#Steps to the Manger

[livehorsesartpage]

Last night together before Brightbill's second migration.

I love this movie so much, it really warmed my heart. 💗 Also, this kinda looks familiar to that Isaiah prophecy: "The wolf shall dwell with the lamb." so fitting to the Advent season.

Made with markers on December 04 of 2024.

[cryptotheism]

Let me tell you about the worst meal of my life.

I, a socal native, was wandering through Edinburgh. For reasons too complicated to explain here, I had not eaten or slept in roughly 24 hours. I was exhausted, maddeningly hungry, and hungover. I wanted something that tasted like home. There was a burrito place.

It was a standard store layout, the line of cooks waiting to assemble the burrito step by step, little troughs of ingredients laid out before me. In a land of unfamiliar, alien cuisine like Greggs and Pret A Manger, I was finally in familiar territory. I understood this.

One steak burrito please.

I watch this poor Scottish woman grab a cold flour tortilla from a plastic bag. It is so stale it clicks as it hits the counter. She drops a tongful of cubed carne asada into the center. It bounces.

My choice of beans was the first thing to throw me. No black. No refried. My choices were white, kidney and large. I went for white.

The rice was visibly undercooked. The cheese was certainly not Oaxaca, but let's be fair, even a lot of American taquerias don't use Oaxaca. I just needed something white and reasonably melty, and I trust the Scots when it comes to cheese. Things were odd but going steady. I was going to get my burrito.

But then, dear reader, this woman dips a ladle into the thinnest, wateriest, greyest looking guacamole I have ever seen. There are chunks of raw avocado floating in what appears to be cucumber water. I initially mistook it for a ceviche or unusually chunky salsa. And this woman really lays it on. She soaks my burrito like some kind of avocado based baptism mishap. All I can do is sit and watch as a puddle of greenish sweat forms under the tortilla. The ship was sinking. I needed to get out now while there was still time.

"That's perfect." I say.

I have nothing but empathy for this cook. None of this was her fault. I watch in placid horror as she attempts to fold Davvy Jones tortilla into working order. The tortilla is so stale it is audibly crackling as it splits and creaks. Beans and cheese gush from a crack in the starboard side. Another break. Another. But all is not lost. An enterprising coworker swoops in with a second tortilla, staunching the wound. A layer of foil reinforces the patch. Total repair cost is about fifteen pounds.

I sit. I unwrap. I am deliriously hungry. I take a bite without looking.

A bog body of a tortilla. Cold in some places, soggy in others, mysteriously sticky in yet others. Rubbery carne asada haunted by the memory of the ghost of cumin. Rice so undercooked it was biting me back. Beans so underdone they're writing on my teeth like chalk on a blackboard. Everything is fucking wet. There is a smell, but no discernable taste of avocado. Cheese was fine.

There was no lime anywhere. I asked.

[kisses4themissus]

mr & mrs || In-ho X Reader

a/n: a lil blurb for yall today cuz im on vacation :) Warnings: possible spelling errors.. pairing: hwang In-ho x pregnant!reader wc: 457

pt 2 | masterlist

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“Player 002.” The voice announced over the speaker.

In-ho watched from the furthest corner of the room, he knew gi-hun would be clueless of him all along, he stopped as a familiar face walked over and vote O, making the polls a tie. 

“Player 001.” He quickly walked down the steps and to the voting machine, he pressed the O. Groans came from one side of the room while the others celebrated. “Majority votes to keep the game going, we will resume the games tomorrow morning, with that goodnight.” The manger announced to the crowd.

Once the metal doors shut, In-ho made his way to a familiar player. You quietly spoke to another player, 222. “That lady is right, compression had effects on pregnancy.” You motioned to geum-ja, a mother who joined to pay off her son’s debt.

“How far along are you?” She questioned. You smiled as you rubbed your pronounced stomach. “Eight months, my husband and I had to receive endless amounts of fertility treatments, after a while we had taken out several loans..” You lied to the young girl.

“Y/n?” In-ho called out.

You froze and turned to see your husband, to the untrained eye he seemed surprised to see you there, but you had been married long enough to know him well; He was upset at you. “What are you doing here?” He questioned, walking over to you, grabbing your arm and guided you down the steps. 

“What are you doing here?” You acted, knowing the young girl’s eyes where still on you both.

You gave in-ho a signal not to say anything that would give himself or you away. “I’m here to pay our debt! Why are you here, you need to be home; resting, getting the nursery ready.” He explained.

“I’m here to pay off our debt for our baby!” You fought back, leading him away towards the side door. 

Once you knew it was safe, you grinned at your husband who looked at you, unimpressed. “You need to be resting!” He groaned, you sighed in response. “If gi-hun finds you out and harms you, he’ll feel worse knowing you have a expecting wife.” You argued.

“These games aren’t safe for you or the baby!” He scoffed. “While you were too busy playing dress up, I know my power in the control room, I ran these games before il nam picked you along!” You pushed your finger into his chest, making him step back. “Your pink soldiers know, a single drop of blood comes from me their dead.” You stared at your husband, not backing down from him. 

He stared at his white shoes for a minute before picking up his head to look at you. 

“What’s our backstory then?” 

[queen-of-diamonds-xo]

Qatar Heat Pt.2 (OP81)

Oscar Piastri x female! Driver! Reader

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Summary: part two of this fic!

Watching his teammate rolled away as he battles with unanswered questions. Oscar is rushed away and confronted by his manger Mark Webbar- where the pressure you endure come to light.

Warnings:

Mentions of a weight clause for reader, a bit of tension, both of you are still idiots just a little bit more aware of your feelings

A/N: okay here it is! I’m so sorry this took so long your girl has been in a massive funk lately but finally getting this out feels so good. I hope your enjoy, the themes in this may be a little strong but your girl can’t help writing about supportive men speaking up for woman’s advocacy!

Masterlist

🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🍂

Oscar felt helpless as he watched your body being strapped onto a gurney and rushed away. Cameras flashed around him in a dizzying swirl, sharp questions slurring together in a meaningless blur of noise.

“Oscar, what’s going on? What did she say?”

“Mr Piastri, any comment on what you just witnessed?”

“Mr Piastri, do you think women are cut out for formula one?”

That last one ran deep down Oscar’s spine, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head at the reporter. Almost daring them to repeat the question.

His movement towards the man was blocked by the weighted pressure of Charles' hands on his tensed shoulders, blocking his attempt at confronting the sexist reporter. His fists clenched by his sides as he scoffs one last time in the man direction, turning his attention to the swarm of McLaren personal surrounding you.

His steps towards you were held back, Charles’ voice ringing through his ears. Charles hands pressed into Oscar’s shoulders, effectively blocking the man’s advance. He felt hopeless, his feet sinking into the heated tar like mud- his strained voice fading into the chaotic swarm of noise.

He was quickly forced away, McLaren support surrounding him as they guided his staggering steps into a closed off room. Their words not registering as his neck strained, desperate to catch one last look at you as the door to the motor home is locked behind him. Oscar’s hands rested atop his helmet, thankful for the privacy it provided as a strangled, broken plea escapes his parted lips. His chest straining as his mind runs away from him, still focused on his teammate, the girl he would do anything for.

He is ushered into a still conference room, the silence a welcoming change as the door clicks.

In seconds Oscar was left alone, his blood thundering in his ears. He heaved with weighted breaths as he paced the room. A consistent back and forth as he replayed your words in his mind, battling with himself to not go running out the door after you.

His hand fighting with his helmet, rushed movements yanking the suffocating weight from his head. The pounding remained consistent as the protective gear hung heavily in his hands. His sick covered gloves a stomach churning reminded if the pain McLaren had caused.

He replayed the events in his mind, running through the memories- a desperate search for answers in every fleeting moment he had shared with you.

So.. she got her period- that he saw sure off.

They forgot to fill her water at the hottest race of the year and-

They forgot?

Engineers don’t just, forget these things.

His cheast tightens with a whole new kind of anger. The one ran deep, an icy flow in his veins that squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to remain control of his breathing.

But if they didn’t forget, they.. did this on purpose?

His eyes narrowed in a pointed gaze.

But.. why would they do this?

He made his way out towards the door, leaving his helmet forgotten and his gloves tucked into his coveralls.

gripping the cold brass in his hand, Oscar took a moment to breathe. Allowing his breath to catch, the shaking in his hands steadying.

Nothing good will come from approaching this in anger. No, he needs to be calm and consistent. He needs to lay out the facts and the evidence for the world to deliberate.

He needs people to know the truth. Not for himself, and definitely not for the team.

But for you.

The girl who came speeding into his life, messing up his sim times with her sarcastic commentary. Sending his heart racing with every second glance, his stomach shuffling with nerves when you laugh, low and controlled, at his jokes.

The one who always stood with composure and grace when people throw brash and sexist comments your way.

The one who shut them up with race results and unteachable talent that left the whole paddock (world) silent.

The one who left him breathless in every sense.

He wasn’t going to stand by and watch as the very team who did this to you, made up excuses and lies- letting the world slander your racing ability.

This wasn’t personal- it wasn’t about you

Just… your ability as a driver.

Yeah, sure. That’s how he will rationalise what he’s about to do.

The door opening caught him by surprise, stepping back slightly as the person sleeked into the room. Standing tall, blocking Oscar’s escape.

Oscar eyes narrowed at the older man in front of him, his manager and mentor Mark Weebar.

Oscar arms crossing against his chest as he rejected the man’s presence, not at all in the mindset for a post race debriefing right now.

Mark stood unwavering in front of the door, mimicking Oscar’s stance watching the young driver intently. His eyes daring Oscar’s to speak first, a smirk itching on Marks features at Oscar’s indifferent expression. Waiting carefully for mark to break the silence first

“Before you go out there, there are some things you should know first.”

Marks gaze met Oscar’s, the older man’s face hanging low. His shoulder weighed with the knowledge of a terrible truth. One he truly didn’t believe Oscar was ready to hear- At least not in his current state.

Marks movements were slow, hesitant as he extended out his arm. His hand clutching a stack of papers, jerstering for Oscar to take them.

Oscar’s hands shook as he gazed the papers, they looked identical to his racing contract with McLaren. The only difference being your name staring back at him.

He thrust the papers back towards Mark, the pile burning in his hands. His eyes gone wide as he stared accusingly at his manager;

This was your racing contact.

He couldn’t have this! He couldn’t read this- he could be fired, or worse.

“I’m not asking you to read it. I’m giving it to you, to leak to the press.”

Oscar wished he heard the man wrong, but at Mark stood unwavering, he couldn’t help but stare down at the stack. His gaze a mix of horror and intrigue.

“Now, you didn’t hear this from me. But-“

Mark oaused, taking a moment to steady his shaking words. His eyes refusing to meet Oscar’s.

“There’s a part of her contract- a… a weight clause.”

The stack of papers fluttering to the floor paused Marks words.

Risking a looks up at Oscar he watched the driver's eyes burn with fury, a blaze igniting as his body started to shake.

Oscar’s eyes closed with his teeth biting hard into his lip, the metallic tinge of blood meeting his taste buds. Every bone had gone ridged, hairs on end as his body practically buzzed with anger.

“Zac insisted on it.”

The two men's eyes met, Oscar’s burning with dark fury.

“They didn’t fill her water for today race, did you know?” Oscar’s voice was calm, head tilted to the side, eyes tracing marks frame. Sizing up the older man.

“I-I didn’t think that they would actually go through with it.” Mark admitted in a whispered confession, eyes closing and he’d lowering in shame and defeat.

Oscar’s foot collided with his helmet, the crack of the plastic visor evident as the headgear crumpled against the wall, sliding with defeat and landing on the ground.

Outside the motorhome, All post race celebrations were forgotten as drivers were whisked away by their teams. Being fed perfectly constructed statements about the incidents of today's race.

With the victor in intensive care, and her teammate and fellow pole sitter missing- there wasn’t much to be celebrating in the first place.

The paddock buzzed with uncertainty, all attention drawn to the McLaren motorhome. The building sitting unerveringly still, no one in or out as reporters and photographers fought for a glimpse inside.

Oscar kept the papers tucked into his race suit, mind steady as he opened the door.

Being met with a wave of flashing lights and incomprehensible questions. Everyone talking over themselves, begging for Oscars statement. He walked slow towards the group, holding up his arms to gain their attention.

“I’m not here to answer questions, just to deliver the facts.”

Oscars turns towards the McLaren motorhome, Mark posted at the door giving him a nod of encouragement. Blocking Zacks attempts to breach the compound to silence Oscar. Zacks fists pounding on the glass echoing behind him, the principals shouted threats silenced.

“It was brought to my attention, that during today’s race y/n’s drink supply was left unfilled. On purpose.” He make sure to put emphasis on that last part. Fighting with his voice to stay steady, praying it doesn’t crack.

“Now I don’t think i have to tell you just how disgusting, not to mentions dangerous that is. But that isn’t all.” Oscars unzips his race suit, the stack of papers being pulled from the confines.

“This-“ he holds the papers high in the air with a shaking arm.

“This is my teammates race contract. You will find a highlighted section on page three. this section outlines the details of my teammates weight clause. Stating, and I quote ‘If driver y/l/n is found to be in breach of the weight limit- set by McLaren- she will be met with immediate reprimands including but not limited to; one race ban, denial/push back of upgrades, limited access to sim testing and/or immediate dismissal from the team.”

Oscar paused as the crowd in front of him erupts. Anger and confusion evident in the air as reporters shout for answers. His eyes locking with a female reporter, her hand brought to her mouth in shock. Her eyes wide with disbelief and she shakes her head.

“I will not stand aside as my teammate is silenced. I will not stand aside while McLaren jeopardise her heath and wellbeing, all for aesthetics.” Oscar’s voice raising into a shout, allowing the words to fly from his mouth with heated passion.

“My teammates body autonomy has been signed away, now under ownership of a formula one team. Y/n lost consciousness after the race as a direct effect of the deliberate decision not to fill her drink supply orchestrated by and under the direct supervision of Zac Brown.” Oscar finished his statement by handing your race contract to the press. 

Seizing his opportunity to sneak away while they clawed at the papers, desperate to capture images of the alleged passage. Oscar stands behind the motor home. His hands racking through his hair.

A wave of panic hitting him hard. His throat tightens as he chocked on a sob, his eyes burning with hot tears. His body screamed at him, muscles strained and tired. His jaw ached from clenching it. His hands hurt from his nails biting at the skin. His mind swirled with anger and confusion, unable to think straight.

“That was one hell of a statement Piastri.”

You voice broke him from his spiral, smooth and sweet like caramel. He looked at you with shock and disbelief, his movements stalled as he raked his sore eyes over your frame. Lent casually against the wall, one leg propped against the exterior of the motor home, the other planted steadily on the ground. One hand cluchting your side as the other hold a cigarette. Oscars eyebrows raising as you take a long drag, your eyes closing as you allow the smoke to invade your lungs.

“I didn’t know you smoke?”

The question caused a surprised laugh to slip past your lips. Followed by a sharp and deep couch, it rattled your frame. Leaving you hunched over for a moment. Flicking the but away from you as you step away from the wall. Making your way towards Oscar. Your steps slow and shuffled as you approach the man.

Now face to face you grab his hand, Oscars heart skipping a beat. His eyes refusing to meet your heated gaze, scanning the area behind you.

You step closer to him now, your breath fanning over his face. His eyes closed as he inhaled the stained aroma of cigarettes and Gatorade. Your hand rests on his chest feeling the reparative rise and fall with each breath. The other is placed over his shoulder, the action tensing the man’s body and his eyes closed. Not daring to move and inch, his fingers twitch by his sides.

“It’s going to be hell, once Zac finds us.” The words are quiet. A whispered moment of uncertainty as your eyes trace over Oscar’s face. Raking down his nose, following each freckle down to his parted lips.

His eyes opening just to meet your heavy gaze, the air surrounding you gone thick. His tongue flicking over his bottom lip, swallowing his nerves as he raises a shaking hand. His rough palm resting gentle on your cheek, his thumb tracing over the smooth skin.

He chuckles low, a deep rumble in his chest. A white flicker of a small grin and his froth teeth capture the light of the setting sun. The golden glow slowly warming your tangled bodies. The drum of noise carried away by his smooth voice, low and controlled as always

“Yeah well, I’m not letting you go through hell alone.”

He leans in closer, his lips brushing yours. He eyes still swirling with uncertainty as he hesitates to close the distance. A brief wave of panic overtaking him as his mind catches up with his actions. His limbs burning just as he was about the pull away, you put him out of his misery.

Your hands curling around the back of his neck, coming to rest in the nape of his hair. Using the leverage to pull him down, your lips connecting. The kiss burns, so many words unspoken on the tips of your tongues. His swirling around yours as you lean into him, allowing his arms to wind around you. Your weight easily supported by him as you allow the world to slow.

🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂🤍🍂

Tag list;

@wherethezoes-at @fangirlmusicbiashoe @landosbabe4

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[averyspizookies]

— — GUARDED — —

Hiii y’all!! This is nearing the end of the series, but don’t worry, I have manyyyy things in the drafts rn ;) I hope y’all enjoy this chapter…….sorry for last chapter lol. Give feedback and ily guys, all 500 of you!! Especially all who are mine and @izzih22 kids lol. ☺️🤞🏽barley proofread, if u see spelling mistakes lmk

It had been a chillingly quiet practice, the notable absence of Azzi.

1 day, 27 hours, 13 mintues.

That was the last time anyone on the team had talked to azzi, last time anyone on the team had seen Azzi.

Her mom told their coach that she was “sick” but no way in hell, the way that girl lived; 2 showers a day, washed her hands at least 50 times an hour, always kept safe distances from people. It was more likely she got “sick” from the party her mom didn’t know she was going to.

Their coaches didn’t know about the post, yet.

Paige had called her manger she’s only had for about 2 months and told him what happened.

He was shocked, obviously. It was embarrassing to say the least, telling a 30 something-year-old man that you were caught making out on a car with your teammate. Even worse being she had to come out to everyone she talked too about the situation, explaining that it was Azzi.

But that didn’t matter. What did matter was wiping the internet of the photo.

The photo that was the reason she hadn’t smelled her favorite scent of vanilla and lavender in a day and 27 hours, seen the smile that could kill an army in a day. It was the reason she hadn’t seen her Azzi.

Practice was a struggle, shots weren’t falling like they should’ve, she was dragging her legs to run, each step a thought about Azzi.

The team whispered, they had mixed reactions.

Some saying sorry about the situation in awkward ways, some pretending they didn’t know what was happening, but only one teammate really helped; Caroline.

Caroline knew how down bad Azzi was for Paige, how she cried in her car, breaking down at the raw emotion that stirred in her, knowing the power it had to destroy her. And now that it did…she worried just as much as Paige.

So when practice came to a close, they headed out to Paiges car to talk.

***

“Still nothing, right?” Paige asked Caroline, knowing it was stupid to be hopeful,

Caroline sat in her passenger seat, shaking her head, mumbling out a small “no”

They sat in silence for a beat, both minds working overtime.

“This cant happen, I just—I need to fix this. I mean, can you imagine her right now? Just the thought of what she’s feeling makes my chest hurt.” Paige admitted, the emotion from her heart pouring into her words.

She had worked hard and tirelessly with her team to get everything wiped, though they still didn’t tell her who had taken the photo. They got into contact with the instagram page who posted it. Threatening to sue if they didn’t take it down.

Along with that, her team worked to take down all repostings of it, which thankfully there weren’t many.

She had immediately put all this into work after racing home that day.

Even though it was definitely still floating out on some corner of the internet, it wasn’t mainstream anymore.

But Paige saw it, she felt it still.

The way her name was trending on Twitter, on the list right below Azzis name.

She knew their school was talking, the way people looked at her in the hallway.

It wasn’t mean or cold hearted for the main part—just talk.

They were teammates, and two girls, along with being stars. Most people were curious.

“What if….What if we just go there?” Paige whispered, pulling back from her thoughts.

“Go to where-Azzis house?” Caroline replied.

Paige nodded, gripping the steering wheel on the parked car, “Yeah,”

Caroline scofffed, “No way in hell that’s a good idea.”

Paige knew she was right, Azzi hadn’t responded to any texts, any calls, anything.

“I know, but I need to talk to her, tell her I got it taken care of, tell her I’m sorry.”

Paige swallowed, knowing she would do anything to see Azzis face again. To be in her presence.

“I know. Listen, how about you try tonight, maybe think of an idea that can help your situation without breaking into Azzis house?” Caroline added, knowing Paige could get to Azzi better than she could.

Paige nodded, looking out the window, her mind going 100 miles per hour. “Yea, I’ll think.”

Caroline hummed in agreement, the painful silence of worry draped over the car once again.

***

“Azzi, love? You need to eat something.” Katie called softly from outside Azzis room.

“In a second,” Azzi responded back, using all her strength just to say those words.

She laid in bed, phone powered off and locked in her desk, like it had been for the past day.

she hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had a moment where Paige didn’t control her mind in almost 2 days.

The photo was ingrained in her mind. Worse then that, the memory of what was happening in that photo.

The kiss had changed her,

She knew she was into Paige,

But that kiss? It was more than a crush.

She felt like a different person after the kiss.

It was life changing, but with that came the consequences.

Everyone knew she kissed her, it wasn’t just her memory, it was shared with thousands of nosy people now.

From guys saying gross shit, to guys saying they could “Change her,”

Or from one particular guy.

His name was JJ.

He had DMed Azzi Last night.

She didn’t know him, but when she clicked on his profile, seeing that Paige followed him, along with Ash and a few UConn accounts, she knew he was probably at the party.

Opening it, she was faced with a strange message.

JJ: Hey Azzi, I know you don’t know me. But I wanted to be a man, I wanted to apologize. I took that photo. I was drunk, along with high. I wasn’t thinking…especially that Paige would threaten to sue over it. I kinda was crushing on her, we did a shoot together for Nike. I was thinking with my dick, I’m really sorry.

Azzi hadn’t responded.

She couldn’t.

Wat did she have to say to a the guy who had seemingly ruined her life?

She took a screenshot of it, along with his profile, then blocked him. Shutting down her phone and locking it in her desk.

This stupid message laced with false apologies replayed in her mind.

It was clear he didn’t really give a shit over her, or want happened.

Only reaching out because he was scared for himself.

But Paige..threatening to sue him?

Azzi knew Paige, knew that if this had happened with anyone other then Azzi, she wouldn’t have gave it 2 thoughts, just brushing it off.

But Azzi knew that Paige knew her, knew how this would affect her, and she handled it.

Even thought they hadn’t talked, she knew Paige cared.

She knew Paige was worried.

Which made it all worse for Azzi.

Because Paige was showing up through her actions, she was caring, she was calling, texting. Trying.

And Azzi couldn’t.

She couldn’t talk to her.

Not yet.

She just wished it was easier, wished Paige would just show up. Hold her, force her to come back to reality.

But that’s too much to wish on a person, Paige had to be struggling too, dealing with the consequences as well.

But god—Azzi wanted her.

She wanted her to be right next her in bed, wanted her to grip her waist and whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

But she was embarrassed, because if she had that, it came with being out in public, loving a girl publicly.

Which was terrifying.

It wasn’t that she was scared of Paige, but scared of what came with Paige.

She would always be known as a basketball player—but now with that, a gay basketball player who dated her teammate.

It wasnt the worst thing in the world world, but people were cruel.

They would never look at her the same as if she was with a man.

Now people would focuse on her, her personal life, her sexuality and relationships.

And she’s not dumb, she’s been online her whole life. Seen the commments, seen the slander, hell—it had already started on the post.

even though most where just comments on how this was unexpected, some even excited.

There were the negative. The ones saying that she would go to hell, and how much of a sin it was to love.

She didn’t know how people could just say that.

How people would ignore every positive of her—her selflessness, her down to earth personality, her on court performance. And outweigh it by who she loved.

Calling her a sinner, but, wasnt everyone a sinner?

So why did her sin outweigh all of the others,

And why did it sting so much?

These are the quetions that kept her away,

The what-ifs in her head.

She didn’t have the answers.

So she stayed where she was. “Sick.”

In bed, thoughts swirling, missing the one person that came with confusion.

***

Paige rested on her bed, glancing over at the clock; 6:30

It was still bright outside, the sun dimming slowly.

Everything seemed to move more slow now, almost like the universe was teasing her.

Saying “Look at all this time you can’t spend with her”

She wanted to jump off the bed, get in her car and speed to Azzi.

But she had to think it thorugh, think about everything that could happen.

Azzi might be mad, or she could be depresssed.

