small, fleeting smile—a gesture that melted your dead heart. Without a word, you draped a thick cloak over his shoulders, pulling the hood low to hide his silver Targaryen hair. The last thing you needed was to draw unwanted attention on the road.

The air was damp and heavy as you stepped outside, the smell of wet earth mingling with the distant scent of the ocean. You hoisted the boy onto your horse, his small frame easily fitting in front of you. The skies were still dark, but the rain had stopped for now. With a flick of the reins, the horse began its slow trot down the muddy path.

As you approached the towering walls of King’s Landing, the familiar stench of sweat and desperation thickened in the air. Your grip on Jaehaerys tightened, pulling him closer to you as your sharp senses took in the chaotic scene ahead. The streets swarmed with restless peasants, their voices a cacophony of rage and despair, echoing through the narrow alleyways that led to the Red Keep.

You focused, your hearing tuning into the mob’s cries. They were angry, starved. "Food! Bread!" they screamed, their desperation palpable. The realization struck you almost immediately—Rhaenyra must have sealed off the city. No traders, no merchants, no supplies flowing in. It was a power play, of course. She sought to starve out the opposition within her rightful walls, but it was the smallfolk who suffered most. Typical.

But it was what you saw next that made even your blood freeze.

Through the throngs of people, a procession of white cloaks—Kingsguard—marched proudly through the streets, their armor gleaming in the dimming light of dusk. In their hands, they bore a horrifying trophy: the severed head of a red dragon. Melys, you thought, the Red Queen, her crimson scales dulling in death.

The thought of Daemon’s dragon, Caraxes, crossed your mind briefly, but you dismissed it just as quickly. Daemon was not so easily felled. He was a force of chaos, relentless and unyielding. But Rhaenys... She had fought valiantly for her kin. It had to be her. Aegon had slain her and had the audacity to parade her dragon’s head as if it were some twisted victory.

The crowd grew louder, their protests turning to angry shouts as they watched the grotesque display. You could feel the fear rising among them, but it was overshadowed by the hunger—both for food and for rebellion. The city was on the brink, and Aegon was playing with fire.

Jaehaerys stirred slightly in your arms, oblivious to the grim spectacle unfolding before you. He was innocent in all this, yet he would soon be thrust into the heart of this brutal war. With a final glance at the dragon’s severed head, you urged your horse forward, pulling the hood of Jaehaerys’ cloak lower to shield his Targaryen features. The mob surged around you, but you moved through it like a shadow, unseen and unstoppable.

As you slipped through the shadowed alleys and hidden paths of King’s Landing, the weight of Jaehaerys in your arms was a reminder of just how fragile human life could be. The streets were filled with chaos, but to you, it was nothing. In six hundred years, you had perfected the art of moving unseen, a phantom in the night.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how those men, Daemon had sent, had managed to infiltrate these halls. It was almost laughably easy for you to slip past the guards. They were easily distracted, and you had no trouble avoiding detection.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Aemond, his sharp, striking features, the single violet eye that gleamed with intelligence and ruthlessness. You yearned for him in a way that surprised even you. In all your centuries of existence, through the rise and fall of empires, you had never felt this way about anyone. Aemond had a way of stirring something deep within you—a hunger, not for blood, but for him.

It was strange to admit, even to yourself, but you loved him. In your immortal life, you had seen love twisted and turned into something vile, something manipulative and fleeting. But with Aemond, it was different. His ambition, his fire, even his darkness—those were things you understood, things you were drawn to.

Still, love would have to wait. For now, your priority was Jaehaerys, the boy asleep in your arms, his silver hair tucked away beneath the hood you had wrapped around him. You glided through the hidden corridors of the Red Keep with ease, your steps silent, your presence undetected.

Helaena’s chambers were quiet when you arrived, the door slightly ajar as if awaiting your return. You pushed it open gently, stepping inside to the dimly lit room. Helaena was sitting by the window, her eyes distant and unfocused, lost in her thoughts.

You frowned noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes as the frown that tugged on her lips. “Helaena,” you whispered softly, moving toward her.

Her gaze shifted slowly, her violet eyes blinking as if pulling her from a dream. When she saw Jaehaerys in your arms, her expression changed—a flicker of recognition, of hope. Her lips parted, a gasp escaping her as she stood from her chair.

Helaena breathed out your name softly, her voice fragile, as if uttering it too loudly might cause you to vanish. She rose from her chair, her steps tentative, as if unsure whether you were real or some apparition conjured by her grief. Her eyes glistened with tears, her hands trembling as she reached for you.

You gently placed Jaehaerys in her arms, watching as she clung to him with a desperation that broke your heart. Her tears flowed freely as she kissed his sleeping face, her maternal love rekindled in the boy’s presence. For a moment, the weight of the world lifted from her, her sorrow held at bay by the soft rise and fall of her son’s breathing.

"I knew you weren't dead," she whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with conviction.

