#SIGH………. I was having so much fun…..

[pucksandpower]

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don’t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

[ninisdollie]

more boyfriend Ni-ki with his hyperfemenine gf thoughts (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧

Your boyfriend Ni-ki pretends to judge you for spending so much money in makeup, telling you that you need to save or spend it in something that really worths it, but at the end of the day, he sits through every one of your Sephora unboxings like he’s your assistant. He’ll lay on your pink sheets, black hoodie cap over his messy hair, watching you with a half-lidded gaze as you peel the bubble wrap off your sixth gloss of the week like it’s a treasure. He’ll say things like, “Another one?” or “25 dollars for a gloss is insane” with the driest voice, eyes lazy as he’s sooo bored, but when you flute your eyelashes at him, small smile on your plumped lips, he’s the first to hold out his arm when you start testing swatches.

He lets you paint his entire forearm with shimmer eyeshadows and bronzers and cherry red blushes, grumbling under his breath warning you to not tell the boys later. He even holds still while you paint his thick lips with a shiny, sheer pink gloss, and even smacks his lips together like he’s on a get ready with me video. 

“It’s sweet” he shrugs “Suits you better” and then he kisses you, soft and messy at the same time, the gloss falls from your hand as you kiss him back and fall on your back on the mattress. 

Then a few days later, when you’re stressed because you can’t find your new strawberry lip balm and ask him if he’s seen it, he doesn’t even blink. “What? You have like ten of those” 

“You literally stole it. It’s mine!” he just looks at you, so nonchalant, and goes, “Yeah, but it makes my lips soft. Plus… it smells like you.”

You ended up finding it on his desk. Not tucked away or hidden, just lying there like it belongs next to his wallet and keys. Like he didn’t swiped it from your vanity and started using it like it was his all along.

Ni-ki used to groan every time you said “Just ten more minutes” before a date. He would lean against your bedroom doorframe with his arms crossed and a dramatic sigh, saying things like “How are you not done yet?” Or “It looks good, I’m hungry” But instead of actually getting mad, he started watching you. Watching how your hands moved when you did your eyeliner. How your lip combo needed to be layered just right. How you curled your hair in sections and flipped the ends out naturally. 

And one day, he just… asked. “Which one makes it wavy?” You paused, mascara wand mid-air, staring at him. “You wanna help me get ready?” “I wanna help you get faster,” he said flatly. But you saw the little spark in his eyes.

So you handed him your curling iron.

Your boyfriend Ni-ki watched one tutorial on YouTube from a beauty blogger, and then practiced on a doll head you had from your childhood “just for fun,” but secretly he wanted to get it perfect for you. He learned to section your hair, to twist and hold, to use the glove so he wouldn’t burn his fingers, though he totally did once and blamed you for distracting him by being “too pretty.”

He now stands behind you while you sit on your vanity and do your makeup, tongue between his teeth in concentration as he wraps a strand of your hair around the barrel. You’ll be focusing on your eyeliner and hear the soft click of the iron turning off, then his voice: “Next section.” Sometimes he clips your hair back with one of your frilly pink claw clips, totally unfazed by how cute and domestic he looks doing it. Other times, he hums Enhypen songs under his breath while working, casually asking, “Big curls or soft waves today?”

To be fair, he still says, “You take forever to get ready,” but now it’s while he's smoothing a section of your hair down and checking the back with his phone camera to make sure it’s even.

Ni-ki is one of the most dry texters in the world, but you don’t care that much, because when he’s on tour, he doesn’t say “I miss you” too much, but always comes back with something for you tucked in his bag.

Not big things. Not the kind of gifts meant to impress or flex. But cute things. Thoughtful things. Things that say “I saw this and thought of you” in the quietest way. Like the time he was in Japan, and you sent him a half-joking, half-serious message at 2 a.m. that just said, “Bring me back something My Melody or I’m breaking up with you.” But forgot about it immediately, he didn’t. 

He came home with a little box wrapped in pink tissue paper, handed it to you without a word, and inside were three keychains—Hello Kitty, My Melody, and Kuromi—each one in a tiny outfit matching the city he’d been in. There was also a fluffy pouch with sparkly zippers and a note in his handwriting with pink pen that just said, “Don’t break up with me.”

Or the time that he went to Milan for the fashion week and rolled his eyes when you told him to buy you something expensive. But when he came back, he handed you a pink Prada purse and a silk scarf with little hearts woven into the trim. 

“This reminded me of you. The memory was prettier tho” You punched his arm and he kissed your cheek.

He’s too cool to gush but always notices. Always remembers. He never forgets that you love sparkly keychains and girly pouches and lip balms shaped like desserts. And even when he’s thousands of miles away, he walks through each airport, each city street, each backstage area wondering what tiny, soft thing he can bring back to make you smile. And when you tease him, “You miss me that bad, huh?” He’ll just click his tongue, toss a plushie onto your lap, and mutter, “Shut up. It was cute. And you like cute things.”

Your boyfriend Ni-ki pretends to be soo bored when you push him into your bedroom to try on new clothes. He flops onto your bed like he’s been inconvenienced for the millionth time, phone in hand, legs crossed at the ankle, but the truth is? He lives for this. For the way you light up when you’re in front of your closet. For the way you model outfits for him like you’re on a runway made of pink carpet and perfume mist. He barely looks up when you walk out in the first dress, just gives a quick glance and hums, “Cute.”

But by the third outfit, when the top dips a little lower and your shorts hug a little tighter, he suddenly forgets how to breathe normally. You know what you’re doing. You twirl slowly, hands on your hips, acting innocent. “Too short?” you ask, lifting the hem just slightly to adjust it. He sits up straighter. “You’re trying to start something.” You just flutter you eyelashes. “I’m just trying on clothes.” 

Ni-ki is so whipped for you that he starts biting his lip by the fourth outfit. You come out in a little skirt with bows on the sides and a cropped cardigan that’s one button away from scandal, and he’s already shoving his phone into the sheets and leaning back like he’s trying to stay calm.“Babe,” he warns, voice low, “what is this, a fashion show or a test of my self-control?” You smirk. “Depends. How am I doing?” He drags a hand down his face. “Terribly.” 

He breaks the second you spin around in front of the mirror and bend a little too far while adjusting the neckline, the skirt showing the perfect curve of your ass. He’s behind you before you even realize he moved, hands sliding around your waist, lips brushing your ear.

“You know I’m not gonna sit there like a good boy when you parade around looking like that.” Your outfit ends up on the floor. He never gives his opinion. You both forget you were even getting ready.

Your boyfriend Ni-ki doesn’t just say “You’re pretty” when you’re writhing under him, he says it like a prayer, like it hurts him how pretty you are.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” “Look at you… look how perfect you are for me.” “Made just for me, huh? That’s it, baby—show me.”

His voice never raises. It stays soft, reverent, like he’s telling you a secret that only the two of you should know. Even when he’s breathless. Even when he’s deep inside you, thumb brushing your bottom lip while he watches your eyes flutter and roll.

“Such a good girl for me… always take me so well.” “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” “You make me lose my mind, princess. Fuck—look at the mess you’re making.”

He says the filthiest things while holding your jaw so gently, like he’s cradling something delicate and priceless.

“You’re dripping just from my voice, aren’t you? You like when I talk to you like this.” “You want me to make it worse? Want me to ruin this little body while I tell you how much I love it?”

Because he does love it. Every inch of you. And he says it, over and over, between kisses and thrusts and choked moans.

“I love you so much, baby. So fucking much.” “No one’s ever gonna touch you like this. No one’s ever gonna talk to you like this.” “You’re mine. Say it. Say it again.”

He gets off on your pleasure more than anything. The sound of your voice, the way your fingers curl in his hair, the little gasps you make when he presses deeper.

“That’s it, my pretty girl… you gonna come for me?” “I want you to fall apart, yeah? Be good and make a mess for me.”

And when you do, when your voice breaks and your body trembles and you cling to him like he’s the only thing anchoring you to this earth, he kisses you everywhere he can reach. Your cheek. Your shoulder. Your chest. The side of your neck.

“You’re okay, baby. I got you.” “You’re my princess. My everything.” 

And when he finishes, he doesn’t just roll over and catch his breath after, t’s like the second you fall apart, he pulls himself back together just to take care of you. Because he knows.

He knows that after you finish, your voice goes quiet. Your fingers reach for him, searching without words. You blink slower, lips parted, too overwhelmed to speak. And he knows that’s when you need softness the most. So he gathers you up. Instantly.

Ni-ki wraps his arms around your trembling frame and pulls you into his chest, skin to skin, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s shielding you from the world. “Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing your forehead. “You’re okay.” He kisses your temple, your eyelids, your damp hair, even the tip of your nose, like he needs to cover every part of you in warmth. In reassurance. He speaks softly, over and over, even when you’re too tired to respond.

“I’ve got you.” “You’re so perfect for me.” “Still with me, pretty girl?” “I love you. You’re my everything.”

His fingers draw lazy shapes on your back, his legs tangled with yours beneath the blankets. When he feels you start to drift, he kisses your shoulder and tightens his hold. “Don’t disappear yet,” he whispers, teasing but gentle.

And when you finally look up at him with hazy, fluttering eyes and a sleepy pout, he smiles like it physically hurts how much he loves you. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and presses his forehead to yours. “Still my princess,” he murmurs, voice low, “even when you’re all messy and dazed like this.”

Boyfriend Ni-ki, who gets up just to grab a warm cloth and clean you softly, slowly, never rushing, like he’s touching something sacred. Then helps you into his hoodie, kisses your cheek, and pulls you back into bed with a quiet “Come here, need you close.”

Because he knows you go small after. And there’s nowhere safer to be small than wrapped in him.

[my-castles-crumbling]

gay - @rosekillermicrofic - background dorlene - slightly NSFW - word count: 385

“Okay…” Pandora thought for a moment, tapping her chin, before she lit up. “Gayest thing you’ve ever done. Go!”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “I am gay,” he scoffed.

“Still,” Pandora insisted, crossing her arms and sinking farther into the couch he was inhabiting, by far the most comfortable one in the small flat Barty, Evan, and Regulus shared. “Most of us are. The point is to make fun of ourselves.”

“Fine,” Regulus sighed. “I painted my nails while watching Drag Race once. That’s…pretty gay,” he shrugged. “Cas?”

“I made a boob-shaped mug in pottery class in year 11,” Dorcas replied, grinning. “The teacher was not amused.”

“I once convinced myself that it was normal to want to snog the life out of the girl I hated, because I hated her that much,” Marlene offered, laughing.

“‘Course, she did. And now she’s dating her,” Dorcas piped up proudly, pulling Marlene in for a kiss.

All eyes turned to Barty and Evan, the only self-proclaimed straight ones in the group. Barty spoke first. “Evan,” he said simply, his voice casual as could be.

“Wait–what?” Dorcas asked, voice incredulous. 

“I did Evan. It was pretty gay,” Barty clarified, shrugging. Evan just nodded in agreement, face blank.

Regulus gaped, along with everyone else. “You two have…?” 

“Yeah. What, like…twenty times, now?” Barty said, turning to Evan, who nodded again, biting at his cuticle. “It’s bloody brilliant, really. Much better than any girl I’ve been with, don’t you agree, Rosie?”

“Hmm.”

“Think we’ll just be fucking each other from now on,” Barty said bluntly, nodding to himself like this wasn’t earth-shattering information for the whole group.

Regulus let out a puff of air. “So you’re like, da–?”

But Dorcas cut him off with a ‘shhhhht!’ and a fierce look, clearly telling him to shut up. They’d all been waiting for Barty and Evan to figure their shit out for years, and it seemed that she thought asking if they were dating was pushing them too far at one time. And none of them wanted the two to backslide into one of their many fights. “Nevermind,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Yeah. That’s very gay. Especially for two, erm, straight people. You win.”

Hooting and cheering, Barty and Evan smugly gave each other high-fives while everyone else chuckled to themselves. Idiots.

[hoe4hotchner]

Hi!! I hope you're doing well! I've been watching wildlife rescue shelters videos all day and that led me to have this idea for a small fic and I immediately thought of you! Okay so imagine reader is dating Hotch and she's working at one of those shelters and so she always sends him cute videos of all the tigers/leopards/lions etc. she's taking care of! And like he'd be so proud of her for doing that job but also low-key scared because she's literally cuddling a giant tiger there (you can also include the other BAU members' reactions!!)

No worries if you don't feel like writing this I just thought it could be fun/cute!

Okay have a nice day/night bye!!!

Wild at heart | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!reader | WC: 0.5k | CW: Mentions of potential danger.

Hotch's phone buzzed on the table with a new message, and despite the never-ending paperwork in front of him, he reached for it immediately.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Look at my new cuddle buddy!! 🥰”

Attached was a video of you lying on the ground, absolutely dwarfed by the massive Siberian tiger curled up beside you. The big cat let out a slow, contented huff as you scratched behind its ears, your laughter ringing out softly. Hotch exhaled sharply, torn between admiration and sheer terror.

Morgan, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow. “You okay, man? You just made a face.”

Hotch turned the screen toward him. “She sent me another one.”

Morgan leaned in, then burst out laughing. “Oh, hell no. She’s basically using a tiger as a pillow? That’s insane.”

Emily, overhearing, walked over with her coffee. “Wait, let me see.” As soon as she caught a glimpse, her jaw dropped. “That’s either the coolest thing I’ve ever seen or the most reckless. How are you not having a heart attack every time she sends you these?”

“I am,” Hotch admitted, rubbing his temple. “Every single time.” He sighed

JJ peered over his shoulder, shaking her head with a smile. “You have to admit, it’s adorable. She looks so happy.”

“I know.” He did. That was the problem. He couldn't take that away from you.

Rossi strolled by, glancing at the phone. “You do realize that’s a predator, right?”

“Yes, Dave, I’m aware,” Hotch sighed. “But she loves what she does.” And as much as it terrified him, he loved how passionate you were about your job.

Another buzz.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Also, here’s my baby leopard learning how to pounce!!”

The next video showed a clumsy little leopard cub attempting to pounce onto your lap but misjudging the distance, tumbling forward into your arms instead. Your giggles were audible as you scooped it up.

Hotch’s heart clenched.

Penelope appeared out of nowhere. “Oh! Oh! Are we looking at Y/N’s daily ‘How To Give Hotch a Heart Attack’ update?” She squealed.

“Apparently,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Reid, curious at what everyone was watching, peeked at the screen. “Statistically speaking, working closely with large wild cats poses significant risks, even in controlled environments.”

Hotch shot him a flat look. “Thank you, Reid. That helps.”

Morgan chuckled. “What’s the over-under on him showing up at her work in full-on protective detail one of these days?”

“Very funny,” Hotch muttered, but they weren’t entirely wrong. He had considered visiting just to see the safety protocols himself.

Another message.

🐅 From: Y/N

“Love you! Don’t worry, the tigers love me too!! ❤️”

Hotch sighed, shaking his head fondly. He typed out a quick response:

To: Y/N

“I love you too. Please be careful. And tell the tigers they need to share.”

Morgan saw the text and grinned. “Man, you’re whipped.” Hotch didn’t even deny it, cause it was no use trying to pretend not to be in a room full of profilers.

[heesmiles]

one of my readers recommended this to me and honestly; thank you so much. you have TASTE.

it’s 6am (i haven’t slept) i genuinely feel like i did back in high school and middle school (sighs i’m old) when i would spend my nights tucked under my blanket reading justin bieber fanfiction until the sun came up, not even regretting it because i had so much fun reading something i probably shouldn’t be reading.

Have you ever gotten that feeling of reading something and never wanting it to end but not being able to put it down? yeah, that was me reading this. It was so fucking good. Jake was such a simp and i live for it.

Also, the countless amount of cameos from not only enhypen (bless riki he was so cute i wanted to squeeze him.) but from other groups too?? Mark being in this is so perfect. Our little church boy <3 it wouldn’t be a churchy fic without him. God, this was perfect.

Just the right amount of dialogue, character development, plot, smut, chef’s chefs chefs kiss. i think this is my new obsession and i will be binging your masterlist, thank you!

things i know that i can't have

jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it.

pairing ✩ jake sim x fem!reader

genres: college au, (established) fwb to lovers, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: minors dni, mild religious exploration and guilt, strained parental relationship.......... deeply unserious and a bit melodramatic at times, jake's pov, jake crashes out every few paragraphs, football player jake (british), jakeyn are so nct dream (young and freaky), surface level gatsby analysis, creative liberties taken w the location of freshwater fish.. author loves jake so jake must suffer, and one peep show quote

word count: 33,666

playlist: ...what are we lizzy mcalpine, all my ghosts lizzy mcalpine, north clairo, 20191009 i like her mac demarco, 10:36 beabadoobee, lover/friend kaytranada and rochelle jordan

fic taglist: @heechwe @yunjardi @fancypeacepersona @skyearby @kimjkejyy @sanriowoozzz @ii-mimii @pochakkeu @xylatox @seung-log @anofi @immelissaaa @mssishipi @somuchdard @yuniesluv @m3wkledreamy @jakesimfromstatefarm

author's note: uhm.. if you have been tagged in this fic fifteen thousand times, i sincerely apologise 😭😭😭 the powers that be have been working against me, but im letting go and letting god 🤞 i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you love bi disaster jesus lover jake as much as i do......i hope u all enjoy the fic! do let me know ur thoughts (positive only on this one), as always thank u emma for beta reading, miss u so bad :'(

But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell. 

— Matthew 5:28-30, English Standard Version. 

There it is, in black and white—red and white, since Sunghoon has a red letter edition. Jake skims the passage again, certain words sticking out this time: lustful intent, adultery, with her. Underlined, italics and bold, like they could be missed. If only. It’s too late now; they’re etched on his retinas, branded on his skin. Lodged deep in his chest, taken root already. It hardly seems fair that a single thought could hold so much weight.

Or, in Jake’s case, many, many thoughts.

Shuddering, he closes the leather bound book softly, a slow exhale ripping out of him as he glances up at his best friend. “You mean I.. can’t even think about fucking her?” he whispers, brows touching in the middle.

A crack of thunder splits the air. Jake flinches. The sound lingers, rumbling over the grey sky. Meant for him. An answer from Heaven—from God Himself. Condemnation, more like. With bated breath, he turns his head slowly, expecting his judgment to be scrawled in the clouds, true divine intervention. But nothing. Just grey. Heavy, oppressive grey.

Sunghoon laughs, a strange little chuckle Jake has never heard before, but knows immediately that he doesn’t like. He adjusts his tie. Shifting the Windsor knot, smoothing the blade—a calculation in his movements that leaves Jake wondering if his friend hasn’t orchestrated this whole situation, weather and all.

“Afraid not, buddy.” Sunghoon’s tone is light, but there’s something solemn about it all—the rain, the smart clothes, this terrible, terrible realisation. 

March’s wind nips at Jake’s cheeks, stinging them red no doubt as rain splashes around his feet, wetting his socks in tiny, cold drops. He shivers but doesn’t leave, watching as a smirk spreads over Sunghoon’s lips. A pit stirs in Jake’s stomach as Sunghoon looks over both shoulders before leaning in. 

His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if thinking about it is as bad as doing it, you might as well just go ahead.” 

Jake stares, incredulous, takes a step back as if Sunghoon’s suggestion might smite him where he stands. “Of course, you think that. You lost your virginity behind the worship tent at camp four years ago. Forgive me if I don’t consider you a sound moral compass, Sunghoon.”

“I prayed about it after.” He shrugs. “Clean slate.” 

“Hoon,” Jake cries, exasperated, mortified. “You can’t intentionally sin and think you’ll be absolved because you prayed about it after.” 

“Why not? Isn’t that what forgiveness is for?” 

Glaring, Jake’s jaw works soundlessly. Where to start? At Sunghoon’s audacity or the fact he doesn’t even have a proper answer. Arguing won’t change anything. The whys-or-why-nots of it all are Sunghoon’s cross to bear. Not that he cares enough to. That’s his problem, and his saving grace, if you ask Jake—he makes everything sound so easy, like there isn’t a fuck load of consequence attached.  

A frustrated sigh escapes Jake as he glances down at his watch, rain warping the digits on his Casio. It’s almost eleven. Almost an hour since service started, and they’re still standing at the door. A gust of wind whips through his coat. 

“Just get inside,” Jake mutters, tone sharp, more from the cold than anything else.

Unmoving, Sunghoon frowns, lips pursed in genuine contemplation. Jake might be endeared if he didn’t know any better. 

“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon’s voice is lighter now, curious, sincere. 

Jake doesn’t have time for this—but it's Sunghoon. So, he pinches his nose, bracing himself for whatever’s coming. “What?”

“Do you think you’re better than me because you lost your virginity in a bed?” 

Taken aback by the question’s absurdity, Jake blinks. Wonders briefly if he misheard. A nervous laugh bubbles out of him, but Sunghoon’s expression morphs into something unreadable—calm, expectant maybe. Genuinely awaiting an answer. Jake tilts his head, considering it before letting out a short and decisive huff. 

“Yes, actually. I do.” 

r/Christianity 

u/footballfan1511 | 2m

How bad is premarital sex, really? (Need quick answers!!!)

I (20M) have been having sex with my friend (20F) for three weeks now. I knew it was wrong, but she’s everything (very hot, totally, completely sexy), so I didn’t care. BUT I just saw this verse (Matthew 5:28-30) and apparently it’s a sin just to THINK about it??? 

The last time we did ‘it’ was this morning before church (sorry), and I was supposed to go over there tonight, but I’ve been freaking out about that verse all day…….. idk what to do but I really like her, so much, and I still want this, with her. Please give me advice .. 

Every Thursday night. Ten p.m. sharp. Almost no exceptions. You call Jake, talking shit for as long as it takes one thing to lead to another. Tonight is an exception—you had friends over, rescheduled for midnight. Jake lies in bed, hair still damp from his post-football training shower, counting each minute as it passes. 23:55. His leg is shaking. 23:56. He sits up straight, jolting as if waking from a nightmare, nerves sharp and restless as his thumbs fly over the keyboard, texting Sunghoon. 

Jake: What about phone sex?

Jake: Like if I don’t think about her while I do it? 

Sunghoon’s groan reaches Jake through the thin walls of their shared flat. Drawn-out and long-suffering. Read receipt. 23:57. Three dots. 

Hoon: I can’t tell you what to think, but if you’re asking me then you probably alr know

Hoon: Also..??? Do you think you can jack your shit on the phone without thinking about her 😭😭😭

Jake snorts despite himself, much too loud for the quiet. Echoing as if even the room disapproves. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. Palm to his cheek. A low smack, half-joking, half-sincere. Guilt snakes around him, a hot, unwelcome coil that won’t ease. Jake gets the sense that the choice ahead — to answer or not to answer — might drastically skew his life one way or another. 

A minute early. 23:59. Your name on his screen. Phone humming in his hold, pulse lashing his throat. On the other end of the line, before he has the chance to weigh his options, you dead the call—making his decision for him. 

Jake’s heart stumbles, clumsy in his chest. He thinks of the verse, sharp and prickly—crown of thorns on heavy head. He has been thinking about it since Saturday morning. Extra training with Team B, avoiding you, six-thirty wake-ups to join Sunghoon at the rink. Ice-cold mornings melting into afternoons. No matter what he tries, it always comes back. Lustful intent, adultery, with her. And despite his best efforts to pray for rapture, Thursday has come, and Jake has lived to see it. 

A minute late. 00:01. Your name on his screen. Hovering thumb. He knows that phone sex and sex-sex aren’t the same thing, Matthew didn’t even have a phone—but if he could’ve, and he could’ve known you, and you wanted him? Jake sighs. He should answer. If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, and throw it away. The words sink their senile claws into him, holding on for dear, frail life. His phone stills in his palm. 

You don’t call again. You never have. If this phone call is going to happen, it’s up to Jake to make it so. This knowledge and its weight multiply by the second. An itch he doesn’t try to scratch, knowing he won’t be able to reach it. Another agonising nine minutes trudge along. 00:10. His phone buzzes on his chest, and he knows it’s you before he looks. Two texts.

YN: Said you’d stay up for me Yunie :((( 

YN: You don’t think I’m worth the wait?

Reading your messages through the notifications, he’s having a hard time convincing himself not to reply. Not to tell you he waited, that of course, you’re worth it. His guilt loosens, making space for his desire to reassure you—he cannot rule out the possibility that this desire outweighs his guilt. Silence settles in his room, stretched thin and strange around him. He sighs. 

YN: Attachments: 2 images

YN: Wanted to hear your reaction, but you can tell me when you’re up ig.

YN: Night, loser :P 

Butterflies, sudden and bright—teenaged. Foolish. Tucked under the notification, the photos dare him to look. His curiosity clicks it, and the first picture fills the screen, yanking his breath from his lungs. 

Most of your face is cut off, showing only your lips—pouty and glossy and pretty. Pulling at him in a way he’s not quite equipped to name. This would be enough for him, an innocent selfie, you and those pretty eyes, that smile. More than enough—pulse quickening just thinking about it. His gaze lingers on your lips, stuck for a while. Then, unintentionally, his eyes flick lower. Hair fanned over your pillow, breasts peeking out from under black lace. Fuck. A sight he’s seen a million times, but somehow, each time feels like the first. Jake gulps. Holy shit. He ignores the throbbing in his pants, how much tighter they are—he won’t give in. No matter how badly he’s craving it. He’s stronger than that. With his eyes, he traces your lips. Ogles until his screen dims, locking the picture away again.

Picture two. Fuck. You on your stomach, grainy in your webcam. Arched back, black lace panties over your hips. Fuck. The lingerie, the shape of your body.. Seeing you like this, so perfect and all for him—it’s taking every last shred of his self-control not to get in his car and rush over to you. Want, need, tugs at him. A tether he can’t break. His phone locks. 

Enough is enough. He drags his feet all the way back to the shower, oppressive cold water hitting him. Doing absolutely nothing for his revolting need. This isn’t working—not the water, not the attempt at self-control. Not when he’s already hard and aching against his stomach. Soft breasts. Round ass. Wet—his hand moves instinctively, forehead resting on the cool tiles. He closes his eyes, your body clear in the dark. Full lips. Arched back. He’s breathless when he finishes, head bowed as heat coils low in his stomach. The water carries his release away. Nose crinkled as it swirls around the drain, cringing at the sight—guilt, shame curling around him.

Again, he dries off, pulls on clean pyjamas, and drags his feet to bed. On his side, he closes his eyes, your body like a brand behind his eyelids, thoughts filling the quiet in his room. Exhaustion however, is its own kind of mercy, and eventually, pulls him under.

Everything is sharper in the morning, clear in the cool light of the college campus. Bare branches cast shifting shadows over stone paths, breeze stealing the sun’s warmth. The weight of his dreamless sleep clings to him, stalks him through the courtyard on his quest to find Jeno—until he sees you and stops in his tracks. Phone in hand, lip between teeth, standing by the library doors. You aren’t doing anything special, frowning at your screen, but Jake’s heart rate spikes anyway, cheeks heating against the cold. He blinks, taking you in. Hair billowing around you, sunlight caught in its edges. Affection bubbles under his skin, tugs him towards you before he knows it, his arm falling over your shoulder.

You flinch, glancing up, startled. Recognition narrows your wide eyes. “Ugh, let go of me, you asshole,” you say, freeing yourself. 

Surrendering, Jake steps back, hands raised. “Me, asshole?” He points at himself, feigning offence. “What did I do?”

A frustrated laugh. “Are you serious?” Pressing your cute palm to his chest, you shove him. Not hard, but enough to make him lose his balance, rocking a little. “Yes, you, asshole.” 

He doesn’t speak. 

You scoff, blank faced, like you don’t care, like you didn’t just shove him. “I sent you those photos, and you ignored me.” Stoic. Detached. 

Those photos. Even in reference, they work him up. Too vivid—mainly because he took another look when he woke up. He had to turn off his phone to stop, shoving it into the bottom of his backpack. He didn’t feel guilty about it then, but good grief, he feels like shit now. Shame burning his nape, creeping over his shoulders. At least he isn’t thinking about that Bible verse anymore. Lustful intent. With her. He wasn’t thinking about it. He tenses, sighing. 

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” 

“You were.” Your voice is quiet—vulnerability inching through your cool exterior. “At least turn your read receipts off if you’re going to pretend you didn’t see them.” Your arms drop stiffly. 

A hesitant step towards you, gaze searching yours. “Hey.” Soft, whispered almost. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you.”

On-campus commotion scores the quiet between you — overlapping conversation, bike bells ringing — and you inspect him before you speak. “Right. So you saw the photos and came so hard you passed out?”

Jake licks his lips, embarrassed. Wonders briefly if he’s been so transparent about your effect on him, that you’ve quite accurately hit the nail on the head—even in jest. “Something like that.” At this, you scoff, shoving him again—lighter. He chuckles, breathy and relieved. “Sorry,” he says sincerely. “I really am sorry. I loved the photos, seriously. You know I did.” 

Finally, you sigh, a reluctant smile twitching at your lips. “Whatever, asshole,” you say, voice a cute mumble with no real bite.

“How about I make it up to you tonight? Show you my reaction in person?” 

“You’re not even free tonight,” you point out. 

Shit. You’re right—he has a group project to work on. He should do the sensible thing and say no. “For you, I can be,” he says instead. He’ll figure it out. 

“Shut up.” A grin stretches over your lips, and relief washes over him. Finally, a good answer where you’re concerned—until your face tilts into shock. Opening your bag, you bring out a tub. “Don’t overreact, but I made you something,” you tell him, voice lighter as you pull off the lid, pushing foil out of the way. “I know you prefer milk chocolate, but.. it’s White Day, so I just thought—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve done something nice for Jake, this isn’t even the first time you’ve made him something, but it feels different—the way everything to do with you feels different now. He stares into the container for a second, suspecting he’ll wake up in bed if he blinks, so he tries not to. Eyes drying, hurting—nothing changes when he succumbs. 

As far as he knows, you haven’t baked anything since your shared high school Home Economics class. He chose it to soften the blow of his STEM-heavy course load, you chose it because he did—getting all the way to lesson three before switching for Music. Scones were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. His weren’t perfect, he’ll admit it — softer than he’d have liked — but yours? Yours came out of the oven soggy and burnt all at once. 

And now, here you are, handing him cookies you made. Edible-looking cookies. For White Day. For Jake. How is it White Day already? One whole month since you first made out with him on Jeong Jaehyun’s birthday—one whole month since you took him home and had your way with him. 

He tears his eyes from the cookies to look at you again. You’re smiling, eyes wide, sparkling, and Jake has to remind himself to breathe. “Thank you.” Fondness flares against his ribs, too big to contain. He swallows hard, blinking too fast. “You—” His voice comes out faint, clearing his throat doesn’t help. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I know..” You trail off. “I originally wanted to kill two birds with one stone and bake you a pie, but.. that was a little out of my depth.” 

“A pie?” 

“You know, March Fourteenth.. Three point one-four.. Pi day.” You tilt your head. “I’m surprised you forgot about that, maybe you’re not as much of a nerd as I thought.”

“I’m surprised you know about that.” 

“You’re the one who told me.” Closing the container, you hand it over to him, fingers brushing his for long enough that he loses his train of thought. You’re smiling fondly, completely stealing his attention until, suddenly, a pair of hands clap down on his shoulders, making him flinch. 

“I’ve been looking for you, dude. We need to go,” Jeno says, his grip firm, already steering Jake away.

Your name sounds weird coming from Jeno’s mouth when he greets you. Too bright, too happy. Jake can picture his shit-eating, Samoyed-esque grin, those cute smiling eyes—never so uncharming as they are right now. Not only has Jeno interrupted, he’s towering over Jake like he’s trying to prove a point, like being taller than 180 cm means anything to anyone. And you, tiny smile, soft wave—are you.. shy? 

There’s a pang in his chest he can’t quite name. A protective instinct, maybe. Jealousy? He sighs. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

You nod, eyes warm, fixed on Jake, and it’s enough to anchor him even as Jeno shoves him to class.

The moment Jake slides into his seat, he fishes his phone from his bag, turning it on. A message from you tops his notifications. Come over after class and make it up to me? A smirk curls his lips as he reads it, shaking his head a little as he reacts with a thumbs-up. The heat in his cheeks lingers longer than he’d like, even as his lecturer arrives and hands out the register. 

Why Jake signed up for a residential architecture module, he has no real idea, but he met Jeno in this class, and he’ll take whatever wins he can get. Jeno likes architecture. Loves it—more than anyone else Jake knows. He designs structures in his free time, uses words like façade and fenestration when he catches Jake playing The Sims in class, and has a strong stance on panelised vs volumetric construction. 

Jeno goes to Building Design and Technology to learn, and Jake goes so he can sign his name on the register and get marks for attendance. 

Time slogs on, an endless mass, numbers added to the clock as his leg bounces under the desk. Thoughts of you consume him. After it happened, Jake thought often about that first night you shared—this one-off miracle. Five loaves and two fish. Lazarus resurrected. Never to happen again, but it did. And it has, so many times now that his memories are starting to bleed into each other. Details lost to frequency. Yet that night, those firsts — the softness of your lips on his, the birthmark on your right hip — always come back to him with such clarity, that he is, again, shocked to realise it’s been a month. 

A bigger, more jagged thing haunts him too, cleaves through the sweetness—the way you acted the morning after. He woke up to you walking into your room, wrapped up in a towel and whatever you were typing on your phone. Hair damp, skin dewy. Jake still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. You didn’t even glance at him until he cleared his throat.

“Are you hungry? I’m not really in a cooking mood, but I can order something for you. Or we could go to Samantha’s?” you suggested, voice remarkably clear, loud in the Saturday morning quiet. 

Jake blinked, staring like you’d spoken another language—though the idea of a breakfast roll from your favourite spot was tempting. “Yeah. Cool. Sure. Whatever’s easiest.” And as if stumbling over his words wasn’t enough, his voice cracked.

You frowned like he was the one acting weird. “You okay, Jakey?”

A drop of water slipped down your cheek slowly, the way your sweat had last night. He sits up suddenly, tugging the duvet over his chest, oddly vulnerable in this position. “Yeah. Sure..” He hesitated, twisting the fabric around his finger. “Do you maybe.. want to talk?”

“Talk?” You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “About..”

Ungraceful silence trampled over you both as Jake racked his brain for something to say. “It’s just.. Last night, before.. You said you wanted to talk about something,” he said eventually. 

“Hmm..” You sighed, thinking for a while before shrugging. “If it was important, I’ll remember.” 

It was all your idea—to kiss, to invite him upstairs after he walked you home, to.. well. You know. It felt like something, like all those years of quietly pining after you hadn’t been for nothing. A real breakthrough, finally. But there you were, acting like… whatever that was. 

When you got to Samantha’s, you let him pay for your roll and scone, and joked with him as usual while he drove you to your workout class as if you hadn’t been begging him to dick you down five hours prior. All while Jake was still there, stuck in the moment, replaying the feeling of your lips and your soft skin. In his car, parked outside your gym, you leaned over the centre console and kissed him, soft and fleeting. 

“See you, Jakey!” you said, voice bright as you got out of the car and waved goodbye. 

Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, he can feel those first curious touches again, see the look in your eyes before you leant up to kiss him. And the butterflies in his stomach tangle, vicious flapping that scrapes his insides. Arguably, the worst of it all — the glaring detail he always fixates on — is that you were both completely sober. You didn’t want to feel like shit at Pilates in the morning; he was still recovering from his antics the night before. No distractions, no excuses, just you two.

Jeno calls out an answer, voice tugging Jake back into the present. Heat creeps up his neck as all eyes shift in their direction, and he sinks lower in his seat, hoping his laptop screen is enough to hide behind. He glances at his calendar widget, immediately reminded that he has to finish his part of his group research paper—a task he has to get done before he leaves for his away game tomorrow afternoon. A task he has to get done now if he wants to see you tonight. 

All it takes is a few focused minutes, a couple quick messages to his group, and he’s sharing the finished document before class is over. So when his lecturer finally dismisses everyone, instead of heading to the library to go over the lesson, he finds himself here—on your doorstep, hands in pockets, pulse thudding in his ears. It’s not like he was running or anything, just walking with purpose, that’s all.

Seeing you does nothing for his breathlessness. You’re wearing one of his hoodies — when did you take that? — neckline slightly askew, showing part of your shoulder. It’s a little too big for you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs and for more than a second, Jake tries not say, aww, out loud. 

A grin stretches over his lips. “Hey, gorgeous.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, squaring your shoulders, eyes cut in a way that screams, I’m mad at you, but not really. It’s a new dynamic that he’s still getting used to: your feigned disinterest, his irresistible charm. Your lips twitch, a short, reluctant laugh slipping out, and you roll your eyes like he’s inconvenienced you.

A split second passes before you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close. He hugs you tighter than he should, savouring the smell of his detergent on you.

“Can’t stay mad at me for too long, huh?”

“Get off of me,” you mutter, face pressed into his chest, grip on him tightening.

Eventually, you let him in, smiling as he takes off his shoes by the door. He follows you, your footsteps soft and familiar against the carpet. Sweetness lingers in the air, and when you reach the kitchen, his eyes land immediately on the containers stacked on the counter—both crammed full of cookies.

“Wow.” He brings a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “And here I thought you made those just for me.” 

You sigh, barely meeting his gaze as you approach the counter. “You’re so dramatic,” you murmur, the words almost lost under your breath. Opening the container, you tip it towards him. “Ever heard of a test batch?”

Laid out in shades of golden brown and charred black are your several attempts. Some are burnt at the edges, others rock-solid or collapsed into thin, brittle discs. Misshapen, imperfect—each a testament to your determination. His stomach flips, a pang of affection he tries not to wear too openly. 

“I didn’t feel right about wasting them, so Jimin and I are going to be big, brave girls and eat them,” you explain. “This isn’t even all of them; she took some to Aeri’s this morning.” 

“Oh,” Jake says with a slow nod, taking it all in. He takes one from the top—Communion wafer-thin, square. “See, this makes sense.” It crunches between his teeth, too crispy, but not bad. Honestly, he likes it, chewing with a smile as the sweetness hits all the same. 

When he reaches for another, your hand swats his away, fingers firm but not unkind. “I made you twenty perfect cookies and you want to eat these?”

He shrugs, smiling down at you. “What? I’m not allowed to be a big, brave girl too?”

Your expression falters, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, warmer. You look at him for just a beat too long, and then your fingers are brushing the hair from his face. Your smile is a quiet, private curve on your lips. “You’re the biggest, bravest girl I know.” 