She could hate Paige—or need Paige.

Or both.

She scrolled on her phone, not paying to much attention.

Till a notification popped up.

A Dm.

From…JJ?

The guy she was at Nike with, the UConn recruit.

Curious, she clicked on it.

A soon as she read halfway through the paragraph-her stomach seemed to drop to the floor.

“Paige, I use wanted to come to you directly and apologize. I took the photo, of you and Azzi at the party. I already apologized to her, she probably told you that already. But I was just stupid for that, I was really drunk, and high. And I was I was jealous, so I sent it in. I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would go viral so quickly, I didnt even think people would care. But at least it’s removed now right? Have a good night. I’m sorry again”

What the fuck?

She…

What?

JJ?

why on earth would he do that.

Then give a fucking half-assed apology like he bumped into her.

And he had the fucking nerve to text Azzi?

Bullshit.

Before she could stop herself she was typing.

“Yo, I don’t give a shit if you were high, dunk or both. That was shitty as hell. You dont even know what you did. Grow up before you get to college, your skills aren’t gonna take you that far if you’re still a dipshit.”

Sent.

Blocked.

She didn’t care to get another apology, she wanted to tell him off then cut him off.

That was all she needed, she needed to go to Azzi.

So that’s what she did.

Grabbbing her shoes, spraying a small amount of the cologne Azzi had complimented. And leaving for her car.

She fumbled with the keys for a second, not even caring to tell her dad where she was going.

As soon as she started the engine, the roar of the car coming through, she took off.

Going 50 in a 25 she pulled up to Azzi house in 4 minutes flat.

She stopped the car, slamming the door to get out.

She feet planted but moving fast towards the door.

The pavement of the her path to her house clicking against her Jordans.

she stepped up, knocking on the door.

She knew it wasnt gonna be Azzi at the door when it swung open, but she hadn’t thought that far.

“Hi, Paige right?” a woman, Katie, Azzis mom said looking up at the blonde slightly.

Paige offered a polite smile, pretending to be to be at ease, “Yeah, um-I’m sorry to just show up, I just really need to talk to Azzi.”

Katie sighed, looking her up and down, hesitating for a moment, “She’s….well. She’s not doing well right now.”

Paige knew that, but still she didn’t like hearing it aloud. “I know..I know why she’s not herself right now. I just think she might need to talk,”

Katie smiled, touched by the way Page was caring. “Okay, but if she gets upset, I warned you.”

She stepped back to let Paige in, “Thank you so much, and got it.” Paige said with a brethless laugh.

Katie pointed to the direction of Azzis room, not knowing that Paige already knew exactly how to get there, and everywhere else in the house.

She walked quickly towards the door,

The floor creaking under her.

It had only been 2 days since she’d seen Azzi.

But it felt more like years.

Her heart was racing, her chest tightening.

Was this stupid?

Just showing up?

Before she could spiral more, she knocked,

Three taps on the door,

a soft, slightly broken voice called out, “Go away mom, I’m not hungry.”

Paige felt her chest tighten more, a lump in her throat with her heartbeat.

She cracked the door open, “Sorry, not mom, just me.”

Azzi knew that voice,

Her glossy red eyes looked over at the door,

She met the blue eyes waiting there.

Then she broke.

Paige shut the door, rushing over to the bed.

She grabbed Azzis shaking body, heavy with tears.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I promise. I’m here.” Paige whispered into the top of her head, pulling Azzi to her chest.

Azzi let herself be pulled, burying her head deep onto Paiges chest.

Tears that stung streamed out of her eyes while Paige brushed her fingers through her still straightened hair,

Her body warm against Azzis, feeling her heartbeat through her chest.

It grounded her.

It felt Iike home.

She cried, she let herself be vulnerable.

Because Paige came.

she knew she needed her, and she cared enough to come.

She was here.

Paige whispered into the top of her head again, “I’m not going anywhere, I promise, I won’t.”

Paige was scared, she was scared for Azzi.

But she mattered to much to let herself be scared, she neeed to be stable. Present.

Azzi gripped her shirt, pulling Paige impossibly closer, neededing her close.

Feeling this, Paige pulled the blanket over her and Azzi, gripping on to her waist with one hand, one still cradling her head.

Azzis cries turned to hiccups, slowly, calming herself down.

Paige stayed there through it, whispering into the top of her head, planting kisses along with it. Just being there.

Azzi sniffled, her cheeks red, her eyes glossed over with emotion and exhaustion.

“Hey Pretty” Paige whispered as she felt Azzi stirr.

Azzi looked up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since Paige had walked in.

The soft blue to hurt brown.

Paige looked into her, reading her, still smoothly stroking her hair.

Their faces close.

“I’m sorry.” Azzi mumbled out, her voice soft and broken.

Paige shook her head immediately, hand still in Azzis hair, “No, don’t. Don’t apologize.”

Azzi felt it in her chest.

At that moment she knew.

She loved Paige.

How could she not?

here Paige was, sitting comforting her, holding her, waiting for her.

“Paige..”

Paige still looked in her eyes, “Yea?”

Azzi got scared, she’d never say this to anyone.

But Paige wasn’t just anyone.

“I love you”

A beat passed.

Then, Paige closed the gap.

Their lips met slowly, softly,

The kiss unlike the one that night.

This one was sure.

Positive.

It was home, it was love.

It was theirs.

when Paige pulled back slightly, a little dazed, “Are you sure?”

Azzi laughed for the first time in what felt like forever, “yes. I’m sure.”

A smile broke out on Paiges face, her thumb caressing Azzis jaw softly.

“I love you too”

Those 4 words were all Azzi ever needed to hear.

She felt like there was now 3 stages to her life.

Before the kiss. After the kiss. And those 4 words.

Paige didn’t say anything for a moment, still inches away from Azzi.

Looking down at her, the curve of her pink lips, the way her blown out hair fell softly against her Carmel skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” Paige whispered out like a prayer.

Azzi didnt even know she could feel this way. The way those words made her feel.

She’d been called beautiful tons of times.

But that hit her deep.

Like Paige was calling every bit of her beautiful, because she was.

her soul, her face, her personality. everything.

Azzi laid her face down on Paiges chest, her heart beating slower now.

“We can talk later, just stay with me for a bit?” Azzi asked,

Paige held her closer, “yeah, I’d like that.”

Azzi closed her eyes, not meaning too, just far too at peace to not drift off.

Paige followed her, the grounding sounds of Azzi breathing, and this time, she wasnt sacred of Azzi being gone when she woke up.

They both fell softly into sleep, the warm sunset guiding them.

Their bodies tangled together, trusting each other.

***

Katie hadn’t heard noise come from Azzis room.

She was concerned to say the least.

She knew Azzi and Paige hit it off, she’d never seen Azzi spend so much time with a person before.

And every time Azzi came back from being with her, she seemed to buzz with happiness,

So when Paige showed up, she let her in, call it a gut feeling. but she knew Paige could help.

She knew she cared for Azzi by the way she made her happy,

“I’m gonna go check on the girls,” she said to Tim,

He barely even noticed, just nodding.

She got up off the couch, softly padding towards Azzis room,

Reaching the door, Pressing her head against it, she heard nothing.

Concernd, she cracked open the door, peaking in.

And there it was.

Paige holding Azzi tightly,

Azzi sound asleep on her chest gripping her shirt.

Barely air between them.

Shocked at the sight. She looked for a second longer,

But, somehow, she knew.

This was going to start something.

So she closed the door.

Smiling.

Knowing something she hadn’t before.

[seozii]

── ❝ ꒰ TIRED .ᐟㅤ ៸៸﹙ Jay ﹚ ᶻ𐰁

He came home tired, so you thought it was a good idea to treat him with cuddles rather than adding to his stress.

⸝♡ fluff, 586 WC,so sorry for missing days of fictober, been busy due to some personal issues but yeah. Will try to make up for the days that have been missed (day 11 & two more I think) 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑

“Welcome back jay!” You greeted A wide grin spread across your face when you saw the door fling open and jay stepping into the apartment.

He had been long gone, away at the company to work on somethings the manger had tasked them to do. You couldn’t deny how long the entire day felt without him.

Rising up from the chair, you stood up to give him a big hug.

It took you by surprise when you felt jay wrap his arms around you even tighter, which was something not so usual. It only happened on days like this when he was tired and stressed.

He finally pulled out looking at the ground with an embarrassed expression. “I’m sorry if I hugged you too tightly” he apologized not breaking eye contact with the ground.

“Hey you don’t need to be sorry, you needed it anyways” you reassured gently using your hand to Pat his shoulders.

“C-can you please cuddle with me?” He asked getting shy at his own request.

He was never the type to speak up whenever he wanted something from you. It was either you guessed or unintentionally do it. You were always the one initiating for cuddles.

“Sure!” You beamed smiling at him, carefully taking his hand in yours as you led him up the staircase.

You laid on top of the bed rolling and tumbling, sinking into the softness of the duvet. While jay washed up, changing into his pajamas after.

He climbed onto the bed, lying not even up to an inch away from you. He wasn’t All too Familiar with how cuddling works, so he left all the work for you.

Seeing no action had been taken place you turned back to look over at jay. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you say you wanted to cuddle?” You asked a hint of worry in your tone.

“I-I do but…..how do I put this” he stammered avoiding eye contact with you. “I don’t know what to do” he blurted out.

You giggled at his reaction, understanding what he meant. “I get you. Don’t worry then”

With your full body facing him, you leaned in closer.

His heart was racing with his mind running with thoughts of what you could possibly pull off next. The distance from your face to his was enough to make him nervous.

He was a bit startled and disappointed when all you did was wrap your hands around him, snuggling into his chest like a bear.

It wasn’t like he didn’t like it, he was just expecting something more, like a kiss or does things that happen at that moments in a Wattpad story.

But there was something about the warmth of your body that made him feel comfort.

He slowly melted into your arms, shrugging off his previous thoughts and disappointment. It was better to enjoy the moment now that occupying his mind with thoughts he knew would rarely come through.

Everything about your body felt so soft, and comforting, it made him feel at ease. He didn’t even notice that he was already drifting off to sleep, constantly closing and opening his eyes trying to fight the urge to stay awake.

After minutes of trying to fight the urge to fall asleep his eyes slowly closed, his breath became steady.

“Aww so cute” you squealed lightly pinching his cheeks as you took in the sight of his cute sleeping face.

[grillthegridmydear]

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　The Good Witch　:･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

pairing. F1 Grid x Leclerc!reader, Ollie Bearman x Leclerc!reader

summary ~ The baby of the Leclerc family experiences the worst heartbreak of her life while living in London, so she writes an album.

faceclaim ~ Maisie Peters

notes ~ This album has been my roman empire since it dropped and I am making it everyone else's problem now. My school level french is no use to me here so please pardon any terrible translations.

yourusername

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, arthur_leclerc and 12 621 others.

yourusername London I love you, you'd have to drag me away kicking and screaming <3

view all comments!

arthur_leclerc still cant believe you moved out before I did

yourusername cry about it I guess

user1 begging for the next ep drop on my hands and knees

charles_leclerc would it kill you to come home every once and a while?

yourusername voir maman ou Lorenzo? non. Pour te voir TOI ? oui, oui, ce serait le cas. (to see mom or Lorenzo, no. To see YOU? yes, yes it would) liked by lorenzotl

alexandrasaintmleux gorgeous as usual ❤️

yourusername Je t'aime belle fille ❤️❤️❤️ (love you beautiful girl)

yourusername Let me know when you finally get rid of my idiot brother, I wanna get a custom cake

charles_leclerc QU'EST-CE QUE J'AI FAIT ??? (WHAT DID I DO?)

yourbfusername my london girl ❤️

loved by yourusername

yourbff girl you're never allowed to leave you have witnessed too much that involves tequila

yourusername blackmail for life

user4 baby leclerc literally eating up the streets

user5 i need to see her in paddock again soon ITS BEEN TOO LONG

302studio

gridgossip

gridgossip singer-songwriter y/n leclerc has blacked out all her social media pages and made them private, this comes following the abrupt news that the ferrari drivers sister cancelled the rest of her european tour dates. sources say that she has blocked her long time boyfriend yourbfusername. could the couple's split be the reason for the radio silence?

liked by user11 and 320 612 others.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

f1gossip

f1gossip Heartbreak for baby Leclerc as photos of her long time boyfriend yourbfusername were released earlier this week outside of a popular london nightclub kissing another girl. y/n was spotted leaving Nice Côte d'Azur Airport with her brother Charles Leclerc late last night. The 21 year old pop star seemingly escaping her ex boyfriend and guitarist to return to Monaco.

view all comments!

user10 ok this is why we dont give men rights cause WTF

user11 poor y/n, i cant believe it

user12 not what i was expecting

user13 THIS MANS DAYS ARE NUMBERD

loved by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1 and 864 others.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

It took 3 days to finally pull myself out of the pit of my childhood room. The sun bleeding through the crevices of the blinds screaming to be opened for some fresh air. coming back to Monaco felt like defeat but I knew that staying in London would kill me, plus the hushed whispers coming from downstairs reminded me that this was the best thing I could do, my brothers were dramatic enough without deciding to go on strike from racing until I finally agreed to come back.

Small snuffles under the door broke the serene atmosphere in the air, followed by tiny nails scratching to get in. finally pulling myself out from under the covers I cracked open my door enough to let a tiny four legged blonde into my cave, Leo weaved his way between my legs, herding me closer to the door. his persistence finally made me scoop him into my arms and make my way downstairs.

The already whispered conversation died as I took the last few steps into the living room. Four heads turned on a swivel to see me enter the living room. Maman sitting on the sofa with Arthur and Alex, Charles sitting at the piano in the corner of the room. "Bébé ? tu veux manger quelque chose ? nous étions sur le point de préparer le déjeuner." (baby? do you want to eat something? we were about to make some lunch.)

the idea of food made my stomach lurch, I skipped dinner last night in favour of crying into my sheets. Heartbreak had always seemed so stupid when I was young. How could girls spend all their energy loving someone who hurt them? I owe all those girls an apology. I could only nod as I set Leo down on the floor, he trotted over to Alex and with my arms free from the wriggling pup I sat down on the piano stool next to my brother. the guilt over cancelling my tour had been eating my alive for the last week, so many people would be so disappointed. I hadn't even entertained the idea of opening my phone since I landed, but Arthur had reassured me through the door that people were just worried about me, whether I was ok?

I had no idea if I was.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, alex_albon and 101 892 others.

yourusername drastic healing measures activated. thank you all for being so patient with me, here's a little treat. Blonde is streaming now!

view all comments!

maxverstappen1 funeral anthem

yourusername nurse! he's out again!!

user16 no cause max is so real for this, this man has a bounty on his head

alex_albon lily hasnt stopped playing it since it dropped. neither has logan.

yourusername i knew you were my number one fan logansargeant

logansargeant its going platinum in my house

user15 AHHHH THE GRID IN THE COMMENTS!

user16 i love their friendships so much

lilymhe WHAT A GORGEOUS GORGEOUS GIRL

yourusername wifey 💍💍💍

alex_albon today is not the day and i am not the one 🤺🤺🤺

alexandrasaintmleux face card is never denied!

loved by yourusername

user27 oscar in the likes 👀👀👀

user21 girl EVERYONE is in the likes

oscarpiastri where was this energy for cates brother?

yourusername tbf Hattie ATE in her cover so its not my song anymore

arthur_leclerc i think maman is still weeping that you went that light with the bleach

charles_leclerc

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, arthur_leclerc and 13 253 others.

charles_leclerc I remember the day you were born and you cried so much we couldn't hear ourselves think. you demanded to be heard and since that day you have had music in your soul. it has been an honour and a privilege to watch you grow into the woman you are today. happy birthday ange, thanks for letting your big brother watch you make an album.

view all comments!

user21 ALBUM!?! SAY SIKE RN

user22 part time driver, full time stan

user23 can we blame him though?

user24 happy birthday!!! now back to the ALBUM ANNOUNCEMENT!!

user25 EVERYBODY STAY CALM

user26 not charles leaking the album announcement 😂😂

yourusername thanks cha! DID YOU JUST LEAK MY ALBUM!

yourusername

liked by scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc and 468 648 others.

yourusername ok since SOMEBODY couldn't keep a secret for 3 seconds 😠 my father always taught me that boys weren't worth the energy and to hit them back twice as hard. so here I am papa, making you proud.

The Good Witch is now streaming on all platforms!

view all comments!

carlossainz55 spoken like royalty princesa, congratulations!

yourusername gracias chilli !

charles_leclerc je t’aime ange, sorry again.

yourusername i might forgive you

landonorris album of the year i'm afraid

yourusername how tragic 😱

oscarpiastri y/n please Hattie wont stop playing it, im begging you take the album back

yourusername you are the worst piastri

user 15 eating this up

user36 GIRL THIS WAS AN ATTACK! WENDY!!! NO BODY TALK TO ME!

user39 this may go down in history as the cuntiest slay of all time

user40 OH SHIT, HE LOST THE BREAKUP

loved by olliebearman

user40 ARIANNA? WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE??

yourusername

liked by landonorris, olliebearman and 792 721 others.

yourusername are you gonna feel the way I feel? are you for real?

comments are limited on this post

olliebearman

liked by georgerussell63, arthur_leclerc and 87 621 others.

olliebearman this is in fact a john hughes movie and the girl does in fact get the guy ❤❤

tagged yourusername

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

Hey yall! just something a little short and sweet to get back into the swing of things.

i do want to eventually do a series based on this album for the grid cause i am obsessed.

let me know what you think

-A

[leclerc-hs]

snowballs - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x nanny!reader (fem) summary: in which you bake cookies with charles and his daughter but still end up on your knees warnings: some cute fluff?, 18+, slight smut, oral (m-receiving), bad french (please correct me!!! i don't speak french), not proofread word count: 1,342 author's note: merry christmas eve (ya filthy animals) lmaooo. also loling at the title. leaving this here for y'all. single dad Charles has me in a complete chokehold. this is not a part 2, just a little Christmas themed drabble if you wanna call it that. if you didn’t read THIS yet, then go do it.

french edits made by @dannyramirezwife !!! (my angel)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

THE AIR WAS filled with the sweet scent of pine and cinnamon, instantly putting you in a festive mood as soon as you arrived today. Soft, twinkling lights adorn the walls and windows, casting a warm and inviting glow throughout the space. Throughout the apartment, the sound of classic Christmas tunes plays softly in the background.

The kitchen, where all three of you stood, was pure chaos. Bowls varying sizes are strewn across the countertops, each bearing the remnants of different stages of the baking process. A mixing bowl, its sides smeared with sticky remnants of cookie dough, sits next to a flour-dusted measuring cup. Multiple trays of already baked cookies, sat cooling atop the stove. It truly was a mess.

“Papa! Vous ne pouvez pas manger ça!” You can’t eat those! She exclaimed in fits of laughter. Her face was absolutely covered in ingredients. No doubt from sneaking licks of cookie dough and frosting when she thought that nobody was looking. Flour coated her hands and arms, and some had found its way to her rosy cheeks.

“Ils sont pour le Père Noël!” They’re for Santa! You agreed with her. Swatting him with one of the Christmas themed hand towels that was nearby, before returning to decorating the cookies that lay in front of you.

Charles emitted a resounding gasp, skillfully weaving of feigned anguish. His reaction unfolded with a theatrical flair; a symphony of emotion portrayed through a dramatic hand gesture that traversed the journey of his fist to his chest. It mimicked the palpable sensation of being struck, an artful display of simulated injury. “Un autre homme reçoit tout cela?” Another man gets all of these?

With an indulgent smile, you playfully orchestrate a slow, deliberate roll of your eyes in response to his theatrics. Unfazed by the charming display, you redirect your attention solely to the task at hand – meticulously adorning the remaining cookies with festive embellishments. The ambiance in the room becomes a delightful blend of shared amusement as you all work hard finishing them all.

Charles soon excused himself to his bedroom to gather a call regarding some car testing that happened earlier this week. 

As you were on the verge of releasing a hearty sigh, ready to vocalize your exhaustion, your attention diverted to the drowsy four-year-old near you. Her delicate features were gently pressed against the countertop, closed in the embrace of slumber. A wave of endearment washed over you. Suppressing a giggle, you marveled at the sheer adorableness of the scene, momentarily setting aside your fatigue to savor the precious sight before you.

Tenderly, you gathered her into your arms, cradling her like a precious bundle. With each careful step echoed through the familiar path leading to her room, where the soft glow of ambient light revealed the traces of a day well spent.

Arriving at her bed, you marveled at the cherubic expression on her face. Softly, you attempted to wipe away the remnants of flour that adorned her tiny arms and face, a silent acknowledgment of the shared joy in the day’s baking escapade. Deciding that it was best to let her sleep than to wake her to bathe her now. The sheets could always be washed later. In that quiet moment, you sat on the floor beside her bed, just smiling at her. The room became a sanctuary, where the gentle act of care echoed the love woven into the fabric of the night.

Unbeknownst to you, Charles stood silently in the doorway, quietly observing the intimate scene before him. A swell of emotion gripped his heart as he beheld the tender scene – there you were, alongside his daughter, the warmth of familial connection radiating from your shared moments. In that unspoken exchange, a poignant desire filled his heart, longing for the sense of family that seemed to effortlessly bloom in your presence. His heart was full of want for you.

“Sugar crash?” His voice, soft and unexpected, caught you off guard, prompting an instinctive flinch. As you turned your head, you found Charles slowly approaching, his tall figure standing gracefully behind where you were seated. His captivating green eyes remained fixed on you, their beauty holding a silent intensity, never once wavering from your presence. 

“Oui,” you softly smiled. “Je devrais aller nettoyer,” I should go clean up. You stood to your feet as Charles pressed a soft kiss to his sleeping girl and brushed her hair out of her face.

Back in the kitchen, it truly looked like a tornado had hit the room. Standing amidst the culinary chaos, you contemplated where to even begin when, suddenly, a pair of hands playfully seized your waist, diverting your attention.

“Tu me rends fou,” You drive me crazy.

His lips pressed softly into the swell of your neck, his tongue pressing against your cookie batter covered skin. “Tellement doux,” So sweet.

Your stomach clenched with butterflies as he spun you around, holding you close to him. Slowly, he brings his index finger to the corner of your mouth, wiping a speck of dough off you and bringing it to your lips.

He doesn’t even need to tell you before your opening your mouth, wrapping your tongue around his finger to lick it off. You stare up at him in the process, witnessing the color of his eyes darken as you release his finger with a ‘pop’.

“Je te rends toujours folle?” Still drive you crazy?

You observed the Adam’s apple in his neck bobbing with a pronounced gulp. The veins in his neck stood out prominently, evidence of his teeth being clenched.

You slowly made your way to your knees, trailing your hands down his body, feeling his taut muscles through the confines of his sweatpants. You skillfully looped your fingers into his waistband, pulling them down to free his hard length. Not too far away, was some spare cookie dough on the island of the kitchen. To which, you reached one arm up and grabbed, spreading some of it onto him, a smirk graced your lips as you heard him groan. 

“Mon dieu,” My God. He physically had to lean forward, hunching over you, in order to grip the kitchen counter top as soon as your tongue met him.

You moaned at the taste of him and the cookie dough.

He half-chuckled as his hips bucked further into your mouth, chasing after his pleasure. He inhaled sharply, trying to relax, but you were eager and adamant on getting him there. You were so so so eager to please him. 

Your hand gripped him, collecting the spit on your fingers, spreading it all over his hot skin, while you suckled gently at his sensitive tip.

“Mmm, fuck,” He couldn’t get full words out as you sunk him deeper into your mouth, his tip scraping the walls of your throat. The burning in his stomach was rising as he watched you eagerly take every inch of him. You moaned at the taste of him, the vibrations pushing him even closer to the edge.

His face was completely flushed now as you bobbed up and down, essentially choking on him. Keeping your voice down, you pulled off of him again.

“Je te veux partout sur ma langue,” Want you all over my tongue. Your whimpery tone sent him over the edge almost instantly. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he repeated. The muscles of his arms bulging as he gripped the edge of the countertop tightly. Your eyes were wet with tears, but you were satisfied as he filled your mouth. Your tongue ran over the tip once more, licking up every drop, before he took a step back from you. 

You grinned lazily at him as you stood to your feet. His chest was rising and down deeply as he tried to catch his breath.

“Complètement fou,” Fucking crazy. He murmurs, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. 

“Il est temps de nettoyer!” Time to clean! You clap your hands together, devious to escape his touch. 

But you both know, that he won’t let you off the hook that easily.