A frown creased your brow, confusion settling over you like a fog. "Why would you think that, Helaena?" you asked softly, your concern growing as you saw the pain etched into her delicate features.

Helaena’s gaze dropped to Jaehaerys as she gently rocked him in her arms, her sorrow palpable in the silence that followed. "Three dead Kingsguard, your carriage burnt to ash... what were we to think?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, the words heavy with the weight of grief she had been carrying.

The shock hit you like a dagger to the chest. Your eyes widened in disbelief. "My carriage... burnt?" The last time you had seen it, it had been intact. And worse, Aemond—he must have thought you perished in the flames.

You could feel the fear rising in you, not for yourself, but for him. What had Aemond been thinking all this time? The very thought of him mourning you sent a pang of sadness through your heart.

You swallowed the rising tide of emotion, forcing a smile to reassure Helaena, though it felt strained and unnatural. Your hand rested gently atop hers, offering comfort the way you always had, with a tender touch and a steady heart. "I am fine, my Queen," you said, your voice soft but firm, hoping your words could ease some of the burden that weighed on her. "Jaehaerys is fine. We are both safe, and that is all that matters now."

Helaena looked up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, and for a moment, she seemed to believe you. But you could see the remnants of her anguish still clinging to her, a shadow she could not shake.

Seeing Helaena in such a state—it wounded you, though you could never let it show. You had centuries of practice hiding your own grief, your own longing. But now, with Aemond believing you dead, you felt the familiar weight of sorrow creeping back in.

You had to find him. He needed to know you were alive.

"I have to find Aemond," you murmured, the urgency in your voice betraying the calm you had tried to maintain.

Helaena’s eyes snapped to you, her sorrow deepening as she spoke softly, "He’s changed."

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Helaena hesitated for a moment, as if weighing her words. "The battle at Rook’s Rest," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "He brought down both Rhaenys and Aegon."

You flinched, a ripple of shock running through you. "He killed Aegon?" Your voice trembled slightly as you spoke. Despite Aegon’s many flaws, despite his cruelty, he was still Aemond's brother. How could Aemond have done such a thing?

Helaena shook her head, her expression mournful, weighed down by grief. "No. He didn’t kill him, but he might as well have. Aegon is burnt beyond recognition... A shadow of himself now."

The words hung heavy in the air, and you struggled to grasp them. "Why?" you whispered, more to yourself than to Helaena. How could Aemond, the man you loved, have let things go so far?

Helaena’s gaze softened, and she pressed another kiss to Jaehaerys' forehead, her voice filled with a melancholy acceptance. "Aegon’s taunts… his cruel words… Perhaps he had enough of being belittled, of being treated as lesser, when in truth, he has always been the stronger of the two."

You could see the weariness in Helaena’s eyes, the understanding of how deep the rift had grown between her brothers. But what you couldn’t understand was how much Aemond had changed in just a week. The man you knew, the one you loved, was fierce and proud, yes, but he had always been measured, calculating. To hear that he had snapped so violently, even against his own kin—it worried you.

But you had to see him. You couldn’t wait any longer.

Without another word, you turned toward the door, your mind already racing with thoughts of Aemond—of the man he had been, and the man he might be now.

Aemond was riding a dangerous high, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue. He had dealt with Aegon—though not as thoroughly as he would have preferred. Aegon still lived, if one could call it living. Burnt beyond recognition, a husk of his former self, barely clinging to life. But it didn’t matter. Aegon was no longer a threat to him, and now, Aemond stood as Prince Regent. His mother’s protests were of no consequence to him anymore. She had forsaken him, after all. Turned her back on him, chosen Aegon despite everything. Well, now he would forsake her.

He clenched his fists tightly as he forced his thoughts away from her disappointment, her judgment. It wasn’t Alicent's rebuke that tormented him now. No, when he allowed his mind to drift, when the battlefield fell quiet and the bloodlust faded, his thoughts always, always came back to you.

And that was a pain he could not bear. The sharp sting in his chest that came whenever he remembered your face, your voice, the way your eyes looked at him with a softness no one else could offer. That softness had been his anchor in a world of chaos, and now it was gone. You were gone. Aemond clenched his jaw, forcing the memories back down, but they refused to be silenced.

You haunted him.

So he clung to the one thing that had never failed him: anger. The rage burned hotter and clearer than any sorrow ever could. Vengeance had always been his closest companion, and now it was the only thing he had left to keep him standing. It was easier to drown in that fire, to let the heat scorch away the grief, than to face the aching emptiness your death had left behind.

Because to truly feel the weight of his heartache—to allow himself to grieve—would be a descent into madness. It would be a slow, deliberate suicide. And Aemond Targaryen would not be destroyed by sorrow. He had survived too much for that.

His face was a mask of cold determination, but inside, the wound you left was bleeding still. Anger was a salve, not a cure, but it was the only thing keeping him alive.