Jake isn’t sure why, but the words settle nicely in his chest. 

Before long, you’re standing side by side at the stove watching a pot of ramen simmer quietly, steam curling into the air. In an effort to avoid extra dishes, you snap apart two pairs of disposable chopsticks for the two of you to use—as if you ever have to worry about doing dishes when he’s here. He blames the steam from the pot for the warmth spreading all over him, eating bite after bite of spicy ramen. Gossip Girl plays on your laptop, your eyes glued to the screen as its glow dances over your face. He can’t ignore the fuzziness taking over him as you share your dinner straight from the pot, chopsticks and hands bumping occasionally. 

Jake washes the pot in the sink. Gentle clink of steel on steel, soft murmur of running water, you in the doorway, eyes on him. He is overwhelmed by how domestic, how easy this is—and how desperately he wishes he could stay in this moment forever. 

With his hands dry, he follows you to your room, neck flushing under his collar as he shuts the door. Leaning against it, he watches you sink into the mattress, setting up your laptop. Chuckling, you pat the empty spot on the bed. “I don’t bite, Jakey.” 

Jake knows now, from experience, that you absolutely bite, so your reassurance only concerns him. But still, like the big, brave girl he is, he crosses the room and sits on the bed, leaving a respectful, Jesus-approved distance between you. The newness of this, its fragility, throws him off. Not too long ago, you were fighting men off with a stick. In fact, Jake was half-convinced you’d leave Jaehyun’s party with Na Jaemin. A guy you haven’t said anything about since pre-friends-with-benefitsgate—an observation he finds only mildly relieving. He’s too busy thinking about what it means, if anything, to relax into the fact that you’re with him now. 

If whatever you two are doing can be considered ‘with’ each other. 

Sharing a pot of ramen and watching Gossip Girl is easy enough though. Familiar. The two of you wouldn’t have made it to the middle of season four if he wasn’t enjoying it. Like this, far enough apart for an extra person to sit between you, two whole episodes start and finish with neither of you reaching out to touch the other. Jake would like to think — on his part — it’s only proof of his master level self-control, wanting you so desperately but holding back. Proving to himself, to you that this isn’t just about sex or whatever else for him. That Jake can behave and make rational decisions when it comes to you. 

And maybe, if this was a different Friday, in a different week, or Sunghoon hadn’t shown him that verse, he might have believed that. But Sunghoon had shown him that verse, and Jake is thinking a bit too much about his right hand, and the sinning, the cutting off and throwing away of the whole thing. About Hell and the suffocating weight of one decision—an all-consuming decision, worth his potential damnation.

On your part, he has no clue what the hold up is, seeing as this is the first time you’ve made it through a Gossip Girl blast without starting something, never mind watching a full episode. By now, your hand would normally have found its way into his pants, or your lips to his neck. But there you sit, unmoving, focused as ever, like on your tenth rewatch you still care about whether Blair or Dan gets the internship at W Magazine. 

As if you can read his mind, or the part of it that you occupy, you reach into his underwear and take a hold of his dick. You go through all the familiar motions — twisting your wrist while you stroke it, thumb over his tip when you reach it — and Jake, as always, eats it up, melting like wax in your fist. He is only mildly humiliated by how much you get to him, how quickly he loses his shit when it comes to you, shuddering and whining, hips bucking in a matter of strokes. And then, you stop—hand slipping away like nothing happened, like he’s not hard as a rock in his pants, precum staining his underwear because of you.

Jake — fighting for breath — can only stare at you, watching you ignore him for the show instead. A few minutes pass like this until you sigh, hitting pause with a dramatic motion. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” 

At this, you roll your eyes, but Jake grabs your wrist. Somehow, he’s only now appreciating you in his hoodie. Admiring how it sits on you—sleeves too long, fit too baggy. Historically, Jake’s generally emaciated look hasn’t really lended itself to seeing you, or anyone else, in his clothes, so it’s tripping him out how much he likes it. The way the fabric pools around you, covering your body completely. 

“Ugh,” you mutter, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Quit looking at me like that.” He’s not sure why you insist on playing this game, on why you make it seem like you’re doing him a favour when you want him just as much as he wants you—but he won’t pretend he doesn’t like working for it, like it’s not that much better when you cave. 

“Like what?” he asks, playing along in a soft voice. 

“All horny and.. weird.” 

Jake laughs. “You think I look weird?”

“A little.” You shrug. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re not into that? I thought my off-putting nature was part of my charm.”

This makes you smile, leaning in without closing the gap. Instead, you tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, your touch making his stomach flip. He can’t take it any longer, being so close and doing nothing about it, so he wraps his fingers around your wrist to hold you there, and closes the gap himself. It’s everything—it’s always everything. The warmth of your lips against his, the way you hold him, like it’s more than just a kiss for you too. 

There’s nothing he likes more than this. 

Biting down on his bottom lip, you pull away a little. “Is this part of your grand plan to make it up to me?” 

Jake hums, dick throbbing in his pants. “Yeah, baby.” He nods, still attached to your mouth. “Been thinking about it all day.”

“It’s working.” 

A breathless laugh—amused, turned on, taken aback. He pulls away, patting his lap and you don’t hesitate to straddle him, sparks between your bodies. Palms on your hips, fingers grazing the soft fabric of your yoga pants. A stir in his chest—heart hammering when he looks at you, breathless. Thank you, God, he thinks, sincerely. I needed this. His gratitude tangles quickly with guilt, uncertainty. Am I doing the right thi—your hand rests on his, snaps him out of it. Eyes soft, lips parted, want written all over your face. So beautiful, and so different from the resting frustrated face you seem to wear whenever he’s around—which he won’t pretend to dislike. 

“Wanted to come over here and see you last night.”

Sheepishly, you twist the cuff of your sleeve between your fingers. A stark change from your usual behaviour, rarely reserved about anything — at least not with him — and so mouthy until he gets his hands on you. “I wish you did,” you mumble, looking away.

“I should’ve, baby, but I’m here now,” he says softly.

Another kiss—deeper, slower. An act of restitution — one of many to come — the way his tongue moves against yours, eager to keep to his word. He reaches for the curve of your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh under your hoodie. The swell of your breast against his palm, cool zipper brushing his knuckles. He tugs on it just enough for you to smile against his lips. 

“Can I take this off?” 

You nod, clearly flustered, worked up already. 

Pulling at the zipper, he savours every inch of skin that comes into view. A shaky inhale seeing your bra—the same one from the pictures, having the exact same effect. Holy shit. Lace under his fingers, touching it as gently as he can manage like it’s sacred, because to him it is. He can’t look away, gaze fixed, reverent. Holy shit. Jake clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pictures don’t do you justice, not even close. And he loves the pictures. 

You’re watching with lidded eyes, and swollen lips. He cups your cheek. “My pretty girl. So gorgeous,” he says, though it doesn’t seem enough. With two languages to choose from, Jake should have the words. But he doesn’t. Not for this—for you. 

Heat diffuses beneath his hand, coating your cheek as you turn into his touch, hiding your face. Smiling lips pressing a muffled word into his palm. “And?”

“And I’m sorry about last night.” 

You raise an intrigued brow, no longer hiding. “And?” 

“I’m an idiot.” 

A grin, a glorious grin as you nod. “I just wanted you to say it wouldn’t happen again, but this is way better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m a big idiot, and you’re the smartest girl I know. It’s not going to happen again, I promise.” 

Sudden betrayal in your squinted eyes, clutching your hoodie over your chest, his palm trapped against the cup of your bra—he almost thanks you. Deeply unimpressed, you scoff. “You know other girls?”

Charmed, Jake smiles, freeing his hand. “Don’t worry, baby. None of them make me as nervous as you.” A kiss before you can respond, pulling your chest flush with his. You hum against his lips, whimpering when he rolls his hips into yours. Hands on your back, quickly unclasping your bra. He nips at the spot below your ear, making you shiver. “And none of them get me this hard either.”

“I know,” you say simply, but your breathlessness undercuts your confidence, and steals his patience. 

Taking your hoodie and bra off, he guides you onto your back, settling between your spread thighs like it’s where he belongs. At a loss for words, he squeezes your hip, eyes catching on every part of you. Hard nipples, soft plane of your stomach—nothing about you he doesn’t love. Jake gulps, awestruck, always awestruck. Overwhelmed by the weight of how much he wants this. Wants you. 

“So perfect, baby,” he whispers, finally. “So, so perfect.” 

A smile tugs at your lips, hands coming up to cover your face. “Shut up,” you grumble. 

Huffed laughter slips out of him, endeared. Aching slightly, wondering if you don’t know you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen. He tugs your hands away, holding them in his, lips brushing your knuckles before he leans in and pecks yours.  

Slow, desperate kisses along the curve of your jaw, trailing the length of your neck to your shoulder. He lingers, sucking pretty love bites onto your collarbone, soothing the skin with his tongue after. A shudder, as you pull his hair, whimpering under him. He could stay like this all day, forever if you let him. Lips on your nipple, finally, licking, biting. 

Your moan is instant, pulled from somewhere deep, and he groans at the sound, tongue flicking just to hear it again. “Jake,” you say, breathless. Even better. “Jake, please.”

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he says, nosing between your breasts, the warm skin there heady, dizzying. 

“Want your mouth—can’t wait any longer.”

His dick twitches as he lifts his head. Takes you in—your pouty lips, ruffled hair, sweat beading on your skin. Jake is not going to come in his pants again because of you. No matter how much it feels like he is. That won’t happen. It can’t. He’s an adult man with self-control. He tells himself these things over and over, willing them to be true, even though he knows better.

Jake leans up, pressing a kiss to your lips. He can’t get enough. “I’m not going to make you wait,” he says—a blatant lie. He has every intention to make you wait, at least a little. 

His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, slipping beneath, eyes wide when he feels the heat of you. Fuck. You take his middle finger easily, pulling him in, clenching around it, and the choked sob you let out sends a sharp spike of need along his spine. He lets his thumb brush your clit, slow, deliberate. You’re too worked up to focus on kissing now, squirming underneath him, nails digging into his forearm. His lips trail your throat again, more marks, his own breath coming faster, a little unsteady—almost as wrecked as you. 

“I feel like—” You pause, mouth falling open to let out a harsh exhale. “I’ve been waiting for a while, baby, need it.” 

For reasons he doesn’t fully understand, there’s just something about hearing that word. Baby. So rare from you, uttered only at your most vulnerable, that always undoes him. Has him acting at your beck and call without a second thought—so it can’t come as a surprise when he tears your pants off, presses his lips to your core, and groans hungrily, breathing you in. 

There’s a certain reverence to it all, he can’t help it—it just comes naturally with you, a need to please you, worship you. His arms wrap around your thighs, keeping you in place, savouring the soft whine you let out when his nose brushes your clit. 

Fuck. 

He likes this a lot more than kissing. Likes the way you moan and cry out his name, the way you tug his hair, and crush his head between your soft thighs. Loves the way you fall apart on his tongue, and the way you taste. The wet look in your big eyes — chest heaving, breath ripped out of you — after he licks you clean.

The tension lingers, sweet and heavy, pressing in on Jake from all angles when he finally pulls away, leaving a kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels. He watches you, sinking into the sheets—lashes fluttering, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Spent and glowing as you look at him. Jake pulls off his shirt, cool air pulling goosebumps along his skin. A deep breath, a few deep breaths. You ask in a quiet voice if you can wear it. He nods, hands moving instinctively, fingers brushing your skin as he helps you put it on.

“Did so good for me, baby. Didn’t you?” he asks, pulling you into his arms, hand stroking your back. 

You lift your head from his chest, a dreamy look in your eyes when you look up at him. “Does that surprise you, Jakey?” 

His breath hitches, heat spreading on his cheeks and neck. He doesn’t have the upper hand with you, not at all. But he does have the option to kiss you instead of answering so he does that. Kissing you until you say, one minute, against his lips, and leave the room.

Soft warmth settles in Jake’s chest as he heads to the kitchen, smiling. All of this, these moments after sex, makes his heart race. Makes him want to get on his hands and knees and beg you to love him back—though he would settle for like. This routine, this quiet afterwards might honestly be his favourite part of it all. The two of you, inhabiting this tiny world you’ve carved out together—big enough for you and him only. The flat to yourselves. Your head on his chest. You even asked to wear his shirt! These moments when the thought of being your boyfriend doesn’t seem so out of reach. When he feels like he is your boyfriend. 

He can’t stop smiling. 

At the sink, he washes his hands before pouring you a glass of water, and when you step out of the bathroom, he’s already there, leaning against the wall. He melts at the sight of you—barefoot and sleepy-eyed, a smile on your face. His favourite sight in the whole world. He can’t believe his blessings, that you would want him — even if only for sex — and each day he spends with you makes it harder for him not to test how far he can push it. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, handing you the glass. “You feeling okay?” 

You hum in response, thanking him. Your fingers slip around his, warm and delicate, and he has to remind himself to breathe as you lead him back to your room. Jake’s eyes are glued to you, addicted to the way you fill out his shirt. It’s senseless—how a piece of his own clothing, something so familiar, suddenly looks brand new just because you’re the one wearing it. Looks better. Nipples nudging the soft cotton, hips curving out into the hem, ass hanging out of it. He lies down on the bed, watching you, each movement entrancing him. His heart stills in his chest when you tie your hair back, shirt riding up enough to show off the lace of your underwear. It’s too much. It’s perfect. He clasps his hands in his lap, trying and failing to cover the effect you have on him. 

You get into bed, body molding to his like a second skin. Head on his chest, ear pressed over his heart—hearing it thud, no doubt. Jake wraps his arm around you, fingers splaying over your back, holding you close. He exhales slowly, wondering how much longer he can lay here like this, with you, before he overstays his welcome. He’s made good on his promise, done what you invited him here to do, and it’s not late enough that you’d object to him leaving at this time. Your breath is a steady lull on his skin. Asleep, probably. But then—your hand trails on his stomach, fingers resting on his waistband, and he can’t help feeling a bit bad. 

He knows better than to think anyone could make you do something you didn’t want to do—but has no idea if that includes him, too. Novelty long gone. Your curiosity sufficiently sated, while he kills himself trying to pretend he’s fine being just a friend to you again. This is hardly a perfect arrangement, but Jake feels nice sometimes, worthy and handsome, knowing you want him too—even if it’s only sex. It’s really good sex. 

As if you can hear his brain thinking his arousal away, you reach into his underwear. All of his blood rushes south, your soft palm wrapping around him. His mouth opens, then shuts. He wants you, he always will, and it’s all he can do to pray that won’t cost him this friendship—or you. 

Jake clears his throat, shakes his head. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, Jakey. I want to.”

He kisses the top of your head with a soft, contented sigh, fingers curling around the back of your shirt. Eyelids fluttering shut. It’s good, more than—leagues better than when he does it himself. Perfect. A shiver runs through him when you kiss his stomach, leaving a mark on the ticklish skin. He wants to look, really wants to, but he doesn’t want to come yet. Your lips brush his belly button and the hair underneath. A mumble of his name into his skin that he hears, feels, but can’t address.

“Jake,” you say again, leaning off of him. 

He hums, eyes snapping open when you whisper in his ear, “Do you want to stay over?” 

A nod. “Yeah, baby. I’ll stay over.” The words spill out of him with no consideration for the long day he has ahead. 

You pull his earlobe between your lips, nipping gently, a jolt down his spine. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him throb in your hand. Fuck, he thinks. Absolutely none of these words are in the Bible. 

Jake wakes up in an empty bed, your door ajar. It’s only eight — too early to rush — and he stretches out his arms, twisting against the mattress. Fifteen lonely minutes go by without you, and so he gets up, dragging his feet through the apartment.  

You’re in the kitchen, speaking in a hushed voice to Jimin—who seems to forget about the whole whispering thing for long enough that her voice rings through the hall when she says, “You need to get a grip before you get hurt!”

Sensing him, you whip your head towards the doorway, spotting Jake where he stands. Jimin wears a too-tight smile as he approaches. “Nervous about the game?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Great! Listen, I have to run, but good luck out there!” she says, patting his shoulder before leaving the room in a cloud of jasmine. 

Chewing your lip, you follow her out with your eyes, blinking when the door clicks shut behind her. Jake shifts his weight between his feet, tensing his abs on instinct when your gaze trails over him. You don’t comment, but you linger before looking away. For a second, something unreadable passes over your face—gone as soon as you speak. “Do you want something to eat?” you ask, smiling, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “We need to do a food shop, but I can make you some..” You trail off, pulling the fridge open. “Greek yoghurt with blueberries.”

“Is everything alright?” 

You nod, not meeting his gaze. “Jimin just thinks I’m stretching myself a bit thin.” You huff a small laugh, trying to downplay it, but your shoulders stay tense. Pulling out the punnet, you frown at it. “Greek yoghurt on its own?” you suggest, throwing the blueberries into the bin. 

Jake shakes his head, a small, appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I need to go soon, I still haven’t packed.” He fiddles with the drawstring on his pants, eyes lingering on you. Still so beautiful with a crease between your brows—he wants to reach out, smooth it over with his thumb. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?” It’s a bit of a useless question, he knows what you’re going to say. Knows you would tell him you were fine even if your arm was hanging off. You know it too, if the arch of your brow is anything to go by. 

A chuckle. “Don’t worry about it, Superstar—you have a game to play.” 

Jake hesitates, wondering if he should argue or just accept it. You’ll be fine. You always are. But something about leaving feels harder this time. Feels wrong. “You’re more important to me than a college football game.” 

In theory, it’s true. 

In practice, he’s not going to skip his game, not unless you ask him to—which you won’t. His football career is running on a clock that will only tick for two more terms after the summer. In his email, a timetable awaits, outlining all of his games for his last season. It’s provisional, for now, but bears weight regardless. He can’t afford to miss a game right now, but he’s a little shaken by the feeling that he can’t afford to leave you either.

You smile, a barely there curve of your lips as you close the fridge. Taking his hand in yours, you give it a squeeze, a steady reassurance. “Honestly, Jake. I’ll be alright. And if I’m not, I’ll still be here when you get back. So go.”

For someone so desperate to get rid of him, you’re having a hard time parting with his hoodie. He doesn’t want it back, but he needs something to wear to the car. It’s only fair, he showed up in only his t-shirt after all—his t-shirt that you’re still wearing and seem reluctant to return. You pull it close to your body like it’s yours now. 

“It’s two degrees out,” he reminds you. “Do you want me shirtless in that?” 

A sick and twisted silence passes, long enough to convince Jake you’re actually going to say yes. He watches your gaze flick downwards, want for him so clear that his dick twitches. Dragging your fingernail over the dip in his abs, your touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. 

He’s thankful for the discipline he’s developed in the new year—consistently following Sunghoon to the gym, eating unseasoned chicken breast and three eggs at breakfast because Sunghoon does, because Sunghoon is.. a lot. Wide shoulders, solid frame. Built like God put him on Earth to look good shirtless, and Jake—well. He eats the chicken. He lifts the weights. He does his best.

“No, not really,” you say, frowning as you shove the hoodie into his arms. 

Jake smiles, glad you didn’t take too long to come around. He puts it on, zipping it slowly. Eyes on you the whole time, and when his abs disappear beneath the fabric, you sigh. His lips twitch, pleased.

At your front door, he hugs you—contemplates never letting go. The scent of coconut drifts up from your hair, and it tugs at something deep in his chest. His fingers tighten, pressing into your waist. He frowns. He shouldn’t miss you—not this much, not for one night. A night where, realistically, he wouldn’t see you even if he stayed home. But no amount of logic or reason is enough to make him feel better.

“I wish you were coming with me,” he says, mumbling into your collarbone. 

You lean back a little, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. For a second, a desperate, fleeting second, he thinks that maybe you’ll say, fuck it, and come along, that you might see the appeal of sneaking around a four-star hotel with him. He can picture it already—matching fluffy robes, doing your skincare routine together at the end of the night, sharing a twin bed while Jay Park snores in the other one. 

Instead, you look up at him with a smile that turns his knees to mush. “Not my fault you suck at planning, Jakey.”

He groans, tips his head back, feigning exhaustion. “Right, because everything is my fault, and I’m the villain in your story. I get it.” 

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my apartment,” you say, but your grip doesn’t ease.

Jake exhales a laugh, but he doesn’t move either. Just stands there, holding you, memorising this like he’s shipping off to war—your hands on his skin, your vanilla scent under his nose. “Without a kiss?” His voice comes out quiet, hopeful—half teasing, half not. He’s stalling, trying to buy another second. Maybe two. 

You push at his chest a little. “Out, Jake.” But you’re smiling and he feels your fingers tighten just a fraction before they let go. 

Jake only smiles, his arms locked around you. He dips his head, pressing a kiss to your temple, and his voice is soft when he says, “I’ll text you when we get there.”

A sigh slips out of you, feigning annoyance, but the brush of your fingers down his arm gives you away. “Yeah, yeah. See you later.” 

He grins. “You’ll miss me.” 

A beat passes before you speak, just long enough for Jake’s smile to falter as he watches you. You pout, hand on his cheek, thumb moving tenderly over his skin. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ll miss me.” 

“I already do.” He’s not lying. 

Jake doesn’t kiss you before he leaves, which is okay. He tells himself it’s okay. But regrets it the whole drive home, drumming his fingers against the wheel as if he can tap the thought away. He regrets it while he stuffs his kit and toiletries into a duffle bag. And he regrets it on the bus, staring out at the passing motorway, the new Beabadoobee album blaring in his headphones. He’s so consumed by his regret that he doesn’t even have it in him to pretend he’s annoyed when Jay falls asleep with his head on his shoulder. 

Not for lack of trying, Jake doesn’t sleep, and as it turns out, the protein bar he found in his backpack earlier is not enough sustenance for a three-hour journey. The bus rumbles on, road stretching out endlessly through the windscreen when he takes a look. He sighs, cracking his knuckles and willing himself to stop thinking about you. This doesn’t work either, and he’s typing out a text to you before he realises. 

Jake: I hope you’re feeling better ❤️

Jake: I’ll see you soon, okay?

You reply with a picture of yourself in bed—glasses on, a book in your lap, lips curved into a soft, easy smile that makes something in his chest tighten. He stares for too long, caught up in the details. Gentle slope of your nose, loose strands of hair framing your face, dark love bites peeking out from under the collar of your shirt. His stomach flips, a giddy laugh slipping out. He wishes he could do something, turn the bus around, and go see that pretty face in person.

YN: All good, Jakey !!! Just needed to shower apparently.. 

Jake: My gorgeous girl :)

Jake: You did smell kinda weird when I hugged you 

YN: ???

YN: Don’t even joke lad. 

Jake snaps a quick selfie—grinning, a little flushed, hair messy from having his hood up. In the corner, Jay is dead asleep, mouth agape, face smushed into Jake’s shoulder. He laughs quietly, sending the picture, heat flooding his cheeks when you react with heart eyes.

YN: Such a pretty boy ☹️

YN: Jay obviously

Jake: Obviously.

It’s just past two when they start filing off the bus, the sharp coastal wind biting at Jake’s cheeks. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching against the cold. The hotel in front of them is huge—way nicer than anything they actually need. But still, it’s nice, knowing that the football budget is going to something tangible, that they enjoy. A small comfort. The younger boys he sees like brothers will be looked after when he’s gone, and that thought warms him despite the cold. Towering windows glint in the afternoon sun, the kind of place with sleek, startlingly shiny floors and crystal chandeliers that don’t make sense for a one-night stay. But he’ll take this any day over the dingy motels he remembers from first year, stained towels and plywood mattresses. 

At the front desk, Jay stands in line next to Jake with his eyes shut, as if three hours asleep on the bus weren’t enough. Jake knows better than to say anything though — after three years on the same team — he understands that Jay isn’t tired. He’s following a ritual. The Rilakkuma band-aid on his wrist is proof of that. And in case that isn’t enough, Jay doesn’t touch the key card either. He claims the bed furthest from the door, sits on the edge of the mattress, and blasts Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind—the Joan Baez and Bob Dylan live version, not the Bob Dylan studio outtake. And he listens to it twice before saying a word to Jake. Of course, because they had a single brief conversation before that first away game three years ago, their post-check-in discussions are forever based around two subjects: food, and you.

Jake: We’re here :) 

YN: Has Jay asked about me yet?

Jake: One more stream

YN: Ah, almost settled then, I see

Jake laughs at this, a small exhale from his nose as he watches you type. 

YN: If you stayed home, would he just.. not play? 

Jake: Never considered that but I’ll ask later

Jake: Kick-off at 5:30 btw

YN: Good luck 🥳🥳🥳

He reacts to the message with a heart and tosses his phone aside, pressing the heel of his hand to his empty stomach. It’s a lot, Jay’s routine, but Jake isn’t in a position to judge him too harshly. Ever since high school, he eats a bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken and vegetables before away games, like it’s a charm against failure. Because it is. Because the first time he did, he played the best game of his life, and now the thought of eating anything else makes his stomach coil. It might seem silly to believe that a bowl of rice could change the outcome of a game, but Jake has seen it first-hand and isn’t willing to risk it again.

Jay is humming, oblivious, bobbing his head slightly, and Jake can’t help the smile on his face as he watches. Music spills from his headphones—Dylan’s voice a scratch against the air, Baez’s softer, sweeter. It’s almost grating, a taste he’s yet to acquire. They don’t talk much outside of football, not really, but there’s a closeness anyway. Built from hours of drills, sharing meals after training, and rooms for away games, retreats. A sudden rush of dread hits Jake, remembering that after next year — after graduation — the two will likely never share a room again. Even more hauntingly, they may never share the pitch again. Jake shakes his head. The plight of the student athlete, he supposes.

A happy sigh comes from Jay as he takes his headphones off, standing up. He stretches his arms out over his head, turning to Jake, grinning. “Hey, buddy.” 

Jake would never admit this to him — or anyone — but he has a lot of respect for Jay. He takes training seriously, giving his all even during warm-up games, he’s got killer technique, and is (unfortunately) really nice. If Jake couldn’t make captain, he’s glad it went to Jay.

“I was talking to your girlfriend the other day.” The grin doesn’t fall from Jay’s face when he speaks, wagging his brows.

The G-word makes Jake roll his eyes—even though he likes hearing it, praying that God is listening and taking notes.

“She cornered me in the library to ask if I knew how to make a pie.”

“That sounds like her,” Jake says, smiling too.

His cheeks burn thinking about what you said yesterday—about how you’d wanted to bake him a pie. The memory jolts him. He digs through his bag without thinking, quickly finding the tinfoil abomination he made sure not to leave the house without. Jay catches it easily in his left hand when he tosses it over, eyeing it suspiciously before unwrapping it. 

“She ended up making cookies, but I guess you knew that.”

He blinks at them like they might explode. “Wait, she made these for you?” Jay tilts his head, impressed. “You might not be as hopeless as I thought.”

Giddiness overwhelms Jake as he nods. It’s weird, a bit ridiculous even, how a batch of cookies can feel like a championship win—better. He likes it though, and doesn’t try to fight his smile.

His stomach rumbles into the silence. “Do you want to come get food?” He always extends an invitation to Jay. 

“I’m good, man.”

And Jay never accepts. 

This meal is a sacred one. As soon as Coach announces the hotel, Jake pulls up Uber Eats and Google Maps on his desktop to meticulously survey the surrounding area. And if his work reaps unfavourable results, he’ll call the hotel to enquire about the microwave arrangements. And if that doesn’t work out, he calls the convenience shops nearby to ask them. 

He knows how he must seem, but before the first away game of this season, he brought his rice bowl in tupperware, had to eat it cold, and sprained his ankle on the pitch. So to say he was delighted when he found it on the menu of a local place would be an understatement—an independent Mexican restaurant with a 4.7 star rating only twenty-minutes away on foot. Perfect. His Promised Land. He applauded the monitor when he saw it.

Tres Mesas—a quaint restaurant, with three tables and a TV in the corner playing the news on mute, but damn if that wasn’t the best bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken, and pico de gallo he’s eaten in his life. The rice was fluffy, the grilled chicken tender, smoky. Even the pico de gallo was incredible—he only ordered it because he hadn’t looked at the vegetables yet, and panicked when the waitress sighed. Luckily, it’s the one component of the meal he’s willing to play fast and loose with. He can’t actually remember which vegetables he ate that first day, just that he enjoyed them. 

When he finishes eating, he gets up from his table with half a mind to go to the kitchen and ask for a photo with the chef. He settles for going to the cash machine across the road and taking out a tenner for the tip jar by the till. On the walk back to the hotel, he texts his dad a photo of the bowl, looking at it lovingly as he sings its praises via text. 

Jake: Kick-off is at 17:30 💪 will let you know how we get on, love you

On the way to the other school, again, Jay rests his head on Jake’s shoulder—whether he’s awake or not is anyone’s guess. But when Jake’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he retrieves it with as little motion as possible, just in case. 

Dad: I’m glad you enjoyed your meal. Was it hot? 😂.

Dad: You do not need luck, son. You are always wonderful. Love you. 

Jake: It was hot, dad 😭😭😭 of course, it was 

Jake: Way too soon…………..

Warm-ups go by in a blink, a blur of sweat and jump squats until Jake finds himself standing in the tunnel with everyone else. Muscles humming, heart racing. He shakes out his limbs and prays to God for a miracle. 

At church, when someone gives a testimony, they say, “God is good,” and the rest of the congregation responds in unison, “All the time.” Then, that person says, “All the time,” and in unison, the congregation says, “God is good.”

Jake doesn’t know why he finds it so grating, but week after week, he sits in his seat suppressing an eye roll while muttering the responses along with everyone else. However, when the ref blows the whistle to call full-time — scoreboard reading: HOME 0, AWAY 4 — ‘God is good’ sits on the tip of his tongue. He covers his mouth with his collar, pressing his lips together so it doesn’t slip out. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Kim Sunoo comes running up and jumps on his back, looping his arms around Jake’s neck, and he nearly topples over. The rest of the team come rushing towards them, loud and triumphant. Jay reaches them first, his eyes gleaming with pride as he ruffles Jake’s hair. Adrenaline courses through him, dulling the ache in his legs. 

And as they start to leave the pitch, heading for the locker room, he kisses his hand, points to the sky, and mouths, thank you.

People are often surprised to hear Jake admit that the best part of winning a game isn’t the roaring crowd, his coach’s praise, or even personal satisfaction. No, the best part of winning a game is laughing at the dinner table with his teammates after, and washing down a tomahawk steak — mushrooms and potatoes on the side — with a glass of champagne. And all on the university’s dollar at that. 

Winning the first away game of the spring semester was more than enough cause for celebration, and Jake — full-bellied and alcohol glazed — has been keeping an eye on his drinks all night. He glances at his empty glass, pleased with his restraint. Someone had to keep a level head, and it wasn’t going to be Jay. O Captain! Our Captain!—for whom the only thing between tipsy and shit-faced is a whiff of vodka. Maybe less. 

Turns out, Jake was worried about the wrong guy. 

Nishimura Riki, 186 cm of arms and legs, dawdles over, red in the face (and ears and neck) and stumbling. With each step, his well-consumed IPA sloshes dangerously in his glass, splashing the back of his hand when he comes to an abrupt halt. “Sunoo, move,” He starts. “Need to talk to Jake.” His voice is slow and syrupy, at least an octave higher than normal. 

Their youngest — their scrawny Goliath — only turned eighteen a few months ago, and (quite bravely) attended his first three months of college parties completely sober until then. He’s still figuring out his limits, and Jake can’t help but be endeared by this large child—if not a little alarmed. 

“Knock yourself out, kid,” Sunoo says, amused, as he stands up. He sticks around for long enough to make sure Riki doesn’t fall over trying to sit, and takes his empty seat at the other end of the table. 

This conversation he came stumbling over for is a request — delivered in a harsh whisper, hand over his mouth — to sit beside each other at the next meal. Jake flinches, too startled to respond, when Jay stands abruptly from his chair. “Get up, Riki. I’ll swap with you.” 

Childlike delight floods Riki’s flushed face, looking up at his captain like manna from the sky, and wrapping his gangly arms around him when they cross paths. Jake shares a look with Jay as he sits in front of him—equal parts amusement and concern. 

“Do you think I could finish that off for you?” Jay asks, gesturing to what’s left in Riki’s glass. 

He nods quickly, extending it. “Of course, I’ll just get ano—” 

“No!” Jake all but yells, cutting him off. “I mean, Coach is limiting us to three drinks tonight, so, no more.” A lie he deems more than necessary, a lie he wishes someone had already told.  

Riki grins, leaning in. “That’s my sixth.” A laugh, and then another bubbles out of him as he sinks into his seat, shoulders racking. This disclosure seems as surprising to Jay as it is to Jake—not at all. He is extremely lucky that his teammates like him so much. Settled, finally settled, Riki shifts, letting his bony knees dig into Jake’s thigh. “Did you see my tackle? What did you think? Am I getting better?” 

Jake nods sincerely, Riki’s been working hard — eager to prove himself so Coach won’t regret signing a first-year — and it’s paying off. “It was clean, buddy. You did great,” he says, meaning it. And Riki doesn’t try to hide his boxy grin. 

On his other side is Jungwon—head tipped back over his chair, knocked out after one mojito. Jake takes a photo, sends it to you. Lil bro can’t hang. You reply right away: AWWWWW cutie 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 how much did he drink lmao.

Jake: Mojito 

Jake: Singular

YN: 😭😭😭

Jake can’t suppress his smile, taking a selfie at a high angle and sending it to you. What about me am I cutie ?

YN: Yes, very cutie !!! You look so handsome 🤒

YN: So blushy, baby, are you also very drunk? 

Cutie. So handsome. Baby. Jake is as giddy as he is confused. All that in the span of two consecutive text messages—he can’t believe his luck, struggling to tamp down his sudden desire to buy a lottery ticket. You might even tell him you miss him if he plays his cards right. 

Jake: Sweet girl 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Jake: Not drunk just a few glasses of champagne hehehehe

YN: So you’re drunk 😭😭😭

Jake: You can’t see but I’m rolling my eyes

YN: I believe you, Jakey 😐 put the phone down and celebrate w your friends, okay? 

YN: We can talk when you get back to your room !!!

What an exciting suggestion—talking in his room. With you. Jake stares down at his phone, in awe. Wow, he thinks. So clever. He almost wants to get up and start bragging about you like a proud parent. Oh. That is not an image he likes.  

Jake: Whatare you gonna do if I keep texting? Leave me on read?  

Yes, apparently—you read the message as soon as it sends and don’t reply. Don’t even start typing. Thirty minutes pass by before they leave the restaurant. Jungwon on Jake’s back. Riki on Jay’s. 

He was never very good at cards.

Finally in bed, light-headed and smiley after three glasses of champagne, Jake pulls up your contact and calls you. He waits, staring up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his phone case. The room hums softly around him. After a few rings, you answer, and he smiles at the sound of your voice. “Hey, Superstar! Congrats!” 

“Thanks, gorgeous,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Jimin and I are going to pres at Yizhuo’s and then the club. I actually think we’re leaving soon, but it should be good—Yizhuo hasn’t come out since Valentine’s.”

The mention of Valentine’s makes Jake’s breath hitch, fingers tightening around his phone as the memory comes rushing back—relentless. He hasn’t been out since then either, now that he thinks about it. That night. The dance floor. Your breath fanning his neck when you asked him to kiss you. 

Jake froze, caught off guard. “What?” 

“Don’t be a kid about it, Jakey,” you said in his ear. “If you don’t kiss me, Jaehyun will.” 

The thought of Jaehyun kissing you, again, while Jake was stuck at zero kisses in ten years, made him sick. Historically, he had always been unlucky when it came to you—countless games of spin the bottle spent kissing the person to your left, watching as you kissed his friends. Yet there you were, asking him to kiss you and he was hesitating. Stupid, really. Ridiculous. 

He cleared his throat, heart pounding. He’d read too many romance novels, seen too many films, to believe that you two could kiss once and it wouldn’t change everything—but he liked you, and he suspected he always had. So he asked, “You really want me to kiss you?” 

“Please,” you said, voice small, vulnerable, as if you were giving him a piece of yourself and begging him not to break it. 

Through the phone, your voice hits his ear, bringing him back. “Did you fall asleep?” You don’t sound anything like you did last month.

“No, no, I was just thinking,” he says faintly, a distracted beat passing as something crosses his mind. “Hey, what was that about with Jimin earlier?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, and he's certain that’s the end of it. “She just thinks I’m going to get hurt when you go off, and use all your new experience on someone else.” You laugh, and he can’t tell if you’re amused by the notion of getting hurt, or there being someone else. 

Jake wasn’t expecting you to tell him anything, never mind that. The thought that you, or Jimin — or anyone — could think there was someone else. That there could be someone else, hollows his chest, grinds an ugly gear in his brain. But it clears up a lot about this morning, she wasn’t being weird, she was.. warning you? His thoughts race, a million and one questions rattling in his head. 

“Are you?” Is the one he asks, not fully equipped for any of the answers you might give. 

A long quiet beat passes. “Are you?”

This feels like an opening, an opportunity for him to set some things straight. How could there ever be anyone else? To confess, maybe. You’re it for me, you’ve always been it for me. He can’t bring himself to—it doesn’t feel right to say over the phone. “If something was seriously wrong, you would tell me, right?” he says instead. At your silence, he continues. “The world won’t end if you open up to me, you know. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Of course. You’re my best friend,” you say belatedly. 

“Yeah,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest. “Always.”

You don’t reply right away, a minute passing before you clear your throat. “I have to go, okay? But I’ll text you.”

Jake nods even though you can’t see. “Have fun tonight.” 

“Thank you, Jakey.” You hang up.

His phone vibrates with a text from you. Fit check 🤧. You’re wearing a lace tank top and a little black skirt. I’ll have a drink for you since you’re staying in! He stares at the photo—flutter in chest, heat on cheeks. His screen locks, and his reflection grins back at him, clear-eyed, flushed. Happy. Unlocking his phone, the photo stares back at him—you, so beautiful, and so far away. His thumb brushes the screen absentmindedly. Gosh, he misses you. 

Jake: You look so perfect……wish I was there 🤒

Jake: Look after yourself, cutie 

YN: Haha thanks me tooooo 

YN: Yes sir 🫡

He types out that he misses you but thinks better of it, clearing the message and leaving a heart-react on your response. 

“Was that your girl on the phone?” Jay asks, closing the bathroom door behind him. 

Smiling, Jake turns the phrase over in his head. My girl. Butterflies erupt just thinking about it. Another silent prayer. “It was.”