[simpee9000]

Not Just Friends - 4 -

M.List : Prologue : Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Not edited : 3.8k words

Childhood best friends turned into something more, at least with the label. Katsuki Bakugo, a fast-rising hero and fast-learning guy who is ever so slow in getting attached to and loving someone. Even three long years into a relationship, and your friends even forget you're even dating. Nothing happening, spare a few kisses.. like 3 kisses, during high school. Graduated and living together, and you guys have done absolutely nothing to further the relationship. Are you sure you're not just friends? CW: Smut, brief domestic violence discussion, virginity loss, aggressive flirting from creeps, gore with pro hero stuff (lmk if i missed any) Applies to all chapters regardless of it is in said chapter.

You've spent the past week working through Katsuki's watch. Only putting it down when handed a time restricted request for a support item fix. Testing the quirk removing feature on Mei and a few others around. Since you couldn't remove your own, at least you wouldn't realize until a week or so.

Once all the kinks were worked out, you placed it in a nice sleek black watch box. Tying it closed with a burnt orange ribbon. You were giving it to him as a gift, just like all the other watches you've given him in the past. This one just a lot more expensive and fully designed by you.

It was already Friday by the time the watch was done, completing two days before you said you would.

Friday's were also the days that Katsuki worked at his own agency a couple blocks away. So after getting a cab to his agency, you walked through the door. Instantly being recognized by the security team for the office and being allowed through with only a quick screening, just in case someone was pretending to be you. You smiled at the receptionist, giving a quick wave before you headed to the elevator.

After pushing in the button for the top floor, the floor that only held him and his closest heroes, you opened your phone to check the time. It was right before his lunch started, which meant he would likely be getting out of the showers. He always took a shower after first patrol and once getting home.

The task of looking at your phone made you think of making yourself a watch, maybe with a support item for yourself incase within. Break-ins for support items were getting a lot more common now days and you couldn't be safe enough. With nanotechnology you could probably make an upgraded suit to the one you've made in high school, that shared many similarities to Iron-man's.

Before you could ramble in your own brain about the idea anymore, you reached Katsuki's floor. Stepping out of the elevator and greeting his manger who was sitting just outside Katsuki's office in his own desk.

"How's your day so far, Tanaka?" you smiled at him.

He looked up at you, "I work with Dynamight," he said plainly and looked back down to his monitor. He reminded you of Shoto that way. Blunt and straight to the point.

You laughed lightly, "Right, he can be a lot." You looked around the office for a moment, "I'm assuming he is still in the showers."

"You'd be correct," his monotone voice would of made you feel stupid if you didn't know him. He's always like this, never changing his tone. He was always one steady mood, it's the main reason Katsuki chose him. Tanaka wouldn't get upset, but rather not take no as an answer. Which Katsuki hated but needed at the same time. It helped his press a lot.

You rocked on your heels for a moment, "Well, I'm going to wait in his office."

"Wait," he paused you, his face slightly paled. He looked stressed.

"What?"

"He told me not to let you in there without him," he answered, face back to normal without the threat of you going in the office.

Your brows furrowed, "Why?"

He shrugged, "Just made it clear to not let you in."

"Okay?" you stood confused on what to do. Kirishima wasn't in the office yet, and neither was Denki or Sero. It was the main reason Katsuki had lunch at this time. "Do you have anything I can help on then?"

He looked at you from over his glasses, "I suppose. Do you think he is more likely to do an interview with Heroes' Gossip or a fan signing at a Hero Expo next week?"

Katsuki hated both those things. Heroes Gossip was exactly that, heroes' gossip, and it got into the nitty gritty details. People who did well on that show were Heroes like Denki and Sero, ones with enough charm to by pass and person questions. Katsuki only went on once, and it was a train wreck, they brought up the details of his childhood with Deku and you. Asking how he felt about the idea of you and Izuku dating. It set him off.

On the other hand, he hated standing or sitting in one area for too long, especially signing things for fans all day long. It was hell on earth for him. He'd have to deal with fan girls trying to grab at him as well as older people criticizing his work.

"I think a Hero Expo might be better, as long as there isn't a hero he hates there and it isn't longer than three hours," you gave your feedback.

"You don't think he's over the last interview?" Tanaka rubbed at his eyes under his glasses.

You hummed, "He likely is, but that doesn't mean that it won't happen again. It'd be another PR nightmare."

"What is?" you looked towards the voice. Giving Katsuki a bright smile.

"Just you," you teased.

"Fuck off," he grumbled, walking past you and to his office door.

"Am I allowed in now?" you stepped alongside him.

Katsuki looked at his manger, giving him rare look of appreciation, and opened his door, "Yeah, Tanaka got food for a us a little bit ago. Should still be warm."

He opened the door for you, letting you walk in first and stepping in behind you, letting the door fall shut.

"What's up with the extra chair?" you pointed towards the chair that sat to the side that matched the one at his desk.

He walked towards the chair, grabbing in at rolling it to sit on the other side of the desk, "Yours, you always fuckin' steal mine."

You flushed at the gift. It was a open invitation into his office. It showed your place next to him. You ran your hand over the top of the chair, spinning it around to see the small details of your favorite color in the stitching. He custom ordered it.

"Thank you," you smiled at him, "You're the best." Finally, you take a seat and rolling it closer to his desk in order to eat. Setting your bag down next to you.

He flushed at the praise. "Tanaka got some of the food you likely from down the street," he pushed a takeout box near you. You instantly opened it, seeing it filled with your favorite order. It was a small sushi bar that you went to often, loving their rolls. Kirishima showed it to you after Fat Gum showed him.

You cracked open a pair of chopsticks that were left on top of the takeout box. Quickly looking to see that he was already digging in, obviously starving from work. "Busy day?" you asked picking up some food and eating a bite.

"Two bank robberies from one group. Pain in my ass," he grumbled, quickly scarfing down more food. After he physically couldn't fit more food in his mouth, he swallowed and drank some water before adding, "Got their asses though."

You nodded along, eating your food at a normal human pace.

"You do anything?" he put picked up another sushi roll in his chopsticks, dipping it in a spicy soy sauce.

The watch in you bag basically burned you with how quickly you remembered about it. Excited to finally give it to him. Before the look could wash over your face, you schooled your features. "Just normal work, Mei blew up some of her new project, so that was something." You were slightly surprised he hasn't brought up his watch to you recently. But you figured it was because his quirk calmed down a little, you haven't seen it act up since Tuesday.

"Isn't she always doing shit like that?" he asked, pointing his chopsticks at you.

"Yeah," you laughed. Looking down at his box you saw he only had two pieces left when he order two full rolls. "God damn vacuum cleaner," you laughed at him.

"Fuck off," Katsuki barked, "I was fucking workin' my ass off today."

"Still, god damn," you often teased him for how fast he eat compare to you. While he was on his last bites, you still had five to go. It wasn't that you were a slow eater, he was just a insane person.

He bit down on the last bites of food. Grumbling and crossing his arms. Proving whatever point he had.

Katsuki went on about his day as you finished up your food, going over how the chase went and what quirks the people had. It was the normal conversation of your lunches. He shared what he could about his job and you did the same.

Once you were done, he grabbed your take-out and threw away your trash. Harshly falling back into his chair, black with orange lining, matching yours.

You looked over his face, idly listening to him go own about his day as you admired him. He had a scar covering the right side of his face. Looking at it too long reminded you of what happened that day. The thought made you want to through up. Quickly, you pinched the fat of your thigh, reminding yourself of the present. You often went into thoughts like these. It was painful but the life of a pro heroes girlfriend.

Rather than dwell on his injury, you looked over the rest of him. His eyes were bright with a fire as he explained how he saved a kid from being buried in cement. You looked over the broad length of his chest, watching it rise with his breathing. Scanning down his arms till you saw his rough fingers drumming across the desk. All the small ways the proved he was alive.

"You good?"

The sudden question knocked you out of thought, you plastered on a smile, "Yeah."

His face scrunched up. before he could call bullshit you moved to reach for your bag.

"I actually brought you something too," you move your hand around your bag before you brought up the watch case. You placed it in the middle of the desk. His face was blank but his eyes were running over the box like crazy. You pushed it towards him when he didn't make a move for it, "Open it."

He glanced up at you, receiving a nod of encouragement, before he grabbed the box. Despite being a rough person, in attitude and everything else, he undid the box as carefully as possible. Sliding the ribbon off and opening the box slowly, as it would shatter.

His hands started shaking at the sight of it. In fear of dropping it, he rushed to place it back on the table. Frantically wiping his hands on his pants.

"Do you like it?" you questioned, worried from his reaction.

"How does it work?" he replied instead, picking it up and putting on his right hand.

Relieved that he liked it enough to immediately wear it, you leaned to point at the watch. "So if you twist this dial to the left one click, then to the right two clicks, and then back to the left for three click, you will have it unlock for identification, " you explained the detailed process. He wanted to make sure that no one else could unlock it and you made sure of it. Even you couldn't activate it once you set passwords in place. "Finally, see how it says 100% that's what your quirk is at right now, so turn it to zero and see how you feel," you sat back in your seat, watching him turn the dial.

He looked like a kid on Christmas as he spun it to 0%, his eyes flicked to you, "So I can try to use my quirk and it won't work?" You nodded.

With the dial at 0% he immediately felt the difference, the constant buzz of his quirk washing away, leaving just the buzz of your presence to warm him. He raised his hand outwards, still weary as he tried to set off his quirk, getting no spark or feeling of it at all. He tested a stronger explosion but received none.

"It fuckin' works," he smiled almost wolfish. You could see the ideas running though his brain at the lack of spark.

He played with the dial a little bit, seeing how the 20% and 40% suppressed his quirk. You glanced at the clock above his desk, seeing your lunch almost up. You'd have to leave soon if you wanted to stay on schedule. "Will this help your quirk training?" you asked, making sure he got what he needed.

"Huh?" he looked down at you from where he was standing and testing his quirk.

"You asked Z' about it for quirk training, that and your quirk's been weird," you filled in the gaps, lost as to how he didn't understand what you were talking about.

He let out a cough followed by a nervous laugh, "Yeah, should work great."

You shot him a look at his odd behavior, picking up your bag and standing to leave.

"What's your plans tonight," he fumbled with his words slightly.

"None?" you hiked the bag better unto your back, grabbing your phone so you could place an uber back to your agency. You didn't have your walking shoes on today. "I was just going to head home and read," you finished answering, "Why?" You quickly finished placing an uber before looking back up at him, confused once again.

His face flushed, " Ramen then? At out favorite spot," he stumbled to add on.

Your face softened. That was your main date spot, only used on highly celebrated dates or anniversaries. "Why there?"

"Just want to have a date with you," he mumbled, face now bright red.

"That happy about the watch? Kats you don't need to take me to dinner, I make you support gear all the time," you stepped closer to him, having been separated by his desk before he stepped around to you as well.

"You wanna go or not?" he huffed, fed up with being embarrassed.

"We don't need to-"

"Do you want to? Cause I want to," he cut you off, he crossed his arms as he leaned into his desk, you standing in front of him.

"Sure," you held back the tease, not wanting to set him off.

"Good, we'll leave home at seven," he pushed off from the desk, walking you out to the door.

You smiled at him, "See you then."

---

The ramen joint was fancy and hidden. Hardly anyone went there if they didn't want extreme privacy. It was something you and Katsuki quickly learned that you needed in your relationship. The public didn't fully know about your relationship, but they did know you two were close and childhood friends. So people speculated off that. So to avoid rumors, Katsuki and you went to hidden gem restaurants.

This ramen joint being a favorite, it was lit purely off candles or warm low lights. It was one of the only, if not the only, romantic restaurants that you two went to. Cozy lights with a dress code of formal.

So the two you walked up to the door, Katsuki offering a hand to help you up the stairs before the restaurant. While your heels and dress didn't make it too difficult, it was nice that it was offered. After grabbing his hand, you expected him to let go at the top of the stairs, but he led you through the restaurant, following the hostess and dragging you along.

Only when at the table he let go. Once the waiter got your drink orders Katsuki fumbled with his hands, "Thanks for the watch."

"Kats, it's nothing," you laughed off, "I've made you many support items, I don't know why you're so happy about this one." His face flushed at the call out. It really confused you, he seemed thrilled that he could turn off his quirk. It was honestly sad. Before you could ask anymore, the waiter gave you your sake and water before taking your food order. The service was great, but annoying for conversation currently.

"Just noticed the detail in this one," he shrugged, "fits me well and shit."

Now he was trying to play it cool? It was all weird.

"Are you sure you're telling me everything?" you accused.

"How was work this week? We spent lunch talkin' 'bout mine," he redirected the conversation.

You shot him another glare at his weird behavior, you'd figure him out eventually. For now you'd have a nice dinner with him.

---

Dinner was just that. Nothing much more. Service was great, so was the food, but conversation was horrible. He dodged any question towards himself, even if it was small. It was all about you and it felt wrong, in a strange way.

The two of you walked the short way back to your apartment. But with looking up at the sky, you regretted that decision. Small water droplets cover the sidewalk slowly. The rain painting it slowly. The streets were empty at only 9pm, you should of taken that as a sign of bad weather. Regardless, the two of you continued walking, him grabbing your hand once out of the restaurant. It was weird, but you let the thought fade at the chance to hold unto him for a little longer.

You swayed in your steps taking up the sidewalk as you stretched your arm to stay linked with Katsuki. He gave you a smile at your behavior. Making you flush and focus more heavily on your step. It reminded you of the romance movies the described this exact situation. A couple walking in the rain, late at night, streets empty as they confessed their love.

Katsuki tugged you towards him, spinning you into his hold, his hand letting go of your and grabbing onto your hips and you leaned into him. Your hands resting on his chest from surprise at the sudden change.

"You got that look on your face again," he smirked down at you. While used to his smile over the years, his smirk still made you weak in the knees.

"Huh?"

"You have a face you make when your thinking on your shitty romance movies," he pointed out.

"I do not," you pouted.

"Yeah it's like this," he scrunched him face to mimic yours horribly.

"Is not," you slapped his chest lightly, "I'd be surprised if you dated me while I made that face."

"Uh huh?" he teased, "cause it was spot on."

You rolled your eyes, face red from being in his hold.

"So what were you thinkin'?" he pushed, squeezing your hips slightly.

"Just all those movies with couples," you dodged until he squeezed again. "Fine, couples kissing in the rain, happy?"

His face flushed, matching the red hue on yours, before he looked up to avoided your stare. You were surprised he was holding you in general, but the fact he hasn't let go truly stunned you. Hugs between you two didn't last longer than a couple seconds. And this was a lot more romantic than a hug.

"Do you wanna?" he looked back down, his eyes tracing over your face between landing on your lips.

"Wh..what?" you stuttered. He looked back up to your eyes.

"Do you want to kiss?" he spelt out for you, face becoming impossibly redder.

"Yeah," you breathed out, looking down to his lips before both your eyes shot to look at each other. Making sure this was okay.

The tension was shooting through your bones. He hasn't offered to kiss since graduation, which was over a year ago.

He pulled his hand away from your waist and up to your face, wiping away the rain that fell on your cheek before he slowly leaned in. You eyes fluttered shut before you felt his lips hit yours. Instantly melting into the new feeling.

Every time before he was either freshly from the hospital or the two of you were excited and let it run you into a kiss that only lasted a moment before you were off running to friends and family during graduation.

Your knees caved slightly, letting you fall even deeper into the kiss, deeper into him, as you tilted your head. The kiss was just like him, explosive. It left you buzzing as he pulled away for a breath.

He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes before breathing out heavily, "I'm sorry we don't do that often enough."

Your once closed eyes shot up, you slightly pushed away from him, "What?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I just wish I haven't been holding that out of our relationship."

You pushed yourself out of his hold, stepping back, "Katsuki Bakugo."

"What?" he almost demanded.

"I told you that I was fine without physical touch. I've been fine without it. Yet the second you've found out, you've been weird," you pushed a finger into his chest, "Now your kissing me, saying sorry? How do you think that makes me feel?"

He shook his head, "I don't see the problem."

"Of course you don't," you basically lectured, "Our relationship has been steady. Sure it hasn't been typical, but it's been us. Yet the second someone mentions that I like touch, you've been all weird."

"I want to make you happy? Is that fuckin' horrible?" Katsuki huffed.

You scoff, "No, but you were already making me happy. Now you are doubting our relationship, not telling me about your quirk issues, and worst of all, pushing yourself when I didn't ask. If you aren't ready for things that's fine! If your never ready, that's also fine. I just want you Katsuki. I want the you that doesn't give two fucks about what anyone thinks."

His head hung, his hands coming up to rub at his face. "I don't know how to fuckin' do this shit," he mumbled.

You stepped closer to him, "Just stop worrying about every little thing. I'm with you, you don't have to win me again. Just do what you want and I'll tell you if I have an issue."

"And what if what I want is to kiss you more and other stupid shit," he muttered under his breath.

Your face flamed with the comment, "Well," you cleared you throat, "if that's what you want, then I'd be happy to. But only if it's what you actually want."

"Of fuckin' course it is, why wouldn't I want to kiss my damn girlfriend," his wolfish grin was back quicker than ever as you pulled you into him. Quickly getting over the little spat the two of you just had.

"I don't know, you haven't wanted to before," you shrugged in his hold.

"Oh I've wanted to," he protested.

"Then why haven't you?" you tilted your head.

"Reasons," he took your held tilt as an opening, slotting his lips against yours. You slapped at his shoulder for dodging the question but you quickly moved to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer. He hugs you closer as he swayed the two of you in your kiss. Letting the rain soak the two of you to the bone without a second thought. Only worried about the one in front of you. Any worry dripping out of your soul just as the water dripped out of your clothes. Because even though he hated the rain, he loved you more.

-Next Part-

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[lespetitspoisons]

Time to step outside.

Minho est de trop bonne humeur alors que ce n'est même pas son anniversaire à lui, mais encore un peu incrédule d'avoir réussi à convaincre Chan que partir en week-end à la campagne était la meilleure idée au monde. Il espère juste que Han ne saura jamais que c'est lui qui lui a donné l'idée, même si il prépare déjà son excuse au cas où en faisant à manger pour tout le monde, ayant engagé Seungmin et Jeongin avec lui pour ça. Un est doué avec un couteau, l'autre avec les bouteilles, et ce sont sûrement des compétences transférables. "Ah, attention avec l'huile..." il est pourtant obligé de souffler en se penchant sur le mélange de Seungmin, qui se fige avec le regard vers Jeongin, fatigué de la dixième intervention. Chan est à l'étage après avoir sorti les affaires d'un peu tout le monde, les sourcils froncés en regardant les chambres, hésitant un peu avant de regarder vers Changbin à qui il a demandé de l'aide. "On a... On devrait aller demander à Han et Félix ou ils veulent dormir non ? C'est leur anniversaire." il demande, croisant presque les doigts pour que Changbin prenne une décision sur toutes les chambres pour lui éviter de devoir demander. Surtout qu'il ne sait pas trop comment aborder le sujet de Minho avec lui, et que ça l'aiderait beaucoup si Changbin mettait juste leurs sacs ensemble. Chan est un peu coupé dans sa réflexion lorsqu'il entends des cris en bras et se tourne vers l'escalier, essayant d'écouter pour voir si c'est urgent ou pas. "C'est quoi le temps d'attente pour une ambulance à la campagne ?" il demande quand même vers Changbin, un peu inquiet pour le week-end finalement. Hyunjin est dehors, ayant vite abandonné l'idée de nettoyer la table à cause d'un moustique. Enfin, c'est grand pour un moustique. "Peut-être j'ai la dengue. Ou la rage. Les moustiques ont la rage ?" il demande avec un air inquiet vers Felix, la main toujours posée sur son bras ou il pense avoir été piqué, n'osant même pas regarder vers Han. Il va probablement lui dire qu'il sera mort dans deux heures, surtout que Minho n'est pas là pour le corriger aussi tôt.

[livehorsesartpage]

The candle is a missionary symbol of how we can spread the light of the Catholic faith, and in order to do so, we have to be consumed by our services to others.

Made with color markers at December 30 of 2024.

[fear-is-truth]

how would patrick react if you decided to get back with him because you missed him?

https://www.tumblr.com/fear-is-truth/769447057976115200/how-do-you-think-patrick-will-react-when-you-try?source=share

breaking up then getting back together with patrick bateman .ᐟ.ᐟ

tw ; violent fantasies, allusions to sex & murder

part one here | • a/n: sorry if it’s ooc; i rlly tried

when patrick bateman opens the door, he is already bracing for his downstairs neighbor—the insufferable bitch who always complains about his morning jump rope routine. he has the same rehearsed excuse lined up, something about “the physics of soundproofing in luxury buildings” followed by a swift door slam in her face. even as his mouth is ready to deliver it, part of him is fantasising about cutting off those ears with a serrated blade and sending them as a gift, maybe with a tasteful balenciaga ribbon.

but it’s not her.

it’s you.

patrick blinks, his entire body stiffening, like his brain short-circuits for a seconds. you’re standing there, in the hall, and he doesn’t know what to say. for weeks, he’s been trying to erase your absence—or at least dull it—by throwing himself into other pursuits (fucking prostitutes who vaguely resemble you, at least in the right light) and nightly excursions into back alleys with a knife. but now, you’re here, standing in front of him, and he feels… blindsided.

his eyes sweep over you instinctively, taking in every detail of your outfit. the shoes you’re wearing are gucci—acceptable. still well-kept but with a slight scuff on the side. he notices the faint wear on the soles and thinks about how he’d replace them for you if he could. the dress—valentino, tailored well, though the stitching at the hem could have been tighter, sexier. your body deserves better, patrick thinks with a slight pang in his chest, prettier than you give yourself credit for, prettier than the way you dress.

then his gaze catches on the necklace. cartier. an elegant piece with a single pendant that rests at your collarbone.

before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “that necklace… it’s a good look on you.”

your hand immediately drifts up to the pendant. you touch it lightly, almost shyly,

“patrick… you bought me this. remember?”

he does.

the memory hits him like blunt force trauma, dragging him back to valentine’s day. he’d spent months securing a reservation at dorsia—screaming matches with disinterested reservation mangers over the phone, begging, bribery. it had all paid off when you walked in wearing that pink chanel dress—soft, romantic, a shade that reminded him of fresh roses. it fit you like a glove, like you’d stepped straight out of a vogue magazine. you’d squealed when he handed you the tiny cartier box across the table, your eyes wide, so bright. even patrick believed that day was perfect.

and, of course, the night. he remembers that, too. vividly. the way you were both tangled in his egyptian sheets, the way your perfume and sweat lingered on his skin after.

his mouth opens slightly, then closes. the silence stretches between you, thick and awkward, until patrick finally steps aside and motions for you to come in.

for the first time in weeks, patrick bateman feels… something. he’s not sure what “something” is, though. relief? hope? pathetic gratitude? he doesn’t know, and he hates not knowing. what he does know is this: whatever void you left behind, nothing—not the women, not even the killings—ever came close to filling it.

𝜗ϱ ┆ shock & silence

patrick wouldn’t know how to react at first. when you show up at his door, he’d open it, expecting another downstairs neighbor—bitching about the noises he makes when working out—but seeing you there would render him momentarily speechless. there’d be no theatrical display of relief or joy. instead, he’d stare at you in silence, until..

“you’re here,”

𝜗ϱ ┆ letting you in back into his world

patrick would step aside, letting you into his pristine apartment. the act of letting you back into his space would be his version of an emotional response—a silent acknowledgment of your importance to him.

he wouldn’t ask why you came back, at least not immediately. part of him would be terrified that questioning your return might push you away again. instead, he’d default to his usual routines, offering you a drink (with a coaster, of course) as though nothing had happened.

“do you want a perrier? or… something stronger?”

𝜗ϱ ┆ processing your return

while he wouldn’t outwardly express much, patrick would be reeling internally. your absence would have deeply shaken him, even if he didn’t fully understand why. in your time apart, he’d tried to fill the void with meaningless hookups and violence—screwing sex workers who vaguely resembled you, killing homeless people—but nothing could satisfy him. your return would force him to confront feelings he doesn’t have the tools to process... patrick doesn’t feel love in the traditional sense, but he’s capable of obsession and fixation, and you are irreplaceable in his world.

𝜗ϱ ┆ a shift in his behaviour

despite his relief at your return, patrick would remain on edge. deep down, he knows he’s incapable of forming a normal, healthy relationship, and the fear of losing you again would eat at him. you’d notice him becoming even more meticulous and controlling than before, as he’s trying to construct a perfect version of reality where you never leave again.