As long as he was angry, he couldn’t be sad. And as long as he avoided sadness, he wouldn’t have to confront the truth: that without you, something in him had already died.

Aemond made his way to his chambers, eager to escape the oppressive weight of the castle and the relentless thoughts swirling in his mind. His steps were heavy, and though he had embraced the cold edge of his anger, exhaustion tugged at the edges of his resolve. He needed a moment, just a fleeting break from the burdens of regency and family strife.

But as he pushed open the door, his breath caught in his throat. Standing in the center of his room, with their back turned, was a figure he knew too well. His entire body froze, heart pounding so violently it hurt. His mind, sharp and disciplined, rebelled against the sight before him. It couldn't be real. It shouldn't be real.

Aemond's throat tightened, and he rubbed his eye, the patch over the other itching against his skin as if willing this cruel vision away. His breaths became shallow, harsh gasps escaping him as the figure turned.

And there you were.

The eyes he had dreamt of, that he had mourned for, were looking back at him, alive with warmth and familiarity. "Aemond," you murmured softly, your voice like a balm to his tormented soul.

He stumbled back, his chest heaving with the effort to contain the surge of emotion ripping through him. You moved toward him, your hands reaching out as if to soothe, but he flinched. The pain in your eyes mirrored his own, though he couldn't understand why. He had believed you dead, and now you stood before him. But his mind, ever cautious, doubted the reality before him.

"You're not real," he choked out, the words leaving his lips like a prayer, desperate and broken.

You faltered for a moment, your face contorting with an expression of pain. But it wasn’t for you—it was for him. "I am real, Aemond," you said firmly, your voice unwavering even as his trembled. Then, softer, you added, "As real as the sun and stars, my love."

Tentatively, he reached out, his hand shaking as he brushed your cheek. The soft warmth of your skin against his palm sent a shock through him. His lone eye stung with tears as he leaned closer, feeling the truth of your presence in the softness of your flesh. And when you leaned into his touch, his entire world seemed to shift.

The sob broke from his chest, raw and aching, as he pulled you into his arms with a fierce desperation. He crushed you against his chest, his face buried in your hair, inhaling the scent he had feared he would never experience again. It was real. You were real. His hands trembled as they tightened around you, holding you as if you might slip away once more.

"You're real," he whispered, the words tumbling from his lips in a reverent chant, as if saying it enough times would make it an undeniable truth. "You're alive."

Tears streamed freely down his face as he clung to you, the walls he had built around his heart crumbling in your presence. You had returned to him, and in this moment, the weight of the world, the rage, the grief—it all faded away in the warmth of your embrace. He whispered your name like a prayer, his chest shaking with the sobs he could no longer control.

The two of you had eventually found your way onto Aemond's bed, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip. The moonlight spilled softly through the window, casting a gentle glow over the room, but all that mattered in this moment was the warmth of his body beneath yours. You lay on top of him, your noses touching, your breaths mingling in the quiet stillness of the night.

And yet, he only stared at you, his eye searching your face as if trying to memorize every inch, every detail. It felt like an eternity before he finally spoke.

"I don’t understand how," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, the confusion and longing in his eye clear as he tried to reconcile your presence with the grief he had been drowning in.

You lifted your head slightly, his gaze following your every movement. Gently, you brought a finger to trail down his scar, your touch soft and comforting. His eye fluttered shut at the sensation, as if the weight of the world lifted momentarily under your fingertips.

"Helaena told me what was believed," you began, your voice steady as you prepared to weave the lie once more. "But the truth is, our carriage was ambushed. The Kingsguard were killed." You paused, then continued with conviction, "I escaped with Jaehaerys. My intent was to return."

His eye opened slowly, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through his gaze as he asked in a voice that was unusually soft, "Why did it take so long?"

"The prince fell ill on the journey. My only priority was his health, not how quickly we could return," you explained, your lips pressing together in a thin line. "I'm sorry it took so long," you added, guilt weighing your words, though the truth of your ordeal remained hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed deception.

Aemond's expression softened as you rested your head back against him, in the crook of his neck where you could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "You're here now," he whispered, his voice filled with relief. It seemed as if that was all that mattered to him in this moment.

The silence between you lingered, a peaceful reprieve from the chaos that awaited outside these walls. But after a while, he spoke again, his voice barely breaking the quiet. "I'm Prince Regent now."

You already knew, of course. Helaena had told you, but you wanted to hear it from him. "Helaena told me what happened to Aegon," you said slowly, choosing your words carefully. You had to know the truth, not from Helaena’s recounting but from Aemond himself. You needed to understand what had happened, why he had done what he did.

There was a pause, a silence that stretched on too long before he finally spoke. "He was not supposed to be there. At Rook’s Rest," he said, his voice low and distant, as if recounting a memory he wanted to forget.

Your hand rested on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you. "What happened, Aemond?" you asked, your tone soft but insistent, though part of you dreaded hearing the answer.