Jay only nods, taking his charger from his bag and plugging it into the wall by his bed. He takes a long sip of water from his bottle and sighs, relieved, Jake thinks. For a long time, Jay looks at him from the other end of the room, saying nothing. 

Until. “You’re a good guy, Jake,” he says, his tone a bit too serious for Jake’s liking. “And it’s fine that you like her, it’s good that you like her, but how much longer are you going to keep that to yourself?” he asks, looking at Jake like he actually wants an answer. 

Sighing, Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. “I get that you think you’re helping, but just—maybe stay out of it.”

Jay blinks, his brows twitching together for the briefest second before smoothing out. Jake hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharply. Silence stretches out over them, long and heavy, and before he can take it back, Jay exhales slowly, looking away. 

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. It’s just—” A pause. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, like he’s saying something that will cost him to admit. “Look, I’ve tried sleeping my way from friend to boyfriend, and it doesn’t work. At some point, you’re going to have to show her you care about more than just sex, and I hope, for your sake, as your friend, that you do it before it’s too late.” 

Jake stiffens, every muscle in his body tensing up. Heat spreads from his ears down the back of his neck, sharp and unforgiving. His first instinct is to argue, to say something to get on Jay’s nerves, but he relents—there’s no point in arguing over something they both know is true. 

He clears his throat, sighs deeply. “Thank you, Jay, for your unsolicited advice,” Jake says, turning around and screwing his eyes shut, willing for sleep to pull him under. 

It doesn’t. 

Jay shuffles around the room for a bit before flicking off the light. Jake wonders if he should say something, but he knows there’s no need. Grudges don’t belong in their friendship—it shows on the pitch when something’s off. So they get everything off their chests, yell at each other if they have to, and move on like it never happened. 

And yet, he feels bad for meeting Jay’s vulnerability with sarcasm. He goes over the things he could say, again and again, until he hears snoring over his shoulder.

With a sigh, Jake rolls onto his back and rubs a hand over his face. He sends a text to Sunghoon—a question he already knows the answer to: Do you think I’m fucking things up w YN? It’s only after hitting send and putting his phone under his pillow, that sleep finally overtakes him.

In the morning, he stirs before waking up, dragged from sleep by rustling fabric and soft, persistent thuds. A moment later, something light smacks him in the face, jolting him from his slumber. He squints into the morning light, a blurry shape above him. A pillow. To the face, again. When Jake’s eyes finally focus on Jay, he has the faintest idea that he’s being rewarded for something. He’s standing there, looking down at him, all tan skin and toned stomach, arms flexing as he swings the pillow again. It’s annoying, really, how effortlessly put-together he looks, and Jake forces himself to look away, covering his face with his hands. 

“Morning, princess!” 

Jake groans. “What, Jay? What is it?” he asks, sufficiently disturbed.

“They wouldn’t let me bring a plate for you, so you need to get up before breakfast is done,” Jay says, aiming another hit at Jake’s chest. 

Still trying to get his bearings, Jake slaps at the pillow and pulls the blanket over his head. Jay isn’t having it. He smacks him with what Jake suspects is all of his might. At this point, it’s hard for Jake to stay touched by the fact that Jay had wanted to fix him a plate. 

“Fine, fine!” Jake’s voice isn’t quite working yet, the words coming out in a low rumble as he sits up. “I’m going.”

“How’d you sleep?” Jay asks, hugging the pillow to his chest. 

Jake shrugs. “Pretty good. You?”

“Same.” 

Jake inspects Jay, searching for a sign that last night is still hanging over him too. But he looks.. fine—bed already made, bag packed, hair still damp from the shower. Jake knows Jay well enough to tell when something’s wrong, and there isn’t even a trace of tension on his face. No irritation, nothing at all—he’s over it. It should be a relief, but instead, it makes Jake’s heart sink.

“I have to tell you something, but you can’t make a big deal about it,” he says, stretching a little as Jay nods. “You have to promise, dude.”

Jay rolls his eyes, but extends his pinky anyway, curling it around Jake’s. “I promise.” 

Jake is struck by how still the room feels, like it’s holding its breath. Why is he doing this? Jay has already moved on, and now, because of Jake and his lack of self-regulation, they’re standing around shirtless in a hotel room, miles away from home, holding hands. It’s all very bizarre, and he is looking forward to stepping down from the top of this mountain-sized molehill he’s made.

He sighs, tired of himself. “You were right, about.. everything. And I’m sorry,” he admits. 

Jay grins, his smile smug, almost feline, in a way that entrances and confuses Jake at once. “About everything?” he asks, amusement in his tone, making Jake wonder whether he’s taking this seriously.

“Come on!” Jake says, incredulous, holding up their locked fingers.

Jay’s smile falters, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh no. I broke my promise,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose you’re going to make a scene now? Tell me, Jake, what are you going to do? Tell me off? Spank me? Amputate?” 

Irritated – flustered, maybe — Jake yanks his finger free, cheeks hot. He pulls on a shirt with a little more force than necessary, not bothering to look at Jay as he does. 

“Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I already knew I was right,” Jay says, and the smile on his face is audible. “I do accept your apology, though.” 

Jake exhales, a tension he hadn’t even noticed unwinding from his shoulders. He steps out into the hall feeling lighter, relieved, so chipper he takes the stairs instead of the lift, practically skipping down them. The air in the stairwell is crisp against his skin, the smell of coffee drifting up as he gets closer and closer to the dining hall. His phone vibrates in his pocket, lighting up with three messages from Sunghoon when he checks it. 

Hoon: You are definitely handling things in a way I wouldn’t even recommend to my worst enemy!

Hoon: But things have a weird way of working out for you so

Hoon: Don’t worry too much 💪

Jake: Thanks?

The morning rush has thinned, and the emptying buffet trays aren’t his favourite sight—congealed scrambled eggs at their edges. He fills his plate anyway, hungry and happy enough to ignore how yellow the eggs are. At the nearest table, he chews absently, crunching crispy bacon, sipping pulpy orange juice, and his mind drifts. Jay’s voice, Sunghoon’s text, the lingering hum of a hundred past conversations—background noise. He pulls out his phone before he even registers the impulse, thumbs flying over the screen. 

Jake: Hey, pretty girl :) how was your night?

YN: It was good! And then Yizhuo threw up all over the smoking area which was.. terrifying 

YN: But I was in bed at 1 a.m. which I’m counting as a positive!

Jake: Sorry about Yizhuo, how’s she feeling? How are you feeling? 

Jake: Damn it’s early, are you okay? 

YN: Okay, 20 questions 🤨 Like shit. Good. On my way! To Pilates.

Still hungry after breakfast, Jake leaves the dining hall to take a shower and pack his bag before they leave. He sleeps for the whole journey, head on top of Jay’s. 

When they step off the bus at uni, Jake waves goodbye to the team and heads straight for his car—he doesn’t go home. The drive is endless, knee bouncing at every red light, grip tight on the wheel. When he reaches your building, an older couple lingers by the entrance, hand in hand, giggling. He slips past them, taking the stairs two at a time. At your door, he stops, hunching over to catch his breath before knocking. 

It takes a while, but Jimin opens the door, her smile falling when she sees him. “Jake, hi,” she says quietly, though it sounds like a question. She doesn’t step aside to let him in. “She’s not home, you just missed her actually. Jaemin picked her up.” 

Just hearing Jaemin’s name is like a stake to the chest. Jake tenses without meaning to, jaw tight. He’s been avoiding the guy like the plague since Jaehyun’s birthday, when he cornered Jake in the kitchen. “Are you two, like, serious, or what?” he asked, voice low even though they were alone.

Throughout ten years of friendship, Jake had been asked that question more times than he could count. Throughout four years of pining, it was one of two questions that made him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic. He didn’t need to follow Jaemin’s eyeline or hear another word to know exactly what he meant. Who he meant—you, of course. In the living room, laughing with the birthday boy, Jake’s jacket slung over your shoulders as you waited for him to bring you a can of Sprite. 

Jake only shrugged, the red cup of water in his left hand crunching a little under his tightening grip. “We’re friends.” 

“So I’m allowed to ask her out?”

That was the second question that got under Jake’s skin—not just because it was reductive, but because it wasn’t his decision to make. And yet, there came Jaemin, like every guy before him, asking as if they really think that if Jake had any say in it, you’d be with anyone but him. 

With a sigh, he said, “I’m not her father, Jaemin. It’s up to her.”

Jaemin smiled, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. “You got a light?”

“No.” He shook his head, shoving his clenched fist into his back pocket, the cool metal of his lighter grazing his right knuckle. “Can’t smoke in here anyway, mate.”

The memory slams into him, full-force, knocks the wind out of him. “He did?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Jimin tilts her head. “Weird.”

His brain stalls, unsure which thought to torture himself with first: that you’re seeing Jaemin, or that you didn’t tell him. As it turns out, the more hurtful thought is of the text you sent him an hour ago while he was asleep on the bus, the reason he’s even here.

YN: Travel safe, Jakey, I can’t wait to see youuuuu <3 

Jimin’s hand reaches for the door. “Goodbye.” 

His lips part, trying to gather his thoughts, to say something before the door clicks shut in his face. Nothing comes to mind, but your voice rings out into the silence. “Who’s at the door?” The sound of it rattles through him, curious, gentle as ever, and the seconds that pass stretch out in front of him, vast and unending. 

Jimin only frowns, her shoulders slumping. She seems more disturbed by the fact that now she’ll have to let him in than the fact that she’s been caught lying. “Oops,” she says simply, leaving the door open as she goes back to her room. 

Sighing, Jake leaves his shoes next to yours and locks the door behind him, his fingers fumbling a little as he twists the key. Smelling food, he goes straight to the kitchen where he finds you. You’re standing by the stove, hair covering your face, lost in the task at hand: trying to tear open a bag of cheese without scissors. You succeed. Before he says a word, you look over at him, and the grin that spreads over your lips makes his stomach swoop, butterflies tumbling around like they’re looking for a point of exit. You’re perfect. There’s something about that smile that brightens everything around you, grounding and dizzying him all at once.

“Hey,” he says, breathless, smiling too. 

You turn off the stove before stepping into his space, arms looping around his waist like you need this as much as he does. “Jakey,” you mumble into his chest.

It’s nice to see you, he can’t overstate that, and he suspects it always will be. Yet, even with you in his arms, he can’t smooth out the crease in his brows, can’t relax into your touch like he wants to—like he’s been thinking about since he left yesterday. The only thing on his mind is whatever the fuck is going on with Jimin, and how to ask you about it. 

“I see you’ve done your food shop,” he says dumbly, looking over your head at the pot on the stove. 

“Uh huh.” You nod, tilting your head back to look at him. “I even got those chocolates you like.”

Jake smiles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, liking the way you lean into his touch. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrug, but the softness of your voice betrays your attempt at nonchalance. “I wanted to make sure you had a reason to come and see me.”

“You’re being really sweet,” he says, frowning. He doesn’t mean to sound suspicious, but for some reason, it’s easier to question you than to believe you might actually want him here. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. Your skin is warm, but not feverish. Normal. Still, he keeps it there. “You feeling okay?” 

You roll your eyes, catching his wrist and pulling his hand away. “Are you okay? You look like Jimin caught you out there praying for pussy.”

It would have been less mortifying if she had. He chuckles, an awkward huff of air that sounds more like a strangled cough than anything close to a laugh. Pressing his fist to his mouth, he clears his throat as if it will somehow clear the feeling in his chest, too. As if summoned simply by Jake thinking about her, Jimin comes into the kitchen, buttoning up her coat. Her eyes skip over him like he’s not there, her smile reserved for you. 

“I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she says, opening her arms. 

You step forward without hesitation, slipping into her embrace like it’s second nature. The hug is warm and sweet, the two of you in your own world while Jake is stuck in its orbit, watching it spin without him. “I’ll miss you,” you say sincerely. “Text me when you get there.”

Jimin ruffles your hair when you pull away, smiling when you protest. “I miss you already.” And with that, she squeezes your wrist affectionately before turning on her heel without so much as a glance in his direction.

At the sound of the front door swinging shut, Jake sighs, glancing at it like he expects her to reappear. To say it was all a big joke, that she was doing a bit, and hug him too—the way she would have done a month ago, before.. 

It’s quiet in the flat—just you and him. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets, watching you watch the pot on the stove. You take off its foggy lid, steam curling out as you sprinkle grated cheddar into it—cheese dakgalbi. His mouth waters. 

Silence persists. Not awkward, not quite comfortable. He has to ask. “Did you ask Jimin to pretend you weren’t home?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, amused by the mere suggestion. You shake your head. “No.”

Jake sniffs, his voice quieter than before. “Is she mad at me or something?” He tries for casual, but he sounds a bit pathetic. 

You give him a look—confused, as if you didn’t see the way she’d ignored him. “Did she tell you I wasn’t home?” 

He nods slowly, saying nothing about the Jaemin-shaped elephant in his proverbial mind-room. Instead, he reaches into the cupboard behind him, the hinge creaking softly as he pulls out a bowl for you. He hands it over without meeting your eyes.

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

There’s too much going on in his head to navigate your line of questioning. “What are you talking about?”

You hold up the dish like the answer to his question is written on its base. “One bowl,” you say—it isn’t, by the way, the answer. He looked.  

“I’m not staying,” he says without meaning to, though now that he’s thinking about it, he likes the idea of going home and being alone with his thoughts. It might even be nice to sit in silence on the couch with Sunghoon if he’s home. 

Putting the bowl down, you take a step back, and scoff. Defensive. Hurt, he thinks. You sigh. “Why are you here then?” 

Your question, your tone, makes him feel a little silly. Silly for cancelling his plans with Jay to come here. Really silly, actually. For thinking you missed him too. For thinking, can’t wait to see you, meant anything more than just something nice to say to a friend who’s been away. 

“Well.. I don’t know.” Jake shrugs. “I just wanted to look at you or something, I guess. Make sure you were alright.”

Your expression softens, a step towards him, eyes — wide, searching — meeting his. “Stay, Jake. Please.”

His breath catches, taken aback by this unprompted offering of vulnerability—asking him to stay because you want him to, not because he asked if he should. He wonders if it could always be like this. If you could be like this with him again. Open. Gentle. Like before. 

“Did you miss me?” Jake asks, greedy for you to open up. To give him more than just a little. “While I was away?”

“It was one night.” 

“So? I missed you,” he admits. 

Your eyes flicker over his face, but you don’t answer. No, you roll your eyes like he’s being ridiculous—it bothers him though he knows it shouldn’t. He approaches you before he can think better of it, hands finding the counter on either side of you, caging you in. You don’t resist or pull away, only tilting your head to meet his gaze. And fuck, you’re right there and so beautiful. Close enough for him to see the way your eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Close enough that his pulse trips over itself.

“Why won’t you tell me you missed me?” he asks. 

You arch a brow. “Why do you want me to tell you if you already know?” 

Jake exhales sharply, tilting his head, pressing his fingertips into the counter like it’ll ground him. “I just—” He pauses. Swallows. Tries again. “Please.”

A hesitation. He feels your hand on his waist, your fingers squeezing. Sees the way your lips part, like you might actually say it. But you don’t. “Why?” you ask instead. 

He blinks, throat working around an answer that won’t come out. And suddenly, he feels stupid. Standing here, begging you to say something he already knows, something that shouldn’t matter so much. His eyes flick to yours, and he tries again, softer this time, whispering, “Please, baby.”

Finally, you break, quietly confessing, “I hate being away from you.” And it’s a million times better.

A startled breath escapes him, soft and disbelieving. His heart stumbles over itself, warmth flooding his chest. He blinks at you, processing, the words replaying in his head, sweeter each time. His fingers twitch against the countertop, resisting the urge to touch you, but you’re looking at the floor, and that won’t do. Gently, he tilts your chin up, your eyes meeting his—all wide and pretty, uncertainty flickering in them. 

He swallows, voice unsteady. “Say it again.”

A slow smile curves your lips, and he sees the flash of realisation in your eyes—you’ve got him, you know you do. “I hate being away from you, Jake,” you repeat, confident now. 

The shape of the words on your lips, how they roll off your tongue, hitting him with so much affection it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst into tears. Those words spoken to him, in your voice, by you. He takes a deep breath. “See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says, trying to tease but his voice is too soft. 

You roll your eyes, but your lips are twitching, fighting a smile. “It was excruciating.” 

Jake hums, brushing his thumb along your jaw, memorising the feel of you, liking the way you gulp. “My poor girl,” he teases, a pout on his lips. “I was about to drop it, you know. One more why, and I’d have let you off the hook.”

And then — before you can fire back some sharp remark — he kisses you. 

He takes his time, desperate — quite frankly — to make up for what he missed yesterday morning. His hands find the small of your back, pulling you close as if he can’t bear being away from you again. Every touch is a relief, his gratitude and adoration poured into the warmth of his lips against yours. A tiny sound, low and wanting, slips from your mouth to his, stirring his chest. When he pulls away, your lips linger, and he almost can’t find in him to break the connection. You chase his kiss, whining a little—so cute it weakens his knees, and he can’t help but smile, liking the flutter in his stomach.

Looking down at you, he exhales shakily, heart pounding. Overwhelming warmth fills him up, crams itself into every single part of him, knowing that this is real. That you’re real, and you’re here, with him. 

“That wasn’t so bad either, huh?” he asks, giggling, his voice almost as light as he feels.

You beam at him before hiding your face in his chest, letting out a giddy laugh as he rubs circles on your back, chin on top of your head. You hate being away from him. The words echo in his head, surreal, sweet.

He’s not convinced he’ll ever stop smiling. 

Until his stomach growls, loud, slicing the quiet. Another laugh from you, the sound vibrating through him — too real to be imagined — as you pinch his waist. “Come on, baby,” you say, eyes sparkling. “Let’s eat.” 

You slip out of his hold, and Jake, helpless to do anything but follow, wraps his arms around your waist at the stove. His chest is pressed to your back, fingers curling into your sides so you don’t leave again. If you mind, you don’t voice it. You sway a little against him, humming the same song he was listening to on the bus. 

Why can’t he stay here, with you, like this, forever?

His bowl warms his lap while you put your glasses on, turning on the TV. Gossip Girl fills the screen, the voices familiar, comforting, fading into the background when you sit, your thigh pressed against his. He wonders if you realise how much of the space in his head you occupy. The flavours are rich, familiar, perfect—he’s never had cheese dakgalbi as good as yours. He sighs happily. Heart skipping a beat when he glances over at you, finding you already looking at him. You hate being away from him. Lips kiss-bitten, lenses foggy from the steam. You give a tender smile. 

Jake bites back a grin, stuffing chicken into his mouth so he doesn’t speak and admit to something crazy—the future in his head, with you. Your child (children if you want them, a dog if you don’t (hopefully a dog even if you do)), and countless nights together like this for the rest of your natural lives. 

Beside him, sane, you give commentary—perfect outfits, Serena’s hair, ugh, why is Chuck here? He nods, too far gone to do anything but copy your homework and change the answers a bit. That dress is beautiful, there’s probably tutorials if you look, why is Chuck here?

After he clears his bowl and what you couldn’t finish from yours, you make a pillow out of his shoulder. Sighing, you get comfortable while he inhales the familiar scent of your shampoo, your hair brushing his cheek. Shifting closer, you press into him, his arm tightening around you. It doesn’t take long for your breath to even out. Jake’s chest swells, overwhelmed by how much he likes this. He presses his lips to the top of your head, the softest kiss of his life, and lets his eyes flutter shut. 

He hates being away from you too.

Jake has rescheduled this dinner with his parents so many times, his mother actually called him. He didn’t answer. Instead, he flinched, threw his phone to the other end of the couch and waited for the ringing to stop. If it weren’t for his dad texting to ask about it, he wouldn’t be standing on the doorstep of his family home doing breathing exercises. 

He takes one last deep breath before putting his key in the lock. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three. Open the door. “I’m home!” he calls out, stepping inside and taking off his shoes. 

Jake’s mother gasps in the kitchen as if she’s surprised, jogging out into the hall. “Jaeyun!” she cries, arms flung around him. “Oh, my boy, it’s so good to see you.” 

He only nods, letting go prematurely, long before she releases him. 

“It’s just a shame you’re harder to reach than the Prodigal Son.”

“Yeah.” Jake gives her a tight smile, a slow nod. “Just got a lot on at the minute with uni. Good to be home though.” 

She’s already heading back to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Dinner’s nearly ready, so you’ve come at the perfect time. You might think about changing?”

With furrowed brows, he looks down at his outfit. Jeans. Jumper. Hardly unpresentable. “I think I’m alright, actually, Mum,” he says, following behind her. 

Seeing his dad stand up from the table tugs Jake’s lips into a boyish grin. “Dad,” he whispers, breathless, pleased, allowing himself to be pulled into a hug, his dad’s unchanged cologne hitting his nose. Floral, warm. Strong arms around him. 

“How are you, son?” he asks, quiet, private, just for them. 

“I’m good, Dad. I’m good.”

The simmer of broth. Oil frying eggs in a pan. The smell of beef strikes him, turning his hunger fierce. His stomach rumbles quietly, unsoothed by his attempts at rubbing it. He asks if his mother needs a hand, and she waves him off, shakes her head, it’s her pleasure to cook for her son. She’s wearing her apron, the same red checkered one she’s had for as long as he remembers, stirring a pot by the stove. She looks so motherly like this. As if she might come over and kiss the top of his head just because. Pat his back and say good job for simply existing. It’s all very maternal of her, like that instinct has finally kicked in, twenty short years postpartum. Maternal in a way that digs a nasty pit in his stomach. The mum-in-a-million, best-mum-ever figure he always thought Big Mum made up to push Mother’s Day cards. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” his dad asks. 

That word choice sticks out to him, it’s almost been a full year of anyones and peoples from his dad and it still warms his heart in a way he’s not sure he’ll ever adjust to. There had been some.. concerns when he was younger and innocently introduced his first school friend, Jaehyun, to his parents as his boyfriend. Concerns that were not entirely baseless, as Jake’s teenage years would soon reveal to him. 

“Any nice girls?” his mother corrects from the kitchen, not looking away from the drawer as she takes cutlery out. “Oh, who was that girl you used to be friends with? What was her name? From school, Jaeyun? Funny girl. Her mother used to teach you, what was she called?” 

Jake mumbles your name, reminds her that the two of you are still friends. He’s not sure why she insists on this song and dance, when both of them know she wouldn’t exactly be happy if he brought you — or anyone — home. He bites the inside of cheek remembering you — age fourteen — sitting at this very table, passing Jake the salt shaker and scrunching up your nose at the mention of church. Church? No, my parents said church is for people who think they’re better than everyone else. Only Jake and his dad found that funny.

She puts cutlery down for all three of them, looking down at him after placing his chopsticks. “The atheist?” she asks, saying the A-word with a certain level of distaste that Jake can’t help find amusing. 

“Yes, mum. The atheist,” he confirms, holding back a laugh at the amused smile his dad — the other atheist — wears.

There’s a look on her face when she hums, as if satisfied he acknowledged your lack of faith out loud. “I mean, you’re a bit young for a relationship, anyway.” 

“I’m twenty,” he points out. 

She raises her brow from over the kitchen island, stopping in her tracks with a steaming pot in hand. “Do you want to get married?” 

Jake shrugs, watching as she puts the pot on the table, letting the smell of short ribs envelop him. “I mean.. not right now, but at some point? Maybe?” The words leave his mouth unthinkingly, seeming wrong as soon as he says them. 

“So why would you be looking for a girlfriend?”

His mouth opens and promptly closes again, unsure of what to say. Jake glances at his dad, but he only takes a sip of his water. He’s not going to argue with her—he never does. 

“Look.” His mother sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears as she takes a seat at the table next to his dad. “A lot of people your age are out drinking and having sex, and I understand that’s how this country is, but that is not how we raised you, Jaeyun—we didn’t bring you here for that. Sex isn’t about your age; it’s about marriage. And until then, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it, never mind having it.”

Mortified, he runs a hand over his face. “I’m not having sex. Jeez, Mum.” It’s a lie that only gets harder to say the more he tells it. He might actually abstain — even from hand stuff — until marriage, if he has this conversation again. 

“Are you drinking?” 

“No, I’m not drinking.” This lie is easier. “I’m an athlete.” Because half of it is true. 

His mother tilts her head, affronted. “Jaeyun, you’re a Christian first.” 

A familiar tension wraps around him, not any easier to manage for how often he feels it around her. “You’re right, Mum. Sorry.” 

She seems pleased enough with this, her eyes lingering on him for a beat before they narrow. “I heard from Sieun’s mum that you weren’t at church this week.” Of course, she heard. She is always hearing things about Jake, and Sieun’s mum always seems to be the one saying them.

“I had a game.” 

“On Sabbath?” 

There is, for Jake, no winning where his mother is concerned. Because, of course, his breaking of the Sabbath is what matters right now. Never mind that he’s playing at a level she used to brag to her friends about. Never mind that he’s doing that, and getting top marks in his classes, and still finding time for family dinner every other week. Never mind that last term he spent two days with an IV drip in his arm from overworking himself and she didn’t text him back when he told her.

Jake’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding as he forces himself to swallow the words burning on his tongue. A glance at his dad, who’s staring down at his empty plate, pretending not to hear. Finally, he clears his throat, setting his glass down with deliberate care, a delicate arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Honey..” He trails off, eyes flicking to his son quickly. “How about we say grace before dinner gets cold?” 

Conflicted relief settles over Jake’s shoulders at this. He knew his dad would step in eventually. He had to. This is the man who sat him down at thirteen and explained consent to him in careful, measured words—again at seventeen before he moved out. The man who passed him a beer on a fishing trip when he was sixteen, told him to sip slowly, to learn the taste so he wouldn’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone later. Who had wrapped him in a hug, kissed the top of his head last year when he said he likes boys too. You’re my only son, Jaeyun. I want you to be happy. He can’t look at his dad, see the hard lines of his face, the silver strands of his hair, without seeing that too.

He nods obediently when his mother tells him to pray, holds hands with his parents, closes his eyes. His dad’s rough hand squeezes his and he smiles. “Dear Lord, thank you for giving us the opportunity to sit around the table tonight as a family. Please bless the food we’re about to eat, and the hands that made it. In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”

With that, they eat ugeoji galbitang—Jake’s favourite. He likes it too much to let anything, even his mother (who makes it best), ruin it for him. Luckily, his dad steers the conversation, shares his wins at work, compliments Jake’s highlight tape from the game over the weekend, talks about the trash movie he’s got lined up for them to watch tonight. 

Tonight. Together. As a family. Jake always spends the night after dinner, no exceptions. But he’s certain that if he spends any longer than he needs to in this house, he’ll die. He needs to come up with something, an excuse, a lie, something suddenly remembered. A commitment heavy enough that he must leave at once to attend to it. He thinks about Sunghoon, about you—but Jake’s mother is a blood is thicker than water kind of woman, and in her eyes, the only things thicker than blood are God and school. 

He clears his throat, takes a sip of water, keeps a hold on his glass even when he puts it down. “That sounds great, Dad—I mean Operation Christmas Drop sounds truly awful, but I have a paper due tonight and it’s saved on a USB so I’ll have to go home to submit it.” 

His mother continues to eat, unbothered. It’s hard to watch his dad’s smile falter, but he nods, understanding. “Another time, then.” 

Dinner continues, marked mostly by the clatter of cutlery—chopsticks on side plate, spoon on bowl. There are a lot of negative things Jake could say about his mother, but she’s the only woman in the world who could call him an embarrassment for quitting violin at fifteen, then console him with her cooking. Even the simplest sides — her fried eggs and white rice — move Jake beyond words.

He clears the table when they finish eating, his parents packing up the leftovers while speaking quietly to one another as Jake washes the dishes. He strains his ears over the running water, but it’s no use, only catching murmured honeys and nos. Coming home is a bit like being caught in a loop sometimes, like he’s checking off boxes on a list: 

1. Mum warns Jake about premarital sex

2. Jake lies and says he’s not having it

3. Dad sits in silence, pretending he didn’t buy Jake condoms when he went off to college

4. Substitute sex for some other mostly harmless vice 

5. Rinse and repeat. 

This absurd script they’re following, these roles they all fall into, time and time again. He can’t be the only one exhausted by this. 

Jake dries his hands with the dish towel hanging from the oven door and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’d really better go,” he says. “Thanks again for dinner, Mum.” 

He doesn’t hang around for her response, taking the stairs two at a time until he gets to his room. Slipping on his jacket, he looks around at the walls again. Certificates, postcards. Barer now since he took some of his favourite posters with him when he moved. Still, his Dune poster, brought home from a midnight showing, hangs above his bed. He’d stayed at Jaehyun’s house that night—his mother would never let him out so late with friends. As much as he loves it — the outline of Timothée Chalamet, Paul, tall and trim in his stillsuit — he left it behind. A quiet reminder of his small rebellion. 

Leaving always feels so final, like he has to memorise the details of his childhood room even though he’ll be back in two weeks. A sighs, more than ready to leave, but stops short, seeing the photo booth strip under his light switch. You and him, frozen in the pink frames of a four-cut photo, sixteen forever. In the last shot, your arm is around his shoulders, lips pressed to his cheek. Back then, he didn’t think he liked you—not the way he does now. But his skin had burned where you kissed him, and he hadn’t washed his face that night, afraid to lose the trace of your clear lip gloss. 

After four years, the memory sends a swarm of butterflies through his stomach, his fingers reaching up to brush his left cheek. He takes the photo, slipping it into his jacket pocket before joining his parents at the door. 

“I just want you to make good decisions,” his mother says, hugging him. Her perfume is floral, familiar. He breathes it in, holding on just a second longer than normal.

“I’m trying.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” his dad says, already putting on his shoes.

Jake’s chest tightens. He gulps, nodding, waves at his mother. Her eyes burn holes into his back as he follows his dad out. March’s breeze whips his jacket, lunchboxed leftovers warm his palms. They walk in silence to Jake’s car. 

“Are you happy, Jaeyun?” His dad’s voice is soft, careful. “None of this matters if you aren’t.” His calloused fingers rub at the back of Jake’s neck—a comfort. “Not your grades, not football, not church.. It’s no use working so hard if you’re not happy.”

Jake nods. “I am usually,” he admits. 

A grin. Crinkled eyes. “That’s all I ask of you.”

“Are you happy, Dad?”

His dad’s face softens, shoulders relaxing. “With you as my son?” A chuckle slips out of him. “How could I not be happy?” He pulls Jake into a tight hug, his arms strong and steady. Jake squeezes back, fingers gripping his dad’s shirt.

“I love you,” Jake says, the words muffled against his dad’s shoulder. 

His dad holds him even tighter. “I love you, son.”

They pull apart slowly, reluctant. A shared exhale. Breeze biting, still. 

“Drive safe, okay?” 

Jake nods, unlocking the car. “I will.”

His dad smiles again, giving him a nod before heading back to the house. The porch light is off when Jake starts his car. 

Thirty silent minutes pass by in a blur, unregistered until he’s taking off his seatbelt outside his building. Backpack on, leftovers in hand, he goes inside, dragging his feet up the stairs to the eighth floor. He doesn’t even have to slow his pace or catch his breath at the door to his flat—at least the gym is paying off. 

Sunghoon isn’t home. Monday night. Evening practice. Jake leaves the food on the kitchen counter to cool down and goes to his room. His bed, neatly made, fresh sheets, looks tempting, but he has other plans for the night. He gets changed and sits on the couch, waiting for Sunghoon.

For the next hour, his phone goes off regularly, but none of the notifications are from you so he doesn’t care. It only dawns on Jake that he can simply text you when he wants to see your name in his phone.

Jake: Can I come over? 

YN: I thought you had family dinner tn?

YN: Oh. I’m not at home but you can call me!!! My signal is a bit shit on the train rn but you can always call me, Jake

Jake: It’s okay, usual shit w my mum lol

Jake: Idk why I always think things will be different when I go there and always get surprised when they’re not

YN: I’m sorry she gives you such a hard time, baby

YN: I know you don’t feel like it but you’re doing such a good job. You’re juggling shit I don’t even want to imagine and you still make time for football and all your uni stuff and to make everyone in your life feel special. I promise you’re not fucking anything up at all.

YN: You don’t have to keep going over there, you know.. I get you like seeing your dad but surely you two can hang out alone? Another fishing trip, maybe? I know you had a really good time in the summer

The summer—the fishing trip, the beer, the hug. He smiles. 

Jake: Yeah, maybe

When he hits send, a key turns in the lock. Sunghoon—whistling to himself after practice. It’s nice one of them had a good Monday, that’s half of the people in the flat. Much better than thirty seconds ago, when a hundred percent of people in the flat were having a terrible day. His footsteps pad down the hall and he freezes in the doorway, brows raising in surprise. A beat. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”

Jake clears his throat, but the roughness of his voice persists. “Left early.”

Sunghoon hums, nodding once before he leaves, coming back in a t-shirt and sweatpants, two beers in hand as he sits on the couch. He hands one to Jake, pulls the tab on his own, and takes a long, slow sip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Jake shakes his head. “I put some ugeoji galbitang in the fridge for you. I don’t know if you saw.”

“Nice, man, thanks.” 

These are the last words from either of them for hours. Even when one of them gets up to use the toilet, or Sunghoon goes to get more beer. It’s not until two a.m. that they speak again. 

“Are you alright if I turn in? I need to be up soon.” Sunghoon yawns, arms stretched out in front of him. 

Jake nods, yawning too. “Yeah, of course. I should get some sleep anyway.” 

Sunghoon lingers, his hand curling and uncurling on the edge of the couch. “You sure?” he asks, only standing when Jake nods again. 

Jake collects the cans, flicking the lamp off on the way out. He turns towards the kitchen but stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. Sunghoon’s heading to the bathroom, hand on the doorknob when Jake says, “Thank you.” For being my best friend. For doing nothing with me for hours, he doesn’t say. 

Yet Sunghoon seems to understand. He always does. In three steps, he reaches Jake, a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “You’re my best friend,” he says, matter-of-factly, and leaves Jake in the hall, locking the bathroom door behind him. 

When Sunghoon is done, Jake goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth. He steps into the shower, appreciating the heat of the water on his skin, how he reddens under it. Washes his face, his hair. Stands aimlessly under the spray until he starts worrying about the planet. He feels a bit better after this. Moisturises in his room, puts Vaseline on his lips, gets into bed. 

He’s lying on his side, staring at the wall. He pats around the mattress for his phone, finding it and calling you without thinking. It rings out, because, of course, you can always call me, Jake, does not mean: call me at three in the morning. 

He looks at his screen for so long it locks. Too dark to see his reflection on it. Thankfully. He opens your text thread, drafting a message. Called by mistake HAHAHAHAHA dw! Delete. Sorry for calling so late, maybe we could hang out when you’re up? Coff—there’s a knock at his door and he locks his phone, tucking it under his pillow like a child. 

“What is it?” he calls out. 

The door clicks open behind him, closes softly. Your voice. “Hey, Jakey.” 

He sits up immediately, your name falling out of his mouth like a question. You’re standing there in your pyjamas, angelic, everything he’s ever wanted, blued by the moon shining through his window.  And if he wasn’t so upset, so convinced he’s making this all up, he would scold you for coming over at this time in only a vest and shorts. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move too abruptly, so as not to disrupt the dreamscape. Slowly, carefully, he lifts the end of his duvet, a silent invitation. You step towards him, crawling into his arms, soft skin warm on his, a kiss to his chest. 

This is.. real? 

You are real?

Turning on his lamp, he pushes your hair from your face, studying you. Soft bow of your lips, gentle slope of your nose, flutter of your lashes when you blink. Lamplight cuts sharp orange angles over your cheekbone, carving you out of the dark. He kisses you, a fleeting press of his lips to yours. To check. 

You are real, and breathtaking, always so breathtaking, and here, with him.

“How did you..?” He trails off, unsure what to ask—get here? Know I needed this? 

“Hoon called and came to pick me up,” you say, answering both of his questions at once.

This is.. overwhelming. Beyond. That Sunghoon would think to call you, go so far as to pick you up at this hour. That you would get out of bed for this—for him. That there are people in his life, bound only to him by choice, who care this much. Jake swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes stinging with hot tears, desperate to spill. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your palm. “I’m so sorry, baby.” 

Baby. Your baby. He has half a mind to tell you he loves you, but he’s touched, not insane, so he bites his tongue. Hides his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Oh, Yunie,” you say, stroking his back, your touch a grounding force. “I wish there was something I could do.”

He kisses the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. Lifts his head. Smiles as the first tear slips from his cheek onto yours. “You’re here.” 

Jake kisses your lips—soft, fleeting, hardly more than a peck. It’s not enough. Another kiss, longer, lingering, your warmth undoing him. Wrapping you in his arms, he tucks you close to his chest, clinging onto you like a lifeline. I love you. Over and over, he thinks it. Prayers on a rosary. So loud in his head he’s not convinced you can’t hear him. His eyes flutter shut, and with your steady breath on his skin, he lets himself fall asleep. 

Jake wakes up first, grinning at the sight of you curled against him, your face squished into his chest. His arms tighten instinctively, as if to keep you there, as if you might slip away. He watches you, still as he can, taking in the quiet, the warmth, you. As if sensing his gaze, you open your eyes, sleep-heavied blinks as you look up at him. You shift in his hold, turning your head enough to see his alarm clock. 08:46. A groan leaves your lips, and you bury your face back into his chest. 

He kisses the top of your head, mumbling against it. “Morning, baby.” 

Your groan doesn’t stop, drawn-out, dejected, rumbling against his skin until you tip your head back. “Come shower with me.” Your voice is thick with sleep, the words said as if you think it might be the only solution for your suffering. 

And it would be rude of him not to at least help you find out.

Jake has definitely had more productive showers, but he’s never had a better one than this. Skin on skin. Lips on lips, and neck, and chest. Slippery hands all over each other. Wet heat overwhelming him—press of bodies, rush of water. Trembling breath, racing heart. Your fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand between your thighs. 

By the time you’re clean, and moisturised, there’s only twenty minutes until your class starts. Pulling a pair of his sweatpants over your hips, you make a joke, laughing to yourself as you blame Jake for what you started. He’s a terrible influence, using his masculine wiles to seduce, corrupt, and make you late. 

He snorts, shaking his head. “So I’m a pervert in this fantasy of yours?” 

“I think you like it, Jakey,” you say, walking towards him, arms looping around his neck, fingers in his hair, chuckling. “Making a harlot out of an honest woman.”