[kisses4themissus]

Foreign 2 Me || Hwang In-ho X Reader

wc: 2.3k a/n: the long awaited pt 2!! js know i absolutely love reading your guys comments!! warning: not proofread, so beware of spelling errors

pt 1 | masterlist

Lyrics to fly me to the moon filled your ears as you awoken. You glanced around the bedroom, your eyes found your hands had been loosened a bit from the rope. You were now able to move them to your face.

You wiped your eyes before looking around the dark room. “Player 129.” A deep voice spoke from the door.

Your eyes flickered to see the same blacksuited manager from the previous day. You held your breath as he stepped into the room. “Frontman had to step out due to business, he wasn’t expecting you to wake up so early.” They explained. 

“What do you want?” You questioned as they got closer to you. “Frontman had taken a liking to a player, you enter the picture and the player began to loose his element.” they explained simply. They walked closer to the bed, making you scoot further away.

“So he took me?” You scoffed. The manager shook their head at you. With a huff you turned back on your side and faced away from the guard, a plan forming in your mind. You listened as the manager got up and clicked a button on a remote and the sleeping gas filled the room. You just relaxed and let the sleepiness wash over you.

The next time you had woken up, it was pink managers with the black suit one, they had entered the room and helped dress you, getting rid of your player uniform and into a black silk pajamas. You watched as one of them walked to the manager and grabbed the small tray and walked over once you were tied back to the bed.

You opened your mouth as they fed you the food; it was different from what you had ate in the dorm. “Why is he treating me so well?” You questioned, your tongue poking the side of your cheek. “He must have a special interest.” The manager in the black suit responded. 

“He said if you behave yourself, you’d be allowed to watch your new..friend, in the next game.” A worker explained, getting more food on the spoon before shoving it in your mouth. You had zoned out whatever they talked about; you had your mind set on your way out of this hell.

- - - - - - - -

The next morning, to the strange suited manager you had been well-behaved, therefore they’d allowed you to watch the next game, through the night you had slowly gained freedom, the workers had allowed you to move out of the bed and into the main room, even letting you feed yourself at the small kitchen table. 

You had been lucky enough to slip the fork into your sleeve of your pajamas and hid it, waiting for the right moment to strike your plan in action.

The manager clicked something on the remote, a live showing of a round platform with three small horses on top, it had reminded you of a carousel you’d see in almost empty malls. You watched confused as the manger switched to another camera that showed many colorful doors.

“The next game is mingle, players will gather into groups of whatever number is announced and make it into a room before the time runs out.” 

Your eyes widened as players walked into the room, the soldiers leading them. “How many rooms?” You questioned, looking over at the masked manager. “Fifty, more then half should be wiped in this game.” They said, though their face was hidden you knew they told you the game with a smile on their face.

“Could I get some water, i’m thirsty.” You asked, politely. The manager sighed, tying your feet together to ensure you couldn’t get up to bash the back of his head. 

You waited patiently for your water, you took a deep breath in as you tried soothing your nerves in order for your plan to work. He set down the glass cup beside you, with a grateful nod, he walked over and united your shackles and let you pick the glass up and drank out of it as the game began.

Minutes had passed of watching your fellow players run for their lives. You sighed, it was time.

You reached over and grabbed the cup and took a drink, you noticed the manger’s relaxed posture as he sat on a black chair. You began to cough and fold over. The manager glanced at you and ignored it at first til you began to force yourself to wheeze.

He shot up from his chair; knowing he’d be dead if you had tried to kill yourself while in-ho was away. 

You threw yourself on the floor and coughed hard, thanking whoever above as the manger hunched over you, trying to help you sit up.

On your back you brought up your knee and hit their genitals, hoping it was a man behind the mask. They keeled over and groaned in pain, you quickly popped up and took the fork out from your sleeve and raised it above your shoulder before driving into the masked man’s chest. 

Pulling out the fork, you shove his mask up. He wore another blackout mask underneath. 

He attempted to stop you but stopped as you threw punch to his nose, making his eyes begin to water, blocking his view as you brought the fork to his right eye and stabbed it, he tossed you aside and scrambled to get onto to restrain you once more.

You shakily smiled as he swayed, thanks to his vision being gone in one eye, you pulled the back of his head, making him fall back onto the ground. You got on top of him and managed to punch his jaw, he groaned, the room going dark.

“Goodnight.” You said panting, watching as he passed out on the ground. You glanced up at the screen and stopped as the cameras showed young-il in a room with jung-bae and another man, you gasped as young-il had snapped the man’s neck, his eyes darkened as he stared at jung-bae; you both had killed someone that day out of survival.

Once he was out, you got up from the floor and got to work tying him to the furniture around you. As you tied the man up, you paused as static filled the room’s silence. You searched the name and nodded as his communication device was sat perfectly on the table beside him. 

Quickly stripping him out of his uniform you placed it on, tossing the pajamas on the chair’s back, looking around the room for anything you might need to act as the black suited man.

You got up and took his mask from the floor and grabbed the device before walking to the elevators. You raised the mask, the elevator doors opened, you sighed, stepping in and slipping the mask on.

You had heard the workers talk about the second floor being the solider’s quarters. You quickly press the bottom level and walked out, it had been a purple hallway, you kept walking and sighed in relief as you found the stairway you had all walked through to get to the games, you began opening random doors, you stopped as you opened one, it had a dark hallway. You quickly walked down, having no other plan.

As you walked into the cold, quiet dark room you quickly made out another door and made your way over and opened it to show more stairs, with a deep breath you walked down them, the place had been a labyrinth, you had wondered how the workers didn’t get lost.

As you thought to yourself you finally walked down to a cave of sorts, you noticed oxygen tanks in the corner, you began to tear up, it had all lined up. You were going to get out.

You quickly geared up and thanked your family who had took you on scuba trips as a child for fun. You got ready and began diving and swam around for a underwater exit.

Popping out of the water, you took off the mouth guard, gasping; you had been swimming for awhile after you had left the cave. There had been a small island to your left, you quickly swam over and got out, catching your breath as you sat up against a rock. 

In-ho sighed, tiredly from the latest game, he needed to leave the games soon, you were safe and sound for his keeping up in his penthouse.

As he walked up to grab his food, he was stopped as a worker muttered to him. “She’s escaped.” 

In-ho stopped, staring at the worker as he took the food and drink. “Find her, she has to be somewhere in the building.” He commanded quietly, walking away, back towards his group of players.

- - - - - - - -

You sighed as you tried to form another plan, you didn’t see another island around; who knew how far the actually was from main land. As you blinked, your eyes grew heavy. You groaned trying to fight it off but lost, your body lulled you to a peaceful sleep. 

Jun-ho sighed as he scanned the water once more; nothing.

“Ready to go back yet?” The captain questioned, woo-seok scoffed at the older man and continued looking through his binoculars. “HEY! GET CLOSER TO THAT ISLAND!” Woo-seok yelled as he noticed a figure on the empty island.

The captain sigh and began to get closer, tensing up a bit as everyone noticed a body. “Is she alive?” Jun-ho questioned, grabbing his long coat as they docked at the island, the others began to fly a drone over the island to make sure it wasn’t a cover for an ambush.

“She’s alone.” They confirmed, jun-ho nodded and ran over to help you onto the boat, woo-seok helped carrying you. “Where do we place her?” Woo-seok asked, holding your legs while jun-ho held your back and head.

“Here, place her on the pull out.” Captain park, motioned. The two gently placed you down before finding to see your pulse, jun-ho sighed in relief you were alive.

“Cover her up, captain let’s head back for today. I’ll go signal the others.” Jun-ho commanded, walking away, leaving woo-seok who grabbed blankets and jun-ho’s coat to warm you up. While woo-seok watched over you, the captain’s nerves went up, where did you escape from, clearly you had been through something, he had hoped that night he wouldn't receive a call from in-ho asking for a woman.

- - - - - - - -

You roughly coughed, you sat up. The person beside you quickly jumped up with you. 

“Careful, they just changed your IV’s!” He lightly patted your back, once you stopped coughing you froze as you looked up at the male.

“Who are you, where am I?!” You asked, scooting to the back of the hospital bed. He held up his hands to show he wasn’t up to anything. “You’re at the hospital, i found you passed out on a rock in the middle of nowhere, I’m detective jun-ho!” He explained, slowly reaching for his wallet, you nodded, allowing him to do so.

He sighed and pulled out his badge. You grabbed it and read over the name before sighing and handed it back.

“Thank you, I guess…” You thanked, bowing your head.

“What were you doing on that island?” He questioned, scotting towards you. Throwing your head back you let out a shaky breath and held your head. “You won’t believe me..” You muttered, laughing a bit; you’d look insane if you tried explaining the games.

“I’ve heard some stuff, so again; why where you on that island?” 

You sighed at the detective, his sorrow filled eyes made you spill everything to him. The cruel killing of people, the children's game, the people stuck there on the island; The frontman. Jun-ho’s blood ran cold as you explained you were taken one night by his brother.

“And then the next day he was away for business, i did things on that island that i’m not proud of..” You confessed, looking down at your hands. Jun-ho stood up and placed his hand over yours.

“I believe you, a close friend of mine had a similar story, he went in but we haven’t found him.” Jun-ho sighed, pacing at the end of your hospital bed. “...Was his name seong gi-hun?” you asked quietly, jun-ho turned to you, not hearing what you had said.

“Seong Gi-hun, player 456.” You repeated, making jun-ho stop.

“You saw him?” He asked frantic. You nodded at him. “I joined his team for the second game, last i saw he was still alive.” You explained, jun-ho ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“Would you be willing to help us find the island?” He asked, desperation in his voice.

You shook your head. “What if frontman catches me, hell he’s probably kill young-il for my stupid escape!” Your words slowed down as you realized young-il’s fate. You gasped and covered your mouth as tears built up, all of your friends must’ve been paying for your actions.

“I won’t let him harm you.” Jun-ho promised, looking into your watery eyes.

“I won’t go with you,” You informed as you wiped the falling tears, jun-ho sighed looking down at his shoes. “I can tell you everything in detail that happened.” You finished, jun-ho’s head popped up as he frantically nodded. “That’ll work!”

- - - - - - - -

In-ho sighed as he watched gi-hun get dragged back to the dorms after he had shot jung-bae in front of him, as he slipped off his mask, he walked over to his liquor cabinet and pulled out his whiskey.

As he took a drink, his landline phone rang. With a heavy sigh he walked over and picked up, before he opened his mouth a voiced stopped him.

“She’s found your brother.” The captain informed.

“Stop them. I’m on my way.” In-ho hung up, dowing the rest of his whiskey. He roughly slammed the glass down next to the phone.

You had slipped away and fell into jun-ho’s grasp, really it was only a matter of time before his baby brother had met his new sister-in-law.

Hwang In-ho taglist; @snowtargaryen @menabuser16 @azusdump @jspidey5 @annasnape7 @macnbriee @ookybatt @sasha-swftie @moonxnite @ninglovr

[slut4b1ls]

—NOTICED (part I)

BILLIE EILISH X F!READER

summary: One morning you wake up to a mail from Billie Eilish’s manager asking you to star in her new music video..(continuation; check out the previous parts)

prologue part one part two

These were the longest 3 weeks in your entire life, but as for now, you were seated in the taxi, driving to your hotel in LA. The last time you spoke on the phone with the manager was this morning when she called you to make sure everything was alright. You couldn’t wait to finally get to your hotel and were planning on going to sleep as soon as possible. The shooting was supposed to start at 4pm the next day and till then you were «free».

As soon as you arrived to the destination, you got out of the taxi and rushed to your hotel room. You entered the space, got undressed and went into the bed. You decided to check your phone before going to sleep and started scrolling on Instagram when suddenly you got a notification that Billie followed you. Your heart stopped.

When you got your senses back, you saw that she followed up with a message that said: «hope you are ready for tomorrow;) heard you got to your hotel room safe». This was the exact moment you realized that it’s all getting serious. You texted her back and quickly went to sleep to calm yourself down and get some rest.

When you woke up, you picked your phone and saw a new notification: «good to hear, see you at 4». You liked her message feeling the butterflies in your stomach and quickly got up to start getting ready.

The set was about an hour drive away from you so as soon as you finished getting ready you went out. Your makeup was done lightly since you knew they would be redoing it at the set. You called the taxi and told the driver where to take you. The whole drive you were silent, thinking about what is about to happen. The questions were running through your mind the whole time.

The hour felt like forever. As you arrived, you took a deep breath, got out of the car and entered the place you were about to shot the mv at. The whole team was already there and the first person to greet you was Billie’s manager. The woman thanked you for coming and told you to follow her into Billie’s garderobe. You were so stressed and tried your best not to show it, everything was happening so fast.

As you stood outside of Billie’s garderobe, the manager knocked on the door and you heard Billie shouting "It’s open, come in".

The woman opened the door and you saw Billie sitting in the chair, infront of a mirror. "Hi" she said as her eyes immediately met yours. She was smiling at you and all you could do was just smile back, the stress was really eating you alive. Then you heard the manger speak, remembering she’s still with you two "Well, I will leave you for now so you can talk. The makeup artist should be here anytime, be ready". The woman left and closed the door behind her.

"So? How was your way here?" Billie started. "It was fine. I.." You began answering when suddenly you weren’t able to get any more words out of your mouth. "Don’t be stressed, I don’t want you to be nervous about this" Billie said seeing the way you froze. She got up from her chair and walked closer toward you, putting her hand on your shoulder.

"I’m sorry this whole situation is a lot for me" you said quietly. Billie stepped back a little. "Don’t be sorry. I want you to feel comfortable. Do you know what we are planning the mv to be, right?" she asked. "Yes, your manager explained everything to me on the phone. She was really nice". Billie looked down and smiled to herself. "Oh yeah, she’s a lovely woman".

You started getting a little more comfortable as your emotions subsided. There was a moment of pure silence between you two. Billie was just looking at you and you were maintaining the eye contact. "I wanted to ask.." you started "Why me? I mean, I’m not famous and I have never played in a mv before. Where did you even find me?" Billie chuckled as she heard your question but quickly gave out a response. "Well, I was just scrolling through my Instagram feed when I saw your post. I though you were really pretty and would fit perfectly".

And once again your heart stopped and you looked down as your cheeks started to get pink. "Just don’t get nervous again" Billie said laughing "You were doing so good". You looked up and met her eyes again. Then her eyes suddenly went on your lips for a second and then back again she looked in your eyes. This moment felt so intimate. You thought this whole situation couldn’t get more unreal until Billie started getting closer to you. You two were now inches apart, your checks started going from pink to red when all of a sudden you heard a knock and the door opened.

a/n: Hellooo, the first part is finally here!! Please let me know what you think and I hope you are ready for part 2 dropping soon👀🍒

tags: @hkkuugu @jades-thought-thoughts

if you would like to be added to my taglist to be updated when I post a new fic, let me know!!

masterlist.

[thebunnednun]

Ponte Vick's

★Pairing:Aged up!Pro Hero!Hanta Sero x Hero Manger!Divorced!Reader

Synopsis: It's Valentines Day and you're dead ass sick. Who doesn't love a big strong hero coming over to take care of them? Or an indirect accidental love confession in the Mexican restaurant?! :D

Warning: MDNI!!! Extreme Flirting/Fluff, suggestive themes, Mami or Mama or Mommy, "Let me do it for you", nasty ex husband getting handled by Hanta, touching, being babied and cooked for, wearing what he wants for dinner, lots of teasing, close proximity, respecting boundaries, independent reader

SLight mommy kink if you squint, Wc: 18K, No ageless blogs!

Being sick is hell. 

Not the mild inconvenience of a cold. No, this was the fucking full-body apocalypse. 

Fever burns like fire under your skin, yet somehow you are freezing, trembling beneath layers of sweat-damp blankets. Every muscle aches like you've been in a brawl and lost spectacularly.

Like face down ass up on the pavement spectacular. Your throat is raw, each breath scraping against it like sandpaper. The pounding in your skull makes opening your eyes feel like a crime against nature.

You’d tried to keep up with the basics, brushing your teeth, washing your face, but even standing felt like scaling a mountain. Your hair clung to itself in matted clumps, and you didn’t have the strength to care.

Stomach churning, you stumbled to the bathroom like a zombie, dragging yourself along the wall just to stay upright. You barely made it in time before your body betrayed you—vomiting, dry heaving, then shivering through waves of nausea that left your head spinning.

You didn’t even bother to grab a handful of tissues. No, you reached for the entire toilet paper roll, clutching it like a lifeline as you shuffled back to bed.

Food sounded disgusting—except for the gnawing hunger twisting your insides. Water tasted foul, yet your dry mouth begged for it. Nothing was right. Nothing felt okay. Every breath was too loud, every thought too heavy, and honestly? 

If death had knocked on your door right then, you might’ve just handed it a key and said, 

“Come on in! Drink the milk before it expires.”

Not to mention you still had to work from home. 

You just wanted to waste away peacefully in your bed. That was the plan. 

But instead you got a sharp, rhythmic knock thundered against your door—loud, deliberate, and unmistakable. 

Even in your fever haze, you knew exactly who it was.

Blinking blearily at your phone, you squinted at the screen.

12:07 PM.

Confused, you groaned and dragged yourself out of bed. Your limbs felt like dead weight, each step driving sharp, glassy pain through your heels—like you were starring in the original version of The Little Mermaid.

Reaching for your kimono robe, you barely managed to tug it on, the silk fabric dragging uncomfortably across your overheated skin. The walk to the door felt like an odyssey, each sluggish step a battle against nausea and aching muscles. By the time you unlocked the door and cracked it open, you felt like you’d run a marathon.

And there he was.

Sero Hanta. 

Pro Hero, older, broad-shouldered, and standing there like a walking contradiction. Dark hair tied half-up, half-down in a way that somehow made him look both effortlessly casual and meticulously cool.

His black hoodie screamed in bold, bright red letters, "Yo quiero mi mama <3". His tan cargo pants had so many pockets they looked like they could carry a small arsenal, and his white Nikes were spotless despite the city grime.

You barely had time to take in his outfit before your gaze dropped to his arms, grocery bags in one hand, a pharmacy bag dangling from his fingers in the other. The silver rings on his fingers, five on each hand, as always, caught the hallway light, glinting like tiny mirrors.

"Buenos días," he greeted, voice muffled beneath the sleek black mask covering the lower half of his face. Only his dark, expressive eyes were visible—bright and full of mischief, yet somehow softer when they landed on you.

"It’s twelve in the afternoon," you rasped, voice thin and shredded from coughing.

"In my culture, if the sun’s still out, it’s ‘good morning,’" he shot back with a grin you couldn’t see but somehow knew was there.

You rolled your eyes, pressing a shaky hand over your mouth like a makeshift mask.

Hanta’s gaze flicked down to your sorry state. Robe barely clinging to your shoulders, hair a tangled mess inside your matching silk scarf, face devoid of its usual hues and clammy. But instead of teasing you, his gaze softened, warm and steady. For a moment, you swear there are stars in his eyes—something so bright and full of life that it made your darkened, fever-ridden world feel a little less suffocating.

He always does. 

"Mind if I come in?" he asked, voice low and gentle now.

You didn’t have the energy to say yes—you just stepped aside, grateful for the warmth of his presence as he walked past you, carrying comfort in both arms. He slips his shoes off like he’s been trained without even creasing them, like always, and places them in the organizer by your door before shouldering it closed behind him as it automatically locks. 

Hanta knows your apartment like the back of his hand, a skill he’d picked up after crashing here more nights than you could count recently. He barely hesitated as he set the bags down on the counter and moved through the space with an easy familiarity.

You slump onto the couch, eyes half-lidded, barely keeping focus as you watch him move. The rustling of plastic bags, the faint clink of bottles as he put things away. It all blurred together in your feverish haze.

Then, sunlight—soft and warm—trickled into the room as Hanta adjusted the blinds just the way you liked them. The light stung at first, but the room no longer felt like a suffocating cave, and for that, you were grateful.

“I saw you slacked Shannon that you were gonna be out all day,” Hanta calls over his shoulder.

You groan and blindly grab your phone, tossing it behind you on the couch like it personally betrayed you. 

“If I went in, I was gonna infect the whole team,” you rasped. “Can’t have that.”

He chuckled, that familiar warm sound that made your chest loosen a little. “You're the real star of the team, mija.”

“Says the pro hero,” you muttered.

“Oye!” Hanta’s voice shot up dramatically.

 “I’m not only making headlines ‘cause of my good looks, charisma, and sick quirk!”

You heard the sound of fabric snapping—he’d started shaking out your curtains—then the quiet beep as he turned on your AC. A second later, he popped back into view, flexing his arms like some ridiculous action hero.

To your credit, you barely reacted—just squinting at him and pretending to gag. 

Still, your gaze lingered longer than you meant it to.

He wasn’t just lean anymore. All those years of training had filled him out. Broad shoulders, defined arms, and legs that didn’t just look strong—they were. He never missed leg day. Hanta wasn’t built like Kirishima or Bakugo—no slabs of muscle or walking brick-wall energy. But he was solid, athletic in that sneaky kind of way that made lifting you like a feather look effortless. 

And yeah… 

He’d done that more than once.

“Pfft,” Hanta scoffed, shaking his hands like he was warding off your imaginary disgust before turning back to your fridge. He grabbed the marker off your magnetic board and started tweaking your ‘To-Do’ list.

“I’m your manager, Hanta,” you reminded him hoarsely. “It’s my job.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he shot back, scribbling something you couldn’t make out.

You leaned over to grab the remote and flicked the TV on, letting the low murmur of the news fill the room. The anchor was already mid-sentence, something about a hero intervention downtown, but you couldn’t focus on the words.

Instead, you watched him move around your space. Organizing your mail into neat piles; Important, Less important, and junk to burn later. When did he even pick that up? Oh… right. You’d given him a spare key months ago—half as a joke, half because you knew he'd use it when you were too stubborn to ask for help.

And now here he was. 

Folding your curtains just right, cooling down your apartment, playing the role of caretaker like it was second nature.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, voice scratchy but genuine.

Sero didn’t pause or turn to face you. He just hummed softly—a sound that landed somewhere between, "I got you," and "You don’t have to say it."

And maybe that’s what you liked most—that you didn’t have to.

"Did you take anything yet? Eat anything?" 

Sero asked, his voice casual but with that I'm about to nag you undertone.

You shook your head, barely peeling your gaze away from the TV. The morning's press tour played on screen—him in his sleek hero suit, smiling easy for the cameras. The comment section scrolled relentlessly at the bottom, half of it praising him, half of it thirsting.

Ignoring the dull ache in your limbs, you reached for one of the many notebooks and pens you kept scattered by the couch—your makeshift workspace when you didn’t have the energy to sit at your desk. 

You flipped open the notebook and started scribbling, notes, critiques, ideas, anything to keep your mind from spiraling. But before you could finish writing, "Adjust press angle—Downplay rivalry with Dynamight," a shadow loomed over you.

“Suéltalo,” Sero said, his voice low but firm as he reached down and gently swiped the notebook from your hands.

“No,” you muttered, weakly clutching for it. “I need—"

“Elle’s gonna get that,” he interrupted, effortlessly holding the notebook above your reach. “And if not? Val’s gonna give her opinions anyway, so…” He softened, dipping his head to meet your bleary gaze. 

“Please, mama?”

Fuck him for that. 

That damn tone—warm, coaxing, gentle as a breeze. 

He knew exactly what he was doing, and worse? 

You knew it too.

With a sigh, you released the notebook.

“Gracias,” Sero murmured with a soft smile, tucking your notes far out of reach on top of a high shelf, like you were some unruly toddler trying to swipe cookies before dinner. Before you could grumble about it, he turned back, holding out two small pills and a glass of water.

You stared at the offering like it was poison, wrinkling your nose in disgust.

Hanta didn’t say a word, just raised one eyebrow. That eyebrow—the left one, the one with the razor-cut slit you'd given him yourself.

You hadn’t trusted anyone else to do it. Said if someone was gonna take a blade near his face, it was either you or no one. You remembered the way he'd grinned afterward, spinning in front of the mirror like a kid showing off a fresh haircut. Which says a lot because you scheduled his haircuts. 

And yeah… the cut suited him. 

Drew attention to the sharp angles of his face in a way that made people look—even if they couldn’t quite place why.

You huffed, tired and defeated, but you took the pills anyway, chasing them down with lukewarm water. Hanta’s eyes stayed on you the whole time, watching like he was making sure you weren’t about to spit them out the second he turned around.