Aemond’s face hardened, his eye staring up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. "Aegon got what he deserved," he said flatly, his tone almost indifferent. "He was unfit to rule. Unworthy to sit the throne."

His words hit you like a stone sinking into a well, and though you had expected them, it still hurt. Aegon was not a good man. He was cruel, selfish, and unfit to lead, but knowing that Aemond had taken such drastic action—it was a bitter pill to swallow. The world was better without Aegon’s reign, and yet the weight of Aemond’s decision loomed over you.

You studied his face, searching for any hint of remorse, of conflict. "Was it worth it?" you asked quietly, though you weren’t sure you wanted the answer.

Aemond didn’t respond. He simply stared at the ceiling, his silence speaking louder than any words could. And you didn’t push him. You knew Aemond better than anyone; his guilt, his anger, and his desire for power all warred within him.

So you lay there, your hand on his chest, letting the silence stretch on, knowing that in time, perhaps, the answers would come. But for now, you were content to simply be there with him.

@esposadomd @sara-grimes-yess @littybeech @gyneve @https-kokomi @yariany02 @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @baby-i-can-see-your-reylo @niktwazny303 @missyviolet123 @caribbeangal @ggukiespace @levimaids @lokisgoddesofpower @anakilusmos @spacexdrago @strawberymilktea @snowtargaryen @fiction-fanfic-reader

Names that are in bold are ones that couldn't be added :(

@feelingfaye @sxlsvv @crystal-siren @no-one0804 @tojisprincess @meraxesruin @supernaturalstilinski @emerald-error20 @athanasia-day @mynameisbaby9 @moonstruksandco @mysticalfridge @pugalore @inkandarsenic @ninihrtss @kaitieskidmore97 @boywivlove @motheroffae @cluelessteam @whiteoakoak

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#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #hotd fanfic #mikaelson #hotd #the originals #hotd x reader

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tactiklighting · 18 days ago

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Tactik Lighting and Core4 Technologies Partner to Deliver Smarter Industrial Lighting Solutions

In an era where energy efficiency and automation define success in industrial operations, strategic partnerships are essential to driving innovation. That’s why the recent alliance between Tactik Lighting and Core4 Technologies marks a major leap forward in delivering next-generation industrial LED lighting solutions.

This collaboration brings together two industry leaders with a shared mission: to provide cutting-edge, intelligent lighting systems that help industrial facilities become more energy-efficient, productive, and future-ready.

Strengthening Innovation Through Strategic Collaboration

As a manufacturer of rugged, high-performance smart LED lighting, Tactik Lighting is known for engineering products that meet the demands of complex industrial environments—from warehouses to manufacturing plants and logistics centers.

By teaming up with Core4 Technologies, a trusted manufacturer’s rep group with a deep footprint in the Upper Midwest, Tactik Lighting expands its reach and boosts its ability to deliver tailored lighting solutions with expert-level technical support.

Together, they are poised to accelerate the adoption of smart lighting systems across sectors such as:

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A Shared Vision for Smarter Workspaces

Both Tactik Lighting and Core4 Technologies share a vision of smarter, more connected industrial environments. Their combined expertise allows them to deliver comprehensive lighting solutions that go beyond illumination. These solutions include:

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This partnership enhances Core4’s value proposition by enabling it to offer clients direct access to Tactik Lighting’s advanced product line—built to perform under the most demanding industrial conditions.

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If you're managing or designing an industrial workspace, this partnership is great news. With expanded regional support and deeper technical integration, facilities in the Midwest now have easier access to smarter, safer, and more efficient lighting systems from a trusted team of specialists.

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#Tactik Lighting #Industrial LED lighting solutions #Smart lighting systems #Lighting for cold storage and food processing #Core4 Technologies partnership

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superbat-love · 9 months ago

Text

"Batman-02, requesting access to the Yellow Sun Room," Bruce said.

"Access granted. Welcome, Batman," the robotic voice intoned, and the door slid open.

Bruce stepped into the room, the UV lighting casting a purple glow. His eyes immediately fell on the figure huddled in the corner.

"Clark, how are you feeling?" Bruce asked, deliberately keeping his voice low, careful not to agitate Clark’s heightened senses.

A garbled sound came from the man. Bruce stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment, before realizing that Clark was speaking in Kryptonian. His language processing centers hadn’t recovered yet.

"Everything feels wrong," Clark moaned. "My heartbeat’s like a bad drummer at a rock concert, my nerves are firing off everywhere, my tear ducts won’t stop leaking, and... and I sound like an unhinged Decepticon!"

Bruce sighed softly and set aside the tray he was carrying. Without a word, he stood in front of Clark, arms extended in silent invitation. Clark hesitated only for a moment before pushing himself off the ground, gratefully collapsing into Bruce’s embrace.