Jake pinches your waist, liking the way it makes you jolt and squeal—trying to focus on that instead of the sharpness of the word harlot against his ears. He almost shudders, jarred by its dissonance. Sounding more like a word that might share a page with some of the other words that have disturbed him recently. Words he’s done a good job of pushing to the back of his mind—words he’s putting in a lot of effort to keep there. He sniffs, leaning down to kiss you. It was a joke, Jake. You were joking. It was a Christmas joke.

“Alright, Virgin Mary,” he mumbles against your lips, pulling away before you accuse him of further debasing. “Let’s go.” 

He drives you home so you can get your stuff, and you make a beeline for your room when you arrive. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he takes a deep breath and knocks on Jimin’s door. 

She groans when she sees him, head falling back. “What?” she huffs, voice thick with irritation. 

“Can we talk?” he shifts on his feet. “Please?” 

Jimin’s answer takes a while. She eyes him with her arms crossed over her chest. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, at your closed door, wondering how long you’ll take to change and pack your bag. With a sigh, Jimin steps aside, and he takes a cautious step in, making a point to stay near the door as he closes it—unsure how welcome he really is. 

“What did I do to you?” he asks hesitantly, watching as she sits on the end of her unmade bed. 

“You didn’t do anything to me.” Jimin shrugs, continuing when Jake opens his mouth to speak. “But I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the ‘innocent’ guy best friend who pounces at the first chance he gets.”

“Pounces?” he repeats, like it’s his first time hearing the word. “I’m not an animal, Jimin. There was no pouncing. If anything, she pounced on me.”

“So she’s an animal, is that what you’re saying?” 

Jake sighs, seeing there’s no way to win here. “Sure,” he says dryly. “She’s a tiger. Happy?” 

This doesn’t amuse Jimin. “What do you want with her?” 

He shrugs like he hasn’t given it much thought. “I want whatever she wants. If she wants to hook up, we’ll hook up. If she doesn’t, we won’t.” 

“You like her.” It’s not a question, but an accusation that softens her voice, raises her brows. 

Jake chews his lip, and that’s enough. Jimin’s jaw drops. “Oh, my God. I was worried you were going to hurt her, and this whole time I should’ve been worried about her hurting you.” She shakes her head, a laugh of disbelief coming out. “Good luck.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

Until it involved him, Jake hadn’t heard much about your sex life since first year. Thankfully. Kim Mingyu — Hot Mingyu, as you and Jimin still call him — is the last name he remembers. Older, massive, lived up to his moniker. He was always talking about the gym or his tech start-up, and eventually, he ended things because he didn’t believe Jake was just your friend. Jake suspects that the memory of Hot Mingyu will stick with him forever, because it was the first time it ever occurred to him that he didn’t want to be just friends with you. 

Jimin apologises, opening her arms and approaching him. She says that she should’ve known. Quiet, sympathetic, Jake thinks, hating it. But the door swings open, hitting his back before she can hug him. You poke your head into the room with a smile, oblivious. “Ready to go?” 

Back in the car, you try to peer pressure Jake into speeding, and he appeases you, doing thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty zone. Giving up with a huff, you turn your body away from him, knees against the passenger door. He’s too busy thinking about what Jimin said to comment—what the fuck does good luck mean?

And he’s so busy trying to figure that out, he doesn’t even realise you’re still wearing his sweatpants until you get out of the car. “Thanks for the lift, Jakey.”

Jakey smiles. Jakey waves. Jakey watches you leave. Jakey sits in his car for an hour before going home. 

He finds Sunghoon—home from practice, and eating an early lunch by the kitchen window. Standing, like he always does when he eats alone. “Hey, buddy,” he says, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Feeling better?” 

Without a second thought — or a first one — Jake charges towards him, tackling him more than he hugs him. “Thank you.” 

Sunghoon goes stiff, completely tense in Jake’s hold. A shrug, slow and unnatural. “Don’t mention it,” he says, voice strained. A single, awkward pat of Jake’s back. “Could you please let go of me now? For a minute?” 

Apologising, Jake quickly releases him, feeling bad for the ambush. “I’m going to thank you again for last night, and I need you to accept it this time. You didn’t have to do that for me, but you did it anyway.”

Sunghoon turns, amused, leaning against the wall and taking a spoonful of yoghurt to the mouth. “I’m waiting.”

“Thank you, Sunghoon. Really.”

“You’re welcome, Jake,” he says, monotone, but his eyes are soft and he’s smiling. “And if you’re going to the library today, can we go together? I’m slacking, man—I need to lock in. Quickly.”

Jake chuckles at his deflection, but nods and says, “Of course.” 

They have different approaches to studying — Sunghoon puts his headphones on, and hyper-fixates on his task for as many consecutive hours as he can; Jake swears by Pomodoro, twenty-five minutes on, five minutes off — but they work alongside each other quite effectively. Jake squints at AutoCAD. Sunghoon scrolls through physio clinic listings. Jake texts his dad, asking if they can go fishing soon. Sunghoon continues to look for summer placements. Parallel play. 

His Pomodoro timer goes off silently, a notification in the corner of his laptop screen, and he lets out a relieved breath—he has high hopes not to study anything architecture related after this term, in a perfect world, he’ll never have to so much as look at a building again. When he checks his phone, his dad has replied, suggesting that they go next weekend, and he’s still typing when Jake opens their thread.

Dad: And if you want, you can bring that ‘friend’ of yours. It would be nice to see her again. 

Dad: The atheist. 😆.

Jake: Yeah, dad, that sounds good haha. I’m sure she’d love to! I’ll ask

Sunghoon takes off his headphones, thick brows furrowed as he looks over at Jake. “Training starts, like, now, no?”

The time is bright and reproachful on Jake’s screen. 19:55. Five minutes to get to Coach’s office on the other end of the building. A jolt of panic launches him out of his seat, shoving his laptop and notebooks hurriedly into his bag while Sunghoon watches, yawning.

“Can I come?” 

The question catches him so off guard, his hand freezes over the zipper of his backpack. “What? To training?” Jake asks, cocking his head. “I mean, probably. We have analysis before we start so I’m not sure about that, but you can definitely watch us on the pitch if you want.” 

A sigh of relief, as he stands. Firm hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Thank God, bro—can’t be fucked walking home.”

They’re the last to arrive, but thankfully Coach isn’t there yet. None of the guys question Sunghoon’s presence, they’re actually more pleased to see him than they are their own teammate. He leads Sunghoon to the end of the room, instructing him not to draw attention to himself—he gives a thumbs-up, whispering, got it, when the door clicks open. 

The first thing Coach says is, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

Why he thought his gargantuan best friend could be inconspicuous anywhere, never mind standing right behind him, is anyone’s guess. Sunghoon, for some reason, says nothing. Jake clears his throat. “He’s—uh—he’s my flatmate, Coach.”

Coach sighs, rubs his face with his hand. “Whatever. Don’t speak unless I speak to you. Understand?” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” Sunghoon gives a firm nod, raising a hand in salute. 

Another sigh from Coach, wrinkles in his forehead showing as he mutters something to himself. “We have a lot to cover, so let’s not waste more time.” He pulls up the match video on his laptop—always calling them the highlights, but criticises them aggressively. “Yang, what have I told you about hogging the ball?” 

Jungwon’s smile is audible. “That I’ve improved a lot, and you’ve never seen a better sportsman than me.” This answer wins him a death glare. “Fine, I hogged the ball a little, but we won!” 

This seems to amuse Coach, who laughs and looks around the room. “A little, the boy says.” The video starts—a minute long clip of Jungwon with the ball at his feet, neglecting multiple opportunities to pass. No cuts. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bench you.” 

“I’m not seeing the big deal here. We literally won.” 

“You didn’t win this weekend because you have a selfish striker,” Coach says coldly. “You won because the other team was incompetent. And if you keep playing like that, you’ll cost us the season.” 

Jungwon isn’t smiling anymore.

Analysis goes on like always. Backhanded praise; thinly-veiled insults; Coach is pleased with his decision to appoint Jay Captain—words that no longer form a lump in Jake’s throat. In fact, he even pats Jay on the back, smiling sincerely when he looks over. 

Jake: Post-match went well 💪

Dad: Of course, son. You played brilliantly! So proud. 😆. 

Training flies by in a blur of five-a-side games and recreations of some of the poorer plays from Saturday’s game, Coach giving real-time corrections with varying degrees of rudeness. And before he knows it, the final whistle blows, dismissing them. Jake jogs off the pitch, legs heavy with exertion, mind buzzing with the rush of playing. His shirt is damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his stomach, but he can’t look away from his reflection in the locker room mirrors. Cheeks and neck flushed, glowing. He looks good. Feels good—too good to just stand there staring at himself. So, he takes his shirt off, and without much thought sends you a photo. 

YN: Day 537727272724733 without dick: I came just from seeing this picture

Jake: Has it been that long? 

YN: I can’t count how many times I squirted while looking at that

YN: Fr though come over rn. Need that bad.

Jake: Are you objectifying me?

YN: Is it working . 

Jake: Yes. But I need to drop off Riki and Hoon then shower so……..

Jake: Wait up for me?

YN: Fine. 

The drive to Riki’s place has never been so long, and Sunghoon sleeps the whole way. Growing impatient, Jake almost starts driving off before his teammate is even all the way out of the car. Every light is green on the way home, no traffic at all—a blessing, Jake thinks. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and leaves the flat in a hurry, sprinting down the stairs to get back to his car. 

He buckles his belt with shaking hands, a text lighting his phone screen. Checking it immediately, he sees that Sunoo sent a Reddit link to the team group chat: like palmer’s not one of the best players in the league rn. Curious, he clicks it, the app’s familiar logo colouring his screen orange, and before Sunoo’s video has the chance to load, something else catches his attention—the number 54 sitting on his notification tab. His heart sinks to his stomach, he knows exactly what’s waiting for him under there. But he clicks it anyway, rereads the post he made only two weeks ago now. And looks straight at the comments, knowing what they’ll say before he sees them. 

It is a sin, brother. And there is a demon inside of you that wants you to keep committing this sin. You need to repent and flee from fornication at once. This sin is extremely demonic, it took me away from Christ completely, and I was on my way to h*ll. 

The Holy Spirit is working in you. Thank God for giving you a conscience and do not go through with it no matter what. 

You want advice? Turn to 1 Corinthians 7:2 and Hebrews 13:4. The Bible is very clear that the only acceptable time for sex is after marriage. 

Honestly bro, just marry her lmao 

I lost my job, my girlfriend left me, and I got hit by a car after indulging in fornication. It is not worth it, my brother, take heed. I will pray for you. 

Jake’s brain buffers, the words blurring together as he scrolls, searching for a different answer. Someone, anyone in the comments telling him it’s okay, that he will be okay, and he’s not going to hell for simply wanting to have sex. 

Nothing. 

A humourless laugh comes out of him, an exhausted huff. He rests his heavy head on the steering wheel—he can’t be bothered anymore. This isn’t just sex for him. There’s a future here—he’s not sure what it is, or how he’ll get there. But surely, surely, something good, something worthwhile is at the end of this. And isn’t that worth something? Wouldn’t God want him to enjoy himself? 

Jake takes a deep breath, white-knuckle grip on the wheel, and says a prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for all you’ve done for me—but I’m not waiting any longer. I’m really going to do this, Jesus. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” 

Jake pauses, peeking around the car with one of his eyes to check for hellfire—the coast is clear. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Amen.” 

It’s the most cautious drive of his life, checking every mirror and blindspot thrice, hands sitting firmly at ten and two—kissing twenty miles per hour the whole way. Parked outside, he climbs over the centre console to use the passenger door because it opens out onto the pavement, and no way one of those cars that’s going around striking down the sexually immoral is going to spawn there. He uses the stairs instead of the lift, and makes it to your flat in one piece. 

He doesn’t even have a chance to knock before you pull the door open, telling him he took so long as you take him by the hand and tug him over the threshold. “My fault, baby,” he says, apologetic. Jake bites his lip, eyes trailing over you. Fallen strap of your tank top, nipples pressing through thin fabric, shorts riding up. Good God. He gulps, dick stirring in his pants as you drag him to the living room.

Sinking into the couch, he looks up at you, eyeing him like you want to eat him alive—he’d let you, he wants you to. He pulls you into his lap, kissing you. A moan tugged out of his chest when you grind down on him. At this, you pull away, chest heaving. Lips swollen, wet. He can’t help but reach out and touch them, tracing your mouth with his thumb, pressing down on your plush bottom lip, before pushing it past your teeth. Fuck. Your eyes meet his, hazy, unfocused as you suck on his thumb, letting your tongue graze the tip. Holding his wrist, you stroke it and take his finger all the way to the knuckle, looking at him the same way you do when you’re kneeling between his spread thighs.

You tug at his shirt, mumbling around his finger. “Why are you still wearing this?” 

“Waiting for you to take it off of me, baby.” 

An imperceptible hitch of your breath before you reach for the hem, tugging it over his head. You bite your lip, admiring him and his cheeks burn scarlet under your gaze. “Can’t believe you look like this.” Warm hands on his skin, fingers trailing his abs and the fading love bites you’d left behind. “Such a lucky girl,” you whisper, awestruck as you kiss him urgently. 

Emboldened, eager for more praise — and frankly, extremely turned on — he stands, grip firm on your ass when he does. 

“Holy shit,” you utter, pulling away, eyes blown and unguarded. “Have you always been this strong?” 

This acknowledgement of his efforts makes his entire body flush, hot and bothered from head to toe. As he shrugs sheepishly, he can’t help wishing he could be more nonchalant when it comes to you. Wishing he could just nod, say yeah—even though you both know the strength and the muscle definition are new. Jake’s stomach flutters when you smile, leaning back into him, kissing and mumbling against his lips that he’s so hot. 

In your room, the two of you collapse onto the bed, attached at the hips and mouth. He begins to understand some of those freaks in the subreddit, how this — how you — could easily knock him off-kilter and take over his life. You grab his wrist, tugging his hand towards the spot between your legs, and killing his train of thought in the process.

Nothing else registers except your soft cotton shorts, drenched against his fingers and stuck to you. “Holy fuck,” he mumbles. 

“Do something about it.”

Nodding, he pulls the fabric off of you, moves it to the side. Sucking a breath through his teeth, he stares straight ahead. Shocked, turned on by how wet you are, and his fingers slip around so much he has to focus to keep them on your clit. It’s worth it, more than, for the way you whine, rutting your hips on his hand. Groaning, he lets his finger slip into you, adjusting his pants when you moan, his thumb working your clit in circles. Another finger slips inside, so easy, so slick and so warm, your walls clenching around him. The sound alone makes him dizzy. “So fucking wet,” he says, pressing deeper, fingers curling, watching your mouth fall open. “You’re killing me, baby.” 

Completely under your spell, he can’t look away from the spot where his fingers disappear into you. “My pretty girl.” He hums, licking his lips. “So pretty all over.” Jake’s dick actually hurts looking at you, straining against his pants, darkening the fabric with precum. Adding a third finger, he presses harder on your clit, groaning when your back arches off the bed. “You like it, huh? Feels good?” 

You only moan in response, clutching the sheets in your fists as you shake against them. It doesn’t take long for you to gasp, letting out a cry of his name as your body gives in, release spilling out around his fingers all while he stares in awe, open-mouthed. The soft curves of your body, flushed and shuddering and perfect. 

Panting, you look up at him with sparkling eyes and tug lightly at your waistband. He guides your hips up gently, pulling your shorts down and leaving them at the end of the bed. “Your turn,” you breathe out. Jake stands up from the bed to take his sweats and underwear off without a second thought. Your gaze traces his body, tongue wetting your lips, eyes caught on his dick as it smacks his stomach. “Need a minute.” 

“Course, baby.” He needs a minute too, hardly able to tear his eyes off the cum painting your pretty pussy white. As gently as he can, he runs his fingers through it, bringing them to his lips and humming around them. Oh, my God. “Tastes so good.”

A lazy smile curves your lips and you nudge his chest with your foot, leaning up on your elbows. “Twelve days. It’s been twelve days, Jake.” 

Confused, he tears his eyes from between your legs, looking up at you instead. Sweat-slicked skin glowing in the dim lamplight. No one has ever looked so beautiful, he’s certain. “Of what?” he asks, stroking himself absentmindedly. 

Your eyes follow the movement of his wrist, chewing on your bottom lip for a beat before your gaze flicks up to meet his. “Earlier, I said some stupid number and you asked if it’s been that long.” 

“Twelve days,” Jake repeats, hardly believing it. Hardly believing the fact that you’re laid out in front of him, glowing, gorgeous, and he’s still waiting—for what, he’s not sure. “Whoa,” he mutters, leaning over you, his hand on your cheek. “Twelve?” 

You nod, pouting. “Twelve,” you repeat, holding onto his wrist, kissing his palm. “Don’t make me wait any longer.” 

“Condom, baby.” He pulls away, but your grip on him tightens. 

“Don’t need it.” 

Jake raises a brow. Sceptical. Horny. “Are you sure?” 

“Certain. But I’ve never..” You trail off, clearing your throat. 

He knows what you mean, and his stomach flips over. “Same,” he admits. “Where should I..?”

“Inside. Please.” 

His eyes widen, searching yours, staring. You nod again, saying, please. 

Leaning down, he kisses your cheek. “Missed this, baby. Missed you,” he admits. He feels you shudder under him, a shaky breath fanning his skin when he nudges your clit with his tip. Lifting his head, he looks down at your face, taking you in. Lidded eyes blinking heavily, fluttering lashes, sweat beading along your hairline. “Still can’t believe it—how lucky I am, getting to see you like this.”

“Never wanted anyone this much.” 

His breath ceases, butterflies tumbling in his stomach. “Me neither.” The words feel bigger than they should, heavy as they settle between you. A beat passes slowly, his heart shifting in his chest. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours and hoping this kiss is enough to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud. 

“Please, Jake,” you say, mumbling against his lips.  

So hot and so soft and so wet. Holy fuck. He sinks his teeth into his lip, freezing. It’s his tip, literally just his tip, but it’s enough to leave him lightheaded. He wonders if he’ll even last long enough to get to the part where he’s all the way in. “Won’t last long like this,” he says out loud, his own voice seeming distant.

You’re looking up at him with wet eyes, shaking—breath harsh, shallow. “Good,” you whisper. “We can go again, however you want it.” 

Again, he thinks, looking forward to it. As if he’s not already losing his mind. 

“Need more,” you breathe. “More, baby. Please.” 

Rocking his hips forward, slow as he can, he holds his breath at the feeling of you opening up around him, inch by precious inch. It’s incredible he went so long without this. Twelve whole days. Unfathomable now—impossible, surely. Both of you whine as he bottoms out, a ragged sigh coming out of him, his head falling. Relieved. Wound up. He opens his eyes and regrets it immediately—you, mouth agape, eyes screwed shut. Holy shit. “You okay, baby?” he manages. 

A smile spreads over your lips, a content breath slipping out of you. “Perfect, Jakey. Always forget..” You trail off, shaking your head, struggling to get the words out. “Forget how big you are.” 

His entire body flushes, set alight. “You always take it so good, though. Such a good girl, yeah? Fit me just right.” He knows how it sounds, but he means it. Truly. It’s never felt like this. He didn’t even know it could feel like this — so perfect, so right — until you. The rightness of it all is so intense he almost comes then and there, biting his lip so hard he tastes copper on his tongue.

The clench of you around him is raw and startling, forcing stars behind his eyelids with each blink. There’s a brief, stunned silence when Jake finally pulls his hips back, like neither of you quite believe it. There’s nothing between you like this, no clear distinction between your body and his. Your hands skim his back, delicately tracing the column of his spine with your nails, careful, venerating, plump lips apart as your eyes meet.

Before he knows it, he’s thrusting all the way back in, one smooth, desperate stroke. A half-gasp, half-sob cry of his name comes out of you, unravelling him entirely as your legs wrap around his hips. Breath staggered, shallow, he tries to keep his cool, letting his mouth find your neck—trailing the distance from top to bottom. Four kisses long. 

Not bothering to suppress his own moans and whimpers, he sets a steady rhythm, relieved that you seem to be enjoying this as much as him, mewling and clawing at his skin. Trembling, gasping, you — cut and pasted from his dreams — pull him in and the need to spend forever like this consumes him. With another cry of his name, you tense around him, head tipping back into the pillows as your orgasm hits. And he’s right there with you, skin burning from the inside out as he falls apart, gasping your name when he comes, filling you up. 

He doesn’t move right away — he’s not sure if he can — staying on top of you while you card your fingers through his hair, panting. As his heartbeat steadies, he leans up on his palms. You look at him, all soft and sleepy and perfect, still catching your breath. 

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling. 

“Hey, baby.” 

Neither of you seem to be in any rush to move, so he rolls you onto your sides, all tangled up and face to face. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before curling into his chest, your skin damp and hot. Bowing his head, Jake offers a silent prayer—not seeking forgiveness, but giving thanks. 

A week goes by as usual—football, uni, seeing you. No pestilence or famine. No mark of the beast branded on his chest. Two suspiciously placed pimples on his forehead that have not sprouted into horns. No vehicular retribution. So far, no smiting.

The spring sun sets slowly, pinkening Jake’s wall through the cracks in his blinds. He has the apartment to himself while Sunghoon’s at training, so he’s making the most of his alone time. Head on pillow, phone in hand, switching through apps every few minutes as it nears time for him to leave. It’s a dangerous game, his favourite perhaps — doomscrolling time in bed — one that typically ends with him missing his plans, or staying up into all hours of the night watching Cole Palmer edits, and eighty-seven part Tiktok storytimes.

Tonight’s plan — every Wednesday night’s plan — is Bible study at church. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to go, honestly, he’s looking forward to it. It’s just that Chelsea played Arsenal yesterday, and won, so the edits are extra good, hot off the press and populating his for you page. Jesus would understand, surely. Would do the same, probably. As it stands, he’s watched this one edit of Palmer’s last-minute goal four times, and finds himself reciting, City’s boy is Chelsea’s man, with the commentator as your name pops up on his screen. A phone call. 

“Jakey, hey,” you say, voice so sweet his lips curl up. “Can I see you? In like, an hour, maybe?”

“Are you alright?” 

You hum in response. “Just want to see you.”

Something about the words, their softness, sincerity, knocks the wind out of him. He clears his throat, pulling the phone from his ear to check the time. 18:30. His stomach flutters, his heart racing, suddenly struck by your absence as if he hadn’t realised he was alone. A voice he’s gotten good at tuning out reminds him that he already missed church this week because he slept in, so he should at least go to study tonight. 

“I have Bible study in an hour, and it’s on until like half eight, but I’m free after that.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, and you sound so genuinely perturbed by this news that he has to fight a smile. “Jimin and I are having the girls over at nine.” 

“Thirty minutes is plenty,” he points out.

You sigh. “I don’t mean sex, Jake. I just.. want to spend time with you,” you say softly, “I’m kind of missing the friends part of this whole thing.” 

Jake shifts against his pillow, a pit in his stomach. He frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, yeah, I’m sorry. Of course.” The words come out quickly, tripping over his tongue. “I’m all yours tomorrow, I have nothing on,” he says, only slightly lying—he has football training in the evening. 

“I’m not free until Sunday..” You trail off. “What if I come to your Bible study? Can I do that?” 

A slow moment passes while he considers this. You? Come to Bible study? “But you’re.. an atheist.” 

“So what? If your church friends are as hot as you, I’d like to see for myself.” 

“They aren’t, but I’m happy you said that.” This is.. only slightly untrue. If you ask Jake, his church friends are hotter than him. In a silent prayer, he wishes ill on Mark Lee and Hamada Asahi. Nothing major, of course, just enough that they can’t make it tonight—an itchy throat, runny nose. Anaphylactic shock, maybe. 

“Do I have to dress up or anything?”

He shakes his head even though you can’t see. “You can wear whatever you want, it’s casual. Do you need a ride?”

“A ride home, maybe?” you say, sounding unsure. “I’m out right now.”

“What are you doing?”

You hesitate, stumbling over your words to say, “I’m—uh—I’m looking at records with Heeseung.” 

This information makes Jake’s stomach tense—just a little. Lee Heeseung. Tall. Older. Freakishly handsome. Sits at the friends-you’ve-kissed table with Jake. And Jaehyun. And Yizhuo. An—have any of your friends gone unkissed? Sigh. He feels significantly unspecial. 

“Oh..” he offers, trailing off, unsure what to make of that. “Find anything cool?” 

“Like you won’t believe!” The excitement in your voice is not lost to the phone, in fact, it’s so clear he can picture you rocking on your feet as you speak. He grins at the thought, distracted enough not to worry about when Heeseung graduated from drunken makeout to sober hangout. “Okay, I have to go, but I’ll see you in an hour!” 

Jake laughs on an exhale. “See you in an hour.”

With the end of the call, his Palmer edit starts again, and Jake falls back into the for you page like nothing happened. Edit after edit, each more creative than the last slip by at the swipe of a thumb, but now he’s starting to think that maybe he should wash his hair before he sees you, and you know, put on a suit, or something. In a casual way. Hair washed. Suit on hanger. It only takes four tries to settle on the perfect hoodie and baggy jeans, and with a spritz of his good cologne, he leaves the flat. 

It’s colder out than he’d like, the March chill nipping at him as he sits on the church steps, worsened he’s sure by his lack of a jacket. He prays you had the foresight to wear a jacket. If you didn’t—well, there’s not much he can do if you didn’t. Why didn’t he bring one for you? Jake sighs, breath clouding in front of him like smoke. Logically, he knows he’d be better off waiting in his car or inside, but he’s glued to the spot. What if you get lost? What if you miss the massive, traditional cathedral with the steeple and the steps? Or his car in the parking lot? What if you somehow miss all of those things located at the address he sent you? 

Bible study starts in ten minutes, but time stops when he sees you. Wearing a jacket, zipped all the way up to your chin. He exhales, relieved, a part of him unravelling. Before he realises, he’s jogging over, pulling you into a hug. He can’t resist breathing you in — all soft vanilla and coconut — glad to see you. Your arms loop around his neck, hands — ice cold — on his skin, making him shiver. You pull back, just a touch, and press your lips to his cheek in a soft kiss. Jake stiffens, his breath catching as the warmth of your lips lingers on his skin. 

As you walk ahead towards the church, he can’t stop focusing on the spot where your lips brushed his skin, resisting the urge to reach up and touch it. You’ve been talking, he realises, and he hasn’t heard a word—a distant hum until he catches the question in your voice.

“What did you say?” he asks, eyes flicking up towards you as you turn to face him on the steps. 

You’re a whole head taller like this, gaze trailing over every inch of his face. “Are you alright? You look a little sick.” 

Jake forces a smile, nodding. “All good,” he says, trying to convince himself more than you. 

He moves ahead, deliberately putting space between you, avoiding any chance for you to press further. His stomach flutters when you take his hand, the touch small, soft, but he smiles nonetheless as you give it a gentle squeeze. The foyer is empty when you arrive, but the murmur of voices from the Parish hall reaches his ears, grounding him. 

Jake holds the door open, gesturing for you to go in first as he follows behind you, taking stock of the room. No Asahi (thank gosh), but Mark is here, beaming, talking to—is that Park Jihoon? Back from college? Today? (What the fuck???) Sunghoon, at least, is a grounding sight, a sigh of relief slipping out of Jake when he sees him—sitting with.. Kim Chaewon? Of ‘Park Sunghoon, you’re dead to me,’ fame. Incredible. Somehow, your being here is the least surprising part of this whole affair. 

Sunghoon grins when he sees Jake, but he jumps from his seat seeing you, and jogs across the room to say hi. Much to Chaewon’s displeasure, he throws his arms around you, and Jake sees her eye twitch. With his hands on your shoulders, Sunghoon looks at you like it’s been years, genuine delight on his face. “I hope you feel blessed tonight, really.” 

Jake eyes his friend, trying to suss him out, but he can’t discern the source of his elation, which makes him wary. If he knows his friend—Sunghoon’s happiness is coming at Jake’s expense. 

“May God bless you, Jake.”

He can’t help rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Mr Chaewon.” 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon says wearily, shaking his head. 

Jake’s brows touch his hairline, hardly believing his ears. He leans in, asking quietly. “You’re not sleeping with her?” 

“Okay, yeah, it’s exactly what it looks like.” Sunghoon scratches the back of his neck, excusing himself before going back to his seat and leaning toward Chaewon, whispering something in her ear that makes her smile. 

Quiet lingers in Sunghoon’s absence, just long enough for Mark to come over, elated, as he daps him up. “Hey, man! Good to see you,” he says, grinning. He means it. It really is good — for Mark — to see Jake. And to think, Jake had been praying for this guy’s demise just an hour ago. Guilty, embarrassed, he echoes Mark’s sentiment, smiling at this ray of sunshine man in front of him. 

“I’m Mark,” he says, extending a hand for you to shake. He repeats your name when you say it, nodding, that warm smile on his sweet face. “Thank you for coming, I’m so glad you made it,” stupid, charming Mark continues, still holding onto your hand. 

You lean up to Jake’s ear when Mark leaves, whispering. “I thought you said your church friends were a bunch of ugly, incel freaks.”

He snorts, eyes on his shoes. “They are.” 

“Mark definitely isn’t.” 

“He’s abstaining,” Jake blurts out, looking around to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear. “Which is fine,” he adds, trying to play it off. His gaze catches on Jihoon and his new college biceps, and in a panic, he stumbles over his words trying to deter you from him too. “And Jihoon.. well..” Jake’s voice falters. A pause. “He’s in love with Mark.”

“How convenient.” You roll your eyes, sitting down in the empty seat behind you. “Who’s Jihoon?”

Jake shakes his head, checking his phone as he sits. “Nobody.” 

Hoon: You brought her to Bible study bro?

Jake: She wanted to come

Hoon: You picked a good night, I’m excited to get into tonight’s study! 

Hoon: Godspeed, brother. Amen. 

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks his phone into his pocket. Beside him, you shift a little, your knee bumping his. 

Mark clears his throat, pulling Jake’s attention back to the circle. “Is there anyone who wants to say a prayer to get us started?” he asks, looking around the room. 

From the other side of the circle, Sunghoon’s hand shoots up, and Jake has to stop himself from sighing in relief. Some of the other more.. enthusiastic members of the church pray for a while, but Sunghoon has a certain way of getting to the point. Bowing his head, he clasps his hands neatly in his lap. “Dear, Lord. Thank you for bringing us here safely this evening,” he starts, voice steady and sincere. “Please bless the study we’re about to take part in and help us to understand. Thank you for touching Jake’s heart and allowing him to bring a friend, may she be filled by your word.” He pauses, clearing his throat. 

At this, Jake steals a glance up, eyes flicking to Sunghoon, only to see him staring already, a wide grin on his face. What the Hell? Jake’s stomach twists as he looks away, focuses on his hands in his lap, the white-knuckled grip he has on his pant legs. 

“In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”

A resounding amen follows, and when Jake looks at you, you’re shooting Sunghoon a thumbs up like he just delivered the prayer of the century—not a terrifying snippet of what the night might entail if he has anything to do with it. In his seat, Sunghoon crosses one leg over the other with a smirk, winking at Jake.

Who needs enemies with a best friend like this?

“Uh, thank you for that, Sunghoon,” Mark says, taking a seat. “Jake, can I ask you to open 1 Corinthians 6:18, and read it out for us?” 

“Of course.” 

Jake ignores Sunghoon’s eyes on him as he pulls out his phone, searching for the verse in his Bible app. 1 Corinthians. Perfect. He’s at ease, trying to remember its exact wording, something about how love is patient and kind. Sunghoon was right, with a study topic like this — light, inoffensive — tonight is a good night to have brought you along. Who knows? Maybe divine intervention will have you confessing your undying love for him before the night’s over. 

He sits up straighter in his seat when he finds it, smiling. “Reading from the New International Version, 1 Corinthians 6.18: Flee from sexual immorality—” Wait. What? Jake stops short, his stomach dropping. He skims the rest of the verse and offers a silent prayer, suggesting to Jesus that now is a perfect time for His second coming—you know, if He’s planning on it. Amen. There’s a choked-off snicker from the other side of the circle. Sunghoon.

“Uh—sorry. Going on.” Jake clears his throat, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.” 

Before he has a chance to lock his phone or launch himself out the window, Jihoon starts speaking. “I think it goes without saying that this is not a space for judgment. Everyone’s journey is their journey and no one here is without sin.” 

“Exactly, Hoon,” Mark says, nodding. “So now that I’ve scared you all into abstinence, is there anyone who wants to talk about what they think that verse might mean?” 

Silence. Everyone glances at each other, waiting for someone else to speak. No one does. 

Mark exhales, slumping in his seat. “Really? Nothing? Great. Well—uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to the ceiling as if God might come down and help him out. Maybe even rapture him. That could be cool, and Jake could maybe be raptured next. “Look, I didn’t pick this topic to scare anyone. I mean, I don’t even pick the topics—there’s a whole timetable, and, well.. some of your parents are freaking out about you.” His mouth twists like he shouldn’t have said that. “Anyway—that’s not the point. What I mean is..” 

He straightens up, trying again. “If you don’t want to wait, that’s your choice. I’m not here to judge anybody—it wouldn’t be fair. And honestly? I think there are ways to have sex that can honour your body, you know? Staying safe, using protection, getting tested. Being clear about consent, setting boundaries, being open with your partner.” 

Mark’s words hang in the air, oddly light, completely unexpected—quieting the uncertainty in Jake’s head for the first time in weeks. Sex as an act of honour to the body. Not negative, nor neutral, but.. positive. That this idea could exist at all, never mind be voiced in church of all places, seems so absurd that he looks around the circle to see if anyone else is as surprised as him—but they aren’t. 

“It’s about making choices that protect you — emotionally and physically — while respecting whoever you’re with.” Into the silence that follows, Mark clasps his hands together. “How about we wrap things up here, and go home early, huh?” More silence. “Great. Okay. Does anyone have any prayer requests? Anything they want to thank God for?” 

It takes a while, but mentions of sudden illness and new jobs go in one of Jake’s ears and out the other as Mark prepares to say the closing prayer, and Jake hardly realises everyone’s standing up and moving their seats until you nudge him. 

“You okay?” 

Clearing his throat, Jake nods, stacking your chair on top of his and adding them to pile in the corner of the room. He introduces you as his friend to a seemingly unending carousel of the nosey people he grew up around. Of course, you already know Sunghoon, and Chaewon is extremely pleasant when she realises you’re not vying for his attention. 

In his car, you tell Jake about the records you found—loads of folk stuff, first-press hip-hop LPs from the mid-’90s, obscure bootlegs people had brought in going for dirt cheap. You didn’t get anything, but it was a great trip. Heeseung got this insane home-pressing of songs by Laufey and the Black Eyed Peas for the girl he’s seeing. When Jake parks the car, you show him the picture you took of the jacket—a poorly Photoshopped monstrosity of the Monkey Business cover with Laufey’s face over all the members. 

“We’ll have to go together when you have time.” You shake your head, laughing. “Oh, and thanks for letting me crash—it can’t have been easy having the Whore of Babylon sitting next to you, but I had fun tonight. It was funny.”

“Funny?” Jake repeats. 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I don’t know, it just seemed like Mark was trying to be nice about the whole.. premarital sex is damning thing.” 

The thought doesn’t even make him cringe. No pit in his stomach. Steady heartbeat. Is he.. cured? 

Jake hums. “He was, wasn’t he?” A mumble, spoken more to himself. 

“Don’t you find that phrase sort of funny? Premarital sex—as opposed to the pure and moral matrimonial sex.” You laugh, head falling back against the headrest. “I’m not trying to be rude about it or anything, I just find it amusing.”

Shaking his head, Jake smiles. “No, I know.” A beat. “I think I do too.” He means it. 

You reach for your seatbelt, pressing the button and taking it off. Jake does the same, hesitating before reaching for the door handle. “Are you free next weekend?” he asks, chewing on his lip.

“Yeah, how come?” 

“I’m going fishing with my dad, and he was wondering if you’d want to join us.” 

“Your dad was wondering, but..” You trail off, looking out over his shoulder, like you’re checking for pedestrians or anyone else who might behold your Jake-related vulnerability. “Do you want me there?” 

“You know I do.” 

Turning your body to face him, you lean against the door. “Mm.” A sage nod. “But I want you to tell me.” 

“You mean a lot to me, so it would mean a lot if you came with us.” Jake takes your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I really want you there.” 

At this, your gaze falls to your linked hands, fingers intertwined in your lap. Holding his breath, he waits for your response, half-expecting you to brush him off, roll your eyes. Traffic flows outside, heavy, Jake thinks, for this time on a Wednesday evening. More quiet—too many clumsy beats passing to count. 

Finally, your eyes find his, a smile on your lips, voice soft under the hum of cars passing in the street. “You mean a lot to me too.”

The lake house—his dad’s childhood home. Unchanged. Perfect. Dark wood floors that bear the scuffs of time—some from Jake’s own football boots as a child, others older, carved by lives before his. Faint scent of saltwater and old books with cracked spines. Frozen in time, but not untouched. 

Three months have passed already since Christmas, the last time he and his parents were here. No gifts, no tree, just shit films and quality time. But the lake house always strikes him anew. The fleeting nature of this solid structure, this sanctuary where his father had been a boy. Eight-year-old handprints immortalised in the patio concrete, height marked on the living room doorway. The boy in the photos that Jake will never meet, though looks exactly like—his broad-nosed, full-lipped father.

Your voice is sudden over his shoulder. “Whoa.” Jake almost flinches despite its softness. He can’t believe you’re here. 

“Yeah,” he utters, finally looking at you. 

Jake has never dared to imagine you here, worried it wouldn’t ever live up to the real thing. And he was right. His heart stutters like a skipped stone. In your winter coat, chin hiding under your fluffy scarf, hair frizzed on the left side from where you’d slept against it in the car. The spread of the trees, vastness of the lake peeking through them, all framed by the open door behind you like something from a postcard.

Jake carries your bags upstairs, and you follow, getting a tour. The master bedroom is the last stop—queen-sized bed, en-suite bathroom, a space meant for two. You’ll be sharing it for the night—news that would mortify his mother if she found out. A thought that, only in theory, delights Jake. 