“Bien,” he muttered, satisfied. Then he leaned down, flicked your forehead lightly with two fingers, and grinned wide enough that you swore you could see the smile behind his mask.

“You’re such a pain,” you grumbled, slumping deeper into the couch.

“Eh.” He snatched your TV remote and flipped the channel to some ridiculous telenovela—dramatic music swelling as the lead actress gasped in betrayal.

“You’re lucky I’m sick,” you muttered.

“Nah,” Hanta shot back with a wink, settling beside you on the couch. “I’m just lucky you let me in.”

The two of you begin to get into the show, a story about a lady who went to jail after she and her husband tried to leave their home country and was arrested after getting caught, how he died in the hospital and now she's gotta survive a lesbian prison. Not a bad selection. As weak as your senses were, something warm and familiar started creeping into your awareness, a faint, sweet scent wafting from the kitchen.

“…Are you cooking?” you croaked, voice rough as sandpaper.

“Avena,” Hanta called back.

“And I have to eat it?”

“Sí.”

“You wanna kill me so bad, don’t you?”

Hanta peeked out from your kitchen before coming close to you, and let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. His arm flung dramatically across his face, and with what little strength you had left, you mustered up a weak kick—your socked foot barely making contact with his hip.

Big mistake.

With a single hand, he caught your foot midair with so much fucking strength in his big veiny ass hand and staggered back like you’d landed a fatal blow. “Dios mío!” he wailed, voice breaking just as the telenovela’s leading lady cried out in heartbreak from the TV.

“Oh, stuff a taco in it,” you groaned.

“That’s racist,” he shot back, lowering his arm just enough to peek at you.

“No, it’s not. I know for a fact you’ve got some in your fridge,” you muttered, sinking back into the cushions. “I read your nutrition log last night.”

Hanta groans dramatically, shaking his head like you’ve betrayed him. “I knew you were snooping.”

“You write in it, on the shared doc like a diary.”

He sighs heavily, dragging down his mask at last, and thank God for that, because you’d missed seeing his face. His features, all sharp angles yet sweet, and warm skin, were softened by the slight stubble dusting his jaw.

Dimples are really nice too. 

“Lucky you’re cute,” he muttered before gently lowering your foot back to the couch. He gave your ankle a quick squeeze—just enough to say, ‘I’m glad you’re still fighting back,’—before standing to tend to the stove.

The faint whistle of the kettle trailed off, and a few minutes later, he returned with two mugs. One Spiderman, one Hello Kitty—one steaming with green tea, the other packed with ice for your sore throat.

You blinked at him. "So you’re a thief now?"

Sero tapped the side of his head, showing off the bright pink hair clips holding back his bangs. “Had to keep my hair out of my face. You’re lucky I didn’t steal your face mask too.”

“Loser,” you snorted, reaching for your ice water.

“Gracias por el servicio,” you muttered in mock gratitude.

“Only fair,” Hanta shrugged, settling beside you on the couch again. “Considering you’re always taking care of me.”

“That’s in my job description,” you rasped, sipping the ice water.

“Yeah, well…” He blew over his tea before setting it aside, then reached over to press his hand against your cheek. His fingers, warm and rough from years of hero work, moved carefully—left cheek first, then right, then your chin before finally checking your forehead.

You let your eyes slip shut. His touch was steady, grounding—like someone steadying you on your feet after you’d swayed too hard.

“Still hot,” he muttered.

“You literally just gave me medicine, you doof.”

Undeterred, Hanta crooked a finger, silently urging you to sit up. Too tired to argue, you shuffled closer, and before you could ask what now, he leaned in, pressing his cheek gently against yours.

His skin was cool against your burning face, and he lingered there for a beat longer than necessary. His soft breath ghosted over your ear before he pulled back.

“Still hot,” he murmured again, tone softer this time.

“Yeah, well…” You sniffled and flopped back against the couch. “Keep this up, because I’m gonna be hell on wheels when I’m not sick anymore.”

Hanta grinned, wide and lazy. 

“Can’t wait.”

A timer buzzed from the kitchen, sharp and insistent. Hanta excused himself with a quick pat to your knee, muttering something about “the magic touch” as he disappeared down the hall.

You barely had the energy to follow the sound of him moving around. Drawers opening, spoons clinking against bowls, the faint scrape of a pot being stirred. There was something comforting about it, though. The way he handled your kitchen with such ease, like he belonged there. Because, in a way, he did. He knew where you kept the good knives and which cabinet always stuck. He knew the sweet spot on your stove dial that kept things simmering instead of boiling over.

When he returned, he carried two bowls—one for you, one for him.

Yours was simple, warm cornmeal porridge, thick and smooth like oatmeal without the oats. No milk this time—he knew better than to gamble with your stomach when it was on, ‘try me not,’ timing. But he'd added cinnamon and sugar just the way you liked, enough to make it taste like comfort in a bowl. And best of all, he’d given you your spoon, the one with the worn-down handle and the slightly bent edge that you stubbornly refused to replace. The one you reached for out of habit, even though you had better ones in the drawer.

His own bowl was heavier—milk swirled in to make it cool, the way his grandmother always served it. It smelled warm and nostalgic, like something that belonged in a childhood memory.

“Bendición,” Hanta murmured, lowering his head slightly as he pressed his hands together.

His voice softened in that moment, gentle and reverent.

You mirrored him, fingers loosely laced in your lap. Too tired to speak, you simply nodded along with his quiet prayer. The warmth of it lingered long after you whispered, “Ditto,” in unison.

And then you both dug in.

The breakfast wasn’t fancy, not by a long shot, but you love it when he cooks. It’s not that you can’t cook; you’re just… efficient about it. For you, food had always been a means to an end—something to scarf down between meetings, reports, and whatever mountain of tasks you had that day. 

You couldn’t count the number of project drafts you’d turned in with embarrassing rice grains wedged between pages or faint water stains smudging the ink. Eating felt like another chore—just one more thing on your endless list.

But Hanta? 

He made you pause. Made you sit down. 

Made you eat.

And actually enjoy it. 

A lot of your relationship felt like this. You push yourself too hard, grinding forward like you’re afraid to stop, and him weaving himself in wherever he can. Quietly, steadily. Helping in the spaces you didn’t realize you needed help in.

He knew your patterns better than you sometimes knew yourself. Knew that if he didn’t check your fridge now and then, you’d survive on coffee and bagels. Or die from whatever leftover takeout you keep in there. (He’s surprised that you haven't discovered a new form of bacteria yet.) Knew that when you got sick, you’d curl up like a wounded animal—stubborn, too proud to ask for help, too tired to manage yourself properly.

So he steps in. With groceries and tea. With soft jokes and loud soap opera dramatics. With quiet moments like this—feeding you when you didn’t have the strength to take care of yourself. Most pro heroes didn’t have this kind of relationship with their managers. 

Especially not when their manager was older than them.

But that’s just how things were with Han.

The nicknames had started as a joke—casual teasing that turned into something more. “Mami,” when he wanted to charm you. “Mama,” when you were running on fumes and he was this close to carrying you to bed like a stubborn toddler. “Mamita linda,” when he was sweet-talking you into a favor. “Ma,” when he was worried but trying not to show it. And, “Mommy,” —playful and ridiculous—when he wanted to make you laugh.

You knew the difference between all of them now.

And the truth was… you don’t mind. 

Not really. Because when he called you mami or mama, it wasn’t just teasing. It was him reminding you that you weren’t alone. That someone was looking out for you, even when you forgot to look out for yourself.

“Good?” Hanta asked between bites, watching you over his spoon.

You hummed softly, barely lifting your head. “Yeah…”

“Good,” he murmured, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

And just like that, the ache in your head doesn’t seem quite so sharp anymore. The fever doesn’t feel so suffocating. Your chest doesn’t feel so heavy. Because no matter how worn down you felt, no matter how buried you got beneath your own exhaustion, 

Hanta always found a way to remind you that you weren’t facing it alone.

The phone rings, that shrill, familiar sound breaking through the silence of your apartment. You groaned in response, your head pounding with each note.

“Don’t,” you mutter weakly, curling deeper into the couch, eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block out the world. The phone keeps ringing, and you could feel Hanta’s gaze flicking between you and the landline.

“What if it’s—” he started, his voice still warm but laced with concern.

“No,” you croaked, more firmly this time. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”

Hanta hesitated for a moment, then sighed, resigned. “Alright.” He leaned back, propping his feet up, but his attention never quite left the phone. His eyes darted toward it now and then, and you knew that despite his nonchalance, he was worried about what the call could mean.

You closed your eyes, exhausted. The weight of the sickness that clung to you, dragging you down deeper into the couch, seemed unbearable. And yet, somehow, you still couldn’t escape the pull of that nagging uncertainty inside you. Was it him? Was it your ex? The one person you didn’t need to hear from right now.

The door knocked.

It wasn’t the soft tap of a friend or neighbor on the other side. No, this knock was firm, rhythmic, the kind that had urgency behind it.

You groaned, but Hanta was already up, stepping lightly toward the door. “Relax,” you muttered with your eyes half-closed, letting the words slip out of you like a lazy stream. “It’s probably just a package. Or mail or something. They can leave it.”

But Hanta wasn’t convinced. “Unless it’s Angie, locked out again. You know she forgets her keys. And Toru’s not home to teleport her inside, she was at the market. You know she’s going to need help getting in.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could muster a sarcastic response, he was already at the door, hand reaching for the handle.

“Just… fine,” you sighed, too weak to argue. “But tell them to leave it if it’s not important.”

Hanta gives a quick nod, his fingers gripping the door handle. But when he swings it open, your heart does a strange lurch in your chest.

Instead of Angie—or any other expected visitor—there stood a delivery guy. He was older, stocky with graying hair, a dark green jacket with a food carrier slung over his shoulder. You didn’t need him to say a word.

You already knew what this was. The delivery bag was a dead giveaway.

The delivery guy cleared his throat, looking from the receipt in his hands to Hanta. “Delivery for Gerushah. From… um…” He squinted, checking the note again. “Oh yeah, from a Mr. Kyoya Gerushah.”

Hanta’s posture stiffened in an instant, his back going rigid. His eyes darted to the bag, then back at you, then back at the delivery guy.

“Uh…” the man mumbled, clearly unsure how to handle the sudden shift in mood. 

“It’s already been paid for. Just needs a signature and...”

But Hanta doesn’t move. He’s still processing, his gaze sharp, like he isn’t quite sure whether he wants to slam the door in the delivery guy’s face or just throw the whole bag in the trash without a second thought.

It’s from your ex after all. 

‘Of course.’

Hanta gives a short, tight laugh, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to grab the bag and toss it out right there. Instead, he reaches out to take it, quickly, almost too quickly, but the delivery man was already stepping back, already out the door and disappearing around the corner.

Your stomach twists in a familiar way—cold, tight, unsettled. That gut reaction you got every time he did this. Every time your ex thinks it’s okay to send a random peace offering. Some kind of food or gesture that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, but always had the power to mess with your head.

“Awe, fuck,” you mutter, more to yourself than anyone else, staring at the bag like it might explode.

“Que paso?” Hanta’s voice was low, almost tentative, as he looked back at you over his shoulder. His hands flexed by his sides, unsure if he should put the bag down or toss it out, but he gave you a few seconds to decide what you needed.

But you didn’t answer right away. 

You just stared at the bag, feeling a thousand memories rush back. The little gestures. The way he would apologize without actually doing the work. The way it always felt like something was just barely hanging on by a thread between the two of you.

“Mida,” Hanta said softly, his voice grounding you. 

“Want me to toss it? I can.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You stared at the bag, the weight of it too much for your head to process. Instead, you just rubbed your forehead with your hand, sighing deeply.

“I don’t know.” Your voice was small, uncertain, as though saying the words out loud meant something you weren’t ready for. “I don’t know if I should...”

Hanta didn’t say anything for a while, but you felt his presence by your side as he took the bag and set it down on the far side of the counter—out of view, just far enough to keep it from dominating your thoughts. 

He doesn’t press you, and doesn't try to explain it away. He just set it down and let you process it in your own time.

“You want me to give it away?” he asked, his voice now a little more steady. His eyes were softer than before, not filled with judgment, but with an understanding you didn’t even have to ask for.

Your breath hitched in your chest as you realized something—he got it. He didn’t need to be told how badly this messed with your head. 

How hard it was to just... let go.

You looked over at Hanta, noticing how his brow furrowed just slightly in that familiar, protective way. He wasn’t just standing there to be helpful. He was standing there because he cared.

“I think so,” you murmured, but this time it wasn’t a hesitant, defeated statement. It was the beginning of something, like a door cracking open, even if only a little.

Hanta didn’t push. He just gave a small, understanding nod, then flashed you a grin. The same one that made him so unreasonably charming, even when you didn’t want him to be. 

“Well, Mami, if you change your mind, it’s right there. And if you decide it’s not worth it, I’m your backup.”

You nodded faintly, and before you could think too much more about it, Hanta did what he always did. He shifted the conversation with a sharp, playful huff and a mock flex of his muscles as he strutted back toward the couch.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered with the tiniest smile, half-smug, half-weary.

Hanta gave you that boyish grin, the one you could never quite resist. “I know. What can I say? I’ve got charisma and muscle. It’s a lethal combo.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Not as lethal as your elbows, but sure.”

“Hey,” he said, winking as he flopped back onto the couch. “This is an essential quirk. How many times have you used me as your personal tape dispenser?”

“It’s my cheese tax for making into a celebrity,” you teased, though the knot in your chest loosened just a little more. You let the weight of it fall away, just enough to make room for the absurdity of the moment. 

Hanta’s presence is a strange, solid anchor in your life. A person who doesn’t always have the right answers, but has a quiet, steady strength that you could rely on when the world felt too big, too chaotic. 

The bag from your ex sits there in silence. But you don’t have to make a decision right away. 

That feels so good. 

He looked over at you, eyes soft, his usual teasing smile still in place. But there was something more behind it now. 

“You’ve got this, Mami. But, if you need me to throw hands, you know I’m always ready.”

“I think your beyblades would do more damage.”

“TALK ABOUT MY ELBOWS ONE MORE TIME!” 

“Truce! Okay! Truce!” 

You both start laughing so hard that you double over into a coughing fit, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. Before you can blink, he's right there, like he'd teleported, his hand sliding to your back, steady and warm. His thigh presses firm against yours, heat bleeding through the fabric of his pants and into your sweats, burning you.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice softer now. His arm curls around you, tucking you closer as he lifts your cup of water to your lips. “Here, drink.”

You obey, the cool water soothing your throat as his palm moves in slow circles between your shoulders. He rocks you gently, like you’re something fragile — something worth handling with care.

“Sana sana, colita de rana,” he hums, voice low and warm.

The words wrap around you like a blanket, soothing in a way you didn’t realize you needed. 

It’s strange. This feeling of being cared for, cradled like you’re precious. You’re so used to being the one who fixes things, who holds everyone else together. You’re the mom friend with the big list and purse that everyone comes to, despite being so young yourself. 

But right now, you’re just... here. 

Safe, in his arms.

The soap opera’s still playing in the background, the characters wailing dramatically over some love triangle gone wrong. Hanta mimics the actor’s over-the-top despair, clutching his stomach like you’ve mortally wounded him when you remark he’s been spending too much with his little french friend. 

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Ay, you’re worse than my mom.”

“Your mom loves me.”

“She does,” he admits, grinning. “Probably more than me.”

You laugh, but it’s short-lived. The show’s still running, loud and obnoxious, and you don’t have the energy to change the channel. Your gaze flickers back to the screen, but your mind’s already drifting.

The main character’s ex is on her knees now, begging her to take him back. The camera zooms in on her face, mascara-smudged, eyes red and tired, and you can’t help but feel a little too seen.

Hanta must notice the shift because he stops laughing. The playful grin fades from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something softer.

“You ever think about…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I mean, you think he’s gonna let go?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Your ex,” he says gently, fingers tapping against his mug. “He’s still sending you stuff.”

Your stomach twists. “I told you not to worry about that.”

“I know,” Hanta says, “But I do.”

You let out a long, tired sigh. “It’s fine.”

“Yeah?” He leans forward slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye. 

“Then how’s the divorce going?”

That makes you pause.

He’s never asked about it before. Not once. Not after your ex’s embarrassing public stunt, not after the passive-aggressive flower deliveries started showing up at the agency, not even when you left work early last week after spotting your ex waiting across the street. Hanta never pries—never makes you explain yourself when you don't want to.

So why now?

“Why?” you ask, more guarded than you mean to sound. “You taking notes for a memoir or something?”

Hanta snorts, soft but genuine, and sips his tea. “Surre,” he mutters dryly.

“Working title’s ‘How to Not Be a Bobolongo in 5 Easy Steps.’ Think it’ll sell?”

You crack a smile despite yourself. 

“Doubt it.”

But his question lingers, hanging heavy in the air. He doesn’t push, doesn’t prod—just waits. Patient. Like he always is.

And somehow, that’s what makes you start talking.

There’s a strange comfort in Hanta’s silence—the way he never asks too much, never presses harder than you can handle. You appreciate it. You really do. But sometimes, it feels a little… 

Off. 

Like he’s carefully stepping around something that’s too fragile to touch. And maybe that’s what makes this moment feel so jarring—the fact that he’s finally asking. 

Your eyes drift back to the TV, to the actress on screen, mascara running down her face as she’s forced to endure her ex’s groveling. The memory sneaks up on you before you can push it away.

The press tour. The day everything cracked wide open.

It was supposed to be a big moment for the hero’s, a conference celebrating recent citywide accomplishments. Even your building was getting into the spirit. Your team. Everyone's efforts. Cameras rolling, reporters scribbling, your face in the background of the massive screen they'd set up to showcase the agency’s greatest achievements.

And then he showed up. 

Your husband. 

Crying like he was the victim in all this—hijacked the entire event with his grand, pathetic speech.

He was supposed to be talking about young families and the crisis of young people not having resources to succeed in life. How with these new programs being overseen and backed up by heroes from his agency and even bigger names, the future would be easier. 

All he had to do was play the role he assigned himself—the devoted husband, hopelessly in love.

He couldn't go a minute without mentioning you, his wife. 

Every conversation, every interview, every carefully curated interaction made it seem like you were his world. He left work early—always, always—because he, “Just couldn’t wait to see you.” He sent flowers, more than you could ever keep, more than you ever wanted. And you played your part too. You gasped, eyes wide with staged surprise, before giving them away to neighbors, coworkers, strangers on the street.

At home, it was different. 

At home, it was quiet. 

At home, it was like living with a ghost, a polite stranger who knew where the dishes were but never asked about your day. No amount of therapy, no desperate, aching conversations could bring back what had once been there. Whatever it was, whatever love you thought you had—it was gone. And when the sinking feeling settled in your chest, when the weight of the truth finally pressed down on you, it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

This was for his career. Your marriage. Your entire relationship.

So you gave yourself a role too. 

If he was the devoted husband, you would be the happy wife. 

Not his happy wife—just a happy, wife. A woman who smiled, who answered every question about him with a breezy, “Oh, he’s fine!” A woman who once let herself be swept into his narrative but won’t let it touch her anymore. 

You used to wonder sometimes, in the middle of the night, when you woke up next to him with a headache, that same sick, aching feeling settling deep in your chest. The ring on your finger felt too heavy, burning you, branding you. Yet empty all at once, like it had no real value.

Head in your hands, you wondered if he had even realized he’d stopped loving you.

Or if he had ever really loved you at all. 

Phenomenal actor though. 

Could’ve been a big name on the screen if he wanted. 

In public, Kyoya performed. He reached for your hand, pulled you into hugs, pressed kisses to your temple like you were something to be cherished. He made a show of remembering your favorite things, holding doors open, packing up your bags, draping your coat over your shoulders with practiced ease.

Always giving you a shoutout in his acceptance speeches. Always caught admiring you from afar. Always reaching for your hand—not to hold you, but to flaunt the ring. He didn’t even kiss your finger. Just the stupid rock on it.

You hated it.

Hated the way people called you shy, called you a tsundere, while he was praised as bold and innovative. A modern man. The devoted husband who couldn’t go a moment without reaching for you, who would sprint across the street just to wrap you in his arms—just long enough for the cameras to catch it.

You hated the way they swooned over him, called you lucky, whispered about how much he loved you. How they ate up the act while you stood there, stiff in his embrace, knowing the second the cameras turned away, so would he.

That’s all. 

He pretends to be a good husband, you pretend to be a happy, wife. That simple. 

That fucking simple. 

It’s never that ‘simple’ with Kyoya. 

He talked about how he, “Missed,” you, how he, “Messed up,” and how he’d, “Found comfort,” in the arms of someone else—someone younger, someone you knew he was still seeing. You knew her, she was an upstart, valuable. Charming in a way that made people overlook her sharp tongue and manipulative streak.

But hey!

Kyoya wants to, “Start fresh,” so why not come back? 

Why not pretend the last few years hadn’t been a slow death by neglect and empty promises?

Like you hadn’t spent countless nights alone at a dinner table set for two, staring at cold food you stopped bothering to reheat? That you hadn’t smiled through gritted teeth at parties, suffering through small talk while watching him light up for everyone but you? As if you hadn’t reminded him—again and again—how much it hurt when he acted single in every way that mattered, only for him to scoff, ‘It’s not like I’m sleeping with her.’

Like that was the bar. 

Like you were supposed to be grateful.

And when he made those snide little comments about your clients, about your work, like your career was some indulgence he tolerated rather than a part of who you were—you reminded him. 

You reminded him that you weren’t some housewife waiting at home with fresh apple pies and a vacant smile. That you had a degree, several in fact, certifications, a career, a life. People who needed and relied on you, not just for your popularity, but because your career provided their livelihood. That he had agreed to respect that.

But he never did. Not really.

He wasn’t present. Not in the way that mattered. And when he was home, the silence was unbearable, pressing in on both of you like a weight neither of you could shake off. 

You didn’t even know how to be around each other anymore. 

Everything grated on you—the way he chewed, the scent of his cologne, once familiar, now nauseating. And it wasn’t just you. He hated the way you dressed, the way you wore your hair, the way you ran the household. He had opinions on everything, but God forbid he pick up his own damn mess.

You couldn’t even cook. You never could. But he insisted that you make dinner anyway, as if choking down your failures on a plate would somehow fix what was broken between you. You guessed it was the thought that counted. 

It was a joke. A failure of a marriage that neither of you wanted to admit to, not out loud, because what would people say? Because cultural norms demanded endurance, not happiness. Because leaving meant fallout, meant scrutiny, meant shame.

But staying was killing you.

And the cheating—God, the cheating—was the final straw. 

You were sure it wasn’t the first time. Just the first time you caught him red-handed. So you filed. Quietly. No one knew yet. That’s how you wanted it. 

Kyoya fucked that up too. 

It had been a long day. A long week, really. You hadn’t eaten since—when? Yesterday? Maybe even the day before. It all blurred together when you were running on fumes, your body fueled by nothing but cold coffee and stress. Michelle had noticed, of course. She always did, nosey ass. That’s why she’d snitched, whispering to Hanta about the untouched bagels you left in your office, about how you hadn’t even looked at food.

And Hanta, the ever loving persistent pain in your ass, had dragged you out of the office under the pretense of needing fresh air.

Which is how you ended up there, at some hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, run by a friend of his. A friend who, apparently, Hanta had once put behind bars before helping him get his life back on track. 

“Long story,” he had said with a grin, holding the door open for you.

“You need a break,” he muttered, gently pressing his hand to the small of your back. You adjusted your coat around your shoulders, already thinking of excuses to leave, to finish your last report, to not sit down and eat like a normal person.

You turned, about to mumble some half-hearted reason to go back—

And walked right into them.

Two people, lips locked, bodies pressed too close for it to be anything but intimate. You startled, about to bow and apologize, your brain too fogged with exhaustion to register what was happening—

Until you saw who it was.

Your dear, darling husband.

And his associate.

The moment stretched, thick and suffocating, as the three of you stared at each other. You, with your coat still slipping off your shoulder. Him, with lipstick smudged just at the center of his mouth. Her, eyes wide with horror, stepping back like distance could erase what you had already seen.

Then there was Hanta.

Hanta, who had been standing just behind you, his presence solid and unwavering. Hanta, whose entire body went still the second he processed what he was looking at. Hanta, who then turned his head toward your husband and stared at him like a shark scenting blood in the water. Jaw clenched tight as he stood blocking the doorway.

"Lemme talk to you outside," he said, voice deceptively calm.