Clark was always a mess right after a kryptonite extraction surgery. His body was so focused on healing that it temporarily forgot how to simulate human physiological reactions. Thankfully, the Yellow Sun Room helped regulate his temperature and blocked out the overwhelming sensory input from the outside world.

"Give it time, Clark," Bruce said, his voice steady and calming. "Your body just needs to recalibrate. Try to slow your breathing, and listen to my heartbeat."

Clark nodded weakly and pressed his ear against Bruce's chest, taking a deep breath and attempting to sync his heart rate with Bruce's steady rhythm.

"That’s it," Bruce encouraged. "Let me know if your symptoms get worse, okay? And don’t worry about your voice—you sound like a respectable robot to me."

"Optimus Prime?" Clark asked, looking up hopefully.

"Is that what the robot in Dick’s favorite movie is called?" Bruce said. "The small, yellow one."

Clark frowned. "Bumblebee? But... he couldn’t talk."

"He could," Bruce corrected. "It’s just that no one understood him."

Clark buried his face into Bruce’s shoulder, sobbing harder.

"But I can, and that’s all that matters for now," Bruce quickly reassured him. Clark sniffled, curiously peeking over Bruce's shoulder.

"Something smells good."

"Iron bars and steel pipes, spiced with mini uranium bombs. You need to replenish your vitamins," Bruce said, relieved to see Clark’s mood lightening.

Clark’s eyes lit up. "You got me uranium bombs too?"

Bruce led him to the small dining table. "Yes, and let me tell you, they’re not easy to make."

As they sat down, Bruce stayed close, holding Clark’s hand to help maintain their synced physiological reactions while Clark eagerly scarfed down the food Bruce had prepared.

#superbatweek2024 #xenobio extravaganza #dc headcanon #dc fanfic #drabble #text post #dc #superbat #superman x batman #batman x superman #superman/batman #batman/superman #superman #batman #clark kent #bruce wayne

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moonmaiden1996 · 4 months ago

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Part 5 🗣️🗣️🗣️

You want more???? Well, if you insist...

Love at First Sight (According to Nagumo, Anyway) Part Five

You barely had time to react. One moment, you were standing there, trying to process the horrifying revelation that Nagumo had somehow orchestrated your boss’s downfall, and the next—

Warm fingers wrapped around yours, pulling you along beside him. His hand was impossibly large and shockingly warm, an unexpected comfort that would’ve been reassuring if it weren’t attached to someone as strange and dangerous as him. An assassin, of all things.

Nagumo held your hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if he had done it a thousand times before. And before you could jerk away, he was already walking, gently but relentlessly tugging you along. To anyone else, it would have looked like a couple on a casual evening stroll, perhaps heading to their favorite eatery or to the place of their first date.

“Come on, my love,” he purred, his voice rich with amusement. “We have a date to enjoy.”

“No, we don’t,” you snapped, digging your heels in, but even with all your body weight, he simply pulled you along, like you were nothing.

Nagumo didn’t even slow down.

“Oh, but we do,” he said, glancing back at you with that infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. “You agreed, remember?”

Your eye twitched. “I was tricked into agreeing.”

“Semantics.”

He didn’t let go, nor did he stop smiling.

You twisted your arm, trying to slip free, but Nagumo’s grip was like steel wrapped in silk—unyielding but deceptively soft. It wasn’t painful, not even close, but it was final. "Stop that, you’ll hurt yourself. And as much as I would like to play doctor, I’d much prefer to do so in another capacity.”

He wasn’t letting you go.

Your heart hammered in your chest.

“Let me go,” you tried again, voice low, warning.

Nagumo sighed dramatically. “Why must you resist happiness, my love? It’s just dinner.” He paused, then tilted his head. “Well, dinner and some light assassination talk, but mostly dinner.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “I knew you were crazy. I knew I should have given up caffeine. My mother was right—It is bad for my health.”

“And yet,” he said, smug as ever, “we are still here... must be fate.”

The worst part? You were still here.

And with every step, the escape route back to Sakamoto’s store was getting further and further away.

Nagumo led you down the quiet streets, weaving through the dimly lit alleys like he belonged there. He probably did.

Finally, he stopped in front of a small, hole-in-the-wall noodle shop, its faded red curtain swaying gently in the evening breeze. Warm light spilled out onto the street, and the rich scent of broth and spices curled in the air. Your stomach betrayed you with a loud growl.

Nagumo grinned. “See? Even your body agrees with me.”

You scowled, but your resistance was starting to waver. You could always run after dinner, right?

With a resigned sigh, you allowed him to pull you inside.

The shop was quiet, tucked away from the busy streets. The restaurant was small, empty, with no hope of calling for help from other patrons. The solitary chef behind the counter greeted Nagumo by name and gestured toward a booth at the back of the shop. The smell of freshly cooked broth hung in the air, making your stomach churn—not with fear, but hunger.

Nagumo guided you to a corner booth, finally releasing your hand as you slid into the seat across from him.