In the kitchen, you prep ingredients for dinner while discussing Gatsby—his dad’s favourite. Materialism. Affluence. The American Dream. The excitement is mutual. You, eager to pick his brain. His dad, grateful for an audience more responsive than his students. Jake listens in silence, peeling carrots—heart warmed by the ease with which you converse. Comfortable, unmarred by years apart. 

“Gatsby could’ve had anything he wanted in the world—but he never got to have Daisy,” his dad says, checking the fridge. 

You hum in response, a soft sound of disagreement. “He had Daisy in some ways, I suppose,” you offer, sounding hopeful, seeking approval, Jake thinks.

“I think that might be more tragic than if he’d never had her at all.” 

In the corner of his eye, Jake sees you tilting your head, brows furrowed. His dad laughs, not mean-spirited, no, an endeared sound he remembers from childhood—too scared to get back on his bike after his first fall; first wobbly tooth wrenched from his mouth by his own hand. 

“A taste doesn’t make a meal, sweetheart—it just leaves you hungry,” he says after a moment. 

In the same split second that Jake looks up at you, your eyes flick over to his. He can’t be hungry forever, surely not, that would just be cruel. His stomach curls in on itself at the thought. For a single, fully indulgent second, he lets himself believe that you might be hungry for him too. 

“Jesus, kid,” his dad says suddenly, gripping Jake’s wrist and dragging him towards the sink. “You’re bleeding.” 

Surprised, Jake blinks down at his hand, vivid red spilling from his index finger down the drain—carrot still half-peeled and bloodied.

“Fuck, Jaeyun,” his dad goes on. “That could’ve been really nasty. Are you alright?”

Jake only nods, distantly hearing his dad tell you where to find the first aid kit. Your footsteps disappear upstairs. Quickly, the stinging behind his eyelids turns into a pathetic flow of tears, his shoulders wracking as his dad wraps an arm around him. A kiss to the top of his head. “You’re alright, kid. Everything’s going to be alright.”

He doesn’t want to be hungry anymore. 

All thanks to Jake’s little episode, the two of you are banished from the kitchen, and decide to take a walk. His feet lead you toward the dock, and you light up—jogging ahead, eager to reach the water. Standing at the edge, swaying, wind whipping your hair around your head. Leaning forward, you point out a green shed in the distance. A smile in your voice. “East Egg,” you say happily. 

Jake remembers enough from the film to at least understand this reference, smiling too. “Alright, Mr Gatsby.” He wraps a protective arm around your waist, pulling you back. “That’s enough, baby, you’ll fall in.” 

You laugh, turning in his hold. He’s hooked on your lips, their shape, how they part to form your words. “I do say, Old Sport.” You start. “You’re looking rather flushed.” 

Air flees from his lungs, stolen. You — his Daisy — wrapped up in his arms, palms flat on his chest. Everything he wants, but can’t have. Tragic maybe. But wasn’t Gatsby brave, at least, to want in spite of what was feasible? Isn’t Jake? He shakes his head slightly, clearing the thought—you are not Daisy, nor is he Gatsby. There need not be tragedy here. 

For a second too long, your gaze lingers on his lips—you’re waiting for a kiss that you won’t initiate. Everything about this moment feels primed for it. Alone on the water, the steady crash of lake against rock, virtually no space between you. But he’s stuck. Unmoving. The wind stings his ears. You shiver, teeth chattering before you press your lips together. Jake can feel the window shutting, but still, he does nothing. 

Clearing your throat, you blink up at him. “Let’s head back, Jakey. We’ll freeze to death out here.” 

Jake opens his mouth. Falters. Then, softer than he means to, he asks, “Will you kiss me?” The words startle him, borrowed from you and that night—almost two months ago now. 

You nod, smiling. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the curl of your fingers around his jacket, the tipping of your chin. The steady, certain, press of your lips on his. Relief crashes into him, unfurling the tension in his chest. Warmth, soft and overwhelming all at once, sinking into his skin.

By the time you get back from the dock, dinner is almost ready—late lunch, really. Budae jjigae curling through the air, filling the house completely. The three of you eat together at the table, conversation weaving in and out between bites. Jake eats like it’s his first meal in ages, tearing into the steaming jjigae like it might disappear.

Full to the point of fatigue, he washes the dishes and sinks into the couch, head resting against the cushions, limbs loose and heavy with contentment. He twists the cuff of your sleeve between his fingers when you cuddle into his side, nursing a glass of water. In the armchair, as always, is his dad, book open in his lap, though he’s hardly reading. You keep pulling him into conversation, peppering him with questions about lecturing you must have been holding onto for years. 

Eventually, the wind settles, and armed with fishing rods, and bait his dad picked up on the drive over, the three of you make your way back to the dock. Empty-handed, you run off ahead, giddy laughter, and a called out, come on, over your shoulder.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” his dad says fondly, gaze lingering on Jake. “You haven’t either.”

He gives him a curious look. “Is that a good thing?” 

A shrug, warmth in his dad’s eyes. “I think so.”

On the dock, Jake kneels by the tackle box, patient as ever as he shows you how to hook the bait, and hold the rod steady. His voice is quiet, calm, guiding your hands with his own until you get the hang of it. Following his instructions, you take it quickly, your cast smooth—a smile in his dad’s voice when he tells Jake you’re a natural. Pride swells in his chest as if the compliment was for him. Your line tugs almost immediately, breath catching in your throat as Jake scrambles over to you, an incredulous laugh from over his shoulder. 

“You’ve got one!” he calls out, more excited than you are. “Reel it in, you have to reel it in!” 

You fumble a little bit, but get it when you calm down. A flash of silver breaks the surface, water scattering in drops. Jake grins from ear to ear, like you’ve made the biggest catch of the season. Or at least caught something slightly more inspiring than a fifteen centimetre ssogari. 

His dad chuckles, clapping you on the back. “Wow, sweetheart. Great job!” he says, nodding affectionately. 

With some help, you hold up your catch, shaking with excitement — fear, maybe — while Jake snaps a photo, capturing the moment and sharing it with Sunghoon. 

Jake: Baby’s first catch 😭😭😭😭😭

Hoon: So cute, no way !!! Where’s yours? 

Hoon: Bring me next time I miss your hot dad :( 

Jake furrows his brows, locks his phone without replying, and turns back to you. 

“Are we going to cook it?” you ask, curiosity piqued. 

“Uh, no.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “We just look at them for a bit and then put them back.”

It’s a busy day in the water apparently, for you and Jake’s dad at least. Jake, for all his enthusiasm, catches nothing—the fish did not choose him this weekend. Eventually, as the sun starts to dip, you all pack up, leaving the water behind in exchange for something warmer. 

In the garden, the night settles over you, thick with cold as the fire pit does what it can to fight off the chill. Flames flicker, snapping into the quiet, soundtracking your laughter and stories, the smell of smoke curling around you. In the seat beside Jake, your arms are wrapped around his, your head resting on his shoulder. His dad across the fire, its glow catching in the lines of his face, softening them and showing off his fond smile. 

Eventually, Jake’s dad rises, brushing off his hands with a yawn. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Jake’s head, and one to yours. A quiet goodnight, familiar, unhurried. In the doorway, he pauses, pointing a finger at his son. “Make sure the fire’s all the way out before you go to bed, okay?” 

Nodding, Jake wishes him a goodnight again. Through the glass door, his dad moves through the kitchen, checking the sockets before flicking the light off, and disappearing down the hall. Resting his head on top of yours, he exhales. “You want another drink?” 

“No, thank you.” You lift your half-full can, cider sloshing noisily. “I’m good, baby.” 

Jake gets up, stretching his arms and legs before heading into the house, enveloped by the quiet of the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge, harsh light spills across the tiles as he reaches for a beer. Cold beads of condensation slip against his fingers, a relief as he lifts it, presses it to his cheeks to quell the heat blooming there. Baby. He giggles. Will he ever get used to that? 

Opening his can, he sits back down and kisses your temple. A sip of beer warms his insides, he looks at you and smiles. “Did you have fun today?”

You nod eagerly, then seem to think better of it. Tilting your head. Pursing your lips. “I’m a little disappointed though.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He arches his brow, leaning back in his seat. “How so?” 

Your lips twitch. “It’s stupid but I guess I had it in my head that you were like—I don’t know, actually good at fishing, or something. But wow, Jakey.. You suck.” 

“Ever heard of beginner’s luck?” he says, rolling his eyes, too endeared by you and the grin on your lips to bite back. “You’re lucky I like you too much to take that personally.” 

A suggestive lift of your brow, a smug smile. “Oh, so you like me, huh?” 

Briefly, Jake entertains the thought of telling you — finally fucking telling you — that he like-likes you. It seems simple enough, only three words. Four technically if he says ‘like-like’ out loud the way a child might. He watches you, searching—do you already know? And if you don’t, and he tells you, will anything change? 

Firelight flickers over your face. Jake shrugs. “Yeah, quite a lot, actually.”

Chuckling, you bring your cider to your lips and take a long, slow sip. Over the edge of the illustrated can, you eye him. Gaze steady. Unnerving. Like you’re in on something he’s not. 

You shrug. 

Reaching out, his fingers curl around your wrist, gently lowering the can. His lips find yours, soft, insistent. Pineapple and raspberry, artificial and sweet, from your tongue onto his. He hums against your mouth, a quiet, come here, before pulling you in, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him easily, arms draped over his shoulders. The kiss deepens, slow at first, then desperate as heat pools in his stomach. 

Hands mapping skin through your layers, fingertips pressing, still curious, eager after so long. Your chests rise and fall in sync when you pull away, trembling breath clouding together in the cool air. Blinking down at him, an expression he can’t read takes over your face. “You really like me?” you whisper. Your question clarifies the look on your face—expectant, waiting for an answer he’s scared to give. 

As he sees it, there are only two ways for this to go—worst case: you laugh, cackle, call him insane for thinking he has a chance with you; best case: his confession doesn’t repulse you. Clearing his throat, he tries to calm the storm in his chest. “I do,” he says after too long, startling himself with his volume. 

You don’t take off running for the hills, which he can only assume is a good thing. Instead, you smile. Cradling his face in your hands and kissing him. Then, movement. Slow shift of your hips back and forth against his—maddening. Press of chest to chest, hushed moans shared between you. A kind of tender desire that turns the cold night sweltering. 

After too long, dazed and sleepy — fire extinguished — the two of you giggle, hand in hand, all the way upstairs. Brushing your teeth together in the en-suite, letting peppermint kisses turn warm and lazy as you pull Jake into the shower with you. 

He pinkens in the heat, warm water slipping over your bodies in rivulets. Skin sliding over skin, pressed together. Steam curls, fogging the glass. Hands on your cheeks, holding your face to his—lips locked. Slow, lazy, taking his time. Trying his best to make the morning last forever like this. Kissing. Smiling. Your fingers card through his hair, tugging the wet strands, pulling groans from his mouth into yours. 

Breathless, he pulls away, tucking his head against your neck. His arms fall around your waist, keeping you close. Noses along the sensitive skin there, inhaling your shower gel—syrupy sweet, so painfully you. He presses his lips together to keep from saying something stupid. Your touch is delicate, tender, on the back of his head, fingers curling around the overgrown locks at the nape of his neck. 

It’s unfair to be going home so soon, the shortest trip of his life. Behind closed eyes, Jake can’t help picturing weeks here in the summer with you. Long days spent swimming in the lake. Short nights spent cuddling despite the heat. Sunscreen on hot skin. Aloe vera on burns. Tan lines and salt air. Summer. He’d be your boyfriend by then, right? 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper.

He kisses your damp skin. “Just say the word and I’ll bring you back, baby.” His voice is low, muffled into the base of your neck. “In the summer, maybe? We can stay for ages if you want.” 

Saying it out loud, this partial voicing of his thoughts for you to hear, summer feels much bigger than just a word, a season. Much bigger than anything he can imagine. An almost confession. A promise to you. To himself. He clears his throat, feeling exposed. 

Your eyes are wide when he looks at you again, cupping his face in your palm, thumb stroking his cheek. You lean up, pressing your swollen lips to his. “Summer,” you repeat, smiling.

Jake doesn’t sleep, he’s not sure if he could if he tried. He’s laying there, flat on his back, your head warm and sleepy on his chest. His fingers move absently through your hair, slow and repetitive, more for him than for you. Your breathing is steady, relaxing him. A thought comes to mind—the sunrise. He shifts carefully, not wanting to wake you yet as he reaches for his phone. 05:47. Smoothing his palm over your shoulder, he whispers your name. You only hum in response, stirring. 

“Come on,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I want to show you something.” 

“The sun isn’t even up yet,” you grumble into his skin, eyes still shut. 

“That’s the point.” His voice is gentle but insistent. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your temple. “It’ll be worth it, baby.”

You groan, rolling away from him, face in the pillow. “Fine.” And as if in protest of the early morning, you don’t say much else. You do let him help you into your jacket though, smiling as he zips it up and kisses your forehead. 

Hand in hand, the two of you trudge slowly along the trail, footsteps soft in the grass. Saltwater and pine fill the air, seeming stronger in the waning dark. Finally, through the trees, the lake unfolds, a glassy mirror of the brightening sky above, day’s first light stretched thin over the horizon.  

When you reach the rocks, you whisper, “Whoa.” Taking a seat next to Jake, pulling your knees to your chest and leaning into him when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. 

The sky splits open above your heads, dawn unfurling in soft brushstrokes of pink and orange. A dreamlike shimmer in the water—silken ripples of gold rolling towards the shore, crashing against the dock. The hues grow deeper and more vibrant, shifting quickly before his eyes. For years, this sunrise has been his favourite view. But now, with you sitting in it, soft and golden, hair ruffled from sleep and the wind? Fuck—he couldn’t think of anything better if he tried. 

Whispering, he asks, “Worth it?” 

You turn to him, eyes soft, smiling. “Very.” You let a long beat of silence pass before asking. “How many hookups have you brought here, Jakey?” Your voice is soft, a little more than curious. 

Breathless, Jake laughs, suddenly nervous as if there’s a right and a wrong answer. “Hookups aren’t really my thing,” he admits, shaking his head. “So, zero.” 

Your brow lifts, sceptical, but you don’t press. Not immediately, anyway. You even let Jake turn back to the water, following his gaze when he nods towards the horizon, and mumbles, look. You let the colour bloom for so long he thinks you’ve dropped it. 

You haven’t. “Are you lying to me?” you ask quietly. 

“You of all people should know I wouldn’t even kiss someone, never mind hookup with them, if I wasn’t losing my mind over them.” The words slip out before he can stop them, before he can think better of it. If you’re overthinking what he said, you don’t show it. 

He doesn’t have anything more to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. But in his peripheral, you’re still watching him. There’s something in your eyes he can’t decipher. At least not correctly. It reads love. It reads you want him how he wants you, and it’s disarming. 

A while passes before Jake is ready to speak, his voice coming out softer than he means for it to. “What’s up?” 

“It’s—” You cut yourself off, looking around. Amused, hesitant somehow, as you laugh—soft, and content, and nervous, he thinks. “Your dad thinks we’re together, you know,” you tell him eventually. 

Jake puts a lot of effort into keeping his eyes from rolling, knowing exactly what his dad is up to. The prospect of his dad acting as a wingman is both relieving and mortifying. He arches his brow. “Together how?”

You sniff, eyes on his. “He thinks you’re my boyfriend, and I didn’t correct him.” 

For a second, he forgets how to breathe, heart hammering against his ribs. Brain scrambling to catch up with you and what you just said about not correcting him. A thousand questions threaten to spill out at once, but none of them make it past his lips. Why not? Do you want that? Do you want me? It would be easier, he’s sure, to say nothing and kiss you instead. But your eyes are still on his, steady, not giving anything away, and he has to ask, voice low, cautious. “Are you going to correct him?”

“Do I need to?” You sound so calm, so relaxed about it all that Jake’s skin heats under your gaze. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Then no,” you say, smiling—small but certain, like you’ve made up your mind. Like you made up your mind long before this conversation. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw. “I’m not going to correct him.” 

And before he can reply, your lips are on his. Soft. Gentle. Everything he wants for the rest of his life.

By the time you make it back — boyfriend and girlfriend, hand in hand — Jake’s dad is sitting on the couch, curled around a cup of coffee and his book. He’s smiling, eyes gleaming as he makes a joke, something about the love bird catching the worm, and Jake is too happy to do anything but grin from ear to ear as you hide your face in his chest. 

Upstairs, you share the shower, eager hands tracing dips and curves innocently until you leave with pruned fingers. Skincare, then moisturiser, then clothes. Stolen kisses whenever he has the chance. Jake’s dad is flipping pancakes at the stove when you get to the kitchen, forbidden bacon crackling beside him. Despite his best efforts, morning slips into afternoon with no regard for what he wants. Breakfast is eaten. Bags are packed. Your lips have been sufficiently kissed. It’s time to leave already. 

The drive is fine, uneventful mostly, until his dad pulls into a rest stop. “Alright, everybody out. Stretch your legs, use the toilet if you need,” he says, cutting the engine. 

You rush out of the car, yelling, one minute, over your shoulder as you run towards the building. Standing by the passenger door, Jake stretches his arms above his head, exhaling long and slow. Over the car’s roof, his dad clears his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you—about your mum.” He hesitates, then says, quieter, “I love you, son. We both love you so much. I’m on your side, okay? You’re my only son, Jaeyun.” 

Jake’s arms drop. He feels silly for having them up at all. Overwhelmed, he nods once, sniffing. “I love you, Dad.” 

Smiling, his dad gets back into the car and Jake follows. Hardly a moment passes before he sees you through the windscreen, running back, so beautiful and all his—finally, actually his. Your eyes are sparkling when you open the door. 

“They had these awesome keychains at the gift shop—look, Mr. Sim, it’s an angler!” You thrust the plush fish toward him, grinning like you caught it with your bare hands. 

A chuckle, hand squishing it. Jake’s dad ruffles your hair, a gesture so familiar, so lived in, that Jake can’t shake the feeling that he’s dreaming. The fondness in his dad’s smile is overwhelming. “That’s great, sweetheart. I love it,” he says, voice thick with pride—again, like you caught the fish with your bare hands. 

“It’s yours.”

“Oh, I can’t accept this.”

“Mr. Sim, it’s a keychain that cost me a pound, not real estate.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “I actually got one for all of us. My father never took me on any kind of trip, so..” 

At the mention of your father, Jake’s jaw tightens. His fist clenches in his lap, memories pressing in—too many nights spent comforting you over the phone, or sneaking out to do it in person. A quiet beat passes, stretched taut and straining at the edges, your words lingering, heavier than you probably meant them to be. Closing his fingers around the keychain, his dad clears his throat before he speaks, firm and sincere. “The three of us can go wherever you want, alright?” 

You don’t say anything, but your nod is enough. And with a small smile at Jake, you hand him a matching angler, fingers brushing his. He can’t resist bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

From the driver’s seat, a quiet exhale. “Now’s as good a time as any I suppose.” Jake’s dad reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out two keys. “Got these cut this morning. It’s ours, kid. Use it whenever you like.” 

Jake feels the cool metal against his skin. Turning it over in his hand as his dad presses the second key into your palm. He can’t look away from it, silver catching the light. No big speech, no song and dance—just his dad extending a promise, sharing this part of him with Jake, and with you. The weight of his uncertainty melts away. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he glances at you, lips twitching up. Safe and familiar, solid and long lasting—the lake house. Yours. His. Ours. A future that doesn’t feel quite so far, or so unattainable anymore.  

EPILOGUE

The lake house. Summer, finally. You’re sitting on the countertop while Jake makes breakfast—a view that has quickly become your favourite.

He reaches up into the cabinet, newly formed muscle shifting under tan skin. Shoulders solid and broad, the visual representation of all the strength he’s been using on you—picking you up and tossing you around like it’s nothing. His hair is still messy from bed, longer than ever and curling around his ears. Plaid pyjama pants sitting low, showing off the love bites staining his hips in pretty blooms of red and purple. 

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. “I know how to scramble an egg,” he says, so long after your comment, you’d forgotten you said anything at all. His voice is low, thick with sleep even though you’ve been up for a while now—he’s definitely playing it up, but you like it too much to complain. 

“I know you do, Jakey. I just—” 

He interrupts you with a kiss, faint peppermint clinging to his lips as he mumbles, “I want to cook for you. Will you let me do that, darling? Please?”

Darling. Your heart does a flip, abrupt and ungraceful. “Fine,” you concede, twirling his hair with your fingers. “But I’m making dinner.”

Jake groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “Right, because I’m an idiot sandwich, and you’re Little Miss Gordon Ramsay.” 

“Mm.” You smile. “Exactly.”  

Nodding, he tips his chin up towards yours until your lips brush. “Yes, Chef,” he says, and it makes you laugh too much to keep on kissing him. But he tries anyway, teeth bumping as you share giggles. Eventually, he gives up, pressing his forehead to yours, hand on your waist. “Going to miss having this place to ourselves.”

You can’t even remember the last time you spent so long away from Jimin, and as much as you’re looking forward to seeing her — and Sunghoon — again, you’d be lying if you said you won’t miss being alone too, and the freedom of walking around the house in varying degrees of undress. A soft smile pulls at your lips. “It’s only one weekend, baby—Hoon has his placement to get back to,” you say, a voice of reason even though you feel the same. 

Two weeks. Two whole perfect weeks with Jake��entire days spent out by the lake. Swimming or reading Emily Henry while he tries to fish. Big hands smoothing sunscreen over your back, plump lips pressing kisses to your tan lines. The press of solid muscle on soft flesh, sweat-slicked skin on sweat-slicked skin. 

Jake’s lips curl into a grin, wide, boyish. So handsome—unbelievably so. “A lot can happen in one weekend.” 

Unfortunately, he raises a good point, but you won’t admit that for him to hear. A lot can happen in one weekend—it did. But it wasn’t the time frame, it was the lake. You’ve deduced it has magical properties. An ability to make days slip into each other, to draw large feelings out before you can properly think them through. Yesterday, while Jake tied your bikini back up — deft fingers slick with the sunscreen he’d just rubbed on your back — you told him that you want this, with him, for the rest of your life. The words tumbled out of you, tugged from your brain by the lake. And so, like any mature twenty-year-old girl would, you promptly rolled off of the dock and into the water, refusing to emerge until it hurt to hold your breath. Jake only smiled when you came back up seconds later, pushed your hair from your face and kissed you. Told you that he wanted it too. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, big brown eyes staring deep into yours. 

“My boyfriend.” It’s a word that still makes your stomach flutter, that hasn’t lost its novelty even after three months. 

“Your boyfriend,” Jake repeats, nodding along. “Mm, handsome guy, I’ve heard. He’s super lucky.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and you can’t help but look away, biting back a smile. “Easily distracted too,” you point out. “He’s burning my breakfast.”

With wide eyes, he glances over his shoulder, a horrified look on his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, turning back to you. He doesn’t move though, only leaning in to kiss you again. His soft lips on yours, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Admittedly, you’d let him kiss you like this forever if it weren’t for the smell of burnt egg — and burgeoning fire hazard — drifting between you. You pull away, shoving his shoulder with a laugh. “Go, Jake.” 

“They’re already burnt.” He shrugs, unconcerned, as a lopsided grin spreads over his lips. “I’ll eat them.” With that, he returns to the stove, turning off the burner and flipping the charred eggs onto a plate.

Outside, you sit at the wooden table Jake built when you first arrived. You’d made an offhand comment, said it might be nice to have breakfast out on the deck, and he went off in search of scrap wood. He was successful, putting together a neat little table for the two of you to eat at—your initials and his etched into the grain, housed in a wonky love heart that gives you butterflies every time you see it. The sun warms your shoulders through one of his t-shirts, your legs crossed in your seat, and his palm heavy on your knee. You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. There’s something about Jake, this way. The patch of raw skin on the bridge of his nose, scattered freckles dusting the centre of his face, faint band of pale skin where his sunglasses have been living recently. Jake. Your Jake. Leaning in, you press a kiss to his soft lips—your local heaven. 

© zreamy (2025), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

extra note: happy zreamy blog birth omgggg my first fic nothing to lose came out two years ago today (apr 3 2023) and i can finally say i've written at least one fic for each member 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ thank u sm to everyone for being so lovely, it means a lot !!! all my love, zo xoxo

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[marauroon]

hellooooo! hope ur doing well :)

could i request a james fic where they are kind of the golden couple in school and everybody either envies them or wants to be like them because they just seem so affectionate when they are with each other and entertaining to be around and not so much of an annoying couple despite the fact they'd probably seem like they would be but when they are alone they are really quiet with their affection and they have quiet love for each other, showing their love with helping each other make pastries or one of them lying their head in the others lap while they read and it's all kind of shocking when the marauders find them quietly reading or something because they seem so hyper and fun but in reality are soo quiet-cuddly. thank you!

── . ☀︎ 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘁. (𝗷.𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿)

you and james love each other loudly. even when there’s nobody else around to see it.

james potter x fem!reader 1.7k fluff masterlist.

AN | the lover boy of all lover boys

You’re used to the stares by now. They start the second you and James step into the corridor, your fingers laced with his like it’s the most natural thing in the world—which, for the two of you, it is.

The stares don’t faze you. They’re always there, the curious glances, wistful smiles, outright envy. You’re the golden couple. The couple. The one that first years whisper about and teachers look at with a kind of nostalgic longing, like maybe they once had what you do and let it slip away.

James Potter at your side, head thrown back in a loud laugh at something daft you just said, is an image burned into half the school’s mind.

You’re not trying to be enviable, honest. It’s just that loving James feels like a loud, bright thing sometimes. Like a firework. He talks too much when he’s around you, makes ridiculous jokes, and doesn't stop grinning. And you’re no better. You talk about him like he hung the stars in the sky—and to be fair, he may as well have.

“You want to know the secret?” you said once to Marlene, when she caught you smiling like an idiot after James kissed your cheek before Transfiguration. “He actually did hang the stars. Or at least, he’d try if I asked him to,”

Marlene rolled her eyes and muttered something like “disgusting”, but she was smiling when she said it.

James carries your books. Always has. Sometimes in his arms, most of the time levitating them just behind you with a casual flick of his wand like it’s second nature. You used to insist on carrying your own things until he said, “But why would you? I want to,” And you melted. That’s how he gets you—he always means it.

It’s always you and him in the Great Hall. James sits so close your knees knock under the table and he steals food from your plate like it’s a basic human right. You’re the kind of couple that never runs out of things to say. Half the time your friends have to tell you both to shut it during dinner. But they don’t really mind. You’re entertaining.

Together, you’re a show—but not a performance. That’s the difference. There’s no artifice. The handholding and the giggling, the way James lifts you into his arms to carry you across the muddy courtyard when it’s raining—none of it’s for anyone else. He just doesn’t want your shoes getting ruined, and he’s strong enough to do something about it.

When you laughed as he twirled you like it was a ballroom and not the entrance steps to the castle, people didn’t roll their eyes. They sighed. Because Merlin, wouldn’t it be nice to be loved like that?

But the thing that really makes you both the “blueprint”, as Sirius once so dramatically called it, is what nobody sees.

Or at least, what they’re not supposed to see.

—

You’re in the Gryffindor common room, curled in your usual corner, and the fire is soft and crackling, casting gold across James’s face. His head is in your lap, his glasses pushed up into his hair. You’re reading. He’s reading. Well, trying to. His eyes flutter closed every few minutes but he insists he’s not tired.

“You’re blinking like a cat,” you whisper, brushing a curl off his forehead.

“M’not,” he mutters, though the slur in his voice betrays him.

You smile, soft and fond, and go back to your book. His breathing evens out moments later.

You know you should wake him, but he looks so peaceful. So quiet. Nobody at school really knows this version of James—the boy who presses kisses to your temple in silence when you’re working on essays, who reads over your shoulder and murmurs corrections without teasing. Who rubs his thumb against the back of your hand absentmindedly, like he needs the contact just to think straight.

When you help him draft his Potions theory or he stays up with you past midnight working on Arithmancy, that’s love too. Not the flashy kind. Not the kind that gets you looks in the corridor or earns you snide comments from Sirius (“For Merlin’s sake, take a breath between sentences, you two,”).

No, this kind is deeper.

It’s in the gentle way James whispers, “You’re brilliant, you know,” when you manage to explain something he’s been struggling with for days.

It’s in the way you always keep a spare quill for him because he never remembers, and the way he always keeps your favourite chocolate in his satchel, just in case you’ve had a rough morning.

There’s something sacred about that kind of love. Quiet. Undemanding. Steady.

—

One afternoon, you and James are in the library, an unlikely occurrence if someone doesn’t know you properly. You’re sitting next to each other, your foot pressed against his shin under the table. There’s an open Charms text in front of you and a notebook filled with both your scrawls. He’s trying to come up with a mnemonic to remember a particularly finicky spell.

“Alright,” he says, tapping his wand against his chin. “Swinemuzzle Ensnare… Memory Eraser… Wormwood. That’s SEW. Sew what?”

“Sew a—” you pause, blinking. “I don’t know, a hat? A memory-hiding hat?”

James grins. “Ridiculous. I love it,”

You both laugh quietly, shoulders shaking, your laughter muffled by the thick library air.

And that’s exactly when the Marauders walk in.

They were probably looking for something—Remus’s notes, a textbook Peter lost, or maybe they just wanted to cause mischief in a new location. But what they find is the two of you hunched over a notebook, James’s hand lightly covering yours where it rests on the page, your eyes scanning lines of text, completely silent.

Sirius rolls his eyes fondly. “Gross, they’re revising together,”

Remus shushes him before Madam Pince can.

You look up, startled by their entrance. James blinks at them like he’s just woken from a nap.

“Oh. Hey, lads,”

Sirius stares at you like he’s seen a hippogriff do ballet.

“Why are you revising?”

James smirks, stretching. “What, you thought I was illiterate?”

“Honestly, sometimes, yeah,”

You snort and close the book. James sits back in his chair, the image of a smug, secretly cuddly boyfriend caught in the act.

Remus, ever the perceptive one, tilts his head. “So… She promised to shag you later if you actually focused?”

“Something like that,” you say, letting your fingers trail down James’s arm, not an ounce of embarrassment in your tone.

It’s not even true, but there’s no use in denying it.

Later, Sirius calls it “your secret language”.

“You two talk loud enough for the whole bloody castle, but then you’ve got this weird telepathy thing when you’re alone,”

James doesn’t even argue. Just nudges your knee with his.

You don’t think it’s weird. You think it’s love. Real love. Not just noise and theatrics, though you’ve got plenty of those. It’s in the silence. The comfort. The way you fit into each other’s lives so neatly it feels like you must have been built from the same material.

—

That night, you’re asleep before he is. Half passed out on one of the sofas in the common room by the time he returns from Quidditch practice, hair damp and messy, cheeks pink from the cold.

He finds you curled under a blanket with a book half-open in your hands.

“Hey,” he whispers, brushing your forehead.

You open your eyes sleepily. “Hi,”

James sits beside you on the couch, nudging your legs until you make space for him to lie down. You shift and let him rest his head against your chest, your fingers already finding his curls.

He exhales, long and slow, like the world has been holding its breath until now.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

You smile, bending low to kiss his forehead. “Love you more.”

And no one’s around to see it. No one to whisper about the golden couple or how perfect you look together. It’s quiet. And that’s when it feels the most real.

[cherienymphe]

Birds of a Feather

Carmine Falcone x Reader

Warnings: NON-CON, side of Oswald Cobb x reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers

summary: Your boyfriend's boss comes between your relationship in more ways than one.

⭑

“Oz…”

No more words needed to be said, your tone saying it all, and your boyfriend turned to you with that look he knew you hated. He shrugged his shoulders at you, brows furrowed in a way as if to ask what he did, and you couldn’t hold back your sigh. There was a brief stretch of silence between you as you both were surrounded by the noise that was Gotham’s nightlife.

“You said you just needed to drop something off with the twins,” you reminded him, crossing your arms over your chest.

Your boyfriend let out a sigh of his own at the look on your face, and you stood your ground. It was his first night off in almost two months, the restaurant reservations were only going to hold for so long, and you weren’t exactly dressed for the likes of the Iceberg Lounge. You watched the heavyset man move towards you, reaching for an arm but you jerked away from his touch. He didn’t need to say what you knew he was going to say; you could see it all over his face.

“We’ll just be ten minutes, alright?”

“Oz!”

“You know I can’t just swing by without showing my face to Carmine. I’ll pop in, update him on a few things, drop off the stuff and we’ll be on our way.”

He made it sound so simple, but you knew better.

Carmine Falcone was not a simple man. What little you knew of him came from Oz and whispers on the street, but you knew enough. When he wasn’t treating your boyfriend like some lap dog, the kingpin was making money from mysterious sources and running the kind of club you never had the taste for. Funnily enough, the one night you decided to go to said club, you met Oz.

It was simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to you.

“...and what am I supposed to do while you’re rubbing elbows with your asshole of a boss?”

The question was barely past your lips when Oz was harshly shushing you, frowning at you like you’d lost your mind, but you didn’t care. Carmine Falcone—and anyone listening for him—didn’t scare you. You recognized how stupid that probably was, but it was the truth. He was just another big man with money who threw it at people to feel important.

“What are you? Crazy?” Oz wondered, leaning in and lowering his voice. “You can talk like that around me, but we’re not in my apartment, sweetheart. You show the proper respect around here.”

You bit your tongue at that, narrowing your eyes at the man before you and thinking to yourself that of all the reasons to dislike Mr. Falcone, this was at the top of your list.

You really cared about Oz for a whole lot of reasons independent of his money. You’d always had a thing for the underdogs, and Oz was certainly that, but he was also driven. In this city that chewed people up and spat them out for fun, Oz was always determined to make something out of nothing and refused to let this city break him. It was admirable, really, and it made you have so much respect for him.

…but when he got around Mr. Falcone…

You really resisted the urge to roll your eyes, hating how much of a bitch he became in the presence of the other man. You got it to an extent. The man was his boss and he needed to be listened to, you understood that perfectly well, but your boyfriend’s entire demeanor seemed to change in his presence. He always turned into someone you hardly recognized—a pathetic ass-kissing excuse of a man just yearning for Mr. Falcone’s approval—and if you didn’t love him so much, you would’ve left a long time ago by how much it disgusted you.

“I’ll sit you in my office,” he finally answered with a shrug. “You can hang out for a while and overlook the club in my absence.”

There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but it didn’t latch itself onto you, and Oz waved you off.

“Lighten up,” he added, tone much softer now as he pressed a kiss to your forehead before guiding you both towards the door.

Only one of the twins was at the door tonight, and you threw him a tight smile as he greeted you both. Since that night you’d met Oz, you’d only been inside of the club two other times and both times had you sitting in Oz’s space while he discussed whatever with Mr. Falcone and Kenzie. There were worse spaces to be, you supposed—Oz’s office being all windows with a bar that allowed you to watch the dancers below—but he knew how much you detested this entire scene.

Tonight was no different.

He gave countless apologies and fixed you up a drink before disappearing with a kiss. You sipped on it while looking down at the club goers below you, once again having the same mental conversation with yourself that you had every other month. Oz was determined to secure better for himself, sure, but he didn’t seem keen on securing it outside of this lifestyle. He loved this lifestyle, and you were once again seriously contemplating if this was how you saw the rest of your life playing out.

As you waited for your boyfriend, ten minutes turned into twenty which then turned into thirty. You shouldn’t have been surprised when an entire hour passed, and by then, you were too upset to even produce frustrated tears. You’d long finished your first drink and was currently on number whatever when Oz finally showed his face. A scathing remark was on your tongue when he opened his mouth before you could.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologized, the rushed words making his accent pop. “...but I gotta reschedule.”

You blinked with a shake of your head, hand tightening on the glass in your hand.

“What?”

That was the last thing you’d been expecting.

Oz placed a hand on your arm just as you stood.

“I gotta do something for Carmine and–.”

“Are you kidding me? Oz!”

“It’s important–!”

“It’s always important! This is the first night off you’ve had in weeks. This night was supposed to be about us, and you let me get all dressed up just to sit up here for an hour and now you tell me–.”

“Look,” Oz harshly cut you off, nostrils flaring as he stared you down. “I don’t like it, but I got no choice, alright?”

You looked away from him, finally feeling like you could cry.

“Something came up, and I gotta do this for him…”

You finished your drink, slamming it down and searching for your purse.

“It shouldn’t take too long, but I gotta leave, now, so Carmine’s driver is going to take you home…”

“Excuse me?” you quietly said, slowly turning to face him. “Carmine’s driver is going to take me home–y-you can’t even take me home?” 

You wildly gestured to him, and Oz dismissed you.

“I don’t got time for this. Grab your things and let me walk you outside. He’s waiting…”

Oz’s words died in the air as you hurried past him, not sticking around to hear anymore excuses or reasons as to why he couldn’t take you on your date or at the very least drive you home. You were sure your boyfriend had a few choice words for you, but the loud music drowned him out and it’s not like you were sticking by him to actually hear what he had to say. Your heels stomped against the floor as you hurried to the door, and a bitter taste filled your mouth as you remembered that this was the first time you’d worn them.

You had imagined Oz taking them off at the end of the night.

Now the thought made you laugh.

“I’m sorry, alright? I’ll make it up to you, I promise…”

The words that reached your ears were familiar—and empty—and you only nodded and evenly hummed at every one.

“Yeah…sure, yeah…no I get it, I understand…”

You did understand, but that didn’t mean you had to like it. Your boyfriend apologized a few more times before telling you to give him a kiss. You didn’t deny him, but if he noticed how robotic it was, he didn’t comment on it. You’d met Mr. Falcone’s driver a handful of times, and you gave the familiar man a tight smile as he opened the backseat door for you. Oz was peeling out of the parking lot before you could even get in, and as you stared after his car, you had the strangest urge to look up.

You did.

The windows of the Shoreline Lofts above the club were lit up, and you could see a couple of men moving around inside. You briefly wondered if that was where Oz always had to go when he needed to see Mr. Falcone. The moving figures didn’t hold your interest but instead the still figure standing just on the other side of one of the windows did. It wasn’t hard to guess that he was staring down into the parking lot, and something in you told you that the seemingly tall man was the very same who ruined your night.

With a huff, you slid into the expensive car, taking off your painful heels the moment the door was shut.

Things between you and Oz were a little icy.

Both of you held some blame but you stood by the opinion that Oz held most of it. More apologies came in the form of flowers and jewelry, but you were learning in real time that the allure and grandeur of those things start to lose their luster after a while. You loved him, but every day you wondered if it was enough. There was no telling when Oz’s next day off would be to properly make it up to you, but if the way things were going was any indication, you surmised that it was going to be a while.