Before you could react, before your husband could even think about responding, Hanta reached over you—his muscular arm brushing against your shoulder—and grabbed him by the collar. Your husband was a fit man, but Hanta? 

Hanta dragged him out of that restaurant like he weighed nothing.

And just like that, they were gone, disappearing into the gloomy weather outside.

You were left standing there, staring at the empty space where they had been, the scent of food and the low murmur of restaurant chatter feeling miles away. The mistress stood frozen beside you, just as unsure, just as speechless.

Hanta never told you what he said that night. Not even now.

But your husband has openly hated him ever since.

And now here he was, standing in front of you, not talking about wonderful programs to help people, not preaching about the positive change he so desperately wanted the world to believe in. No, he was asking you to participate. To stand beside him, play the perfect wife, run this race with no finish line.

Fuck him.

He could have his own personal hell. You’d already lived yours, married to the so-called man of community service. Fitting, really.

He’d fucked everyone in the community.

That was his service.

You stared at the TV, not really seeing the room anymore. Straight tunnel vision. Memories rush in, uninvited. You don’t know what brain parasite made Kyoya decide to air your dirty laundry on national television, but the grief comes back in flashes. The sick twist in your stomach, the burn of humiliation as you sat there frozen in the conference room, surrounded by your colleagues, investors, partners, and employees. 

He had stood there, initially calm and collected, recounting his affair like he was reading off a grocery list. No real shame, or remorse. Just a rehearsed, matter-of-fact confession, as if ticking off items in his perfectly curated public image.

Worse still, he twisted the narrative, painting himself as the victim. You were the cold, neglectful wife. The career-obsessed woman who had abandoned him emotionally, leaving him no choice but to seek comfort elsewhere. You could already see the way the media would latch onto that, how they’d sink their teeth into the story and refuse to let go. 

A woman prioritizing her career over her husband? The headlines practically wrote themselves.

Even the heroes on site and the surrounding media personnel looked caught off guard, shifting uncomfortably as he rambled on. Some exchanged wary glances, others averted their eyes entirely, as if secondhand embarrassment could spare them from witnessing this train wreck.

You didn’t even let him finish.

You stood up, calm on the outside while your chest felt like it might split open. The words he said weren’t what pushed you over the edge—it was the way he spoke. Like you’d roll over and take him back just because he asked.

So you walked right up to the screen. 

That massive, shiny monstrosity your agency rented for the event, slipped off your yellow high heel, the ones you had worn to match the accents of Hanta’s suit, aimed right for your husbands face, 

And smashed it.

The glass cracked first. A thin, jagged line—before shattering completely, shards raining down in glittering bursts. The sound rang out sharp and brutal in the dead-silent room. You turned and walked out without a word. 

You barely remember the next part. Just that your chest felt too tight, your face too hot, and your vision too blurry to see straight. Like someone hit you with a sledge hammer as your heartbeat roared in your ears. Somehow, you got turned around in your own damn building, stumbling through familiar halls like they’d rearranged themselves just to mock you.

And who found you first?

Hanta.

Still in his uniform, his hair slightly mussed from whatever chaotic rescue he’d pulled earlier that day. He didn’t say a word. Just walked up, squatted down, and quietly started dusting the glass from your legs with the careful focus of someone trying not to scare a cornered animal.

“Hold still, mama,” he murmured, voice soft but firm. Somehow, he'd produced tissues—from God knows where—and pressed them into your hands without asking. You barely had the strength to use them, just sobbing quietly into your own palms.

So Hanta sat there, one arm loose around your back as you cried into his shoulder, the other respectfully around your waist. He didn’t rush you, didn’t tell you to calm down—just let you cry.

When your breathing finally steadied, he shifted, cupping your face in his calloused hands, wiping the tear tracks from your cheeks. No sweet words, no fake reassurances. Just quiet, steady care. He stood you up, then squatted down again to slip your forgotten yellow heel back onto your foot.

Almost like Cinderella.

If Cinderella had been humiliated on a global stage by her would-be prince and left to pick up the pieces of her life.

Of course, your ex didn’t stop there. After you walked out, he twisted the story. Told the country you’d been the one who cheated. Said you’d been sneaking around with a certain client the whole time. You never understood why that lie stuck so hard, but it clung to you like tar.

The memory sticks with you, warm and painful all at once. It doesn’t help that your ex keeps insisting you must have cheated on him with Hanta. As if being shown kindness—real kindness—meant you were unfaithful.

Hanta brushed it off, said he didn’t care what people thought—but you did. You still do.

You’ve built your whole career off the things people think, say, and do. Especially his. So if you look bad as his manager, it reflects poorly on him as a hero. Michelle is already trying to draw up some NDA where your ex can’t speak about you in the press post divorce, but things like that take time. 

She is going to tear his throat out for your slander though!

So now, as you sit in your living room—half-sick, wrapped in your robe, with Hanta sitting beside you—his question feels like an old bruise getting pressed.

“I told you,” you mutter, voice quieter than you mean it to be, “’s fine.”

But Hanta doesn’t look convinced. And this time, you’re not sure you blame him.

You huff out a half-chuckle, rolling over with the intention of burying yourself deeper into the couch. But the moment you shift, you hear a sharp, indignant—

"Oye!"

Before you can even react, Hanta throws himself over you in an exaggerated display of dramatics, his full weight pressing down as he sprawls across your body.

"Ah! Get off, you big baby!" you yelp, immediately trying to squirm free.

"You're acting like a big baby!" he fires back, laughing as he tightens his hold.

You try to kick him, but he’s already got a firm grip on your legs, his arms wrapped securely around them like a human seatbelt. It’s infuriating, but also…

God, he’s warm.

And you feel so cold.

The heat radiating from his body is instant, seeping into your skin and dulling the ache in your muscles. You should fight harder, but there’s something about the steady weight of him and the way his warmth chases away the chill in your bones that makes you hesitate.

Just five minutes. 

Five minutes of peace. Five minutes of not thinking, not worrying, not dealing with the weight of everything that’s been pressing down on you for weeks.

That would be nice.

Hanta shifts slightly, propping himself up so he isn’t completely crushing you. His head dips, his breath ghosting the top of your ear before he speaks. "You should get dressed and come outside."

You crack one eye open, barely lifting your head from where you’ve nestled against Hank the Flamingo. 

"What?"

He readjusts again, sitting up properly now, pulling your legs into his lap. His hands remain respectful, resting lightly just above your knees. The warmth of his palms seeps through the fabric of your sweats, grounding you. Your stomach kinda hurts. Your back aches. Your hips are sore. But…

Some sun might actually be nice.

Still, you’re skeptical. "How warm is it?"

"Fifty-two degrees," he says, completely serious.

You scoff immediately. "You're out of your burrito-loving mind."

Hanta grins, wicked and teasing, before his fingers dart to the underside of your knee, delivering a swift, merciless tickle. You jolt, squeaking as you try to kick him again. "Hanta, I swear—"

"Keep it up, and I'll leak your number to Sato."

The threat is immediate, and your reaction is just as swift.

"How dare you, firstly," you gasp, placing a hand over your heart as if personally wounded.

He smirks, knowing he struck gold. Rikido Sato, aka Sugar Man, was once publicly caught calling you a ‘beautiful lady’ during an interview. It had been an offhanded, completely innocent comment—until Denki had leaned over and whispered that you were married, not realizing his mic was still on.

The clip of Sato’s face turning a deep shade of crimson, followed by his frantic, stammered apologies, had immediately gone viral. You’d waved him off good-naturedly at the time, finding it more amusing than anything. But looking back, it did explain a few things—like why he’d always been just a little nervous around you. You had assumed, at first, that he had a stutter. 

Until one night, you casually mentioned it to Hanta.

Hanta, in turn, had blinked at you in confusion, looked over at Sato—who had been making an active effort not to look at you—and then back at you.

Then, ever so slowly, a mischievous, knowing smile had spread across his face.

"Who wouldn’t have a crush on you?" he had said, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You know people find you attractive. That’s not up for debate. It’s been commented on enough—by pro heroes, event partners, employees, and even people in your ex-husband’s company. Mina, better known as pro hero Pinky, jokingly calls you, “The Siren,” because of that old TikTok trend. While you don’t take it seriously, Michelle—your ever-opinionated partner—insists you’re the quintessential, “Corporate baddie,” the kind that makes people nervous, and not just because of their work performance.

You think it’s ridiculous, honestly. You’re aware of your looks, sure, but the idea that most of Japan’s workforce is secretly harboring a crush on you? That’s a little much. 

Then again…

You don’t see many other managers receiving gifts from the public the way you do.

Candy, flowers, handwritten letters—some of them heartfelt, others a little too bold—come in waves. And the artwork? That’s your favorite. You use it to decorate the entire building, the lobby, the hallways, anywhere people can see. The truly special ones, though, the ones that make your heart squeeze in a way you don’t talk about, are kept in your office, locked away like treasured keepsakes.

Hanta is the same in that regard.

His collection is a little different, though. Most of his drawings come from kids he’s saved—messy, colorful depictions of him keeping their school from falling apart, stopping subway cars from derailing, or that time he, pro hero Tempest, and a few others worked together to stop the Tokyo bridge from collapsing under the weight of a water monster.

You wonder if Hanta sees you in a similar light.

It’s silly, right?

He’s your main client. A professional thorn in your left ass cheek. But you like him well enough. He’s always been sweet, and more than that, he’s genuine. There’s never any guessing with him. If he feels something, he just says it, plain and simple.

So why does he make you nervous inside?

Hanta hums thoughtfully, a teasing lilt in his voice. "You really are everyone's mother."

You narrow your eyes at him. "There's a nice, sharp decorative vase in the hallway. A 1952 classic, glossy finish, swirling blue pattern. Feel free to go bump into it if you’d like."

He throws his head back, laughing, his whole body shaking with it. 

"Damn, the medicine must really be working!"

Before you can fire back, he turns on his heel and strolls out of your bedroom, disappearing down the hall. You hear him rummaging in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the clink of something against your counter. You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling, wondering what he’s up to now.

Your bedroom is a curated space, just like the rest of your home—high ceilings, dark wood floors softened by an expensive cream-colored rug. Soft, neutral walls complement the gold and navy accents in the decor. Your bed is massive, a four-poster with a plush white duvet and neatly arranged pillows, a deliberate contrast to the chaos of your life. 

Everything is purposeful, every item placed with intention. Even the floor-to-ceiling windows are framed with heavy curtains that you adjust depending on your mood.

And then there’s Hanta, standing in the doorway, looking entirely out of place and yet completely at home.

His inky hair is a little messier than usual, strands falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look both effortlessly cool and devastatingly attractive. His dark eyes gleam with amusement, lips curled in that lazy, knowing smile of his. He’s still in his T-shirt from earlier, fabric clinging to the broad planes of his chest, his toned arms on full display. His posture is loose, casual, but there’s something about the way he’s watching you that makes you feel—

Stalked.

He moves toward you with slow, measured steps, the warmth of his presence filling the room before he even reaches you.

You narrow your eyes. "What do you have in your hands?"

"Your ex’s head on a platter."

"Ooo, gimme a spoon. Always wanted to take his eyes out."

Hanta barks out a laugh, then gestures for you to close your eyes. "Alright, shut up and hold out your hands."

You groan but comply, stretching your hands forward warily. "If this is another bug, I swear to God—"

"Phil likes you!"

"Phil is the reason all pets are banned from my agency, and why I only visit you when you're on the verge of death!" 

Phil or Phillip, being Hantas pet tarantula that strangely loves you, recognizes the sound of your voice, and loves perching on you. If you wanted to feed him raw flies and a little bit of hamburger meat, Hanta would gladly let you, because he thinks Phil loves you. You think it's your Dior perfume. And after finding him inside your favorite black juicy couture purse, he is no longer allowed in the building. 

Hanta snickers, then places something soft in your hands. When you open your eyes, you blink down at a neatly folded package of pink Hello Kitty pajama pants.

"We can match!" he announces proudly.

You look up, and sure enough, he’s now sporting Spiderman pajama pants—the fuzzy kind, the ones that are absolutely not 100% cotton. Polyester. You get it, but you still hate it. For the environment, for the way it never quite feels right against your skin, for the audacity of its cheapness.

You open your mouth to say something, but Hanta beats you to it.

"No one would ever think you'd actually step out of the house in pajamas," he says, grinning. 

"We don't have to worry about the paparazzi.~"

You grimace, curling your lip as he beams at you like he’s just handed you the key to the universe. 

Pajamas. In public. 

You’d rather get struck by lightning. Dying would be easier, and certainly more dignified. 

But then you take another look at him, standing there, looking so pleased with himself. He didn’t have to do this—didn’t have to come over, didn’t have to bring you anything, didn’t have to make sure you weren’t curled up alone in your condo, feeling miserable. 

And it’s been so long since someone gave you a heartfelt gift. Something not out of obligation, but just because they wanted to.

You sigh, tilting your head back dramatically before muttering, 

“Okay, fine. I’ll wear the hobo pants.”

Hanta’s grin widens, triumphant, before he hands them over to you and slips out of your bedroom to give you some privacy.

You glare at the pants the second he’s gone. Stupid, soft, pink Hello Kitty pajama pants. You don’t even hate the design—it's just the principle of the matter. Wearing pajamas outside? Unthinkable. Uncivilized.

Still, you pull on a pair of long leggings first—the thick, fleece-lined ones Michelle gave you—before sliding the pajama pants over them. They’re soft. You hesitate before turning to look in the mirror. The fit is surprisingly flattering, and okay, fine, they’re cute. You tug at the waistband, then huff under your breath. 

They’re warm too. Maybe—just maybe—you can give them a chance.

With a resigned sigh, you strip off your sweated-out T-shirt, replacing it with a clean, fitted white one. You freshen up with a quick swipe of perfume and deodorant, running your comb through your hair before tying it back with a scarf and reaching for the jewelry on your vanity. 

At the very least, if you’re going out in Hello Kitty pants, you’re going to accessorize like a proper adult. 

You clasp a delicate gold chain around your neck, slip your pearl ring from the girls onto your finger, and are just about to put on a matching gold bangle when there’s a knock at your door.

“Come in,” you call, still seated at your vanity.

The door swings open, and Hanta steps inside. His gaze sweeps over you, and then he frowns, arms crossing over his broad chest.

“You cannot put all that on while you’re sick, mamá.”

You arch a brow at him through the mirror. “And why not?”

“The germs will transfer,” he says, tilting his head like it should be obvious.

Hmm. Good point. With a sigh, you place the bangle back down, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. He’s not wrong, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

You glance at your collection of cardigans hanging near your closet. “Okay, fine. Which one?”

“None.”

You blink, turning to face him fully. “I can dry clean them, you know.”

“I’d like you to wear my hoodie.”

You freeze.

Still seated at your vanity, your hands fall to your lap as your eyes widen. The room, which had felt spacious just moments ago, suddenly seems a little smaller. Warmer.

Through the mirror, you meet his gaze. It’s steady, calm, like he’s not asking for anything more than what he already said. You slowly turn in your seat to look at him directly. 

“Pardon?”

You stare down at the hoodie in his hands, the weight of it unfamiliar yet entirely known. It’s probably warm from his body, from his scent clean, fresh, with that subtle musk that clings to him no matter how many times he showers. The fabric is worn soft, the black just slightly faded from time and careful washing. Your fingers itch to run over the bold red letters stretched across the front—

Yo quiero mi mamá.

It’s still intact, miraculously, despite its age. You know Hanta washes most of his clothes by hand, carefully scrubbing and wringing them out so they don’t lose their shape. He’s always been like that—meticulous in ways people don’t expect, careful with the things that matter to him.

And this hoodie matters to him.

You glance up, your eyes catching on the hoodie he has on now. Same black canvas, but this one’s newer, the yellow lettering bright and unapologetic against the dark fabric. Soy SU bebé.

You exhale sharply through your nose, somewhere between amusement and exasperation. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

He grins, the expression lopsided and boyish, like he already knows he’s won.

Your gaze drifts back down to the hoodie in his hand, and your stomach tightens at the memory it carries.

It was years ago. Your first big accomplishment as his manager, the one that solidified your place in the industry and made it clear you weren’t just some passing name in the business. The entire office had been celebrating you, congratulating you, but you had just wanted to get back to work.

And then Hanta, ever the instigator, ever the one to make you take a moment for yourself, had suggested something special. Team hoodies. Something to commemorate the success, something to bond everyone together. You still have yours, tucked away in the back of your closet.

Mother of All.

You hated it at first.

Hanta, ever the cheeky little shit, had decided to base his off the running joke in the office. You were younger than most, but in the end, you’re older than him, and you are the one who took care of everything. You keep the company running, you make sure he’s always where he needs to be, you handle his disasters before they even have the chance to become disasters.

All he has to do is show up.

So imagine your shock when Hanta had pulled off his coat that day, proudly displaying this hoodie—the one now resting in your hands.

Michelle, Sharon, Elle, Val, and Angie had teased you mercilessly for weeks. You’d been so flustered, so aggravated, that you had outright banned any office clothing with word designs for months.

(It was Val who had finally pleaded with you to lift the ban. “Please Mami,” she had whined. “We get it. But we love our hoodies.”)

And now, years later, the very same hoodie that had once made you burn with frustration and embarrassment sits between his fingers, soft and warm. You swallow.

It’s just a hoodie.

It shouldn’t feel like more than that. And yet—

You glance up at him again, standing there with that same easy smile, his dark eyes watching you, patient and knowing.

“You kept it,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

“Of course I did,” he says simply, like it’s obvious. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Hanta shifts his weight from foot to foot before finally crouching down in front of you, holding out the hoodie with both hands like some kind of peace offering. His dark eyes flicker up to yours, then quickly away, his lips pressing together in something almost… shy.

“This one’s warmer,” he mutters, voice a little softer than usual. 

“And, y’know… it’s mine.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, looking like he’s trying very hard not to seem nervous, but the way he’s squatting there. Shoulders slightly hunched, head tilted just enough to meet your gaze without being too direct, makes him look like a big, scruffy puppy waiting for permission to hop onto the couch.

You blink at him.

“…Hanta.”

“What?” he says, a little too fast.

“You look like a shelter dog.”

His face scrunches up immediately. “What—!?”

But you’re already plucking the hoodie from his hands, and before he can protest, you tug it on over your head. The fabric pools over you, swallowing you whole in warmth and the familiar scent of him—clean linen, something subtly woodsy, and just him.

When you glance back down, he’s staring at you, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he hadn’t actually expected you to wear it.

“…Better?” you ask, raising a brow.

Hanta blinks once. Twice. Then suddenly beams, rocking back on his heels before standing up and clapping his hands together.

“Perfect,” he grins. “Now let’s go be sick in public.”

One trip to the garage later—You stand there, completely stunned, staring at the sheer audacity of this man.

Flowers. SO many red roses. A giant heart-shaped box of chocolates. And a cow plushie.

The cow sits there in your seat, staring at you with its little black button eyes, almost taunting. It’s soft, round, and adorable, the kind of thing you’d have never bought for yourself—but now that it’s here, you can already feel yourself getting attached.

Hanta, the absolute menace, is grinning like he just won the lottery. “Took me forever to find the right one,” he says, leaning casually against the car. “Figured you’d like it.”

You’re still speechless, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t know what to react to first—the fact that he bought you a bouquet bigger than your head, the ridiculous heart-shaped box (which you will be sneaking chocolates from later), or the cow plushie that, despite yourself, makes your chest tighten just a little.

Because it’s La Vaca. His favorite training song. And the first song you ever saw him dance to.

The song that, one stupid night, had him pulling you out of your chair in the middle of a restaurant, one the office visited after hours, twirling you around without hesitation, while you—stiff, hesitant, unused to that kind of playful touch—had been too flustered to do anything but let him lead.

You’d danced with him that night. Really danced with him.

You remember the warmth of his hands, his arms, the gentle way he swung you around with effortless ease, how he guided you through the steps without a single moment of doubt. The heat of his body pressed close, the laughter that bubbled up between you both, the way your heart pounded, not just from the movement, but from the sheer closeness of it all.

You’d felt guilty afterward.

Because even though nothing had happened, it had felt too intimate.

Too much. And out of respect for your husband, you had never danced with Hanta again. You kept your distance, only ever swaying with the girls, refusing his invitations no matter how much you secretly wanted to say yes.

And now here he was, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world, holding the car door open like he hadn’t just wrecked your composure with a bouquet, chocolates, and a damn cow plushie.

“…Are you actually trying to make me cry?” You finally manage, voice half-stuck in your throat.

Hanta’s smile falters, just for a second. Then he tilts his head, expression softening. “Nah,” he murmurs. 

“Just wanted to make you feel special.”

Your fingers tighten around the plushie before you can stop yourself. Your throat feels thick.

You swallow it all down and roll your eyes instead, sliding into the car like this whole thing hasn’t completely thrown you off balance. 

“…Fine. But I’m picking the music.”

Hanta chuckles as he closes the door behind you, slipping into the driver’s seat with that same stupid, endearing grin.

“Whatever you want, mi reina.”

"Too far."

"Okay."

He's easy about it, gentle as ever, helping you into the car without a fuss. When he offers to move the flowers and candy, you nod, letting him clear the seat—but the plushie stays with you. You just really like it. Hanta notices, of course. 

“You got a name for it yet?” he asks, glancing over as you adjust the plush in your lap.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He hums, smiling softly. “Alright.”

And with that, he pulls out smoothly, the hum of the Ferrari filling the comfortable quiet as he drives off.

You hold the plush cow in your lap as he drives, his black Ferrari humming beneath you both like a well-fed predator. He drives smoothly, expertly, and even though you've trusted him behind the wheel before, this time feels different. 

Maybe because he’s driving for you. Because this isn’t about work, or some favor, or getting home after a long day. This is something else entirely.

He barely uses this car, but you know why he chose it. He could’ve driven the van, the one you’d rather throw yourself into traffic than be seen in. He could’ve taken the red pickup truck that you absolutely refuse to be caught dead in. 

And definitely not the motorcycle. 

Not that you’d complain, not that you don’t secretly wonder what it’d be like to ride behind him, to feel the wind whip past as you held on. 

No, he picked this one. 

The one he knows you like the most.

You don’t even have a license. You weren’t even interested in driving until he and Michelle all but forced you to get your permit. But even now, as he casually rests one hand on the wheel (which you do not trust), there’s something so natural about being here with him. The day unfolds like a dream—soft, warm, and just a little bit ridiculous, the way things always seem to be with Hanta.

He takes you everywhere.

The park first, where the air is crisp and fresh, and the sun warms your skin as you walk together. You chase him around in a game of tag, and he lets you win more than once, laughing as you gloat before he taps you back and sprints off. You get out of breath before he does, but he’s patient, circling back to you with a teasing grin.

Then, when you sit to rest, he pulls out coloring books like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just anticipate exactly what you’d need. You relax almost immediately, flipping through the pages as he sits beside you, joining in without hesitation. He’s meticulous with his colors, which annoys you for some reason, so you scribble your name on his page, and he gasps in mock offense before doing the same to yours.

By the time your medicine wears off, he’s already handing you another dose, watching you closely to make sure you take it. Then, with a smile, he guides you to a food truck, ordering something for you before you even have the chance to ask.

The moment you take a sip, you’re hooked.

The fruit drink is sweet, dangerously so, the flavors bursting across your tongue like fireworks. You don’t even care what’s in it—you just know you love it. Hanta chuckles, watching you over his own drink, his dark eyes warm with amusement. 

“You look really cute with sugar shock.”

You elbow him, and he only laughs harder, bumping you with his hip. The vendor says something that makes him blush this time, pink dusting across his cheekbones as he laughs it off, answering in Spanish with a breathless, slightly flustered tone.

You don’t even ask what it was about. You just enjoy the rare sight of Hanta actually getting flustered for once.

Then, you spot it.

The Ferris wheel, slowly turning in the distance, its lights blinking lazily in the early evening glow. But that’s not what catches your attention.

The merry-go-round.

You grab his wrist without thinking, tugging him toward it, and he lets himself be led, his laughter trailing behind you. He doesn’t even question it. Just pays for your tickets like he expected this somehow.

When you climb onto one of the horses, your favorite color, no less, he takes out his phone, snapping pictures as you dramatically pretend to pet its mane.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” he says, but his voice is full of affection.

“Oh, hush. You love it.”

He doesn’t deny it.

Later, at the beach, the sky begins to shift into dusky purples and oranges, the ocean stretching out endlessly before you. Hanta, big baby that he is, refuses to step onto the sand at first, grumbling about getting his sneakers dirty.