The moment you were free, you considered bolting.

Nagumo must have noticed, because he propped his chin on his palm, watching you with that lazy, amused smirk. “Sit tight, my love. I promise I didn’t kill anyone. Plus, the food is amazing. You like soba, right? They have ramen too, with hand-pulled noodles.”

You froze mid-movement. “Excuse me?”

Nagumo chuckled. “That’s what’s been bothering you, isn’t it? You think I killed him after he quit.” He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I didn’t. I simply… convinced him that leaving was in his best interest. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it, such a disgusting man. Should we get pudding too? Treat ourselves, it is a celebration of course.”

You stared at him, your pulse hammering in your ears. “How?”

Nagumo hummed, tapping his fingers against the table. “How, dessert? Or how did I give your old boss the old push?’’ he smiled across at you. ‘’Oh, you know. A little whisper here, a little well-timed accident there. Nothing too dramatic.” He smiled wickedly. “He got the message.”

The blood drained from your face.

Nagumo tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “You should be thanking me. I cleared the way for your promotion, didn’t I? He was awful to you. Lucky for him, I would’ve much rather put an ice pick through his eye socket, but Aoi frowned on that idea.”

You were going to be sick. "Aoi?"

"Sakamoto’s wife. She gave me lots of great advice. She's lovely, you should go out shopping with her sometime. We could even go on a double date.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered, barely able to comprehend it.

Nagumo grinned, delighted by your horror. “And you’re adorable when you’re horrified.”

You wanted to scream.

Your fingers clenched under the table, nails biting into your palm. Your pulse was erratic, your mind screamed at you to do something, anything, to get away.

That’s when you saw it.

The tattoo.

A swirl of ink peeked out from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt, intricate and sharp, curling along the skin of his wrist. You didn’t recognize the full design, but something about it screamed danger. People had tattoos these days, but the thick black lines, the sharp design—it screamed Yakuza more than it did a rebellious teenager trying to piss off their parents.

It was the final confirmation.

Nagumo wasn’t just some overconfident flirt with questionable morals. He was an assassin.

A real one.

Your breath came faster. Your mind raced. Your fingers inched toward the wooden chopsticks resting beside your bowl. Not a weapon, but sharp enough to give you enough time to escape.

Nagumo was still smirking, still watching you, completely unguarded.

This was your chance.

Your hand shot forward.

In an instant, Nagumo moved.

Before you could even register what had happened, your wrist was caught—flipped effortlessly, twisted just enough to disarm you. The chopsticks clattered uselessly against the table.

You barely had time to gasp before Nagumo’s other hand reached out, cupping your chin with unnerving gentleness.

His grin was gone.

For the first time, he actually looked serious.

And then—

He laughed.

“Oh, my love,” he breathed, eyes practically glowing. “You are perfect.”

You stared at him, stunned, your wrist still trapped in his hold.

Nagumo exhaled, shaking his head with something that disturbingly resembled fondness. “I knew you’d be perfect, but this?” He chuckled. “Trying to stab me in the middle of our date? How did I get so lucky? Beautiful.” He purred, pressing a soft kiss to your wrist.

Your entire body locked up.

He—

What—

“Let me go,” you forced out, but it came out weaker than you wanted.

Nagumo hummed thoughtfully, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist. Then, slowly, he released you.

But not before dragging his thumb lightly across your pulse point.

A deliberate, lazy touch.

Your skin burned where he had touched it.

“You really are something else,” he mused, sitting back like nothing had happened. “I knew you were the one for me.”

You yanked your hand back, your breath uneven. “You’re delusional.”

Nagumo just smiled, resting his chin in his palm. “No, I’m in love with the most perfect woman in the world... Now, let me order for you. I’ve always wanted to do that.” He beamed at you, his eyes scanning the menu with intense focus. “I promise you won’t regret it. I am, after all, the best husband. Let’s get some sake to share. They have a sparkling one you’ll love.” He giggled.

And despite everything, a small, twisted part of you—a sick part of you—thought he looked very handsome the way he smiled so determinedly at the menu, so happy.

What the hell were you going to do?

I rewrote this three times in the last two days.... I hope I got it right. I am not sure if I am going to do the next chapter focusing on the Reader or Nagumo or both so please stay tuned. Maybe some interaction with the other characters :P

Like. Comment. Request.

#nagumo x you #nagumo x reader #nagumo #nagumo sakamoto days #nagumo yoichi #sakamoto #sakamoto days #aoi sakamoto #sakamoto tarou

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btssavedmylifeblr · 1 year ago

Text

Void - Part 10 - Wednesday

title banner by @rude–jude♡

Genre: Sci-fi with a little angst and a LOT of smut

Pairing: BTS x Reader (yup - all seven)

Summary: You are the only female crew member on a 12 year space mission with seven handsome men. The sexual tension is real, y’all.