Mr. Falcone had Oz running up and down the streets of Gotham like your boyfriend was the one actually running the city. On the days where you even saw him—which were becoming far and few in between—the interactions felt like they lasted only minutes. He always needed to go, always had something to drop off or pick up, or something to handle.

“Just come with me tonight,” he said to you one day. “We barely see each other, and I know you think I haven’t noticed or don’t care, but I promise you I do.”

“I don’t know…”

He knew how you felt about that place, and it’s not like he was asking you to sit in his office this time—Oz was talking about the 44 Below. You’d heard whispers of a club within the club that was the Iceberg Lounge, but you had never given the validity of it much thought. After all, it wasn’t your crowd nor something you concerned yourself with. One of your friends had referred to it as a mob hangout, and you’d laughed in her face then.

Since meeting Oz though, the idea became less funny to you.

While you may not have known what Mr. Falcone did exactly, the last few years certainly made you less naive about how Gotham really worked and how men like him really stayed above water. There were days when you struggled not to linger on Oz’s part in that food chain. 

The man in question sat beside you on his bed, taking your hand.

“You’re still pissed about the other week, I ain’t stupid, but until I can really make it up to you, let me do what I can,” he offered, and you sighed. “I miss you, and you miss me…yeah?”

You reluctantly nodded, and Oz bent his head, trying to catch your eye.

“Whadaya say?”

You threw your hands up with a slow smile, and Oz let out that haughty laugh of his you’d grown to love. He was doing what he could to spend more time with you, and even if you didn’t completely agree with the way he was going about it, it mattered to you that he was trying. Besides, it wasn’t like you were opposed to the idea of becoming more familiar with exactly what Oz did for a living.

That was how you found yourself in the 44 Below for the first time, lips pressed together and eyes taking it all in as you observed the kind of men you never expected to find in a place like this. Oz’s talk with you on the way here was helpful, yes, but it still hadn’t fully prepared you for the full scale of corruption in this city.

“People do what they gotta do to make a living here. You understand?” he’d said, glancing at you. “Don’t stare too long or make a big deal about whoever you might see down there.”

That was what he’d said to you, but it was still quite the shock. Police officers were one thing, but the politicians that ran this city were something else entirely. Your hand was tight in your boyfriend’s as he led you through the dimly lit club, this atmosphere much quieter and more intimate than what was going on upstairs. 

Oz got you a drink and sat you down in a corner and told you he’d be right back.

You were used to being seen as “Oz’s girl”, and if you were being completely honest with yourself, you didn’t hate it, but the weight it seemed to hold in the 44 Below was different from the Iceberg Lounge. Most of the people upstairs were casual party goers who just knew Oz as someone managing the club and you as his girlfriend. Down here though…

You were the girlfriend of the man next to Carmine Falcone, and it was the first time that it felt like it carried a significant amount of weight. Most people didn’t even make eye contact with you, and if they did, it either didn’t last for long or was accompanied with a nervous smile...as if they didn’t want to get on your bad side. Strangely enough, it didn’t make you feel powerful or anything of the sort but instead…lonely—isolated. You didn’t think you liked it, but before you could linger on that feeling for a few moments more, your isolation was breached.

“What was Oz thinking sticking you in this corner by yourself?”

The familiar voice made your skin grow cold.

Carmine Falcone was a face you hadn’t stared directly into for a few months, now, and truthfully, you could’ve gone a few more. He didn’t scare you, but that didn’t change the fact that something about him was not only intimidating but constantly reminded you that he wasn’t some warm and fuzzy kind of guy. When you tore your eyes away from the bar, you weren’t surprised to find those dark shades covering his eyes even in this lighting.

You were sure you’d never seen him without them.

He towered over you as he stood at your table, and you almost wanted to stand too just to make this interaction feel more equal. The few times you’d been in Mr. Falcone’s presence, you’d never felt quite equal, and you didn’t know if it was the huge gap in income or authority or just the way he coolly stared at you from behind those shades. In this moment, you reminded yourself to stop being so hard on Oz. You didn’t even work for the man, and he could easily make you feel so small, so you didn’t like to imagine the headspace he put Oz in when his money was on the line.

Reminding yourself that he spoke to you, you cleared your throat.

“He said he’d be right back,” you replied.

You swore that Mr. Falcone wore the hint of a smile on his lips, and you liked it less than the stony expression that was almost always on his face. For a few seconds, it felt like he was privy to some joke you weren’t in on, and you glanced around, feeling more isolated than ever as everyone in the club absolutely refused to look in your direction now.

“He’s upstairs handling something for me,” he told you. “You shouldn’t be waiting for him down here.”

When Mr. Falcone gestured to someone, you shouldn’t have been surprised when Kenzie seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

“Get her up to the loft,” the other man told him, a frown on his face behind those shades. “She doesn’t need to be down here with the rest of these people.”

The way he said those last two words made you feel like he looked down on the very men and women working for him and supplying him with business, and that made you frown too. However, once you realized what he’d said to Kenzie before that, it clicked for you that you weren’t going to the club upstairs but instead the Shoreline Lofts, a place you figured was always off limits for you.

You felt it was best not to question it as Kenzie gestured for you to join him, and as you neared him with your drink in hand, you didn’t miss the way Mr. Falcone refused to move, forcing your shoulder to brush against his chest.

“Don’t be a stranger,” your boyfriend’s boss said from behind your back.

You couldn’t even find it in yourself to throw him a fake smile in response.

You stared out over Gotham as your boyfriend hit another billiard ball, the sound drowning out the low conversation he and Mr. Falcone were having. You didn’t particularly care to know what they were talking about, but you had to admit that your curiosity had long been piqued along with your frustration at how long this conversation seemed to last. 

One errand turned into an entirely separate dropoff which then turned into a conversation about the details of said dropoff that had long shifted into something else entirely. You reminded yourself that you were here because Oz wanted to try and be around you more, and you accepted that you would much rather be here than at his place wondering where he was at three o’clock in the morning and if he was safe.

He was trying, and that’s what mattered.

When you glanced over, you saw that Oz had his back to you while his boss stood on the other side of the pool table. Like always, those dark shades hid his eyes from view, and while he was engaged in a conversation with Oz, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze was on you. It was a strange thought to have—at least, it was a strange thought to have.

You’d never been around Mr. Falcone as much as you had lately, and you’d found yourself questioning if he’d always been so inquisitive and hovering. Maybe those words were too strong because it wasn’t as if the other man was grilling you every time you were in his presence, but every now and then a question about your relationship with Oz was thrown at you or he’d ask about your job and how you liked it there. You and Mr. Falcone were only a step away from strangers, and he didn’t strike you as the type of man to engage in friendly chats.

“He don’t mean nothing by it, sweetheart,” Oz told you one night. “You’re around a lot more, and he’s just trying to feel you out, you know.”

You had hummed, not quite understanding that, and that was what you’d told him.

“I mean we’ve been together for what? A few years now? I’ve been to his home, I’ve had casual chats with his daughter, you don’t think it’s a little late to start wondering if I can be trusted?”

“It’s different now,” was all your boyfriend said. “You’re around the business more. It’s not the same.”

His words had silenced you that night, your mind instead going to what ‘the business’ entailed and why your sudden presence around it would change things. It once again sparked questions about your relationship with Oz, and what you wanted for your future. You liked the perks that came with his line of work just fine, but you knew better than anyone that the novelty wouldn’t last. A day would come where you’d question if it was truly worth it, and you didn’t want to be in too deep when you finally had that conversation.

Your name was already associated with Oz in certain circles, and your frequent appearances at the 44 Below these days didn’t help. When you came and left with Oz, it was fine. You loved him and always felt safe with him, so you learned to remain unbothered by the way people looked at you when you were next to him. Mr. Falcone was a whole other story…

You detested the nights when Oz got held up, Kenzie being the one to greet you and escort you out or in. Kenzie you didn’t mind all that much, but sometimes it was your boyfriend’s boss instead, and you couldn’t ignore the way you were treated when you were next to him even if you wanted to. You didn’t like the way people eyed you whenever Mr. Falcone guided you to that elevator, his footsteps mirroring your own in a way that made you feel like you were being stalked.

They looked like they didn’t know whether to suck up to you or avoid you at all costs, your proximity to the kingpin bringing out conflicting feelings of fear and possible opportunities.

“You’ll get used to it.”

That was what Mr. Falcone had said to you one night in that elevator, and you hadn’t known what he meant at first, but it clicked somehow with one look at his face. You remembered how unnerved you’d felt that he’d been able to read your thoughts on your face so clearly that night. You hadn’t liked it, at all, looking ahead just as he spoke again.

“The nice jewelry and fancy purses…” you’d tightened your hold on your handbag at that. “...aren’t the only perks that come with this line of work.”

You’d kept your gaze on the elevator doors.

“People start to fear you, respect you, and while you don’t seem like the kind of woman who’d be into that, you’d be surprised at what people will do for you solely for some proximity to you in some way. Anything to get ahead…”

He’d moved closer to you while he said this, and you couldn’t step away fast enough as the elevator stopped, Mr. Falcone’s arm reaching out to make sure the doors stayed open. Fighting to settle your mind, you quietly thanked him, thinking to yourself that you couldn’t get to Oz’s side fast enough. 

You’d never cared for Mr. Falcone before, but getting to be around him more had the opposite effect one would think it’d have. The more you got to know him, the less you wanted to be around him, and you told yourself that it was for the obvious reasons. His business was shady and he treated Oz like crap and there was probably even a small element of danger in his presence, but no matter how much you tried to ignore it, he didn’t feel dangerous like Oz was dangerous. 

Whenever you were alone with him, it felt painfully obvious that you were a woman and he was a man, and you knew deep down that it stood out to him too.

“Carmine says hello.”

You barely glanced up from the magazine in your lap as Oz’s words reached you, your boyfriend hanging up the phone. You only swallowed, flipping the page and listening as Oz limped towards the kitchen. You tried not to linger on what he said, but pretty soon the words and pictures before you began to go out of focus and you closed the flimsy book.

Oz’s attempts to spend more time with you by whatever means necessary unfortunately resulted in you spending more time with his boss. Granted, it wasn’t like you were around the man for hours, but you were seeing him more often than you ever had before. If he wasn’t there in the loft with Oz then he was greeting you in the 44 Below before making Kenzie escort you upstairs while he and Oz discussed business. You shuddered to think of his attempts at small talk and pleasantries, thinking to yourself how Oz couldn’t see how strange it was that Carmine Falcone was sending his regards to you through Oz.

Your gaze traveled to the vase of flowers on the dining room table, a gift of apology from Oz’s boss to you for keeping your boyfriend so late one night. You’d eyed it for what felt like hours when it was delivered to your door, and Oz’s answer to your question that night hadn’t satisfied you.

“His driver took you home, sweetheart, and you’re with me. Why wouldn’t he know where you live?”

The man may not have scared you, but that didn’t mean you relished the thought of being so comfortable and casual with him. Had you known that tagging along with Oz more would birth whatever this new development was, you would’ve never agreed to it, but as it were, you felt like it was too late to do anything about it. You feared that seeing Oz less wouldn’t change this new trajectory.

Of course, had you known how things would eventually end up, you would’ve long resigned yourself to never seeing Oz again, at all.

You should’ve known that something was off when Oz came by completely quiet one day. He never hesitated to jump right into whatever happened at the club that you just had to hear about. The change was noticeable, and when you’d asked him if he was alright, he’d given you a solid ‘yeah’. You’d tried to ignore the look on his face and his strange demeanor, but you knew the truth.

Oz was lying.

“Sweetheart…”

His voice was softer than normal from over your shoulder as you cleaned off your bed, and when you looked at him, he didn’t look like his normal cocky self. He looked almost…defeated. It was a strange thing to witness because Oz was never defeated even when he ‘lost’. You loved that about him, but at the moment, he seemed so unrecognizable. 

“We gotta talk.”

He jerked his head, and although a little unsure and nervous, you sat down on the edge of your bed. Your boyfriend stood in the doorway for what felt like too long before eventually limping towards you, hesitating a bit and then sitting down too. The length of the silence made you more uneasy, and although you and Oz had been having a few problems lately, you were suddenly hit with the possibility of him breaking up with you.

You swallowed, voicing your thoughts.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

Oz frowned almost as soon as you said it, and that relieved you.

“No, no, doll, never that,” he hurried to reassure you, and you let out a sigh of relief.

However, you wondered if that was premature because nothing about Oz’s demeanor was comforting.

“Look…Carmine is offering me a chance to move up…”

His words made you blink, and you eventually nodded.

“...okay. That’s good, right? That’s what you want…?”

Oz let out a sharp laugh.

“Hell, yeah, it’s what I want,” he told you. “More money, more authority, and I’ll officially be his right hand man. Hell, the way he’s painting it, there’s a chance I might take over things eventually instead of that lazy son of his…”

You wanted to give Oz a small and encouraging smile, but a heavy ‘but’ lingered in the air. This sounded like everything Oz ever wanted, and you wanted to be happy for him, but at the moment, he didn’t even seem happy for himself. You reached for his arm, gently squeezing it.

“Do you think I don’t approve or…?”

Your boyfriend shook his head, and you only grew more confused.

“I don’t got the position yet.”

You stared at him, and you watched as Oz rubbed his forehead, and you were sure you could never recall a time you’d seen him so…antsy. You felt safe around Oz because he was always so sure, so confident, and now he was none of those things, and it was a strange place to be in for you.

“...but that’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

Those words threw you all the way off, and a feeling of dread settled in your stomach as Oz took your hand.

“Carmine…”

You studied Oz’s face, trying to decipher what he was going to say before he said it.

“He likes you, sweetheart.”

You stared at him and he stared at you.

“I…don’t follow. What does that have to do with–?”

“Do you want me to get this job?”

You sighed, choosing to be truthful while being careful with your words.

“I want what you want, and I know you really want this, so…yeah,” you honestly told him.

Your boyfriend slowly nodded at your answer, and you watched him swipe his tongue between his lips.

“Look, I’m not saying how far you have to go, but…Carmine likes you, and if you just make yourself available to–.”

Oz cut himself off as you jumped to your feet, your eyes comically wide and lips parted as you stared at him in shock. Understanding finally dawned on you, and you looked at Oz as if he’d lost his mind. That dreaded feeling in your stomach had morphed into full blown nausea, and you were positive you were going to be sick.

When he said that Carmine liked you, you didn’t think… You’d thought it was his way of saying the man was no longer suspicious of you, that you were trusted now and he’d stop asking so many questions and paying so much attention to you. Not once had it ever been a possibility to you that he meant…

You opened and closed your mouth.

“Is this a joke? Oz, tell me you’re not serious,” you whispered. 

Your boyfriend’s face twisted into a deep frown, that scary frown that you hated.

“You think this is easy for me? Huh?” he threw at you, joining you and standing too.

“Oh my God, you’re serious,” you breathed, feeling like you’d gotten the wind knocked out of you as you looked away.

“This is a big deal for me,” Oz told you. “Do you know how much this could change things? I’m not asking you to…sleep with the guy…”

You faced him again, expression twisted into disbelief at what you were hearing.

“Just get dolled up like you do and let ‘em treat you. Make him feel real special, you know,” he waved his hands, and you blinked back tears.

“Oz,” you hissed, disgusted. “I am your girlfriend. Not some girl at the club who charges half a grand per person to get passed around. I am your girlfriend!”

“You don’t think I know that? Huh? Wh-what you wanted me to tell Carmine no? Huh?”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, and you tearfully looked away.

“I told him I’d think about it…”

“I can’t believe this,” you choked out, rushing out of your bedroom.

You could hear your boyfriend’s footsteps behind you.

“Carmine Falcone is not the kind of guy you just say no to, sweetheart. You think this is something I’d ask you to do all willy nilly?”

You paced around your apartment, actually feeling like you were going to be sick as Oz continued to talk, as he continued to plead his case for why you should basically whore yourself out to his boss.

“...and Carmine could have any girl he wants. If he wanted some easy piece of ass, there’s girls at the club for that,” you heard him say, his voice sounding muffled by the loud ringing in your ear. “...but he expressed interest in you.”

“...because he’s sick! How do you not see that, Oz?”

Your boyfriend shook his head at you, a sneer on his lips and a scathing remark on his tongue no doubt when you beat him to it.

“He’s dangling this position in front of your face and telling you it can be yours so long as you let him humiliate you and treat me like I'm not even human!”

“Doll–.”

“It doesn’t matter what I agree to because he already won,” you choked out, shaking your head at him. “He tells you that he wants your girlfriend, and you didn’t tell him no.”

You stared at Oz with tears in your eyes, unable to believe this was happening.

“You didn’t tell him no, Oz, he…” you scoffed. “You’ve shown him that you would do anything for his approval, anything to be where he is.”

Your chest and throat were so tight, and you wondered if this was what heartbreak felt like. The silence in your apartment was loud, and you could barely stand to look at Oz, in shock that he would even come to you with this. You sniffed, and when Oz stepped towards you, you moved back, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“...and what happens if I refuse? You can kiss this promotion goodbye?”

His silence was deafening, and you let out a humorless chuckle.

Your eyes passed over the dying flowers on your table, and you felt goosebumps rise on your skin. You stared at them for what felt like the longest time, reminding yourself that Mr. Falcone never seemed the type for small talk and genuine pleasantries. There was always something ulterior with him, and you felt sick to your stomach as you thought about every time you were alone with him.

“Get out,” you whispered to Oz.

It seemed like he didn’t hear you at first, but with a quickness, you stomped towards your table and almost immediately after, the vase of flowers was airborne. Oz ducked just in time, and you only screamed for him to get out two more times before he finally accepted that you were serious. You were right behind him as he left your apartment, taking off every piece of jewelry he’d given you that you were currently wearing.

“In case it needs to be said… We’re done,” you spat. “Find some other way to get your promotion.”

You slammed your door shut behind him, unconcerned with how it may have disturbed your neighbors.

Your breakup with Oz hit you much harder than you thought it would. After all, he did a shitty thing, and in that moment, you were positive that you hated him. However, once the dust cleared and everything had settled, you realized that hate and love did indeed require the same level of passion, and you’d cried yourself to sleep two weeks in a row.

Oz was so far from perfect, but you loved him, and while he was capable of so many things, you’d never considered he’d be capable of even the things you didn’t want him to be capable of. You thought that he loved you too, and maybe on some level he did—choosing to give him some credit—but it was plain as day that he would never love you more than he loved the future where he wasn’t the underdog anymore.

You’d foolishly thought that you took priority over power.

Every phone call of his went ignored, and the only time you texted him was with a date and time when he could come get the rest of his things. You, on the other hand, didn’t want anything you’d left behind at his place. You wanted his shit gone, and nothing returned to you that would make you think of him in his absence. In the span of a month, your life as you knew it had turned completely upside down.

You’d been on edge all day when that knock finally sounded at your door. You weren’t concerned with falling into old habits, but just how painful it’d be to face Oz again after that night. Some days you still found it hard to believe that he’d been so willing to sell you out so easily. You’d never forget the way he’d talked to you, like it was just assumed you’d go along with it because you wanted better for him.

It ate you up inside to think that he didn’t know you, at all.

You’d rehearsed how this would go probably a million times since he’d agreed on the date and time, but everything—every word—you’d practiced was in vain because it wasn’t your ex-boyfriend standing on the other side of the door once you’d opened it. If you’d been holding something, you would’ve for sure dropped it as you stared at the face of Carmine Falcone.

Funnily enough, you hadn’t given the man much thought since the breakup. After all, Oz was the one who’d betrayed you, hurt you so deeply. Mr. Falcone hadn’t done anything surprising, only being the man you knew him to be—a man who always wanted more and used his money and power to get it. You’d never pegged him as a man with morals—with a code—so as much as it disgusted you to realize what he’d been plotting this whole time, you weren’t blindsided by the knowledge that he wanted to fuck his subordinate’s girlfriend and was willing to play dirty to make it happen.

“Where is Oz?” you finally breathed.

“May I come in?” he responded, completely ignoring your question.

Your lips parted, an immediate no on your lips when you only just noticed the figures behind him. You narrowed your eyes at the sight of Kenzie and some other man you didn’t recognize in the hall, and the nausea you felt that night with Oz was almost nothing in comparison to how you felt at the sight before you. Oz was supposed to get his things, but instead his boss showed up at your door—the same boss who was the catalyst for your disastrous breakup in the first place.

You licked your lips.

“I feel like if I say no…you’re going to do what you want, anyway.”

Mr. Falcone didn’t respond to that, but the corner of his lips curved upwards so subtly that if you weren’t so used to his stony countenance, you would’ve missed it. His only response was to move towards you, and against what you wanted, you moved out of his way. You stood at the door as he brushed by you, and your gaze darted between Kenzie and the other man. You were sure there was an almost pleading look in your eyes as you gazed at the familiar man, but Kenzie stared right through you.

“You can close the door.”

Pulling your lip between your teeth, you did just that, staring at the wood for a while before turning around.

“Oz…?” you repeated.

“He’s handling something for me.”

“Of course, he is,” you sighed. “I take it you came all this way just to get his things for him?”

When you looked at him, his back was to you, and you didn’t like the way he was taking in the layout of your apartment. Your eyes darted towards the kitchen, weighing your options if you actually managed to kill this man. Of course, that was assuming you even made it to the kitchen. When you looked at Mr. Falcone again, his gaze was on you, now, and you knew you’d been caught.

He chuckled to himself, so low that it barely reached your ears.

“Let’s talk…”

You frowned when he gestured for you to sit down, and his lips twitched again when you refused to move. He made the decision to sit down first, and you reluctantly followed his lead. That feeling that you always felt whenever you were alone with him washed over you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from fidgeting.

“I know that Oz hurt you.”

You gave him a look at how he chose to start this conversation, the elephant in the room just casually lingering between you.

“...he didn’t do it by himself,” you replied.

Mr. Falcone seemed to weigh that in his mind, tilting his head from side to side.

“That’s debatable.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He could’ve told me no.”

Your heart skipped a beat as he acknowledged it outloud, and you chuckled.

“We both know that’s not true,” you whispered. “No one denies Carmine Falcone.”

You said the words mockingly, and you didn’t miss the way all humor drained from his face.

“You know how badly Oz wants to make a name for himself. An actual legitimate name for himself where he’s respected and revered and not seen as some joke, and you took advantage of that,” you spat. “You saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone, and you took it.”

The man before you didn’t respond right away, and you watched him stand, making you nervous. You only started to relax when he made his way towards the bar Oz had given you as a gift one year, the damned thing installed into the wall so you couldn’t even give it back. You said nothing as Mr. Falcone fixed himself a drink in your apartment with your stuff.

“Would you like one?”

“No,” you immediately answered, somehow still shocked at his audacity.

He ignored the malice in your tone and took his time, and the whole time you just kept wondering why he was here. You watched him take a sip of his creation, and it wasn’t lost on you that he was standing while you were sitting, and he was making you feel small once again.

“You said I saw an opportunity to kill several birds with one stone…”

You rolled your eyes.

“You own this city, everyone knows it, and you saw an opportunity to get what you want just because you wanted it all the while humiliating both Oz and myself and making him prove his loyalty to you,” you slowly told him. “I’m sure the breakup that gave him more time to devote himself to your business was just a bonus.”

Mr. Falcone responded by taking a sip of the drink he’d made, humming.

“You didn’t consider any other motives…?”

You watched him make his way across the room to sit back down in the seat across from you, eyeing you behind those dark shades as you frowned at his question. No. You hadn’t, and truthfully why would you? You couldn’t think of any other reason for why he did what he did. Part of you even considered that he didn’t even really want you so much as he wanted something Oz had.

“Hmm?” he wondered at your silence, and you only shook your head.

You watched him finish his drink.

“I didn’t expect Oz to say yes–.”

“I don’t believe that,” you cut him off, and the look he fixed you with didn’t scare you one bit.

You stared at each other for a few moments before he continued.

“I do want you, that much is true,” he told you, making you uncomfortable under his unwavering stare. “You’re beautiful and you take no shit and I see why Oz pursued you so hard.”

You didn’t like that he knew the details of how you and Oz began.

“I can have anything I want, you’re right, but even still…I didn’t expect Oz to say yes.”

Oddly enough, you were sure you believed him now, and you didn’t know how to feel about the fact that Mr. Falcone had been testing him…and Oz hadn’t passed.

“...but now we both know what you mean to him.”

His words forced tears to your eyes, but his next words made them spill over altogether.

“If I were in Oz’s position, I would’ve told me to go to hell.”

Your blood ran cold as you stared at him, your brows pulling together at his interesting choice of words. Mr. Falcone wasn’t in Oz’s position and never would be, but the more you stared at him and the longer the silence dragged on…you realized that he wanted to be. You looked away from him, standing on shaky legs.

“Whatever Oz gifted you, whatever he did for you, I can make it all look like child’s play,” he offered, and you felt your stomach churn.

There was no telling what Mr. Falcone would’ve done had Oz just said no, but because Oz was Oz, he hadn’t said no, and that had produced a lose-lose situation for him. Oz said yes, and that meant that either Mr. Falcone would get what he wanted—even if only for a night—or you would leave Oz, and  an opportunity would present itself for him to still get what he wanted.

“I wasn’t with Oz for his money,” you sneered, tears kissing your eyes as you glared at the other man.

“...but I’m sure it didn’t hurt.”

You actually laughed at that, the sound lacking humor and filled with so much bitterness and frustration. Of all the things to take from this situation, what stood out the most was how absolutely misunderstood you were. Oz actually thought you were the kind of woman who would sacrifice her dignity and morals just to help him get ahead, and Mr. Falcone actually thought you were the kind of woman who could be bought. 

It was an upsetting mix of maddening and frustrating.

“Get out,” you heard yourself whispering, feeling a sense of deja vu. “Take Oz’s things, and get out of my house.”

You watched Mr. Falcone straighten in his seat, reaching up to undo the buttons of his suit jacket.

“No.”

You blinked at him, not expecting that but also not surprised by his response either.

“Fine,” you breathed, making your way towards the hook on the wall where your purse hung.

You didn’t care if he had a hundred men outside of your door, you weren’t staying in this apartment with a man who basically offered to buy access to you for a night. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he used your breakup as an opportunity to buy permanent access to you. You were reminded that Mr. Falcone felt dangerous to you in a way Oz didn’t, and just when your hand landed on the doorknob, he showed you why.

You didn’t even have a chance to scream, a choked gasp getting caught in your throat at the feel of silk material pulling against your neck. He tightened it the more you pulled on it, and the soles of your feet kicked against the door, the shoes you’d just slid in falling off. Every attempt to dig your feet into the floor was in vain, and when your legs started to fail you, only then did Mr. Falcone let you go.

It all happened so fast that when you finally registered the dangerous position you found yourself in, it was too late.

“You’re really going to make me do this, huh,” he casually mused, his deep voice reaching your ears as he caged you in his arms between him and the floor.

Your vision was blurry, but you took note of the way he’d slipped out of his suit jacket, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and his tie…missing. The tips of your fingers grazed against that silk material that was still around your neck, and you tried so hard not to linger on how seamlessly he’d done that, like it was second nature to him.

His warm body was on top of yours, nestled between your legs, and you mustered up enough strength to dig your nails into his face. The scream he let out satisfied you, and when your knee came up between you both, it allowed for you to slide out from under him. Your throat felt sore as you crawled away, struggling to get to your feet when the tie still around your neck was yanked on once again. He tightened it around his hand, pulling you against him, and a winded squeak left your lips as he forced you to bend over the bar.

You pulled and clawed at the silk material, fighting to breathe, all the while he fumbled between you both with his free hand.

One of your hands let the tie go to drag your nails along the wood of the bar when Carmine Falcone forced his cock into you. His hips slammed against your backside as he fucked you, and you were caught between trying to loosen the material around your neck, and fighting to find something to hang onto and ground yourself with.

You could feel his face pressed into your hair, breathing you in with every thrust. The bar beneath you trembled from the force of his movements, and your vision started to blur again from the lack of oxygen. You clawed at your throat with one hand and at the bar with the other. The man behind you seemed to be in his own world, lost in the feel of you wrapped around him.

When dark spots started to appear in your vision—almost as if he knew that—Carmine loosened his hold on the tie around your neck. The rush of air into your lungs had you gasping, and to your horror, he replaced the tie with his arm. His arm hooked around your neck and forced you back against him as he leaned back a bit.

The only sound in the apartment was heavy breathing—yours from trying to suck in as much oxygen as possible and him from pushing himself into you over and over again.

“Oz felt like such a big man with you on his arm,” he said against your skin. “It almost made me feel sorry for you.”

You hit your hand against the bar.

“I don’t need you on my arm to feel like a big man. That’s the difference between us…”

He pushed you back down against the bar again, a hand harshly pressing into the small of your back to keep you in place. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how much you tried to, distraught at the harsh lesson on why you should fear Carmine Falcone. It’s just that this never occurred to you…or maybe it did on some level, and you were too afraid to acknowledge what it was.

Oz would never do this. There was a softness to him that Carmine lacked, and maybe that was what you’d sensed all this time, that Carmine was the kind of man without any limits. That he was the type to hurt anyone—man or woman—but just in whatever way he knew would hurt the most…no matter how depraved.

When he came inside of you, you didn’t even try to hold back the disgusted sob that left your lips. You almost collapsed to the floor when he pulled away from you, your shirt—one that Oz had left behind, you realized—fell back into place as you heard him righting himself. Your heart was still beating wildly in your chest, and you almost didn’t want to believe what’d just happened.

Funnily enough, Carmine was gentle in sliding his tie from around your neck, the fabric whispering against your skin as he did so, and you shuddered when his fingers grazed your throat in the process. You didn’t doubt that a nasty ring would color your skin in the morning. When his lips found your hair again, you shrunk away from him, still trembling from his assault.

His parting words finally made you throw up what you’d been pushing down for weeks.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

[rainrot4me]

what if reader did some digging and showed the creeps and proxies their embarrassing pictures?

like, Jeff's origin picture, Hoody's drunk selfies back in college, BEN's middle school pictorial, Clockwork's cringy braces back in elementary...

LMAOOO

THIS WAS SO CUTEEEEE

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

That grainy, cursed “Go to Sleep” pic from the early 2010s, uneven smile, too much blur, and way too much edge.

“You did not just show me that.”

The moment you tilt your phone toward him, Jeff’s face drops. You can practically feel the rage twitch behind his eye. But instead of exploding, he just goes eerily quiet.

You’re laughing too hard to notice at first—until he lunges. Not to kill you (yet), but to grab your phone.

“Give me that, or I’m taking a new pic of your ass with my boot shoved up it.”

You manage to escape, barely, but he catches up later that night. Instead of murder, he threatens a dramatic retaliation. Like flipping through your baby pictures if he ever finds them. (Spoiler: he will find them.)

✦ . ticci toby

A painfully awkward birthday party pic, maybe from when he was 13, wearing a paper party hat, holding a cupcake like it might explode.

“Where the he-hell did you get that?”

Toby just freezes when you show him. Then snorts. Then starts wheezing.

“Bro… I look like a Make-A-Wish kid whose only drea-dream was cake.”

He leans over your shoulder to zoom in. Doesn’t even try to take your phone away. He owns it, makes fun of it right alongside you. If anything, he ends up texting it to Hoodie and writing: “me when I had hopes and dreams.”

✦ . eyeless jack

Pre-transformation med school photo—glasses, awkward smile, scrubs too big for his frame.

He stares. Then sighs. “I told you not to dig.”

But he’s more amused than angry. A quiet kind of amused. He leans down to look closer, then flicks your forehead.

“Mock me again and I’ll sew your phone into your stomach.”

You joke that he looked like someone’s underpaid pharmacy tech, and he just deadpans:

“That was before I got interesting.”

(You send it to Toby anyway. Jack doesn’t stop you.)

✦ . masky (tim wright)

High school theatre kid moment—maybe in full costume as a tree or in a very dramatic off-brand Phantom of the Opera mask.

“Delete. It.”

Tim looks mortified. Like, true deer-in-the-headlights, this-is-how-I-die level embarrassment. He tries to be threatening, but it’s more like a tired dad trying to discipline a puppy chewing his slippers.

“You don’t want to see what I looked like in college, trust me.”

If you show it to the others, he goes full silent mode for a while. Later that night, he shows up at your room, throws a shoe at you, and grumbles:

“Laugh it up. You’re lucky I like you.”

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Frat party selfie—shirtless, beer in hand, red solo cup hat, doing the “e-boy smirk” before e-boys existed.

You do not survive.

“Delete that. Right now. I’m serious.”

He goes dead silent. Red in the ears. Takes exactly two seconds to yank the phone from your hands and chuck it across the room—luckily, onto a pillow.

“If this shows up on the internet, I’ll kill you slowly.”

Later, he finds the original on your laptop. Deletes it. Replaces it with a .txt file that says:

I warned you.

(You still have a backup in your Notes app. He knows. And he’s plotting.)

✦ . kate the chaser

Middle school volleyball team pic. Bangs. Oversized knee pads. Sassy hand on hip pose.

At first, she’s like, “Ugh. Don’t look at me.”

But then? “Actually… wait. Zoom in. LOOK AT THAT SERVE STANCE.”

She roasts herself and starts roasting your awkward school photos in retaliation.

“You looked like a poodle that lost a fight with a humidifier.”

Cue an all-night photo war that ends in laughing so hard your sides hurt and mutual humiliation.

✦ . ben drowned

Middle school school picture day. Slicked hair. Naruto hoodie. Digital camera flash that adds +5 cringe.

“BROOOOOOOO—ARE YOU KIDDING ME??” He shrieks like he’s been stabbed.

“WHERE DID YOU FIND THAT. I DELETED MY ENTIRE REALITY FOR A REASON.”

He tries to possess your phone, but fails. Then sulks. Then threatens to glitch your face into a creepypasta edit. Eventually, he just sits down, groaning and hiding his face while you giggle.

“That hoodie was limited edition, okay? I was COOL.”

He’s so embarrassed he logs off for 20 minutes. Then comes back and changes your ringtone to Rick Astley out of spite.

✦ . clockwork

A yearbook photo with full-metal braces, rainbow hair ties, and a shirt that says “Don’t touch my phone unless you’re a hot vampire.”

She looks at it. She stares at you. Then she starts laughing so hard she cries.

“OH MY GOD—I was awful.”

She grabs the phone and makes it her wallpaper just to mock herself.

“You think I peaked in 5th grade? You’d be right.”

No shame. Zero embarrassment. But if you ever show anyone else?

“I’ll tie you to a chair and make you watch Twilight: New Moon with me while I narrate it.”

✦ . laughing jack

A grainy, black-and-white carnival promo from decades ago—Jack in his original costume, looking awkward and too tall, with a forced clown smile.

He gasps like you’ve uncovered the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“This was my prime!”

Then proceeds to strike the same pose in front of you like it’s a Vogue cover.

“Look at that posture. That glimmer. That soul-devouring eye contact. You’re welcome.”

He hangs a copy of it in your room while you’re asleep and pretends it’s a gift.

✦ . slenderman

There is no photo. But you manage to dig up a blurry, early-2000s creepypasta wiki image with an awkward caption like “The Tall Gentleman.”

He looms behind you, slowly. You hear static. You feel watched. You turn—and he’s just…standing there.

“…This is beneath you.”

He doesn’t say more. But that night, your phone screen flickers. The photo is gone. Your flashlight keeps turning on by itself.

Message received.

꩜ .ᐟ

[tomikashii]

Hi! I was hoping you were open to doing a head canon for all the ghouls from Tokyo Debunker on how they'd react if MC ran a kissing booth for a special event? Who's getting in line, who's jealous and scolding them for doing so? How quickly do you think the booth would get shut down? 💀

tokyo debunker : ghouls reacting to MC running a kissing booth 💋

to anon! : OMG THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD IDEA ??? i had so much fun writing it & i hope that you have so much fun reading it 💗💗💗

⚠️ : maybe there is slight suggestive content ? so just to be safe, MINORS DNI

↘️ context : our favourite professor hyde had a genius idea of opening up a kissing booth on campus for a day & expects you to run it ! (it was for a valentine special in darkwick)

how would the ghouls react ?

frostheim

jin kamurai

shuts down the entire booth 😓

would even consider sueing whoever's idea was it (rip professor hyde)

when he found out you did it willingly, he pauses and calls you to his room. (you were never to be seen until the next day)

tohma ishibashi

actually waited in line as a joke and recieved your kiss on the cheek willingly with a smug smile on his face

shuts the kissing booth afterwards (but in secret)

teases you the next day, asking who are you going to kiss next 🤌🏻

kaito fuji

FIRST ONE IN LINE ☝🏻

was sweating buckets when you leaned in to kiss him on the cheek.

never washed his face afterwards (only washed it when you begged him too)

lucas errant

asked if you were okay with kissing random strangers on the cheek. when you reassured him, he leaned in for a kiss too.

after the short peck, he smiled warmly THEN HE RETURNED IT TO YOU ? 😩😩😩

sits from a distance to ensure that you were safe running your kissing booth (supportive king)

vagastrom

alan mido

“why do you want to do that ?” bro doesn't understand the concept of a kissing booth.

feels that its unsafe for you and would suggest to take down the kissing booth

internally wants you to give him a kiss on the cheek but its too serious and shy to say it. 🧍🏻‍♀️

leo kurosagi

HE IS IN LINE but says its for tiktok content

“supporting my gf's kissing booth!” is his tiktok video caption 💀 (you got accused of cheating)

when you did peck him on the cheek, he said with a disgusted look that he would wash his face but stares in the mirror of his bathroom for a few hours, at the area you kissed.

sho haizono

lined up as a joke. he sighs when it was his turn just to tease you.

leans down so you can peck him on the cheek. LOL he got so embarrassed afterwards.