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you say, already stepping onto the soft grains with your shoes on.

He groans, long and dramatic, but follows anyway. Until—

“CONYASO!”

You whip around just in time to see him standing barefoot, sneakers and socks clutched in one hand as he trudges toward you, glaring.

“You monster,” he mutters. “My socks will never be the same.”

You laugh so hard you nearly double over, and he huffs, looking dramatically betrayed as he marches after you. He gets his revenge when the ocean tide nearly gets him, causing him to stumble backward, grabbing you for balance. You pretend like you’ll fall and he straightens immediately to gently steady you. Making his feet get wet as you stay mostly dry as you giggle and he sticks his pretty pink tongue out at you. 

But when it’s time to head back, he stops you.

“You’re not getting in my car with sandy shoes.”

You scoff. “Oh, come on, just let me—”

“Nope.”

Instead, he leads you straight into a sneaker store, where he buys you a pair of white sneakers identical to his.

“You planned this,” you accuse, as he bags up your old shoes, smug as ever.

“Maybe,” he says, swinging the bag over his shoulder. “You look good in them, though.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t need to.

Because somehow, without even realizing it, you’re smiling. And you haven’t done that—really done that—in a long time.

The cool night air brushes against your skin as he helps you up onto the hood of his car, the sleek black surface still holding onto the day’s warmth. City lights flicker to life all around you, neon and gold reflections shimmering on glass windows, the streets below still alive with movement. You breathe softly through your mouth, your nose is utterly useless at this point, each inhale tinged with the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp evening air.

Hanta kneels in front of you, smiling as he tugs at the laces of your old sneakers. 

"Mind if I swap these out now?"

You nod, your voice barely above a murmur. "Yeah… that’s fine."

Hanta hums in response, a quiet sound of acknowledgment as he starts on your left foot first. You feel the gentle tug as he undoes the laces, slipping off your worn sneaker with the kind of careful ease that makes something warm curl in your chest. 

He sets it neatly on the ground beside him, the way he always does things, casual, but never careless. Then, he nudges at your socked foot with a single finger, his dark eyes flicking up to yours with quiet amusement.

You try not to squirm, feeling the way the warmth of his touch lingers even through fabric.

He moves onto the other, his fingertips brushing against your ankle as he adjusts the tongue of the new sneaker, making sure it sits just right before tightening the laces. Your breath hitches, and not just from congestion this time.

It would be so easy to reach out right now. To curl your fingers into the soft mess of his dark hair, letting the strands slip between your fingertips. It would be even easier to just pull him in, hug his head to your stomach, and let him stay there like that.

You’ve thought about it before.

Too much, maybe.

You’d even admitted it to Shannon once, back in the break room during a party. There’d been laughter and music, the low hum of conversation filling the space, and in a moment of unguarded honesty, you’d let it slip,

"I love his hugs."

The words had left you before you could take them back, and Shannon, ever the instigator, had grinned like she just won the lottery. "Who wouldn’t want a man like that to squeeze on?" she’d teased, and you’d almost regretted saying anything at all.

Now, Hanta looks up at you, still crouched, hands resting lightly on either side of your thighs. His smile is easy, but his gaze is something soft—something unreadable in the city glow.

"What are you thinking about, mi linda?"

You blink, pulse skipping as you shake yourself out of your thoughts. 

"I just had a really nice time with you today."

His hands press a little firmer against the car hood as he straightens up, towering over you now, close enough that his warmth cuts through the evening chill. He dusts his palms against his jeans before absentmindedly smoothing over the tops of your new sneakers.

"Really?"

"Mhm."

That smile of his deepens, slow and genuine, and when he places both hands on either side of your thighs again, the warmth of them seeps right through the fabric. It’s flustering. Comforting. And yet, that little voice in your head wonders what it would feel like if he moved them just slightly. 

If his fingers brushed along your legs instead.

You swallow, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is, how easily you could reach out and trace the curve of his jaw, or tuck your face into the crook of his neck and just…. stay.

But you don’t.

Instead, you just look at him, and he looks right back, like he’s waiting. You stare at him for a moment, unsure of what he’s waiting for, until he repeats, 

"What?"

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of the moment—feeling how good it is to just be here, with him, like this. It’s strange, this quiet connection that lingers in the air between you two. It feels natural, easy in a way that’s almost... too easy.

“I... I don’t want to go home yet,” you admit softly, your gaze drifting down to your sneakers, fiddling with the laces absently. You’re not sure why you say it, but it’s true. There’s something about tonight, about being with him, that makes you wish you could stretch this out a little longer.

Hanta’s smile softens, and it’s almost like a wave of relief in his expression, as if he’s been waiting for you to say it. He straightens up a little, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.

“Well, I can’t exactly just leave you out here,” he says, his voice teasing but warm. “How about we go grab some dinner?”

You feel a knot form in your stomach. It’s not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t want to overstay. You’re not sure why you feel this way around him sometimes. Maybe because he’s always been kind, always been so easy to be around, and you don’t want to abuse your welcome.

“I don’t want to impose,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes as you shift uncomfortably on the car hood.

His expression softens even further, like a reassuring warmth. He shakes his head, giving you that little crescent smile of his.

“You could never impose on me," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "You’re my friend, and I adore you. I wanted to take you out. It’ll be casual, trust me. You don’t have to worry about your clothes. We’re just going to eat, not a big deal.”

The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, makes you feel at ease in a way you didn’t expect. You exhale a breath, relaxing a little, and finally meet his gaze. His sincerity is enough to quell any doubts you had.

“I... okay, if you’re sure,” you say, the last part almost like a question, as if you’re waiting for him to change his mind.

“I’m sure,” he confirms with a wink. “Now, let’s go. No more thinking, alright?”

You nod, feeling a little lighter. 

It’s just dinner. Casual. You don’t need to overthink it.

“Okay,” you say, sliding off the hood of the car, the plushie still tucked into your arms, and let him guide you to the passenger side. His car is still warm from the engine, and you’re grateful for the comfort of his presence as you settle back into the seat, the night unfolding ahead of you, simple and perfect in its own way.

The drive is effortless, just the two of you rolling through the city streets as the radio blasts lively Spanish music. Hanta cranks the volume higher, and without thinking, you hum along before softly singing a few words under your breath.

When he hears you, his face lights up like the neon signs flashing past the window. His dark eyes gleam with pure delight, his lips stretching into that infectious, lopsided grin of his. The golden glow of passing streetlights flickers over his pokeable cheekbones, highlighting the way his hair falls slightly over his forehead, tousled but effortlessly cool.

"Oye, mi linda canta!" he teases, nudging your arm as he keeps one hand on the wheel, completely at ease. You roll your eyes playfully but keep singing anyway, feeling lighter than you have in days. The stars are scattered across the night sky when you glance out the windshield, their dim shimmer barely visible against the city lights. 

You pop a cough drop into your mouth, the faint menthol taste mixing with the lingering sweetness from the fruit drink he got you earlier. Your plush cow sits nestled in your lap, soft and warm. You still don’t know what to name it. Vaca feels too obvious, and you don’t want to be that predictable. Maybe something clever will come to you later.

Buildings blur past as Hanta makes a smooth turn, pulling into a valet parking area. He flashes an easy grin at the valet, slipping out of the car with practiced nonchalance before turning to you.

“Wait here,” he says dramatically, lifting a single finger like he's about to perform some grand stunt.

Before you can ask what he means, he hops onto the hood of the Ferrari in one swift movement, his long limbs making it look almost effortless, until he doesn’t stop.

With a loud, "Whoops," he keeps going, tumbling right off the other side.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Hanta!” you shriek, grabbing the plushie tightly as you scramble to undo your seatbelt.

Before you can even step out, he's already bouncing up, not a scratch on him, grinning like an idiot. He dusts off his hoodie like this is completely normal, then pats his sneakers as if checking for damage.

“See?” he says with a cheeky grin. “Didn’t even scuff my kicks.”

“That’s not the point!” you huff, glaring at him as you step out with the plush still clutched in your arms. 

“You could’ve hit your head! You could’ve—”

He interrupts you with a laugh, stepping closer before murmuring, “Thank you, mamá.” The way he says it is so teasingly affectionate, yet there’s something warm beneath it, something grateful. You huff again, crossing your arms but not fighting the small smile twitching at your lips. 

He chuckles before turning toward the restaurant, gesturing grandly at the entrance. That’s when you recognize it.

Your stomach twists.

It’s that restaurant. The one where you first met your husband’s mistress.

You stop short, and Hanta notices instantly. He raises his hands slightly in surrender, as if already expecting your reaction.

“I know,” he says, his tone softer now, more careful. 

“I know the first time here was… messy. And I get it if you don’t want to stay. But it is good food. And good music. Annddd I was hoping you’d be willing to give this place a second chance.” He hesitates, watching you closely before adding, 

“If not, we can go somewhere else. Just say the word, and we’re outta here.”

You swallow, looking from him to the restaurant’s warmly lit windows.

It’s been a while. The memories of that night still sting, but they aren’t as fresh, not as sharp. And Hanta… 

He’s here, standing in front of you, waiting for your answer with that hopeful, slightly sheepish look. He wants this to be a good memory for you. You exhale and lift a hand, waving it gently once.

That’s all it takes.

Hanta’s shoulders relax, and he lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. Then, just like that, his easy smile returns, lighting up his face as he holds the door open for you.

“Alright then, mi señorita,” he says with a small bow. “After you.”

“Señora.” “Señorita.” “Whatever.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling as you step inside, the warmth of the restaurant washing over you. The moment the cold outside air leaves you, it’s like walking into a dream woven from music and light.

Warm, amber lanterns hang from the ceiling like floating stars, casting a golden glow that dances across the brightly painted walls. The air smells delicious. Roasted peppers, sizzling meat, melted cheese, warm tortillas, and something sweet, like cinnamon and sugar from a batch of freshly made something. 

The hum of conversation is low and content, like a gentle tide, overlaid by music that flows from hidden speakers in smooth, upbeat Spanish lyrics. It isn’t anything you understand fluently, but it doesn’t matter. It makes your hips sway before you even realize it.

The entrance counter is crowded but cozy, painted in colorful tile mosaics. A cluster of glass jars sits atop the counter, each one filled with little candies and mints, some wrapped in shiny metallic red and gree paper, others in clear crinkly cellophane. There’s a glass tank for tip money, nearly full already, and another for business cards, layered in a messy but charming pile. 

A small sign above it reads, "Para que nunca comas solo—so you never eat alone."

Your eyes are drawn across the space, pulled in every direction at once by the sheer life of the place.

The walls are a vivid canvas, each one telling a different story. Murals of folkloric legends, Aztec gods, wide-eyed skeletons in suits, and desert cacti under moonlight, all painted with a level of detail so rich it looks like the brushstrokes might leap off the walls and dance. Every inch tells a tale, and the restaurant feels alive because of it.

You catch the sound of laughter and look to the far left where a birthday party is in full swing. Children race by with little piñatas in hand, each shaped like cartoon animals or hearts, their excited squeals piercing the air as they zigzag through tables. Their parents call out to them between bites of food and gulps of horchata, while someone at the party holds up a cupcake with a sparkler instead of a candle.

Just beyond them, there’s a little karaoke nook, decorated with tinsel and paper streamers, where two women are belting out a song in Spanish, clapping along to the beat. A man at the next table raises his drink to cheer them on.

The staff rushes past in all black uniforms, trays expertly balanced on their shoulders, weaving between tables with the grace of dancers. There are older couples sitting side by side, their hands still entwined after all these years. Teenagers in wrinkled school uniforms lean in toward each other across booths, giggling. Big families crowd around long tables with platters stacked high. The entire restaurant hums with life, connection, and color—like the pulse of the heart that never stops.

You're too busy taking it all in to realize how close Hanta’s gotten until his voice catches softly in your ear.

“Hey, this way.”

You jump a little, head snapping toward him as he pulls away, eyes crinkled in a warm smile that makes your breath catch. His large hand brushes just past yours—not quite a touch, but enough to feel the heat of his skin—and then gently hovers behind your back to guide you forward.

A kind faced older woman greets you both, her skin glowing with the warmth of someone who’s spent a lifetime by the stove. Her long silvering hair is braided neatly and hangs over one shoulder. She smiles at Hanta with familiarity, already turning toward the dining room. You can tell she’s way older than she looks. 

She leads you past families and old friends, past diners clinking forks and glasses, until she gestures to a cozy corner booth lit by a softly glowing paper lantern above. As you slide into the seat, she opens two menus and places them in front of you.

“Gracias, Doña,” Hanta says, charming as ever.

She laughs and says something teasingly in Spanish, something that makes him throw his head back and smile with a deep, bright laugh before he nods and says, “Si, si, unos minutos.”

Then she pats his arm like she’s known him for years and turns to go, her thick braid swinging gently behind her. The menus are beautifully done, full of vibrant photos and printed in three languages: Japanese, Spanish, and English. 

Your fingers run over the textured paper, lingering on a few tempting dishes, but your throat is scratchy and your chest feels tight again. You should get something warm, but the menu has something else calling to you. 

You glance up at Hanta and then down again before softly saying, “I’m gonna order a margarita.”

He pauses, blinking. “Seriously?” he asks, just a little surprised. “You sure? With your throat… and I thought you didn’t do drinking when it came to—”

You cut him off with a tiny smile. “It’s a special occasion.”

He tilts his head like he wants to ask why, but he lets it go, grinning softly.

“In that case,” he says, leaning back and closing his menu with one hand, “I’ll cheat too.”

You raise a brow.

“Malta, please” he declares, pointing to it like it’s some grand indulgence. “Haven’t had one in months.”

You both chuckle as the old woman returns, not even needing to write anything down when you order. She nods with a knowing little smirk, as if she’s already guessed what kind of night this is, and walks off to put the orders in, leaving you both sitting in that golden-lit booth, something new and tender blooming in the space between you.

You lean forward slightly, fingers still tucked between the pages of your menu as you ask, “So… what do you recommend?”

Hanta’s smile deepens, like he was waiting for you to ask.

“Ohhh, easy,” he says, tapping the laminated surface with a ringed finger. “The San Jose burrito. That thing’s insane.” You tilt your head, interested, and he launches into description mode, voice warm and animated.

“Okay, so—there’s beef and chicken, or you can swap in pork if you’re feelin’ bold. But I usually go with both—beef and chicken. It's got black beans, guac, yellow rice, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, grilled peppers—like those smoky, sweet ones—and I’m pretty sure there’s a splash of vinegar in there too. For the zing.” He does a little chef’s kiss motion with his fingers.

Your eyebrows go up. “That sounds like a lot.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was gonna say… think your stomach can handle that much party right now?” You pause, tapping your lips in mock contemplation. “I think so.”

“Good, ‘cause it comes with melted cheese on top. Like—real melted cheese. Not the plasticky american kind.”

You laugh without thinking, and he catches it in real time, freezing mid-sentence like someone pressed pause on his whole brain. His own smile softens, eyes half-lidded, cheeks slightly flushed under the golden light. It’s warm. Full of something light. Something that hums quietly between you both.

Neither of you says a word. Until—

“Ahem.”

You jump just slightly, blinking as your focus snaps to the side where a man—maybe five foot nothing—stands with a notepad in hand and an aura like he owns the place and the sidewalk outside. 

Something you’ve only seen from Bakugou, Momo and Iida. Maybe Shoto on a good day. 

“PINO!” Hanta says like he’s just seen a long-lost brother, springing up from the booth and tossing an arm over the smaller man’s shoulder in a fluid, affectionate motion.

Pino gives a small, amused huff but doesn’t resist, smiling a crooked little smile as they exchange a few quick, friendly jabs in Spanish. Their laughter rolls out easily, like they’ve been doing this for years.

Then Hanta turns back to you, face lighting up with genuine excitement. “This is—”

“I know who she is,” Pino cuts in with a warm, fond smile.

You blink. “You… do?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, stepping just a bit closer, voice lowering like he’s letting you in on a secret. “This vato talks about you all the time. Everyone knows about his—”

“Chota, cabrón!” Hanta hisses, slapping a hand over the man’s mouth so fast it makes your cow plush jostle in your arms.

You watch the chaos unfold with wide eyes and a blooming grin as Pino raises both brows, clearly unbothered, before gently prying the hand away. They both settle after a second, exchanging a silent truce with a head nod and a small eye roll.

“I’m serious,” Pino says, pointing a thumb toward Hanta while looking at you. “This guy? Keeps a picture of you in his wallet. Showed me once when I asked who kept cutting his hair.”

You’re not even sure what to say. 

Your face burns, the warmth spreading from your ears to your chest like a rolling tide.

“And listen,” Pino continues, waving a hand before you can protest, “Anything you want tonight—It’s on me. Free. You take care of everyone. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have met this fool.”

You shake your head quickly, flustered, holding your plushie like a shield. “No, no, I can’t accept that. That’s—really kind, but—”

“Come on,” you say again, when he insists a second time. “It’s too much.”

He just smirks, like he knew you’d say that.

You try a third time, more out of principle than pride.

But he holds up his hands like he’s waving off a foul ball and says simply, “I like her,” before giving Hanta a playful shove and heading back toward the kitchen, his old sneakers squeaking faintly on the tile.

You look back at Hanta, still glowing red around the edges, and he just shrugs sheepishly, one hand sliding through his dark hair as he mutters, “...He wasn’t supposed to say alll that.”

You try not to smile too wide.

And fail.

"You're stupid," you say with no heat, your voice colored by laughter as you lean across the table slightly, cheeks flushed and warm.

"I know," Hanta replies with a proud, lopsided grin right before he tries to rest his elbow on the edge of the table—and misses.

His arm slips, his balance tips, and he nearly smacks his forehead against the surface, but you're faster. With a soft gasp, your hand shoots out to catch him, fingers squishing his cheek as you hold him in place like a kid being restrained mid-wiggle.

His eyes go wide, then cross at your touch, before he slowly dissolves into giggles under your palm, his breath huffing against your wrist.

"You’re not allowed to die in here," you say firmly, lips twitching.

“I’m not dyin’,” he slurs through your fingers, “I’m thriving.”

Before you can argue back, a pair of warm plates clatter onto the table, and a friendly voice announces your food with flair. The aroma is heavenly. Slow-cooked meats, warm cheese, freshly made tortillas, and crisp vegetables all wafting up in rich, spicy waves that immediately make your mouth water. You thank the server softly, and Hanta flashes a wide smile with both hands already hovering over his plate like he's about to pray to it.

He doesn’t even wait. He dives in immediately, taking huge bites, almost humming with satisfaction between mouthfuls. You watch him, amused, slowly picking at your burrito and savoring every bit.

Halfway through your meal, a familiar beat cuts through the restaurant’s chatter—brassy, bold, and unmistakably festive.

You glance up just as Hanta does too. His face lights up in a way that makes your heart skip. “Ohhh, this song is my jam,” he says, already half-rising from his seat.

You laugh into your drink, shaking your head. “You're gonna dance?”

He holds out a hand toward you, eyes sparkling. “We’re gonna dance.”

Your brows lift. “I'm not a dancer.”

He tilts his head, palm still extended. “You're not an old lady either.”

And that’s all it takes.

You giggle, placing your napkin down and taking his hand, letting him pull you up into the soft, golden warmth of the dance floor where other couples are already moving. Some practiced and graceful, others goofy and wild.

The two of you fall somewhere in between.

He spins you. Twirls you. Claps above his head, bumping his shoulder against yours when you miss a beat. You sing along, imperfect but proud, and when the chorus hits, you both belt it out like it’s your anthem. You don’t stop smiling. Not even once. Not through the dips or the steps or the way your arms loop around his neck when you start to get a little tired.

When you finally return to your booth, hours have passed without your noticing. The food is long gone, the restaurant a little quieter now as the night deepens. Your face glows with leftover laughter, and your skin tingles from the dancing and the gentle buzz of the margaritas. Hanta remained completely sober, on purpose, and had insisted on being the designated driver before you even took your first sip.

He seats you back at the booth gently, guiding you to the bench like a gentleman, and your cow plush is still there, waiting with soft stitched eyes and plushy patience.

“I’m gonna use the restroom real quick, then we’ll head home,” he says with a warm smile.

You nod, giving him a sleepy little wave as he heads off, disappearing around the corner.

Left alone for the moment, you slide the plush into your lap and stroke its soft ears. You think for a beat, eyes still buzzing from everything. The food, the music, the dancing, him, before a quiet little thought floats into your mind.

What if you named the cow Hanta?

You bite your lip to suppress the grin blooming on your face, your cheeks tingling with mischief and something else you don’t dare name yet. You bounce the cow in your hands a little, humming softly to yourself as you rest your chin on its head.

The little bell above the restaurant door rings again.

You barely pay it any mind. A family heading out, maybe, or someone coming for a late dinner. Your eyes are still on the cow—on Hanta, you suppose—and you smile down at him again.

But then you hear them.

Familiar voices.

Ones that slice through the mellow quiet of the restaurant like a crack in the floor.

You freeze.

Slowly—too slowly—you turn in your seat, the plush clutched gently to your chest as your heart stutters in your ribs, already knowing before you even see.

And there—

It’s Sato who you recognize first. His broad frame is easy to spot even in a crowd. He’s followed by Mina, bouncing on her heels in bright pastels, her laugh cutting through the room like a song. Denki is right behind her, already pointing toward the counter and talking animatedly, and Shoto, as always, is composed and glacial, though his eyes sweep the place in calculated scans.

Then Bakugou steps in, and you stiffen instinctively. He’s dressed down in joggers and a hoodie, but there’s no hiding that signature frown or the way he’s already visibly irritated by the noise level. Still, his red gaze shifts with purpose, not annoyance, toward the kitchen window. 

You almost wave them over out of habit, out of longing maybe, but then you remember your face. Your outfit. The weight of tonight and what it meant to be away from the rest of them, just for a night. To be no one. Just you.

It’s clear they haven’t seen you. They’re busy talking among themselves, still standing near the entrance when you hear a burst of familiar voices and the slapping of palms meeting—high fives.

You twist in your seat just in time to catch Hanta stepping up to them, his smile blooming naturally, arms thrown around shoulders with practiced ease.

"Oyeeee, look at this crew!" he says, and they all laugh.

You keep your head down, turning your cow plush toward the window to look less conspicuous, even as you listen.

“What’re you guys doing here?” Hanta asks, and Mina grins as she says, “Dinner, duh. I needed churros, obviously.” 

Denki adds, “I’m picking up food for a friend. She's a doctor, barely eats when she’s on call—figured I'd surprise her.” Mina gasps dramatically. “You like her!” Denki’s ears go red. “I respect her!”

“That’s not a noo~!” she sings, and he groans.

“She’s a friend. Right now. Okay?!”

Sato chimes in cheerfully, “I came to see the food. Bakugou wouldn’t shut up about this place.”

Bakugou, deadpan, arms crossed. “I said I was hungry.”

“Your fiancée’s out on a mission,” Denki says, and Mina elbows him in warning. “You’re getting her favorites.”

“Mind your damn business.”

Shoto’s voice floats in, quiet but weighted, “I had a date scheduled with my betrothed. She’s usually late. I’m waiting for her text.” Your chest tightens slightly. You look down, pretending to brush lint off the cow’s head, and pull your hair slightly forward to shield more of your face.

Mina glances at Hanta and asks, “What about you? What’re you doing here?”

He shrugs, eyes shy but smiling. “Dinner.”

She raises a brow. “Dinner alone?”

“I’m good,” he replies quickly.

Denki’s voice jumps in, teasing. “Yeah, okay. You’ve been on that lady since forever, man!”

Sato laughs softly. “Can’t blame him. I had a hard time getting over her too.”

Your heart skips.

Bakugou snorts. “You’re delusional. She was married.”

Your eyes snap wide, and your hand clamps around the cow plush so tight you swear it squeaks. You can practically feel your eyebrows trying to launch off your forehead. 

“Yeah that’s true,” Sato says with surprising gentleness. “But you just don’t meet someone like her every day.”

“Facts,” Mina nods. “So come on, Hanta. Spill. You’re not eating alone. Who is it?”

Hanta’s voice gets softer, almost unsure. “She doesn’t really want to be seen tonight… so I’m trying to respect her privacy.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Bakugou sneers. “You of all people—talkin’ about privacy?”

“I was being a bro,” Hanta shoots back, still calm. “Helping you out.”

“I don’t care either way,” Bakugou says, “But if you’re gonna play house with somebody new, you better be over her.” 

And then, casually, like a grenade tossed in slow motion, he mutters, 

“Does Mommy know?”