Word Count: 1.9k

Part 9 /?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Warnings: very short chapter

Mercifully, Taehyung does not wake you up with a thumb in your mouth. You wonder if you will even see him today, given he only signed the form to hide his feelings for Jimin.

You head straight for the greenhouse, determined to avoid Hoseok for as long as possible. Will you ever be able to face him again? Maybe you should start working nights.

Luckily, there’s plenty to do in the greenhouse and you manage to work all day without interruption. Dinnertime arrives and your stomach grumbles, but you procrastinate heading for the kitchen out of fear of who may be eating there. You can’t stomach bumping into any of the men you’re fucking or any of the men you aren’t.

At a little past seven o-clock, Taehyung sticks his head into the door of the greenhouse. He furrows his brow to see your hands covered in soil. “I thought we had a date?”

“Huh?” you ask, wiping the dirt from your hands onto your pants. “I thought that was pretend. For the benefit of the crew.”

Taehyung laughs, stepping further into the greenhouse. “Well, some of it was, but I did actually make dinner.”

“You did?” You aren’t dressed for a date. Not that you have anything else to wear. Just a different slightly less dirty jumpsuit. At least none of your clothing is covered in semen today. Yet.

Taehyung is wearing the same jumpsuit from the accident with the rover. It’s still missing a sleeve from where it was cut off of him. It’s quite flattering on him, no surprise. His exposed upper arm has just enough muscle definition to draw your attention. It’s still in the sling but the bruising has faded. The asymmetrical look with its rough unsewn edge makes him look rather roguish.

“Come on! The food’s getting cold!” He ducks back out of the greenhouse, waving for you to follow him.

You clean your hands with a cloth and follow him. You're surprised when he veers away from the kitchen and heads for the hangar instead.

The overhead lights in the hangar are off. The room looks so different, it takes you a minute to process what you are seeing. The Europa rover sits in the middle of the room, glowing from the inside with soft blue light. Scattered around the room are little twinkling lights of white and blue and green.

“Taehyung!” you gasp. “What is all this?”

“A date!” he answers triumphantly. He clambors up onto one of the large wheels of the rover and opens the door. Even from a distance, you can see a white tablecloth covering the center console, topped with more twinkling lights. He reaches down a hand to help you up. “Your chariot, m’lady.”

“This is…” You are at a loss for words as you take his hand and climb up into the rover with him. “This is so…” You examine one of the twinkling lights on the make-shift table up close. It’s one of the LEDs intended for lighting your paths down on the Europa ice sheets. At least it was rechargeable. "Taehyung, this is so much work for a fake date.”

Taehyung laughs. “Just because we’re not bumping uglies, doesn’t mean it can't be a real date. I like dates.”

He pulls out a reusable water bottle from behind one of the seats that makes a surprising pop when he opens it. Then he pours something golden and bubbly into two champagne glasses.

Without thinking, you take accept glass as he hands it to you, then do a double-take. “Is this champagne? Where on Earth did you get champagne? Or champagne glasses?”

He laughs, enjoying your surprise, as he takes a sip from his own glass. “Unfortunately, it’s not the real stuff, just some apple juice I ran through the carbonator.” He clinks his glass to yours as you hold it, still suspended in shock. “The glasses are from Earth though. Packed them for a special occasion.”

He stares a bit wistfully at the glass in his hand and you get a little pang of sadness. “Were you planning this for Jimin?”

He looks up at you and shakes his head, waving your concerns away. “No, no, no. I did this for you.”

“For me?”

He nods. “I’m trying to make amends.”

You’re surprised. “Amends for what?”

He sighs. “For the tape, for the jealousy, I feel like…” He gestures around at the ship in general. “I feel like a lot of this is my fault.”

“What? No.” You shake your head. “This is my fault. I started all this.”

Taehyung gestures to one side of the console table welcoming you to sit down. “It seemed like you and Jimin were happy though, until I broke my arm and messed everything up.”

“Yeah…” You sigh as you sit down across from him. You sip your fake champagne as you remember orgasming with Jimin inside you, but Yoongi’s voice in your head. “Mostly… but there was something missing…”

“Ah,” Taehyung gives a bit of a teasing smile. “A certain flight engineer, perhaps?”

“Yeah,” you shrug nervously, running your finger around the rim of your glass and teetering on the edge of admitting your real problem. “And not just him…”

Taehyung nods knowingly. “We do have a devastatingly attractive crew, don’t we?”

“Yes!!” You exclaim, laughing in relief at someone who finally understands. “Why did you all have to be so fucking hot?!”

“All of us?” He places a hand on his chest in fake surprise.

“Oh shut up, you know you’re hot.” The bubbles in your glass make you feel a little tipsy even if there's no alcohol in them.

Taehyung gives an exaggerated wink, then laughs. "You are very good at seeming uninterested in anyone though. I couldn’t believe how well you held it together when Jungkook stripped in front of you for that haircut.”