“its just a peck” he says, walking away with RED TINTED EARS

jabberwock

haru sagara

the moment he found out, he lined up too with peekaboo !

lets you peck peekaboo before he leans in to recieve his.

pecks you on the cheek back (think its platonic but he was blushing a little when he walked away)

towa otonashi

BURNS DOWN THE BOOTH

kidnaps you to jabberwock and asks you for a ton of kisses because WHY ARE YOU GIVING IT AWAY FOR FREE TO STRANGERS 😩

you were never seen again (he has you lock in his arm at jabberwock) 😭

ren shiranami

reports you for harassment (WHEN HE IS LITERALLY IN THE LINE ?) ✋🏻

when you question him, his ears turned red and makes an excuse saying that he was looking for you & got roped into the line.

he actually wants you to plant a kiss on the cheek but is too much of a TSUNDERE to admit it.

sinostra

taiga hoshibami

this can go both ways, he either kidnaps you to sinostra and asks you to give him pecks on the cheek for good luck

or he shoots everyone out of the way and asks for a kiss in a threatening manner, making you peck him so quickly

shoots down the entire booth because he thinks its stupid (theres a jealousy factor if you squint)

romeo scorpio lucci

“YOU DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS, YOU BB!” he yells at you.

actually wants a kiss but again, too PROUD to admit it. so he manually explodes the entire kissing booth.

wouldn't stop thinking about the kissing booth idea

ritsu shinjo

started stating some law about how its illegal to provide such unconsensual service.

but when you counter that its actually consensual, he falters and TRIES TO FIND ANOTHER REASON TO TAKE IT DOWN.

bro just wants a kiss and only he can receive it. (he will start debating with you if you bring it up)

hotarubi

subaru kagami

stands in line to support you and actually was really shy and nervous when it was his turn.

super wary about it too because of his stigma and you reassured him that it was okay ! he leans in for the kiss on the cheek after that !

shyly asks if he could return the same by kissing your hand instead. (AH I LOVE HIM)

haku kusanagi

“you missed my lips, princess.” THIS AUDACIOUS FLIRT

would actually line up multiple times which makes you want to throw your shoe at him for teasing you too much.

even after the kissing booth, he would tease you and ask for a peck on the cheek.

zenji kotodama

DOES. NOT. LIKE. THE. IDEA.

scare people away from your booth with his doll artifact that darkwick wanted to capture in because of its behaviour

took measures into his own hands and starts somehow malfunctioning the entire booth 😭

obscuary

edward hart

expects you to deliver a kiss to him so you ignored him.

thats when you heard a bat at your window at night, and would not leave until you give him a peck on the cheek.

would shamelessy ask for more. EVEN SUGGEST FURTHER THINGS 😭 (this man-)

rui mizuki

actually was in line too but doesn't expect a kiss because you guys know you can't touch each other. (he is just being supportive)

so you pulled out a plushtoy, gave it a kiss and use the plush to kiss rui on the cheek (he keeps the plush)

if his curse is broken however, he leans in and would not leave until you give him a peck despite repeatedly standing in line.

lyca colt

thinks its platonic and everyone is doing it.

actually wants it on his forehead and now wouldn't stop pestering you for one.

ASKS SUBARU IF HE CAN GET ONE FROM HIM TOO GOODBYE 😭😭😭

mortkranken

yuri isami

HATES. HATES. HATES. the idea

“WHY ARE YOU NORMALISING SOMETHING SO INDECENT ?!” its just a kiss on the cheek yuri, calm down. 💀

starts thinking about it for the next few days, making him FURIOUS (he is embarrassed) 🤭

jiro kirisaki

actually happened to be there by chance and wondered what kind of concept is this.

passed on the offer but would occasionally think about it (another who thinks its a platonic thing)

stares at you for the next few days (he actually wants that kiss but doesn't know how to bring it up)

[megapteraurelia]

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who responds with sounds fun, when you tell him that you'll be out most of the weekend, that you probably won't be around much at home. who sends you a text the next day in the midst of enjoying time with your friends; a text that seemed like it itched with a refusal to admit, tinged with a subtle, pride-stained irritation of someone who misses you and resents you a little for making him feel it.

kiyoomi, "i organised your bookshelf. it was driving me crazy. you're missing book three of the gemma doyle trilogy, by the way."

and the smile spreading on your face is not one you could hold off, nor could you keep your fingers from flying over your phone to send something back.

you, "i told you it's not sorted alphabetically. and wow, how dare i not complete a book series. so very rude of me." you, "did you miss me?"

the pause feels like an eternity before the response trickles in, reluctant, seeking,

kiyoomi, "your fantasy section had two books filed under 'm' category even though it clearly starts with 'the'. yes, i missed you."

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who plates his food carefully, moving with focused precision that's ingrained in each fibre of his being, like he couldn't exist without it. you're leaning on the edge of the counter, eyes sharp as you're watching him, one foot of yours, encased in a sock, grazes the floor and when he placed his plate down and turned to grab something from the sink—

you're quick as you snatch up his spoon and scoop a bit of his portion into the hollow of the metal, and you're just about to bite in, when his voice sounds out; baritone, low and calm, "don't."

you hold his gaze as you slowly open your mouth, defiantly; the way your lips close around the spoon with care and the way you pull it out just a little slowly. kiyoomi stares at you, a picture of dry disapproval painted on his features, but his eyes linger, just a second too long, betraying the spark of something sharper, more wanton, beneath the surface: irritation with a hint of amusement and the quiet ache of being completely, maddeningly charmed.

"that spoon's been in your mouth."

he says that but his body doesn't give when you slink closer to him, when your body flushes against his as you press a kiss to the corner of his elegantly curved lips, "so has this mouth."

he exhales through his nose, and to you, it was the sweet sound of surrender of someone who wants to stay annoyed but can't help the small tug of his heart.

"you're insufferable," he mutters, but he slides the plate an inch closer to you, "just don't mix the sections together."

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who breaks the silence at night in the still room, both of you laying on the bed, flushed together, neither asleep and neither fully awake, just drawing breath together in the same space that has your sigh pass off as his and his limb an extension of yours; the faint spill of streetlight through the curtains.

you shift slightly under the covers and his fingers tighten for a moment as if almost scared to have you part from him, to have your body feel off his and exist on his own.

"when you're not around, i catch myself thinking in your voice."

you're sure he can feel and hear the smile in your voice, "what do i sound like?"

"unimpressed," he shrugs with one shoulder, and it moves your cheek a little, the soft shirt warm against your skin, the heat of his body trickling through the material to cradle your face, and he smelt like his own fragrance blend of essential oils and clean soap, calming, "you don't really care about what's going on up here — ah, let me finish."

you close your mouth with a grumble, and his fingers, slender and long and featherlight as they test the resilience of your flesh against the press of his hand, like he was prodding not just to feel you but like a test to see whether you'll stay put, whether you give in or whether you softly return back to him, "the disaster i create in my head. you believe it ridiculous, inconsequential. it makes me rethink it, too."

"am i usually right?"

his sharp nose travels along your hairline, his exhale quiet and resigned, "yeah. that's the problem."

you smile at the ceiling, and when your hand dances over his, he doesn't pull away. never does; doesn't say anything else either, just brushes his thumb over your skin, slow and steady.

boyfriend!sakusa kiyoomi who sounds a bit stiff when he compliments you on the dress that you're wearing, whose voice almost drowns out in the soft rustle of the fabric, that's how quiet he utters the words.

raised eyebrows, "that's rare praise coming from you."

kiyoomi shrugs, but his eyes are not straying away from you, drinking every atom of your being like if he blinked, you'd disappear, like he has to compete and win against the universe to keep you in his field of vision, in his hands, in his life, "i only say things that i mean."

and when you step closer, it's like he's a magnet, pulled towards you without thinking, leaning forward slightly, almost deciding to catch himself, his freckled hand twitching like he wants to reach out to you; his voice almost a whisper, like he's coming to the realisation himself, "and you're distracting."

"good. i like when i distract you."

his hand finds the hair on the base of your head, fingers threading through the strands as he pulls you close, his eyes studying your face like he's looking for permission that he has with every blink of your eyelids, and when he kisses you, it's with focused deliberateness, like he's committing to the feel of your mouth against his, like he's drawing a memory to keep in the pockets of his soul.

kiyoomi kisses like every draw of breath and every lick of tongue is intentional, a certain tension held in the curve of his arms like he's restraining himself out of sheer habit, but when his fingers find your jaw to angle your face, and his forehead lingers close to yours, it's with certainty that you've undone him, thoroughly.

TAGLIST | @sodaneko ; @takes1 ; @classicalelephant ; @pomigranit ;

[marvelouslymarly]

So I saw something that said you’re taking requests? If that is true, can I request a Bob Reynolds x reader where reader is perpetually cold and uses Bob as a heater?

Warmth [Bob Reynolds x female!reader]

“Hold me in this wild, wild world - ‘cause in your warmth I forgot how cold it can be”

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x fem thunderbolts!reader

Requested: Yes✨️ (requests are open!!)

CW: none, it's just fluff!! (well, maybe some awkward!Bob but idk if that needs a warning)

Masterlist

Word count: ~5k

[A/N: [y/nn] = your nickname]

[A/N #2: I'm sorry it took me so long to write this one! Uni's been quite stressful lately, and apparently, it's much harder for me to write when it's for someone else🥲 but I loved the challenge, so I'm looking forward to getting more requests!!! Hope you enjoy😊]

This is not beta-read oopsieee

Ever since you moved into the Watchtower, you’d been freezing perpetually. This wasn’t something that was new to you. Not entirely. The heating at your old place had always been set to a cosy 71°F because, even in a thick hoodie and fuzzy socks, you were used to constantly having cold hands and feet. In school, people used to make fun of you for wearing sweatshirts well into June when most of them had long put away their long-sleeved clothes. Now, in the Watchtower, you were lucky if someone turned the thermostat up to 65°F. John and Bucky - but especially John - would go on about how they couldn’t handle it if the apartment got too warm, arguing that they tend to run hot because of the serum. But Bob and Alexei never seemed to be too opposed to leaving the thermostat set to a temperature that didn’t have the rest of you feeling like you were living in a cold store.

“Why can’t you girls just put on a hoodie if you’re cold?”John moaned and turned on the AC before sitting down in his usual armchair, sweat stains on his shirt from his morning jog.

“Because having the AC on full blast is bad for the environment. Just get over yourself,” Ava tried to reason, getting up from the couch and turning down the AC again.

“It’s four supersoldiers living here. And three women. That’s clearly a majority. If you’re cold, you should put on some warmer clothes,” John retorted, joining Ava at the thermostat once more.

“John, you cannot play the ‘I am a supersoldier’ card every time you’re losing an argument,” Yelena rebutted, her Eastern European accent thick, and rolled her eyes. “Bob and Alexei don’t seem to have a problem with setting the AC to a temperature everyone feels comfortable with.”

“Alexei basically loves to sit around in his robe and tighty whities and Bob’s probably just too much of a wuss to say anything,” John snapped and looked at Bob who had been really quiet this whole conversation. Hearing his name caught Bob’s attention, having him look around the room, trying to figure out what he’d done.

“Hey, there’s no need to get personal, Walker,” you interfered, looking up from your book. You met Bob’s eyes and sent him a soft smile. He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping back to their usual level. You stretched out your leg and poked his side with your foot, getting a small smile from him in return.

“I’m not the one who’s making this personal, Yel-"

Walker quickly shut up when he heard heavy footsteps coming down the hallway and turned to see Bucky walk into the living room, an annoyed expression on his face.

“Okay, what’s going on here, and who started it?”

“Walker!” The four of you said in unison, and Bucky sighed loudly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his right hand.

Walker looked around the room, an exasperated look on his face, and his finger pointed at his own chest.

“How is this my fault? Besides, Bob, are you fucking kidding me? You can’t speak up for yourself but then you’re ready to throw me under the bus the second you get a chance?” There was an angry sneer on John’s face and when your gaze fell on Bob once more, you realised that he’d shrunken into the couch cushions, seeming considerably tinier than he actually was.

“Sorry, Walker, but I’m on the girls’ side on this one.”

“Of course you are,” John muttered, rolling his eyes again and turning to walk to his room, when Bucky’s arm landed across his chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bucky asked, his voice filled with frustration.

After the discussion that ensued, you’d all agreed to keep the temperature of the common rooms to a more agreeable 69°F, still very much to John’s displeasure. Eventually, everyone seemed to get used to the temperature in the shared living spaces. Well, that was everyone but you. You blamed it on bad circulation and an iron deficiency that you couldn’t quite seem to shake completely. So, you put on a sweater and some fluffy socks most times you left your bedroom and tried to tell you that it was ok - that, maybe, you just took longer to get used to the temperature shift between your bedroom and the living room or kitchen.

But then there was that one day where the AC malfunctioned, and none of you could figure out a way to shut it off. God, that was probably John’s favourite day of the year because he finally got what he wanted all this time. After desperately trying to stay warm in your room, you gave up and figured that maybe you’d be warmer in the living room with the afternoon sun streaming in. Yelena and Ava were sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, trying to warm themselves in the sun, quietly bickering about John who was lounging on the couch, wearing a tank top and shorts, his bare feet on the coffee table. He had a smug smile on his lips when he saw you come into the living room, wearing a thick cardigan over your oversized hoodie and sweat pants. You’d shoved your feet into the warmest pair of slippers that still fit over the thickest socks you had, but yet, you still felt cold.

“Where are you going? The Arctic?" John laughed, sitting up straighter to get a better look at your outfit while you walked around the back of the couch, looking for a cosy spot to read. You didn’t reply, just sent him an annoyed glare and then pulled your cardigan tighter around your frame.

“Guess it’s not just the temperature that’s freezing in here,” he muttered under his breath and slumped back down in his seat.

“You know, you can just shut up. You get that, right?” Ava countered and closed her eyes against the sun, leaning back onto her elbows.

"What did I say now?” His arms were stretched over his head, completely oblivious that his joke from before wasn’t funny at all.

“John Walker, if a woman tells you to be quiet, you should really be quiet,” Alexei told him, shaking a raised index finger into John’s direction and looking at John over the edge of his newspaper, his head cocked forward.

John didn’t say much after that anymore, just mumbled a few words into his beard. It got quiet again in the living room, everyone going back to what they were doing before you entered the living room. But you couldn’t concentrate on your book, annoyed by the way your cold toes touched each other inside your socks and how there was a constant flow of cold air coming from the exposed vents hanging from the high ceiling. Even the throw blanket you’d grabbed from the edge of the couch a few minutes after sitting down in the bean bag by the window didn’t seem to keep you warm enough. You put the bookmark between the pages of your book and then set it aside on the floor before pulling the blanket up under your chin, shivering slightly.

“God, it’s so cold,” you muttered, rubbing your arms under the blanket and trying to generate some heat. “Did Bucky say anything about when they’ll come around and fix the AC?” you asked, looking at Yelena and Ava.

They shook their heads, Yelena telling you that Bucky had tried to get some people down here but didn’t have any luck. With her face turned to the window, she look like a cat basking in the sun.

“Apparently they’re all too busy with installing ACs all over New York,” Ava added and shrugged her shoulders, a sorry expression on her face.

“Hey, [y/nn], if you want, you can come and sit with me. I give great dad hug! Yelena can confirm. Right, Lenochka?” Alexei opened his arms invitingly and let his eyes wander between you and Yelena, whose face pulled an embarrassed grimace.

“Dad, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I don’t think [y/n] wants a dad hug from you, right now.”

“That’s really nice of you, Alexei,” you thanked him, sending him a kind smile.

He nodded, his shoulders slumping a little, but his bright grin didn’t falter. “Always! You are family now!”

It was then that Bob and Bucky walked into the living room, carrying seven cups of hot cocoa, whipped cream in a can, a packet of mini marshmallows, and some cookies between the two. They set the mugs down on the coffee table and told us to get together.

“OK, Bob and I have made the executive decision that we’re gonna drink some hot cocoa and have ourselves a lil movie night.”

“Bucky, it’s 4 in the afternoon,” John noted, looking at his wristwatch, and Bucky sent him a glare.

“If you don’t wanna join us, then suit yourself, Walker. I bet Valentina still has some paperwork you can take care of, if you really wanna work,” Bucky schooled him, sitting down in his usual spot on the couch.

“No, no. It’s fine! Movie time it is.”

The team all cosied up on the couch, leaving a spot between Bob and Yelena for you. You plopped down, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs, hoping you’d stay warmer this way.

“Want some blanket [y/n]?” Bob offered and lifted the blanket he’d put over his legs a second before. You reached over to him, your fingers brushing against his as you pulled on the fabric a little. His fingers were warm, toasty even, and your eyes went up to meet his gaze.

“How are you not freezing?” you asked him, your fingers staying wrapped around his for a moment, hoping to coax some of his warmth.

“Well, I kinda run hot…” His voice wobbled a little, and he gulped, his cheeks turning pink. Bob averted his gaze, his eyes moving down to your hand slowly slipping into his, but you could still see him bite his lip nervously.

“Wish that was me right now, to be honest,” you mumbled and put his hand on your cheek, leaning into his palm. “I feel like I might actually turn into a fucking ice cube every second now.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a perk in situations like these…” His thumb swiped over your cheek instinctively, a soft smile on his face, and then his eyes sparkled a little, going wide. “You could… come a little closer. Maybe I can help you warm up?” Bob motioned his head for you to move on over and put his arm out for you.

You didn’t have to be told twice, quickly scooching over to him and putting your head on his shoulder. The second his arm wrapped around your back, it felt like a warm and cosy blanket being placed around you, the citrusy-yet-earthy scent of his cologne enveloping your senses. You got a little more comfortable, putting your feet between his crossed legs. Bob’s hand dropped to your knees, rubbing up and down your shins, the friction creating a soothing warmth on your skin.

“Wait, I wanna cuddle, too,” Yelena exclaimed, scooching over, too, and throwing her arms around the two of you. Her head came to rest against your back, and she hummed as her fingertips drew lazy patterns on your knees.

You stayed like that for a while, Yelena eventually lying down in the space that you’d left vacant by moving to basically sit in Bob’s lap and falling asleep, soft snores rumbling behind you every now and then. At some point, your knees had fallen against Bob’s chest, and you’d cuddled up closer to him, his cheek resting against your temple.

“Are you getting warmer?” He asked, looking at you from the corner of his eyes, and you nodded, the comforting warmth of his embrace slowly lulling you to sleep as well. His hand moved from its resting place on your ankles to your cheek, and he ran his thumb over it again.

“If you wanna nap, I’ll keep you safe from turning into a popsicle, ok?” There was a certain easy playfulness to his voice that made your heart skip a beat.

You nodded drowsily and burrowed your face in his neck, closing your eyes against the flickering lights emanating from the TV. With the hot cocoa warming you from the inside and Bob’s arms wrapped around your frame, it didn’t take long for you to get swept off to dreamland.

Bob’s voice woke you up a little later, his breath hot against your ear: “Hey, we’re ordering take out, you want something?” His thumb was caressing your cheek again, and your eyes fluttered open, trying to blink away sleep. “What are you getting?”, you mumbled groggily and wiped at your eyes, slowly pulling away from him.