Your whole body goes still.

Mommy. 

You.

Your breath catches as your nails dig into the plush’s soft fur. You slide lower in the booth until your chin is practically touching the table and smooth your hair across your forehead like a curtain. Mina makes a surprised sound. 

“Wait. What does that mean?”

“I knew it,” Denki says with a click of his tongue. “I told you there was vibe.”

“She’s still married,” Mina whispers, “Right?” Sato, “Yeah. But now she’s—”

“I got it,” Hanta says quickly. “Thanks for the concern. I’ve got it, okay?”

For a moment, there’s silence.

And then, like a sharp knife through butter, a voice cuts clean and furious.

"That's utterly ridiculous. Are you out of your mind?"

Your jaw drops. 

That was Shoto.

And he sounds angry.

Hanta tries to laugh it off. “C’mon, man. You’re being dramatic—”

But Shoto steps forward, his eyes blazing. Not with fire, but with unwavering conviction. 

“No, Hanta. You are.”

The whole group goes quiet as Shoto continues, his words deliberate and piercing, like finely sharpened knives.

“You’re one of the smartest, most emotionally intuitive men I know. And you still thought you could hide something like this?”

Hanta opens his mouth, but Shoto cuts him off again, voice rising just a hair—sharp enough to command, never enough to yell.

“You have feelings for her. You’ve had them since the moment you met her. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Denki mumbles, “That’s what I said,” but gets immediately elbowed by Mina, eyes wide with intrigue.

Shoto doesn’t stop. “You act like it’s something noble, this privacy, this quiet reverence. But love isn’t noble if it’s built on fear. It’s cowardice dressed as protection.”

“Oof,” Denki winces under his breath. “That one hit me.”

“You don’t need to defend her from the world, Hanta,” Shoto presses, taking another step closer. “She’s already stronger than most people we know. What she needs—what she deserves—is for someone to choose her, publicly, unapologetically.”

“Damn,” Mina whispers, eyes locked in awe.

Sato adds thoughtfully, “I mean… I’m proud of you for getting out there, man. Really. But if you know you’re not ready, you should probably leave the new lady alone.”

“Are you daft?” Shoto snaps, turning to Sato, eyebrows high.

“He’s in love with her. He has been from the start.”

Everyone blinks at how fast that escalated.

He turns to Hanta again, this time with a pointedness that borders on frustrated affection.

“You walk around smiling, cracking jokes, playing it ‘cool.’ But you glow around her. You ache when she’s not there. You stopped dating entirely after she walked into your life, and don’t pretend it’s because of work. I’ve known you too long.”

Then, Shoto’s tone softens, but the weight behind it only deepens.

“She believes she’s hard to love. Everyone expects her to keep it together. You’re the one person who sees through all of it—and still stays.” He steps in close, lowering his voice. 

“Even if she is your manager. Even if you think you’ll ruin everything. If you love her, do something.”

Hanta doesn’t say a word. He’s been backing up slowly with every point made, smile long gone, breath shallow. So distracted, he doesn’t even notice he’s backed up past your booth.

Until Shoto stops, head turning sharply in your direction.

And then—he sees you.

Your hair is down, unstyled. Your skin, free of makeup. The soft lighting of the restaurant catches the edge of your fluffy Hello Kitty pajama pants and the white sneakers beneath the table. And in your lap, that cow plushie sits like it’s been your companion for years.

The anger on Shoto’s face vanishes in a blink. His eyes widen in subtle disbelief, then gentles—completely—like the moon slipping out from behind storm clouds. He raises his hand slowly, fingers curling in a light wave. 

“Hello.”

You flinch upright as if electrocuted, stiffening at once, hands clutching the cow.

The others turn.

Mina gasps. “No way.”

Sato freezes, color draining from his face like he’s about to faint. Denki’s jaw drops open. “Oh my god,” he squeaks. His cheeks flush bright red. Mina looks like she’s thrilled! Until she glances at Hanta.

He’s standing like he just took a gut punch from All Might in his prime. Both hands gripped onto the back of a nearby chair like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth. His complexion has gone greenish, his shoulders hunched, his breath visibly shaky like he might vomit or collapse.

Hanta looks at you like a deer caught mid-sprint. Like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar, holding it, still trying to chew.

You don’t look any better.

Before either of you can speak, Katsuki makes direct eye contact with you from across the booth. You feel a cold shiver run down your spine—

"AHHHHH!!!!!"

—and then he explodes with laughter.

It is deafening. Wild and feral. He throws his head back and howls so loud the entire restaurant turns.

“YOU!?” he screams through the laughter. “YOU GOT HER!?!”

You flinch. People nearby jump in their seats.

He’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over, gripping his stomach, unable to breathe. 

“SHE IS THE DATE? AND YOU LOOK LIKE THAT?! OH MAN, I’M NEVER GONNA LET THIS GO!”

Mina’s cackling but also trying to cover your ears. “Okay, okay, Kats—chill, please! Hey girly! You look adorable! I love this look for you!” Sato and Denki rush to try and grab Katsuki’s arms while Mina lifts his legs—he’s so gone he doesn’t even tell them to stop.

They drag him toward the exit, Katsuki still howling, 

“SOY SAUCE FACE DID IT! SHE’S IN THE HOODIE!!”

You just sit there, mortified, gripping the cow plush like it’s a lifeline.

Shoto watches the scene with cool indifference, though his mouth twitches in something almost like amusement. Then he turns to you, bows respectfully, and says with solemn grace,

“Nice to see that I was mistaken.” He meets Hanta’s eye for half a second, then bows again and murmurs, “Have a good evening,” before slipping out the door after the others.

The door closes. Noise fades like the tide pulling back from shore, leaving only the low murmur of the restaurant behind, like a heartbeat under glass.

And now…

It’s just you and Hanta.

He stands frozen, not five feet from you, as if the air itself turned solid around him. His fingers are still gripped tight on the back of the chair, knuckles pale, like it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the floor.

From his pretty cheekbones, down his sharp jawline, to his soft-looking neck, he’s flushed a deep, almost painful red. The kind of red that travels with embarrassment, yes. But also something else. You think, for a terrifying second, that he might actually cry. His thick lashes are heavy, and the way his eyebrows and pouty pink lips tremble, and ebony eyes shine makes your breath catch in your throat.

His whole face is a portrait of panic and emotion. Wide, unguarded, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. Like a half-drowned kitten caught in a rainstorm, unsure if it should run or curl up and beg to be held.

And you…

You’re still holding the cow plush in your lap, fingers curled tight into its soft seams like it can somehow shield you from the storm of emotions crashing through your chest. You feel exposed in the worst way. 

Like someone peeled back all your careful layers and left you raw and soft and real under the fluorescent lights. No makeup. No jewelry. No armor.

Just you.

And him.

The silence stretches taut between you, almost unbearable, like a string pulled too tight.

He swallows. Barely. You see the movement in his throat, slow and shaky. His breathing is uneven. His chest rises like it hurts to take in air. And still, he stares. Like he’s trying to memorize you, but can’t believe you’re really here. Like he’s afraid if he says the wrong thing, you’ll vanish.

You open your mouth to speak, to fill the space, to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Your lips part, and all you feel is your heart climbing its way into your throat.

Because this isn’t just embarrassment. It isn’t just surprise.

It’s more.

It’s the way his eyes soften just the slightest bit—even now. It’s the way he looks like he’s standing at the edge of something massive and irreversible. It’s the way your pulse won’t slow down, not when it’s him, not when it’s Hanta, not when it’s the one person you’ve let get this close.

You can see the words forming behind his lips. You can see them trembling at the edge of his tongue.

And you know—you know—if one of you speaks now, everything will change.

Everything’s already changed. 

But still… neither of you says a word.

Just the space between you.

Trembling.

Waiting.

Ready to break.

“I—”

@willnetries, I passed out like 30 times but your food is ready!!!

For Valentines day, I hosted a poll about the fic's I have cooking in the oven from my mha 'Fuck it, I got you,' series and this was the first winner. As promised, some info about the relationship between you and Hanta.

P.S. I am Latina. While I went with Latino Sero and do think him to be Mexican, I did use PuertoRican slang, bc that's what I know.

In the glowing spotlight of fame and the shadows behind it, You are the brilliant, sharp tongued manager of pro hero Hanta Sero. A woman known for her incredible brains and beauty, her ability to always get what she wants, and a man known for his humor, looks, and devastating charisma. During a very public divorce and a carefully guarded personal life, the last thing you need is a scandal. Or worse, a new heartbreak.

Especially not one involving your client.

But Hanta isn’t just your client. Not anymore.

Ever since he fired his last manager in a rare burst of frustration and hired you on the spot after your unexpected interview, your lives have intertwined in ways no one expected. Hanta never knows what you’ll do next, and yet—he’s never felt more at ease. He trusts you with his career, his image, his life. But more than that, he trusts you with his heart... even if he’s never dared say it out loud!~

Because to him, this is the best friendship he’s ever had.

And he would rather be quiet than lose you.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to let him in. You want to let yourself love him. But the world is watching, and after everything: The mess of your ex-husband, the whispering media, the pressure of perfection, you’re terrified of what it would mean to choose him.

To choose happiness. To selfishly want something for yourself.

Surrounded by a circle of friends who are over it with the long game of stolen glances, near telepathic communication, and emotional misses, the question looms:

How long can two people circle each other before the truth comes out?

And when it finally does... will it be too late?

Fuck it, who knows. I got time to write.

-----

Taglist from both of my master lists because I need to feed the cats: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, @the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r, @icey-wonders, @adherethecomingofage, @karaartioli-blog, @meoweoeoeosme, @faithisxreading, @faithisidking, @oh-kayyy-stan-bts, @shortie-chocolate, @rosaline756. @sweetlike-sugarplum. @aespie, @dancingqueen276, @erensbbg, @lillizxzz, @1chaerry, @valscodblog, @cristy-101

My master list is a work in progress but there's plenty more fic's and other characters if you request them. Ao3 is sexy too. I haven't posted the story yet because I need to Finish my Katsuki one first at least, but all the support and comments I receive help give me the motivation to finish!

You can also tip me a coffee if you want.

Remember: Comments and likes, really help. Don't be afraid to leave me a sexy little reblog too.

Stay tuned for the rest!! If you wanna be tagged, lemme know.

I promise I bite~

See you soon my loves!! <33

-Angie (✿^‿^)

[3cremepie3]

#1 manger

Synopsis - You the number one manger of the NRC basketball team get into a bit of trouble with the star players. How far would you go to get back your beloved position? Ace, Jamil, Floyd x reader

Warnings - Smut 18+ ,cursing, bribery, anal, (mentions) virginity loss, (mentions of) starvation, arguing, toxicity, betrayal

A/n - This was definitely one of the nastiest fics I wrote. And it’s just gonna get worse if I do a part 2 lol!! This is not fully edited bear with the writing for now!!!

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“Shoot it, Floyd!” You screamed jumping up out of your seat. There were 3 seconds left on the clock but time felt frozen. Your team had the opportunity to win if they made this one shot. But things don’t always work out. Especially when you have a dopey bipolar teammate that wasn’t paying attention and somehow had the ball slam on his head. It’s safe to say you guys lost with flying colors.

Time unfroze and the roar of Royal Sword Academy’s team almost made you fall over. You sat back in your seat chuckling as Floyd’s mouth stayed open. You the team manager should have been checking on him. But the situation was just so funny.

The sound it made and the way he fell back like a rag doll it was just comical. You began to laugh like a hyena practically sobbing as tears fell on your face. You put your hands over your face in shame as people began to stare at you. And for a while, you sat laughing replaying the situation over and over.

Now that you thought about it the whole game itself was pretty funny. Ace almost fought a player who kept fowling him but was held back by Jamil who looked like the interaction aged him 20 years a minute. God you love managing the team it was like a free movie.

“Something funny Shrimpy”. Floyd whispered into your ear causing your head to shoot up. “God you scared me Floyd.” You said wiping tears out of your eyes. “No it’s nothing,” you smirked. “Then why did I hear you laughing at our failures the whole game?” No, it wasn’t like that I swear!” Your smile twisted awkwardly downwards trying to hide itself. “Lies make me wanna squeeze ya’ even harder you know?”

Floyd had that crazy look in his eyes so you know he meant business but still you couldn’t contain yourself. You looked down from his harsh gaze in gave into the silliness which was probably your worst mistake.“Up now,” he demanded. His large hand met your shoulder gripping it so tightly it knocked the air out of your lungs. “Ahh let go of me,” you protested. You kicked Floyd in the shin to free yourself before running away from him into the locker room.

You knew some time had passed but damn it was unusually quiet. Normally you would walk with your eyes closed to avoid seeing gross dicks and hear a bunch of bustle. But you heard nothing except the stream of a few shower heads.

Once you got out of the locker room you faced the grim reality of why everything was so quiet. Vargas sent everyone Home except for a few star players he had to chew into. You stood behind him which was your duty as the manager.

“You could’ve gotten suspended for the whole season,” Vargas seethed. “What were you thinking Ace!” Hey, he hit me first,” Ace added. “Because you talked about his damn mother.” Oh wow,” you laughed. “Is something funny Y/n,” Vargas asked. “This whole time something’s been just cracking you up huh? What type of manager laughs at her team? Huh, answer me step up and answer me.” You stepped up in front of the player's throat now suddenly dry.

“I apologize,” you spoke quietly. “What was that you were too quiet.” Vargas boomed into your ear. “I’m sorry for laughing at you guys,” you raised your voice annoyed. “That’s what I thought,” Floyd interrupted. “You act like your scrawny ass could do any better.”

“I can assure you that if I had your build I could. I wouldn’t be like you Floyd just dazing off into the sunset when we have championships at stake,” you challenged. “Shrimpy you need to watch your mouth before I watch it for you,” Floyd threatened.

“Floyd that’s enough let’s listen to her she’s our manager, Jamil sighed.” What’s that sigh for,” you huffed. “Well, you’re not exactly the best person to be in the position you’re in. You can’t even contain your composure.”

“Jamil’s right it’s embarrassing,” Ace claimed. “Embarrassing you wanna know what’s embarrassing you dumb asses is constantly defending this team. Everyday I go into class and Ace can testify this I’m always having to stick up for this team.”

“Maybe if you guys took shit seriously then I wouldn’t have to laugh, you snapped.” That’s enough out of all of you,” Vargas stomped. The entire gym went quiet down to his immense anger.

Never in your days at night raven had you seen him so angry. “Since you all can’t take shit seriously your off the team until further notice.” Wait but coach I didn’t do anything,” Jamil objected. “Me either it was all that bitches Y/n’s fault,” Floyd insisted.

“Who the fuck are you calling a bitch,” you questioned? “The only bitch made person in here,” he smirked. “God Floyd you’re so lucky I don’t have a gun!” Ladies let’s calm it down Ace,” joked.

You and Floyd looked at him like he had just slapped you. “Ace please don’t make me break up your fights again you have no self control idiot,” Jamil figured. “Who are you calling an idiot.” The four of you were to busy arguing you didn’t notice your coach leaving.

You stormed away after him while the others followed. “Vargas please I really need this job! Do you want me and Grim to starve to death?” By now tears had began to stream out of your eyes.

Vargas didn’t clear about y’all’s pleas as he drove away on his blastcycle. “Fuck now I gotta eat canned bean’s again. I thought I’d get to forget that taste forever.” By now your mascara was smeared all over your face.

“Stop crying you big baby,” Ace remarked. “I can’t. Holy fuck I’m screwed.” You held your head low not wanting to meet the eyes of the silent boys. Not having any more words to say you chose to walk home.

You didn’t even have the energy to strip out of your uniform once you got to bed. Instead you just cuddled up with Grim who slept peacefully. The next day you woke up late. All you had time to do was wash the crust and mascara off your face.

While you walked to class you told Grim avout your new finical state. Which was only enough to buy you cheap junk food for about a week. Grim was upset and offered to beat up Vargas but you told him to hold back.

You lost your position and even if you didn’t agree with your new circumstances you would figure something out. “We’ll be okay Y/n right,” Grim asked. “I hope so,” you pondered.

Two weeks later

Each day, hour , minute was passing by so slow you thought you were in a shitty velocity edit. The pit at your stomach grew larger and larger by day. Food was scarce and you fed Grim before you fed yourself. Thats what a good housewarden does.

You friends tried their best to help you bringing extra meals by whenever they could. Even though you were starving you were grateful for there help. But there was one person you would except nothing from. That person was Ace.

That asshole got you into this situation in the first place. You would take nothing from him. Which is why you rejected his offer to go to the gym.

“This is obviously some sort of harsh prank. I’m not that stupid Ace. I know for a fact they probably don’t want me to show my face there for another hundred years.” Well it’s just me Floyd and Jamil if that makes you feel any better,” Ace stated.

“No that makes me feel worse,” you winced. “Just come with me Y/n so you can get over this weird grudge you have all of a sudden.” You and him bickered the entire way there mostly about how your feelings were completely valid.

But you stopped as you got to the door. You were scared since you weren’t the only one who lost your position. What if they wanted revenge you wondered but it was too late as Ace pulled you in before him.

The gym was empty and for a minute you wanted to ask Ace what his deal was. But Floyd and Jamil both walked out the locker room. You and Ace walked up to them and your arms immediately crossed. “So what can I help you guys with,” you snarked.

The three of them stood around you in an arc. Floyd was the first to speak. “If you didn’t already know we got out positions back,” he declared. “And what’s that got to do with me,” you inquired.

“A lot so shut it Shrimpy.” Thanks to us you may get another chance. Huh what do you say do you wanna be our manger again,” he questioned. “What do you mean thanks to yall,” you asked.

“Vargas and us had a chat and he asked rather or not he should let you back on the team,” Jamil coaxed. “It’s entirely up to us to decide your fate, Ace affirmed. “Yeah we know how bad you want this job,” Jamil snickered.

“We just felt so bad when you were crying Shrimpy my heart almost broke,” Floyd frowned. “I don’t like the look the three of you have. What do you want from me?” Ace put his hand on your shoulder giving it a squeeze.

You backed away from his grasp. “Hey don’t get all scared we just want you to confirm that you want to be back on our team,” Ace sighed. “Of course I will,” you exclaimed. “I would love that actually you guys are the best.” You grabbed them all into a group hug and they hugged back.

“Okay we’ll go tell Vargas the good news after you fuck us,” Ace mumbled. “What was that?” You were still in the middle of the group hug the boys towering over you. You swore you just heard something crazy come out of his mouth but maybe his mispoke.

“He said you’ll get your position back after you fuck us.” Floyd deadpanned into your air sending shivers up your spine. You pushed them off of you only to be grabbed back in. “Don’t leave us so soon,” Jamil whined. “Yeah we really want you back in the team Shrimpy!”

“Duece told me how bad your situation really is. Don’t you need this job? Come on you don’t want Grim to starve,” he shouted. They were right and you hated to admit it. This job really was your make or break it since all other slots in campus were filled up.

“I-i can’t.” Sure you can come one we’ll make you feel good,” Jamil assured you. “Yeah you’ll be nice and full Shrimpy.” Don’t you want to feel good? Ace’s hand rolled down your back and onto your ass. The others hands went to grope you practically everywhere.

“What other choice do you have? It’s either us or halfway starve to death,” Ace reminded you. “Fuck you,” you spat. “Sweetie you were Sutton spit in his mouth,” Jamil commented. “Shrimpy come on you know better then that especially with a body like this. There’s no way you’re a virgin,” Floyd bubbled.

“She hasn’t even had her first kiss yet,” Ace told them. “What no way,” Jamil cackled. “Yup she told me and Duece during truth or dare.” We can help you with that Shrimpy.” How about losing everything to us you can even get your position back? Come on say something already!”

You were to embarrassed to speak. To humiliated to even move but still you nodded your head. “That’s a good girl,” Ace praised. You were quickly hoisted over Floyd’s shoulder and brought to a recovery room.

As you were sat on the bed you thought of the many times you helped them after injuries. This was a betrayal like no other. “Hey pretty are you here with us.” Jamil’s grabbed your jaw making you face him. Floyd was at the opposite edge of the bed watching you interaction while Ace climbed up over you.

The fact that you had no idea where this was going frightened you. “We thought it would be only fair if we all took your first kiss.” How the fuck,” you wondered. “Just open up that pretty mouth you’ll see.” Before you could get a word out you were smothered by all there tongues flowing inside your mouth.

Every ounce of air was stolen from your body as they licked everywhere their tounges could reach. It didn’t help that Jamil and Floyd’s were long and oddly practically gagging you.

You pulled away from all three of them a mixture of spit soaking your chin. You took some time to catch you breath while the others watched you. “That reaction was so damn cute were we to much for you,” Ace pointed out.

“I hope you enjoyed your first kiss Y/n,” Jamil said. You couldn’t even find the words to tell them off as of right now your mind was replaying all the possible scenarios of what could happen next.

As you dozed out hands explored your clothes unbuttoning the fabric that they recently caressed. Soon you were left in your bra and panties. You squeezed you legs shut trying to find some sort of privacy.

“I call her tits I always wanted a titjob ever I saw one in a hentai, Ace grinned.” Well I’ll take her mouth then since someone needs to shut her up,” Floyd sang. “Lucky me I get first dibs on her pussy then!”

Them talking about you like you were some piece of meat should’ve pissed you off. But instead you felt a wet patch form on your panties. “Lay back so we can do our thing Y/n,” Floyd instructed.

The rest of your clothes were pulled up from you in a frenzy. Jamil forcefully pried your legs apart revealing your twitching heat. “Fuck you’re horny already you slut,” he cooed. The three of them shifted until they were in their desired position Jamil was inbetween your legs kissing everywhere but were you needed him.

As you moaned Floyd slipped himself into your mouth. He stretched you mouth open as he thrusted in. With his size your jaw was sure to go slack. Ace lined his thick cock inbetween your tots before spitting a fat globe down as line inbetween them.

“Jamil don’t forget you have to lube up her asshole as well.” I didn’t forget you anal freak we have to be patient with her wait a minute. ” It’s her first time after all.” He gave your clit an open wet kiss that had you clenching against nothing.

His breath so close to you caused you to scoot closer to him. “Hey Shrimpy don’t forget about me. I forget you don’t know how to suck dick. Come one just do what the pornstars do!”

You tried your best to mock what you saw in porn while licking on Floyd’s thick mushroom tip. His whole cock was so sticky and you used your free hand that wasn’t holding Jamil’s head into place to grab him.

It was hard to focus on sucking him as Ace’s movements shook the entire bed. “This feels better then I thought damn your tits are so warm,” he moaned. “Been thinking of doing this to you ever since I saw you at orientation fuck.”

His cock leaked precum all over you chest further adding to the sinful sounds he made. But he wasn’t the only loud one Jamil lapped at your cunt so harshly you thought you would die. God there was so much stimulation at the same time.

You couldn’t stand it much longer and you soon came. Your body shook as you orgasmed and Ace held you down continuing his thrust. “God Shrimpy you’re so bad at this.” Floyd repositioned himself so that his knees were on either side of your head.

“All you have to do is keep your mouth open I’ll do all the work.” Floyd pushed your mouth open his fat cock now forcing itself down your airways. You gagged around him as he hit the bottom of your throat repeatedly. This along with Jamil entering his slender fingers into your cunt had your eyes rolling to the back of you head.

Floyd finally stopped thrusting in you right as Ace groaned loudly painting your chest with his thick cum. “Fuck that felt good.” He slapped his dick on your boobs drizzling out his last bit of cum onto you.

Your eyes noted that he was still semi hard as he smiled down at his creation. Jamil continued to finger your overstimulated cunt. The room was filled with the nosies. “Hey I can save us some time if I get underneath her,” Ace suggested.

“You better not try anything Ace I spent all

This time stretching her for me to break her not you,” Jamil explained. “Yeah I get that dude I was just gonna eat her other hole.” Ace lifted you up and slid his head underneath you.

Your body tensed up immediately realizing where he was about to lick. “No don’t lick there,” you shrieked. “Why anal is the best you’ll like it once you try it I promise you,” Ace claimed. “But it’s dirty,” you uttered.

“Nothing on you is dirty to me now sit on my face. Don’t be afraid to crush me either.” His hands gripped you thighs until you were sat fully on his face. Your legs remained opened and soon Jamil lined his cock up with your slit.

Out of the corner of your eye you saw Floyd with a devious smile on his face. “Better open up nice and wide so you can take us all Shrimpy. Don’t you want your position back? Come on stop shivering you're our #1 manger!