A lightbulb goes off. “Oh my god, you put him up to that, didn’t you?”

Taehyung bursts into delighted giggles and you smack him on his good arm. “You did! You maniac! Are you trying to kill me?”

“Not my finest moment, I will admit. Perhaps I had ulterior motives for throwing the hunk at you. Sorry. Just one of many reasons I owe you apologetic fake champagne.” He takes another sip and smiles as he recalls the memory. “Still, you kept your cool remarkably well. If it were me, I would have had his dick in my mouth well before the end of that haircut.”

Your mouth falls open. Fuck. That’s… that’s a very attractive mental image. Your pelvic muscles flinch with a twinge of arousal.

Taehyung sees your surprise and his eyes widen. “Oh shoot, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He takes your glass from you and sets it down on the table, before turning to rummage with something in a cooler sitting under the seat next to him.

“Oh no.” You squirm in your seat. “I’m not… you didn’t…” you stammer. Fuck. What are you even trying to say? “I just didn’t realize you were attracted to Jungkook as well.”

Taehyung turns back to you and smiles. “I mean… how could you not be? That smile… those abs…”

You both sigh in unison, then laugh. “It’s deeply unfair,” you agree.

He nods, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s deeply unfair is how you have this crew wrapped around your finger.”

“What? No I don’t.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I don’t!”

He sips his apple juice skeptically.

“No seriously! Hoseok and Namjoon won’t have sex with me even though I practically begged them…”

He shakes his head. “I still don’t think you realize the power you hold.”

“What power?”

“I saw that video you made with Yoongi. That was incredible. When you let go of all the fear and stress and were so open and vulnerable, that was beautiful. It’s no wonder they all love you.”

Something about hearing it from someone you’re pretty sure doesn’t want to have to sex with you makes you feel like it might really be true. But the whole thing is still too embarrassing and uncomfortable to think about for too long.

“They’re not in love with me. They’re just… I don’t know… can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.”

Taehyung sets down two plates of what looks like fine dining. Red beets sliced thin and drizzled with balsamic vinegar and a rounded mound of rice pilaf topped with a whole chicken breast.

“My god, where did you get all this?”

He smiles, pleased with himself. “Jin helped me with a bunch of it. I’ve technically given up two of my Christmas dinners for this, but it seemed worth it.”

You are shocked again that he would go to so much effort. “You didn’t have to do all this just for the sake of our pretend relationship…”

He reaches over the table to take your hand in his. “I do want a real relationship with you though,” he says and your heart starts racing. His dark eyes hold such warmth even as the rest of him is so statuesque. But then he draws back. “Even just as a friend.” he says and you’re a bit disappointed.

The two of you chat the rest of the evening as you savor your meal, both relieved to find someone you can be honest with.

At one point you offer to mend his jumpsuit sleeve for him, but he declines. “I like it," he says, shrugging. "Reminds me of important lessons."

You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "I suppose it is rather dashing," you admit, trying to fill the silence. "But I suppose you would make a dish towel look dashing." You can't even blame the fake champagne for your loose tongue.

His eyes widen in delight and he laughs as he pours the last of the bubbly apple juice into each of your glasses.

“So…” he says as you take a last bite of your dessert, a delicious chocolate cake designated for some future New Year’s Eve. “Fuck, marry, kill: Namjoon, Jimin, Yoongi.”

You gasp in horror. “Taehyung, I can’t answer that!”

“Too violent? How about fuck, marry, kiss?”

“No way, not answering.” You mime zipping your lips closed.

“I’d marry Jimin, obviously.” He continues, undeterred. “And I think I’d have to fuck Yoongi. Those hands… my god.”

“Ugh…” Just the memory makes you groan and collapse onto the table in front of you. “Tae, he’s so good with them. It’s terrible. Those goddamn hands are what started this whole mess.”

Taehyung is pleased to have finally cracked through your facade. “Though the commander… he just carries himself like he has a big dick, you know?”

“Agh…” you groan again, laughing as you stand up. “I think that’s my cue to go to bed.”

“Allow me, m’lady.” He stands up and takes your hand to help you out of the rover. He’s still holding your hand as the two of you reach the floor of the hangar.

“Thank you again for all this.” You gesture at the twinkling lights spread over the floor, looking especially lovely now that most of the ship has gone dark.

“Would you mind a platonic goodnight kiss?” He asks, tapping his cheek.

You bite your lip and shake your head, feeling a whole storm of butterflies in your stomach that do not feel platonic at all. He leans in and gives you a soft kiss on your cheek. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” he murmurs close to your ear.

“Same time next week?” you ask, trying to fight down how on fire your face feels now. “I’ll cook next time.”

He grins. “Looking forward to it.”

______

Thursday is next! And it's going to be dramatic. Hopefully it will be ready soon! Thanks for reading!

#taehyung x reader #ot7 x reader #void

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