“Chinese. We’ve already gotten mini spring rolls and wontons but we weren’t sure what you’d wanna eat,” Bucky told you, looking at you from behind Bob. He smiled at you and then handed you his phone. “Get yourself something nice, Val’s paying.” Bucky sent you a wink and then leant back against the couch, his eyes back on the TV.

~~~

You were tossing and turning in your bed, the covers pulled up under your chin in a futile attempt to stay warm. The cold had crept into your very bones, and nothing seemed to help anymore. You’d tried tea and more hot chocolate and even made a cup of hot milk with honey, hoping that it’d warm you up enough to fall asleep. But it had been almost an hour of tossing, and you were getting fed up with each tick-tock of the clock hanging over your bedroom door.

You turned on your phone and looked at the lockscreen, a too bright 1:47 am glaring back at you. You sighed and locked your phone again, turning onto your side and pulling your legs to your chest. Images of earlier that day ran through your mind like a film through a projector, the only thing missing being the rattling noise of the cooling fans and the motor. Memories of Bob’s arm slung around your shoulder, his hand rubbing up and down your upper arm. His blue eyes flashing over to you every now and again as if checking to see you’re still you and haven’t turned into a human icicle. His other hand was drawing loose patterns on the bare skin from where your joggers had ridden up above the thick socks. You hadn’t even noticed at first. It felt too natural for him to hold you like that. Especially after having yearned to feel his hands on your body in any way for so long.

His touch had sent tiny sparks through you, like bursts of electrical currents, and with them came a pleasant warmth. A warmth that made your insides heat up in a way that the hot chocolate couldn’t. You ached to feel this warmth again. To feel the childlike excitement that ran through your veins while being in his arms. To have his delectable scent cloud your senses with every inhale.

You longed for his warmth so much that you hadn’t noticed yourself get up out of bed. You only realised when the cold of the door handle crept up through your fingers. You pushed the handle down, trying to be as quiet as possible, knowing that your door tended to creak when opened too quickly. Not that any of your other team members should’ve been awake at this hour, but still, you wanted to ensure that no one knew about your night-time stroll. Deep down, you were scared that Bob would open the door. That he’d be awake to find you standing at this doorstep, shivering from the low temperatures in the Tower.

Once you reached Bob’s bedroom door on the other side of the apartment, you let your hand hover for a second, your blood rushing in your ears and your heart skipping a beat or two. Taking a deep breath, you knocked on his door as softly as possible, barely making any noise. You could hear faint shuffling from the other side of the door, the groan of the bedframe under Bob’s body. You waited, quietly counting in your head. Then there were footsteps but they stopped again. You imagined Bob standing on the other side of the door, unsure if he’d imagined the rapping at this door. You inhaled, held your breath for a second, exhaled. Then again. The tips of your fingers rested against the cool wood, tingling. You wanted to knock another time, but your brain didn’t seem able to send the signal to lift your hand and knock again.

Just as you found yourself turning towards the door, the door handle moved downwards. The door opened a smidge, and your eyes travelled upwards, slowly, like those of a scared animal. Blocking the warm glow of the lamp on his bedside table, Bob’s eyes met yours, and then his eyebrows hitched up, just for a split second before a smile took over his features.

“[y/n]?” His voice was barely above a whisper, hoping to protect the serene tranquillity of night. He opened the door a little wider and you realised that he was only wearing a pair of boxers. They sat low on his hips, and there was the tiniest trail of hair running down from underneath his belly button and disappearing into his underwear. You shook your head, trying to peel your gaze from his hips and remember why you’d come here. “Are you ok?”

You nodded, your hand brushing away a strand that had fallen into your face. You tried to come up with an appropriate explanation, one other than ‘hey, I’m cold, can we have a cuddle?’ but you found yourself at a momentary loss of words.

“Oh no, I think you’ve turned into a popsicle, after all.” His words were followed by a soft chuckle, and your eyes went to the floor. You suddenly felt incredibly stupid for leaving your bedroom and walking to his in the middle of the night.

“I… I think I should go back, uh, to my room,” you murmured, your hand lifting to have your thumb point in the direction of where you came from. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” You turned again, and just as you were to take the first step, Bob came up behind you and put his hand on your shoulder. Warmth radiated through your arm and chest, and you felt yourself lean into his touch a little.

“[y/n], wait. You didn’t wake me up.” His grip on your shoulder tightened a little, and he added: “God, you really are freezing…”

“Yeah, well… you run hot and I run cold…”, you murmured and you let your head fall.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun of you… Do you… I mean…”, he stammered, trying to find the right words. “Do you wanna come inside? I could… I mean, we could… you know…”

You looked over your shoulder and saw his Adam’s apple bop up and down as he gulped, unease taking over his face in the shadows.

“Do you want a hug?” He finally offered and scratched the back of his head.

“Yes, please.” The words fell from your lips before you had the chance to stop them, so you bit down on your bottom lip, trying to stop any more from escaping. You rolled your eyes at yourself, took a deep breath, and then turned back to him, your mind getting hazy from all the back and forth. “Yes, I would really like a hug right now?”

The softest ‘ok’ came from Bob, and he opened his door to let you step into his bedroom. He opened his arms, and you walked up to him. The second his arms wrapped around you, you felt the tension fall away, and you melted into him. Into the warm glow that enveloped you. You buried your head against his chest, closing your eyes, and wrapped your arms around him, too. His muscles tensed and then relaxed again under your fingertips, getting used to the cold of your touch.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled and looked up at him, pulling your head back a little.

“No, you’re good, sweetheart,” he put his head on top of yours and pulled you even closer. Your heart bloomed at the pet name, adding to the warmth taking over your body with every second he held you close. He closed the door, pushing at the wooden slab with his foot, and let his fingers run through your hair.

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Your words were hesitant, barely audible in the darkness of his room. You hoped that the darkness would just swallow them. That Bob couldn’t feel the way your heart was racing and how it skipped a beat whenever his thumb brushed over that one spot on your back. “It’s just that it’s so cold in my room and I can’t fall asleep when…”

You could feel his head bop in affirmation before he even uttered the words: “Of course you can stay here tonight.” You didn’t know just how badly he tried to suppress the urge to add ‘you can stay here every night’. The words were on the tip of his tongue, threatening to burst free. Instead, he pulled away from you and then motioned to his bed.

Bob walked over but you stayed in your place at the door, watching him lift the covers and then climb in. That’s when he looked up and frowned for a split second before he patted the mattress.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” He sent you a sheepish smile and winked at you, earning a breathy laugh from you.

Mustering up every little ounce of confidence, you shuffled over to him and climbed into bed next to him. You didn’t plant yourself right next to him, no, but left a little gap, suddenly feeling like you were a teenager again and sitting in bed with your crush for the very first time. You clasped your hands over the covers and tried to hide the smile at your own nervousness. You might kick ass on a daily basis, but sitting in bed with Bob seemed to be your very own final boss.

“You can come closer, I don’t mind,” Bob assured and opened his arms again, inviting you to scooch over.

“I don’t know why I am so nervous,” you lied, looking over at him and biting on your bottom lip anxiously. “I mean, we literally cuddled earlier… in front of everyone else…”

“Right? I mean, it’s not like we haven’t done this before,” he agreed and you could see his cheeks turning pink. “I could, uh, put on a shirt if you want. If you feel more comfortable then.” He pointed at his wardrobe and shrugged his shoulders.

“No, that’s ok.”

Your eyes travelled down his face. Over his throat. Stopping to watch the vein flutter under his skin quickly for a second. His chest rose and fell with every inhale and exhale. Your gaze moved further down, following the trail of hair that disappeared under the blanket and then to his hand.

“I'm sorry, I tend to… freeze when I'm nervous.” When you realised the unintended pun you laughed at yourself, and then looked back at his face. There was a smile tugging at the corners of his eyes, and you realised the nervousness abate.

You scooched closer to Bob and let him wrap his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to bridge the distance. He put his head against your temple, and you cosied up against his chest, your hand resting on his pectoral muscles.

“Did you have another nightmare?” You asked him, your gaze travelling up to him slowly.

“Why do you ask?” His voice was filled with confusion, and he met your eyes.

“Well, you said you were already awake when I knocked… it's quite late, so,” you explained and let your fingers trail up his chest, running along the edge of his collarbone.

“Oh! No… I just couldn't get my mind to quiet down,” he revealed, his eyes following the movement of your fingers. The vein in his neck started to pulse more quickly, and you let your finger run over it slowly, carefully.

“I'm sorry…Anything in particular?” You looked at him from underneath your lashes and smiled at him.

His eyes wandered to your lips and stayed there for a second before he looked away, over to his bedroom door.

“Uh, no,” he chuckled, and then his eyes flitted to you for a brief second before leaving your gaze again. He did this often when he lied to John or even to Yelena. “Just this and that, you know.”

“Yeah, I get that, too, sometimes.” You put your head on his shoulder again and tried to hide the smile from spreading. “We should probably try and get some sleep, though.”

You could feel Bob nod his head again, and then he scooted down, pulling you with him. Your leg snaked over his thigh, tangling itself with his legs and his left hand found your elbow. He started drawing loose patterns on his skin again, and you could hear his heart skip a beat with your head resting on his chest.

“Are… are you warm enough like this?” His hand left your elbow and he made to pull up the covers.

“Yeah, you're pretty hot, so…” You could hear him choke on his spit a little, his body turning away from you while he tried to catch his breath again. “I mean, you're pretty warm. Body temperature wise…” You sat up, your hands clasping together in your lap while the heat rose up your neck, making your cheeks burn.

When he caught his breath again, he ran his hand over his face and chuckled softly.

“Yeah, of course,” he looked at you from over his shoulder and took a deep breath. “Of course that's what you meant.” He coughed once more and then turned back to you.

“I mean, why would you mean anything else?” Bob shrugged his shoulders, and there was a sorry smile on his face.

“Why wouldn't I? It's not like you aren't hot, you know… It's just... We're teammates, right?” You were scrambling for words, your hands getting clammy with every passing second. “And just because I think you're hot doesn't mean… that doesn't mean you feel the same about me, so…”

His eyes went wide, and suddenly, you were scared he'd choke again. He turned around fully, his hands moving all over the place nervously.

“Please don't choke again,” you begged him and moved back on the mattress. Your feet were on the floor as the regret set in. “I think, I… I’m just gonna… Go back to my own room.”

You stumbled back, readjusting the shirt you were wearing, and tried to make your way to the bedroom door in the dim light.

“Wait. Stay, please!” Bob hurried after you and stopped you, his right hand resting on your left arm. His left hand cupped your cheek, and you closed your eyes, scared to find pity in his gaze. “Please, look at me.”

You obliged him, meeting his eyes, and you were surprised when you found no pity in them. Only the softness radiating off of the smile that was spreading on his lips.

“You don't even realise how wrong you are about me not feeling the same way about you…” There was a certain something about the way he said those words. Like he'd wanted to get them off his chest for a long time. “And I don't care about us being teammates.” He puffed out his chest a little, and you snickered at the image in front of you.

“Bucky would kill us, if he knew,” you laughed and he shrugged, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Last time I checked, I'm kind of invincible. But still, it'd be a good reason to go, you know.”

You nodded at him, a big grin on your lips. There was a flutter in your tummy, like butterflies from being in love for the first time. When he leaned down to you, his fingers on your chin to pull you closer, your breath hitched, and your eyes flitted to his lips.

“Can… can I kiss you?” His words were soft and so quiet you weren't sure if you'd heard him right. But you found yourself nodding anyway, turning your head upwards a little and closing your eyes. The kiss was timid at first. Slow and tentative. Barely there.

But when he realised you wouldn't pull away, he sighed quietly and deepened the kiss. You melted against him. His arms wrapped around you, and your hands went up into the hair at the back of his neck. And suddenly, you felt a warmth spread through your whole body, making you think that you'd never felt warmth before.

_____

Taglist (if you want me to add you to future projects, just let me know):

@flaneurpastel

[b3ach-bunn7]

BENEATH THE MASK

Jason Todd is your cute coworker at the shelter you work at. Red Hood is the hot vigilante who saves you from being mugged

—————————————————————————

Your job right now is to wash the incredibly dirty dog in front of you. Not to ogle Jason from across the shop.

Your hands are pruning from being in the water too long, the suds crawling up your arms. The dog in question is Poppy, a brown retriever that keeps biting at the water, which only makes it spray all over your top, which is now thoroughly soaked. You huff, wiping your face on your shoulder.

“Poppy, please stop doing that, you’re making me all wet.” You scold. 

She just barks up at you, shaking to rid herself of the water all over her. You sigh. It's sort of hard to be annoyed at her when she’s so cute. You suddenly feel a presence behind you, and a heavy arm leans on your shoulder.

“Don’t think you should be talking about that at work.

You roll your eyes almost immediately at the low drawl too close to your ear, but a smile dances at the corner of your lips. “Shut up.”

You’re not sure when Jason appeared behind you, but you’re not complaining. You don’t know what you’d call what's going on between you guys. You saw a TikTok a few weeks ago that said workplace crushes are only a thing because of the close proximity, but you don’t think that's the case.

Jason was a hard person to figure out. For starters, he is completely too attractive to be volunteering at a lousy shelter like this. Judging by the defined muscles on his arms you get a delicious view of when the air conditioning is on the fritz, you think he’d be more suited to be a superhero or a bodybuilder. He’s also very attractive. A sharp jaw, doey brown eyes and curly hair that falls over them softly. The little strand of white that peeks through the brown, and all six feet of him is too much for you to handle.

Jason was quiet at first. Not much of a talker, but luckily you could talk for the whole of Gotham, and he’d warmed up over time. He didn’t have much of a choice. Most of the other workers are either sixty and bored or sixteen and trying to fill out their Cvs with some work experience. You were the only person similar in age and had almost all the same shifts as him, too.

You’d ask him for help with extra rowdy animals, go on smoke breaks together. It was fun. You’re friends now, maybe something more. Nothing makes you laugh as much as his dry humour does, that little smirk he always gives you after making something flutter in your stomach.

Poppy barks loudly. Jason reaches down and scratches her behind her ears. She immediately goes limp, and you scowl.

“This dog. Why does she listen to you and not me?” You mope.

He wiggles sudsy fingers at you. “I have the magic touch.”

“Freak."

You turn on the water again and start hosing her down. Jason takes a pointed step backwards to avoid the spray. He’s leaning on the wall behind you, and he’s being absolutely no help as you slug your way through her last wash.

Once she’s washed and dried, you hand Jason the leash to put her back in her cage. You dry off your hands, the smell of the berry soap you guys use seeped into your skin.

“So,” Jason hums. “You wanna go on break?” 

“I think the boss will kill us if we both leave at the same time again.”

Jason groans. “He’s not even here. It's just me, you and that old lady in today.” 

You splutter a laugh. “Her name is Doris. And don’t call her that.”

“I’m not lying, she is old.”

Jason digs in his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. He shakes it in front of you and you bat him away. It’s a filthy habit you both have, and you’d have thought someone as athletic as him would be against it. He’s not though, evident by the expectant way he’s looking at you.

“Come on. I know you need it. I could see you seething from all the way over there.” 

“What I need is new clothes.” Your wet shirt sticks to your skin, the breeze in the room cooling it quickly. You shiver a little. 

You pout. “I can’t believe I have to be in this all day.” 

You should have learnt by now, really. This isn’t the first time you’ve showered along with the animals.

In one swift motion, Jason pulls his hoodie off and over his head. You watch a little too intently as his shirt rides up, revealing the sharp outline of his stomach and his abs and his v line, before it unfortunately falls back down. He holds out the hoodie to you, running a hand through his hair to fix it.

“You don’t have to-”

“Just take it.”

You don’t need much convincing, so you do, a little smile creeping on your face. “Fine, fine. Turn around so I can change.”

Jason pouts. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you perv.”

He complies, and you quickly chuck your shirt off and pull on his hoodie. It’s warm and worn and it smells like him, and you sigh contentedly. Jason watches you with an amused sort of look on his face.

He shakes the cigarette in your face. “Now can we go?”

You bite your lip, looking back at the shop, contemplating his offer. It’s empty, to be fair. It’s twelve in the afternoon on a Tuesday, so slow is an understatement for the state of the shop right now. And Doris probably has it covered.

You snatch the cigarette out his hand and he flashes pearly white teeth at you. You both squeeze in the little alley behind the shop, passing the cigarette between the two of you. You make a horrible joke about the fact you guys are technically kissing, and Jason just rolls his eyes.

You look around aimlessly, until your eyes fall on a newspaper strewn on the floor. You tilt your head to read the title, and gasp a little.

“Hey, look.” You pick it up, ignoring Jason’s noise of disgust. “It’s about that Red hood guy.”

Jason stands a little straighter from where he had been leaning against the wall. He peers over you shoulder to see what you’re reading, but loses interest quickly.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Come on, it’s kinda cool. He’s out there saving the night while we wash dogs!”

Jason snorts. He lets the cigarette fall to the floor, crushing it with the back of his shoe.

The article is actually not painting Red Hood in a very positive light. They call him a vigilante, an anti-hero, condemning him for thinking he’s got a right to dish out justice how he sees fit. You read this all to Jason, who’s looking at you with a careful look on his face.

“They have a point.” He says. “What do you think?”

“I think I need that.”

His brows furrow in confusion, a laugh leaving his lips. “What?”

“I said I need that. Have you seen those abs?”

You hold up the newspaper to him. Even through the blurry image, clearly taken in haste, the built figure of this masked man is very visible. You jab your finger at it.

“They are literally protruding out of that suit. Hence, I need that.”

“You’re so-“ 

“Really. I could show Red Hood a very good time.”

“Okay.” The tips of Jason’s ears are a bright red, and you’re a little confused why all this talk has got him so flustered.

He must sense the fact you’re about to tease him for it, because he stands to his full height. “Come on, you perv. Stop creaming over Red hood and get back to work.”

“You brought me out here!” 

————

Talking about showing Red hood a good time is all well and done until he’s standing right in front of you.

It���s your own fault, really. The sun sets too early, just as you finish work, and despite Jason’s insistence that he could drop you home, you assured him you’d be fine walking. You’d lived in Gotham your whole life. You knew how to walk home without getting mugged, even if it was too dark out.

Apparently not, judging by the knife being held towards your throat.

It’s later than you intended to stay out. You’d stopped by the grocery store to grab a few things for dinner, and the plastic bag slips from your hand and crashes against the floor. You’re regretting it now, seeing as you just wasted fifteen dollars on food you’re not even going to get to eat.

In all honesty, you’re scared. As much as you trying to not show that to the person in front of you, your hands are shaking and your chest feels tight. If you die in some dingy alley literally five minutes away from your house you’re going to be really fucking pissed.

He growls in a low tone for you to give him your wallet. Just as you’re about to comply to his demands, hands slowly reaching for your purse, he’s hit by something, or someone, as he goes careening into the dumpster beside you. Your mouth drops open a little, and your head turns so fast you think your neck might snap.

And there he is, in all his glory.

That shitty newspaper picture definitely did not do him justice. He’s tall, towering over you. He’s not looking at you, gaze trained on the man now slowly rising from the floor. His abs really do protrude out of his suit, and you’re glad you’re not the one on the receiving end of whatever the hell is about to happen. His hands, covered in leather black gloves, grip a gun with practised ease, and though you can’t see his face under that mask, you can feel how pissed he is.

The mugger seems to be smarter than he looks, because the second he looks at Red Hood and the barrel of his gun, he cowers, hands shaking as he holds them up.

“I’m- I’m sorry, man, Jesus!” He cries.

You scowl. Your confidence seeps back quickly with the vigilante standing beside you. “Why are you apologising to him? I’m the one you tried to mug!”

Red Hood makes a noise beside you that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

The flimsy covering on the mugger face has slipped off, and he looks young. Too young to be out holding people at knife point. You feel bad almost instantly, despite that fact he was the one about to stab you. You sigh irritably, digging in your purse. You pull out a twenty dollar bill. The kid looks confused and you tut, shaking it at him.

“Take it. Come on. And stop mugging people. Get a job.” You snap.

He still looks confused, but nobody is stupid enough to say no to free money. He takes it out of your hands carefully.

“Thanks.” He says it more like a question and you just usher him away. 

He skitters off, giving you one last look. You mumble some choice words under your breath, digging in your purse for your phone. And that’s when you remember you’re not standing alone.

Your eyes flicker toward him. And he’s looking right at you. Of course, you think he is. His eyes aren’t visible, none of his face is. Your gaze also flickers to his exposed arms, the curl of his bicep and the material that is stretching over it. 

“You can take a picture if you’d like.” 

His voice is full of static, low and gravelly. It makes sense, you figure, to keep his identity a secret, which is why he sounds so robotic. He does sound sort of familiar, but you don’t dwell on that too much.

You laugh nervously, a furious blush spreading across your face. “No, that- That’s fine.”

“What are you doing out this late?”

You narrow your eyes at him a little. “Sorry, dad.”

He tilts his head. “Don’t get bratty with me. You’re the one who almost got mugged.” 

“I-“ You ignore the heat that pools in your gut at his teasing tone, and try to look annoyed. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s is. Wouldn’t be if you’d gotten home earlier. Not a lot of people get mugged when it’s light out.”

You snort a laugh. “Yes they do. We’re in Gotham, in case you forgot.”

You kneel down to grab your fallen groceries, and he immediately does the same. You work in tandem and silence, quickly putting everything back. You get up with a heavy sigh.

“I should’ve taken that ride home.” 

Red hood looks at you quizzically. Again, you think. You wish you could see his face. You wonder if he’s just as attractive without it on.

“My friend from work offered to drop me home,” you explain. “And I said no. Like an idiot.”

He nods slowly. He slips the bag out of your hand easily.

“Sounds like a good friend. Why’d you say no?”

He’s nosy, this anti-hero. 

Truthfully, you were nervous. You won’t deny your crush on Jason, and you’re not sure how well you would have faired on the back of his motorcycle, hands wrapped around his waist and body pressed against his. 

You struggle with what to say. You wonder how willing Red hood will be to give you relationship advice. “He’s..”

“You don’t like him?”

“No, I- I think I like him too much.” You mumble. “That, and his motorcycle is too scary.”

“Motorcycles are cool.” You think he’s pouting a little.

You giggle. “Sure, sure.”

Red Hood tells you he’s walking you home. He doesn’t offer, but instead waits until you start heading towards your flat so he can follow.

Gotham is never quiet. It’s one thing you love about the city. It’s always active, cars bustling down the streets or apartment lights on all hours into the night. Most people hate the noise, but you think it reminds you you’re alive. 

It’s busy now. Nobody questions the man in red besides you because you don’t think any of them are brave enough to. 

“Is it smart for me to show you where I live?” You wonder aloud. 

Red hood makes an offended noise. “Hey. I’m not some supervillain.”

You laugh a little. “How am I supposed to know? You could be lying.”

“I don’t lie, princess.”

Princess. You smile a little weakly. “I hope not.”

He looks a little funny. This big strong man, guns hung on his waist, red suit glimmering under the street lamps, a Target bag swinging in his hands. You adjust your purse on your shoulder.

“The press isn’t a big fan of you, you know.” You say.  

He hums. “Are you?”

“Am I the press?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Are you not a big fan?”

Oh, you’re definitely a fan. But you don’t say that. You just give a shrug. 

“I’m not sure. Think I’ll need to do some more digging.” 

He makes a noise. “Digging? I saved you from a mugger and I’m walking you home.”

You hum thoughtfully. You’re getting closer to your place, and you’re a little disappointed. He’s nice company. And he smells good, too. Like something you know, but you can’t quite place.

“I suppose. You’re like a real life Robin Hood.”

The bag rustles as his hold on it tightens a little. He only nods once, curt, and you feel an urge to change the subject. Luckily, you don’t need to, because you’ve reached your block of flats. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s cheap enough that you can’t complain. 

You turn to him. He holds out your groceries, and you take them with a soft thank you. 

“So.” You say.

“So.” He replies.

“Thanks for saving me, Mr Hood.”

“No problem. Next time take that ride home.”

You nod. “I will.”

If you spend the rest of your night reading every article and Reddit forum about Red hood, nobody needs to know.

——

Jason has to try very, very hard not to laugh as you recount your encounter with Red Hood.

He wasn’t being a stalker, or being weird, he’d like to start with. He had business in town, and he’d gone home, changed into his uncomfortably tight uniform and instantly gone back out. It was just pure luck that Jason had stumbled across the poor woman with a knife held to her throat. He would’ve helped no matter who it was. But the second Jason saw you, eyes wide and fear plastered on your face, his body moved before he could even think.

If he’d have looked for a second, he would’ve been able to tell that the person mugging you was just some overzealous teenager. But he hadn’t, which is why he pushed him away from you hard enough to knock him into the dumpster behind him. 

But you’d been kind. Given him money and ushered him along his way. And if Jason didn’t already love you, that would’ve been enough.

You’re sitting in front of him, legs crossed. You fiddle with the laces of your worn out docs as you watch him feed the litter of kittens they’d recently gotten into the shop. You’re trying to mask your jealousy as they all clamber in his lap, but you’re not doing it very well. 

You sigh dreamily. “You should’ve seen him, Jason. So tall, and his voice was all deep and gravelly. And I was right!” You exclaim.

“About what?” He asks. One of the kitten mewls loudly and he scratches the back of his ear.

“His abs do protrude out of his suit.” 

Jason laughs, and you grin. “You should be more careful. And I’m dropping you home today. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head quickly. “I’m not getting on that death machine of yours.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “First of all, shut up. Second of all, I have my car today.”

You dangle your fingers in front of the kittens. They paw at you, tiny claws catching on your skin. Jason thinks you look the prettiest like this, all worn out and soft after a long shift. The tiredness that gets to you both, and the final few hours of the day you get to just sit and talk. 

He wonders how you’d react if he told you that he’s Red Hood. It had taken strength he didn’t know he had to not rip off his mask and take you in that alley right then and there, especially with how horribly you were hiding the fact you were blatantly checking him out.

You frown. “Shame. I was hoping to get mugged again so he could save me.”

“You need help.”

“From him, yeah.”

Jason rolls his eyes as you laugh loudly. 

Jason likes you. He thinks he likes you too much, in a way that makes his heart ache like he’s never felt before. He doesn’t think he’s all that deserving of love, but when he’s with you, Jason likes to pretend that he is.

You both get up, placing the kittens back in their respective cages. You leave slowly, talking too much as you stuff your things in your locker and head out. You’ve still got his hoodie on. You haven’t offered to give it back yet and he doesn’t ask. 

It’s only six as you both leave, and Jason wants to ask you to hang out. Not on a date, but. As friends. Or coworkers, whatever makes this not weird for you. Maybe to grab some food, or-

“Do you wanna get a bite to eat?” You suddenly speak up.

Jason isn’t exactly shy, but he is when it comes to romancing. He doesn’t want you to think he’s being too forward, but you never seem to share the same notion.

“I’m starving. And I’m really craving something greasy.” You hum, and he nods.

“Yeah, sure.” 

“You’re paying, by the way.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Says who?”

“Says me. As your apology for hogging all the kittens today.”

You’re walking close to him. Close enough that your fingers ghost against each other as you swing your arms beside him. He wonders if you’d pull away if he held on.

“Not my fault they all love me, princess.”

Jason curses internally. He instantly sees the cogs turn in your head as you give him this look of something. He looks away too quickly, praying there’s no recognition in your gaze.

“You know, that’s what he called me!”

Jason nods, hoping the relief isn’t too obvious on his face. “Really?”

“God, he was flirting.” You almost whine, “Definitely. I’m going to tell the six o'clock news that Red Hood has a crush on me.” 

Jason knows you’re joking, so it really is quite funny how accurate you really are. Instead, he just scoffs.

“Like he’d ever like you.”

“Don’t act jealous, Mr Todd. It’s unbefitting of you.”

—————————————————————————

guys.. Ik im always posting anime guys but dc.. Jason Todd he is my roots and I wanna take a bite of his big biceps

[starboye]

call me yours

dean had just gotten done finding some supernatural shit (pun intended) and just wanted to talk to you, just hearing your voice was enough to calm him down from whatever he was dealing with, not having to scroll far through his contacts before seeing your name "❤️love of my life❤️" it said

pressing it and listening to it ring but it wasn't long before you answered "hey baby" dean greeted you in a sweet low voice "hey dean, how was the mission" you asked "stressful but we got through it" dean dropped his head back on the headrest with a comforting sigh "whats wrong" you question

"nothing i just love hearing your voice" dean just imagined himself next to you in bed, all cuddled up watching some shitty show that you both loved "yeah, how much" you thought this would be the perfect time to help dean release some stress after such a hard day "so much" he chuckles

"yeah what exactly" you ask "your laugh, your morning voice, your shaky voice when your nervous" he says "awww so you dont even love my moans, or my whimpers, or my whining when im riding you" you tease him a little and you could hear the shift in his voice over the phone

"oh yeah i love those" dean was already getting hard in his jeans from your comment "how much" you ask "so so so much" he pulls out his cock, wrapping his hand around it "mhm love when you pound me into the bed everytime, you just feel so good" you taunt him "y-yeah" he perks up after being silent for a little

"yeah so much, you wanna know something" you continue "mhm" he holds back a moan "i wish i was sitting next to you right now, just riding you in the backseat like old time, remember that" you ask "yep those were so much fun" you have his kind rolling with all the thoughts of those late night drives that turned into you and him pulled over on the side of the road fucking in the back seat

deans fist tightening around his cock as he gets close "i fucking love you so much" he shakily pants "call me yours" he asks you and you stifle a laugh at uis desperation "your mine, mkay" you coo over the phone, but dean imagined you were right next to him saying it, imagining it was your hand wrapped around his dick while telling him to cum

and he did, cumming all over his jeans and hand with a small moan "you good dean" you ask "i am now" a satisfied smile on deans face "well get home now i have a surprise for you" you tell him with a slight hint to your voice and dean could only let his mind run with thoughts of what you meant, maybe he's getting lucky tonight

xoxo, starboye 💋

taglist: @mailmango @boypied @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac @r0mcom-8ngel @bbibbiiu @tqrgaryenfilms

[dragonsoulage]

What their kinks are…

feat. Manjiro Sano, Ken Ryuguji, Baji Keisuke, Izana Kurokawa, Takashi Mitsuya

Sometimes they just can’t pretend as if they wouldn’t want to breed you or see you in pretty clothes they chose. Like they just can’t help themselves when you look just so divine it makes them go feral.

Hello friendos, this time we enjoy some Tokyo Revengers men and their kinks I think could fit them the most. I believe like with Izana it depends on the emotional state he is having sometimes. Although he is more rough overall 🤣💀

I hope you enjoy, because it was quiet fun writing it ✨✨💀🌚

Wordcount: 3,1k

Warnings: dominant men, rough, breeding kink, prais kink, Mommy issues/ kink, manhandling, biting, scratching, hair pulling, size kink, soft dom, clothes kink

Manjiro Sano - The switcher

Mikey gives off such a switch vibe energy. At first, he pins you down, having his way with you, wanting to make you beg for it. And the next, oh, such lovely eyes look up when he wants you to take the lead.

And unlike Izana, he wants this. He admits he likes it.

It depends on his mood, what he prefers, and what you give him today. Are you bratty? Well, he won't hesitate to pin you down underneath him, feeding you his long inches, gently choking you.

Even when he still presses a gentle kiss on your neck, cooing in your ear how well you take him.

Urging you to say how good he makes you feel.

"Come on, sweetheart, use your words," he teased, holding your thighs open to bully his dick between your puffy folds, making you tremble and roll back your eyes. He enjoys doing this to you. Seeing what his actions do to your sweet body, he adored you, eyes roaming over your form.

He is also really much into emotional sex, besides the fact he can fuck you into the mattress, being tender to you, and telling you how much he needs and loves you.

Often this is the point when things switch. Being on top of him, sitting up, he holds you, having you oh, so close. Mikey sat up too, just so he could bury his head in your neck, breathing you in.

Needing you, like he needs the fucking air to breath.

This is the moment when the fragile side slips through.

The softer side is that he actually is allowed to be vulnerable. And as soon as you noticed how his strokes went a little softer, you went with it. Tangled in arms and skin, wrapping them around his shoulders as your forehead lay against his.

Wide blue eyes looking in just your own orbs, you felt his breath caressing your lips, so puffy because you still rocked your hips into him.

The moment his feral look went suddenly all so gentle, daring you to take the lead. Just so the big boss finally could enjoy and just be.

"You feel like heaven...uhh." He let out, holding you still close, before you kissed his cheek.

Your palm came up cradling his face when you brushed back a blonde lock of his hair behind his ear.

"Hmm, you like that? I did not even start yet." You chuckled sultrily before you tried to get a firmer position.

Mikey not hesitating to lift you on your ass to help you adjust.

"I want you to say it, baby," you cooed in his ear, tilting your hips just right, shifting your weight so you could get a little better friction, which made you sigh content.

"You don't need to be that demanding," he chuckled shortly before leaning back on his elbows, enjoying the view.

How perfect your body was in his eyes, how your tits just slightly swayed with your motion. The expression on his face says it all: he wants his girl to take the lead. And you did, gently grasping his chin, making you look at him, what he does, and what he adores.

"Am I? Demanding, sweet boy?" you asked him just before you started to bounce now a little faster. Walls squeezing tighter around his girth, and this was the point when his head fell back and a deep whine was heard. He couldn't keep his composure, not when his hands were reaching for your breasts, holding them, and when his eyebrows knit together.

"Fuck...No, Mommy," his voice strained, but he let go, just feeling your warm, tight pussy around him, unraveling him faster than any other thing in this world could.

Ken Ryuguji - Addicted to get you so full of him

I mean, it is obvious, Draken is a tall guy, a strong one. Always have been and always will be. So he just adores when you feel so small in his hands or around his cock.

Squeezing him in the most delicious way makes him grunt.

When he knows, he simply covers your whole frame when hovering over you. Spreading your thighs open just to watch his fat cock disappear in your puffy folds, how you struggle to take him, and yet your wet pussy sucked him in—at least she tried to.

"Look at that little, perfect pussy, so greedy even when I am not halfway in yet," he snickers, before planting a kiss right underneath your ear, just so he can listen to the little mewl.

Feeling the way your small hands grabbed after his biceps, nails digging in.

"Ken...it's too big... I- ahh." You tried to find any kind of words, but all you felt was that big stretch when he finally was completely sheathed inside you. Eyes squeezing shut, and head fell back in the pillows. So he saw the vulnerable column of your throat. Not hesitating to place open-mouthed hot kisses down there, all while fucking so slowly into you. Large hands held you open when you squirmed.

"Pretty girl can take it, yeah?" It was not a question, more spoken as a fact when he thrusts harder, deliberate but always on point to make you crumble beneath him.

I also imagine he has a thing for praise, and he is more likely to give praise. Like telling, you how pretty you look, how beautiful you are when you are wrecked. How good you felt around him, how it was making him feral. And believe me, he is going feral at some point.

"Taking me so well, look how utterly perfect you are like this," whispering it in your ear with that deep booming voice, making you shudder and more...clench around him, so his thrust stuttered for a short moment.

"Harder, baby," were the only words you always managed to choke out. Just so his hair that fell out of his braid tickled your face. Abs tensing when fucking you even deeper and harder. Just how you need it, how he needs it.

"I've got you, pretty girl. So fucking pretty and wet for me, hm?"

Overall, he is dominant but always makes you feel safe, never pushes you to your limit, even when you want him to... He knows when your body needs a break, and you are just too cock drunk to notice it. But he never left you unsatisfied. I always imagine when he knows you are sore...he would love when you sit on his face. No matter what weight you are, for him, he would love to get smothered by your pussy; he likes the weight he tries to put down on him. When he is fucking his tongue inside your cute pussy.

But Draken gets really feral when it is about breeding. Tell him you want it inside, and every ounce of self control is gone. Hand on your chin, tilting it up, looking in your eyes with such a pure need.

"Fuck a baby into me, Ken." Those sweet words, half moaned right in his face when you looked like you would die when he would not cum inside you. "Then tell me how much you want me to have it inside, pretty," he commanded, gently taking a deep breath, knowing he was bracing himself for the next hours to pump so much cum into you. Having you so overstimulated but begging...he was just a man. How should he deny his girlfriend that?  

Baji Keisuke - The manhandling menace

Baji? Fucking naughty, he takes you when he feels like it, aware how wet you got when he started manhandling you.

Seeing you in that dress? Damn, without thinking, he would bend you over his bike. But it's not just that. Even when I think he would be more the dominant one, he still likes when you bite back...or when you let him ruin you.

Baji fucking adores the way it feels when you pull on his hair while he eats you out. Bronze eyes looking up all while his tongue is so busy being buried into your tight, wet heat. Groaning when he just tasted your sweetness, he couldn't help but go feral. When does that man have any self-control?

He does things because he feels like them. Eating you out, his favorite meal of the day, and your hands in his silky raven strands? When he looks so handsome, being all focused and smug about making you come undone without even his cock?

"Come on, baby, pull it harder," he urged you to before laying his tongue flat against your clit, which was making your hips buck up. Your hands pulling it harder, and his face even more into your pussy.

But not just that—he loves to pull your hair too, fist wrapped around your hair, pounding you from behind. Girthy cock buried to the hilt in your snug cunt that fit him perfectly. You were already keening as it literally knocked your breath out of your lungs with every deep thrust. Pulling your hair just so his other hand grabs your throat gently. Watching that cute little expression when he fucked you dumb with teary eyes.

"Don't look at me with those eyes," he growled, yanking your head back, so his lips were warm against your ear.

"What eyes?" you asked him, all so innocent, although you knew what you did.

"These pleading eyes are telling me to fuck you even harder, sweetheart," whispering it in your ear before getting your head pushed into a pillow.

I also can imagine him quite the biter, especially during foreplay, making out? Your lips will be kiss-bitten, pink, and glossy. Barely keeping up with his hunger when his tongue was invading your mouth like a starved man, exploring every place in your mouth, tongues tangled before he started with a nib and gently sucked in your bottom lip just to bite down gently.

Not just that when he fucks you in a full nelson, he does enjoy biting oh so tenderly in your neck and shoulder. Loving the feeling of how your skin tasted and how it made your cute pussy throb when he does it with his canines.

And in case you bite back, that has him going, biting his shoulder when he sinks in deep, trying to keep yourself from coming too hard? He does enjoy it.

Baji is all yours when you start scratching him, when he pushes your thighs apart with large calloused hands, his face in the crook of your neck when he was sliding into you so effortlessly. Just when he picks up pace, your nails raking over his back, it was having his balls draw up tight, making him groan oh so deep. "Fuck, do it again," he commands. Give him a scratch, and he is all yours.  

Izana Kurokawa - The controlling one until he melts

I am sure he is a guy who wants control, wants to be king, and wants to be in total control of you. And don't get me wrong, this guy wrecks you in bed.

Throwing you around to his liking before giving your poor pussy the pounding of your life.

He enjoys watching you struggle beneath him; this is for sure. He pushes your limits, but never too much. Not for real, though.

Hands gripping so tight it was nearly bruising when he has you on your knees. Always these wet squelches of your pussy, the moan he could earn, the whimper on your tongue, the whisper of his name when he fucked you like this.

Head fell back, just to drag every mean inch of him along your inner walls. Making you feel every vein with this hard, punishing pace he had. Smacking your ass, just in time so you would squeeze him. And he knew you would.

"Look at that greedy, slutty girl. All on her knees for her king...fuck." He loved to degrade you, but not too much; you are his queen, not his slut, but he fucks you like one.

He could have had every girl, but you were the only one he wanted.

Izana knows you are patient, you are a safe place, his safe place.

You don't use him, not like everyone else. You let him use you, no matter if it were to fuck or sometimes...just sometimes cuddling you a moment longer than he intended.

Poor boy, so confused why he stayed like this with you, even when deep down he knows why.

You invited him to let him fall, and only when he wanted to, never demanding it.

He also loves praise....praise him when he makes you cum. Praise him when the big stretch feels so good.

And then there is a little other thing. Something he didn't even dare to realize he had until that one time.

It's obvious that he got mommy issues, and when you are so patient with him, maybe just maybe...after he ruined you thoroughly, when you climbed on top of him. Being a little sore but oh, so tender.

Peppering kisses along his neck and chest. Hot breath caressing his ear when he felt how your snug cunt sunk down his pulsing shaft, squeezing him so deliciously. Your fingertips dancing over his muscles.

"You are such a strong boy, aren't you?" you whispered, kissing the spot right behind his ear.

It made the great Izana shudder. Hands glued on your waist, like as if he would be afraid you would disappear.

He growled, holding back so much now. You were good to him, so good. When suddenly...just suddenly: "Yes, Mommy" slipped past his tongue. In a moment he is in shock, frozen in place. Just when he felt your pussy squeezing a little tighter and saw the delicate blush on you.

Not a sign of any discomfort or that you would make fun, he decides to let it be. Indulging in a rare moment where you are allowed to take the lead. The real lead, making his head spin so he could let loose for just this moment.

You kissed his lips shortly before caressing his cheek with your thumb, palming his face. "Then let Mommy take care of you now," you said sultrily before your hips started a sensual rhythm. Looking down on him, he was not really sure what happened now, but his fingers tightened around you. Eyes just narrowing a little when he let you have the pace you wished.

"Relax, baby. You deserve it. You have been so good today, so strong," you mumbled gently, trying to ease him from what just slipped out of his mouth.

Your flat hand pressing him down on his chest, not too harsh; it was a delicate balance before he probably would take the lead because he said, "Mommy?"

But damn, it felt good, especially when you had this gentle and sensual pace of your hips. Tits bouncing just slightly was an erotic sight when he looked up.

When you noticed slowly he let loose, for once...his head fell back, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, eyes squeezing shut. Not whining, but he strained himself to not lose all of his control completely. Your hand danced up his skin, tracing the lines of his neck before gently wrapping your fingers around his throat, not squeezing, just holding, before leaning down.

"You are such a good boy for Mommy, huh?" you whispered, and when you did, his hips jerked up, holding your waist tightly.

"Good at wrecking you in all the right places," he answered, still cocky but letting you have this way because you felt like damn sin. 

Takashi Mitsuya - The worshipper with style  

He is a walking green flag. You are not confident in your body? This changes when this man has you in his hands. Kissing every "imperfection" you thought you had, telling you what a goddess you are. Lavender eyes always half-lidded but so in awe when he parts your legs, to worship your absolutely divine pussy.

It was not just sweet and tasty...no, you were divine. Arms slung around your thigh, face buried where you needed him the most. "Such a good girl, with such a perfect pussy," he mumbled before his tongue lay flat against your cunt. Dragging his tongue over your hot slit, just seconds before his tongue flicking over your clit makes you gasp so cute, trying to find a hold on his hair. Your face turned away from him... he stopped. He wanted to see how good you look when you fall apart. How he made you feel.

"Nah, no turning away, love. Look in my face when I eat you." So you were forced to look at him; otherwise, he would have stopped, and you were far too needy then to stop.

"Taka..." you pouted, looking down, eyes immediately rolling back as soon as you felt his tongue.

He could spend hours there, just to watch your body react.  

In general, he loves to pick out clothes for you, or it's a bonus when he makes them. Fucking you in a dress that perfectly hugged your curves? That was so flattering on you because he knew your body better than you? When every stitch he did is made for this moment? Just so he could raise the hem up and fuck you when he pulled the cute panties he chose for you aside?

Having you in missionary just to see how gorgeous you were, makeup slightly smeared from the blow job you had given him. Hair tousled because he couldn't help, but then pull on it slightly.

His angry tip disappearing inside you, but all he could look at now was you...how your chest spilled nearly out of the cleavage, how he ruined you, and yet how good you looked while taking him.

"Told you, it would fit you perfectly, as you always fit for me so perfectly... God, you are so tight," cursing slightly because when he fucked you, he never came first, always wanting you to fall apart before he spilled right onto your naughty panties. Nothing is more arousing for him than seeing your panties full of his cum, makes you look even better.

"God, I need it deeper...please." Your plea was sweet, so sweet his head fell in your neck and he groaned. Adoring it whenever you wanted something. Serving you in devotion...you want it deeper? He hit the perfect angle. You needed it harder? He held you tighter and did it. Whatever you needed, without hesitation he made it happen.

Rubbing small circles over your clit, just so you would squirt on him, to tell you how pretty you looked while doing this...

"Hmmm, come on, love. Just a little...want this pretty pussy to cum for me. You can do it, right?" he urged you while his thumb was so firm on your nub it made your legs tremble, and you shudder...

[pinkslipxox]

Unit She Comes Home:

Summary: spicy FaceTime with Billie 🥰❤️

Warnings: smut ❤️‍🔥

——————————————————————————

Can we call? I need you.

Your heart skips a beat as you read the text message. Once. Then twice. Another chime breaks the silence, notifying of another message from Billie.

You have five minutes. Get naked.

Your breath hitches, heart fluttering with excitement and anticipation as you make your way to the bedroom. This isn’t the first time you and Billie have done this, no. Yet the thrill of it all— the sultry warmth of her voice, each touch and caress in her name, feeling so close to her despite being so far apart— always feels so intimate, so electric. Despite the distance that separates you, the sensation of her proximity lingers, making everything feel almost tangible. The anticipation builds, a delicious tension that keeps you on the edge, eager to lose yourself in the night’s passion.

Once you’re in the bedroom, you prop your phone up with the phone holder.

As you begin to take off your romper, you can’t help but imagine your hands being Billie’s as you slowly peel off the soft fabric from your body. The love marks she made on you the night she left are already faded, yet the phantom lingering of her touch remains. She aims to please, always, and she succeeds every time.

Even miles apart.

Once you are bare, you lie down on the bed.

You wait another minute for the fun of it.

Then you call her.

She answers on the third ring.

Your heart races as Billie’s face fills the screen. She smiles, her raven black hair cascading over her shoulders, the hotel’s warm lighting casting a soft glow on her features. There's a spark in her eyes that immediately ignites your own, a mixture of mischief and affection. Her lips curl into that familiar, infectious grin, and for a moment, all the distance between you feels nonexistent. You can almost feel her presence, the electricity of her touch, even through the screen.

“Hey, princess,” Billie murmurs, her voice a low, seductive hum that sends a delight shiver down the spine.

“Hi, Billie. You miss me, baby?” you purr, the sound low and honeyed.

“Of course I miss you.” Billie smirks. “And that tight, little pussy of yours.” She then coaxes, “Let me see her, doll. Spread those pretty legs for me.”

God, you love it when she talks like that.

Slowly, teasingly, you slide your knees up to your chest, and spread your legs apart with a smirk. You can see yourself on the top left corner of the screen, pink and glistening, clit erected, just aching to be touched. Billie licks her lower lip, her ocean blue eyes now dilated and a darker shade. You even puff your chest out a bit, knowing how much she loves to see your breasts. And you even give them a little shake. Billie’s breath hitches. A thick silence weighs between the two of you until Billie speaks again.

“Close your eyes. Imagine my hands caressing your skin, my lips kissing your neck,” she instructs with a steady tone tinged with desire and affection.

Obediently, you do as you’re told. Her words echo in your ears, engulfing you in its spell as you imagine her soft lips on your neck, kissing and sucking on the sensitive skin there. You imagine her hands slowly tracing the contours and dips of your body, fingers warm against your skin, her touch slow and reverent. A sigh of bliss escapes your lips, reveling in the delicious sensation.

You feel an all too familiar warmth begin to course through your body, one that pools your own desire like fire in your core. The ache between your legs is impossible to ignore, but you remain obedient to Billie’s command. You’re so entranced with your own ministrations that you almost don’t hear Billie speak again.

“Are they hard, Y/N?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice and it sends a delicious shiver down your spine.

You whimper. “Yes, Billie.”

“Touch them, baby… nice and slow, like I do it.”

A soft moan escapes your lips as you take your hardened nipples gently between your fingers, pinching and twisting your rosy buds. You take one of your breasts in your hands and begin to massage, envisioning that your hands were Billie’s, her tongue swirling, lips kissing, and mouth sucking with an intoxicating energy that always leaves you begging for more. All the while, Billie encourages you on, her sultry voice commanding to pinch harder, massage slower.

She’s enjoying this. And so are you.

“Billie… please…” you half-whimper, half-moan, your core throbbing for the attention it needs, it craves. Billie chuckles, a low rumbling sound that seems to tease your pussy with its vibration alone.

“Taste yourself.” She commands it.

And you moan, half with relief and half with pleasure, as you slide a finger down your folds, collecting the moisture before sucking the arousal off.

“Does it taste sweet, baby?” Billie teases, and you imagine her lips curled into that damn smirk that undoes you every time. “Like candy?”

When you don’t answer right away, Billie commands, “Answer me, Y/N” and you reply with a breathy ‘yes’.

Billie grunts in approval. “Keep your eyes closed, baby. We’re just getting started.”

“Baby… please…” you beg, not caring how pathetic you sound. You need to touch yourself. You feel like you will explode if she doesn’t give you permission to do so at this very second.

“Please what, Y/N?” Billie feigns obliviousness. You can imagine her tilting her head to the side, her lip sticking out in an exaggerated pout, her ocean blue eyes gleaming with delight.

You make a sound that’s between a whimper and a frustrated groan. You know she’ll make you say it. You don’t want to say it, but you have no other choice but to submit to her will.

“Let me… touch… myself…” You pinch your nipple harder, desperate to feel more, but it doesn’t compare, not even close. You fight back the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. “I’m begging you… please, Billie…”

“Just ask, baby girl,” Billie purrs and you choke back a sob.

“Please.. can I touch… myself, Mommy?” you manage to say and Billie chuckles.

“That’s it, baby girl. Go ahead. Touch yourself for Mommy.”

You waste no time.

Moans escape your lips as you rub your pulsating clit, thumb circling the sensitive bud, spreading the bead of moisture there. You rub in slow circles, breath hitching as the pleasure builds, each circle of your thumb sending waves of ecstasy throughout your body. You toss your head back, lost in the sensation.

“Put two fingers in for me, doll,” your girlfriend instructs and you can only moan in response.

Your other hand trails down your stomach, fingers dancing lightly over your skin before slipping the two fingers inside your wetness. You moan louder, hips bucking against your hand as you fuck yourself slowly, deeply. The dual sensation of your thumb on your clit and your fingers inside drives you wild, your moans turning into desperate gasps. You can feel the orgasm building, your body tensing, ready to explode. You ride your hand faster, harder, your body shaking with the force of your pleasure. The only sounds that you can hear are your own moans and the wet sloshing sounds of your arousal.

That is until you hear a low, humming sound.

Coming from Billie’s end.

You peel your eyes open to see your girlfriend, her beautiful features twisted in pleasure as she teases herself with the vibrator she insisted on bringing on tour with her, movements slow and deliberate, each touch calculated to maximize her enjoyment. She bites her lip, suppressing moans as she explores her body, her breath hitching with every subtle shift of the vibrator. Her eyes are closed, lost in the sensation, and her cheeks are flushed with arousal. She knows you're watching, and that knowledge only heightens her pleasure. She arches her back, offering herself more fully to your gaze, her body glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. The room is filled with the soft hum of the vibrator and her quiet, desperate gasps, creating a symphony of desire that leaves you aching for more.

“Y/N… God, f-fuck!” Billie moans, and you swear that you could cum right then and there.

You cry out, desperately, “Billie! Oh, my God…” and rub faster, toes curling as you get closer and closer to the edge.

“C-Cum with me,” Billie whimpers— she fucking whimpers— and that’s it for you.

Your screams and Billie’s moans mix together in a beautiful symphony as the two of you ride the waves of pleasure together. Her name falls off your lips in between breathy moans and gasps as you release, fingers still buried deep inside you as the intensity of the moment consumes you. The room is filled with the sound of your combined ecstasy, each gasp and moan echoing off the walls, creating a cacophony of desire. You lay there, chest heaving up and down as you catch your breath, mind hazy from the incredible sensations.

After a while, you decide to break the silence.

“That was…” You can’t bring yourself to finish your sentence. Amazing doesn’t even do it justice.

“I know,” Billie murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “God, I miss you, Y/N. So fucking much.”

“I miss you too, Billie,” you reply and you mean it.

It’s hard. The late night studio sessions, demanding schedule, being miles apart. Yet moments like these make it all worth it.

“Round two, baby?” Billie smirks and you let out a breathless laugh. She’s insatiable. But you love it. And she knows it.

It’s your turn to smirk. “Whatever you want… Mommy.”

Billie cusses under her breath. Then, in a low, husky voice, she instructs, “Clean up and get the dildo. You have two minutes,” and you feel a newfound spark of fire ignite inside you.

Fuck— you can’t wait until she comes home.

[literaila]

can we get a fic where gojo and reader are playing some game or something and gojo let's reader win every time because she's having too much fun and he is just a sick loverboy

also hope you're doing well I love your writing 😔

“do you have the three of diamonds?”

satoru smiles, sorting through his nine cards like his alien-like hands are incapable of holding them. “go fish.”

you sigh, pick a card off of the pile, then stare blankly at the boy in front of you.

when he suggested a card game you figured it would have more to do with suits and less to do with… just watching him struggle with his hand?

you figured it would be a break from the silence of the dorm rooms—everyone else gone for the weekend—and not the most infuriating sight you’ve ever seen.

you sigh again.

“have you never held a hand in your life?”

“i could hold yours, if you want me to,” satoru answers, leaning over far enough that you could definitely see everyone one of his cards.

but you avert your eyes because you’re not a cheater, and you don’t even need to be when every one of gojo’s turns take three minutes.

“no, seriously. are you trying to do a magic trick or something?”

“pick a card,” satoru wiggles his eyebrows, far too suggestively.

“it’s your turn.”

“oh, right. hmm… got a black seven?”

“which one?”

“clover.”

it takes a strange amount of effort—and the cost of your pride—to refrain a laugh. and this time when you sigh it’s in relief. at least his hand will get smaller and you can stop feeling so sorry for him.

watching him like this is… strange. you’re usually days ahead of satoru, sure, but he’s so good at everything.

it’s almost difficult to know something that he doesn’t.

“okay,” his eyes meet yours. “go ahead. wouldn’t want to start losing now, would you?”

“is this supposed to be trash talk?”

gojo hums.

“trash talk when you just called your card a clover?” you clarify, blinking at him.

“sounds like someone is worried,” satoru drawls. “don’t worry. we’re not playing for money.”

“you have like twenty cards, satoru.”

“actually i have—“ he looks down for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. “eleven. eleven-ish.”

“ish?” you repeat, laughing.

“you can count yourself.”

you shake your head, about to say something else—maybe make fun of him, maybe propose a bet—but satoru drops two cards.

he pouts and you get to watch while satoru painstakingly arranges his cards in one of his hands, and then tries to pry the other cards up without dropping anything.

another card slips from his palm.

you groan. “have you really never played a card game before?” you wonder aloud, unsure how that could be possible—or why he would suggest this in the first place.

satoru scowls, trying to turn a card over with his nail. “i have.”

you laugh, shaking your head again. you set down your cards, face up—because what the hell?

and then you crawl towards satoru, attempting to catch the three other cards he’s about to drop. “can you—hey, stop.”

satoru doesnt, he shakes your hands away and drops two more cards.

“satoru. just wait a second,” and you’re laughing, looking at him and rolling your eyes at the pitiful look on his face.

he looks like an indignant child. stubborn, and completely unwilling to lose.

which, really, isnt so far off.

“okay,” you sigh, when he finally stops moving. “now, hold your hands out.”

“why?”

“i’m trying to help you.”

satoru leans in, eyes catching yours over his glasses, his face contemplative.

“we can start over after this,” you tell him, pushing his shoulder. “just let me show you.”

satoru still looks skeptical, but he relaxes, reluctantly holding his cards out to you.

“alright, now just watch first, okay?”

and you show him how to arrange the cards, fanning them out in your hands so that each one are at an angle and safely tucked into your palms. “you use your thumb to look through them. and readjust if they slip.”

“your hands are so small,” satoru coos, almost like he’s bragging.

you scoff. “and yet i’m not the one dropping my cards everywhere.”

“yet.”

“whatever, satoru. here.” you bunch the cards up and pass them to him. satoru waits a moment and then attempts to mimic your movements,

but a card at the end tilts too far, and then another follows, and then one hand goes to fix the cards that are slipping, and the other half of his pile is forgotten. or rather, the other half is now on the floor.

you laugh. “no, don’t—“ satoru does not listen, tongue poking out as he tries to fix it. “you need to—“

“i got it—“

“satoru, stop letting go—“

“i’ve got it—“

“okay, look, here—“ you lean over him, stopping his hands with both of his.

and in one second you’re climbing almost on top of him, your arms overlapping, each one of your thumbs resting on his. “relax your hands,” you whisper to him, after a moment.

it takes a moment but satoru does.

“okay,” you smile at him, watching as his eyes flit from yours and then to your hands. “now, fold your thumb here.”

you squeeze his hands together, readjusting his fingers, and satoru allows you.

“keep your hand like this, see?” satoru just barely nods. “and fan the cards out…”

then you both look down, each card visible, and none of them slipping. satoru breathes out and you can feel it.

his hands are very warm, like this, and even though he’s annoying—he was right. your hands are smaller, barely able to cover his own.

you look back to him, suddenly just inches away. you can hear his breathing right in your ear. can see the edges of incandescent blue eyes over the frame of his shades.

this time you watch his eyes fall from yours, flickering over your nose, trailing down…

you wonder what satoru sees when he looks at your lips. you see a toothy smile, the indents of teeth, the darker line of red around pink and—

you pull back, quickly, and satoru blinks—his eyes meet yours again.

you’re still kind of on top of him, still basically holding his hands.

“so,” you let go, watching as satoru’s entire body loses its tension. “i think you got it.”

satoru swallows, looking down.

“finally,” you add, like it’s going to do anything to ease the tension you’ve just unwittingly created.

this is completely stupid. you should’ve just let satoru struggle, and you should never get this close to him, and, in fact, you don’t even like playing games with him because he always—

you look down, eyes scanning his cards suddenly.

you yank his wrist over again, scowling. “i asked if you had this! and the six, and the jack—“

satoru’s grin is sudden and unabashed, his eyes not even a little bit ashamed.

“cheater! i would’ve won like ten minutes ago if—“

“what?” satoru drawls, tilting his head at you. “how was i supposed to know? i’ve never even played this before,” he flutters his eyelashes.

you tackle him right there, cards be damned.