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luveline · 5 months ago

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𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭

part one | chapter list

You find yourself drawn into Remus’ life after an awful night you can’t remember. He does his best to hold onto you. [10k]

cw: heavy themes, implied sexual assault of the reader [with no graphic scenes but it’s a continuous theme, so please be careful when reading], pregnancy, eventual friends to lovers, friendships, hurt/comfort, james makes a lot of soup, found family

𖦹

The pharmacy on Wilmand Street is always deathly quiet. The boy behind the counter reads and occasionally picks up the phone to put it back down, his hair in his eyes, a waxiness to his pale skin that never fails to perturb.

Your shoes creak over the hardwood floor. He’s noticed your entry, signalled by a golden bell above the door and your muffled panting, but he hasn’t looked up.

Your eyes slide past pads, nighttime, ultra-long panty liners, searching with a poorly restrained desperation for something in particular.

The phone rings —dark-haired boy picks it up and puts it back down again as you recalled, silencing the ring. You watch him from over your shoulder and he looks up from his book to stare.

“Pregnancy tests?” you ask.

His expression doesn’t change as he pulls a drawer open behind the desk with a metallic clink. “What kind?”

“The most reliable. Please.”

He gives a nod, black curl bobbing under his chin. He grabs a blue card box and places it on the counter. “Sixteen fifty.”

You open your purse before you’ve reached him, extracting the change exactly and tipping it next to his book. “Thank you.”

“Are you alright?”

Your heart squeezes in your chest like a tightening fist. “Why?”

“I have to ask. I’m a mandated reporter.”

“I’m not a child.”

He levels your look with his own. “You don’t have to answer. I’m only asking because you look upset. Are you alright?”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard him say more than three words at a time. His voice is reminiscent of someone else’s, half-remembered. You want to ask him, then. The questions you’ve had since it happened. Why does it hurt so badly, still? But the boy, while seemingly well-intentioned, isn’t one you trust to care nor keep it to himself.

“Fine,” you reply, pressing the blue-boxed test into your pocket, pulling the hood of your coat up to brace against the December rain. You’re fine.

The door opens before you can get to it, another lovely dark-haired boy letting himself inside. His stare is blank as the one at the desk’s is, but you smile on instinct and he smiles back warmly after a moment, holding the door for you to leave.

“Okay, Reg?” you hear him ask as you pass.

“Close the door,” Reg says. “You’re letting in the cold.”

—

It’s even colder the next time you go. You throw on another hoodie and wrap a scarf tightly around your neck, face ducked, nose tickled by flyaway fibres. The walk to Wilmand Street takes seventeen long minutes where your hands hurt, then shake, chapped by hateful winds.

The pharmacy’s newspapered window comes into view. A poster for the local pub leaks ink on the outside, wet by the rain, its font blooming like fungus across purple paper. Live music event: December 31st.

The dark-haired boy —Reg?— is behind the counter again. The first one. Are you alright? boy. He looks twenty so or near that, but there’s something wilfully young about the skin under his eyes, despite a more haggard pinch to his brow. You were hoping it would be the second one, or the sandy-haired boy who mans the till in the very early mornings. He has a more natural smile than the other two. Perhaps not more authentic, but quicker to perk up when you slink in for whatever before work, Mondays and Fridays if he’s there.

Reg doesn’t lift his head. You push yourself toward the back of the pharmacy. It’s a small shop slotted between two others, one wall touched from the next in thirty seconds should you walk it. It makes pretending you’re there for other things useless and embarrassing, but you do it anyway. Another test won’t change what you wanted the test to say, but you can’t take one single test and trust it was right.

“Reliable?” Reg asks when you finally approach.

“Yeah. And the five strip box, too, if you have it.”

Reg takes them from the drawer and adds their prices seemingly in his head. “Eighteen eighty-nine.”

You pass him a twenty pound note and wait for your change, not bothered that he counts it slowly, or that he puts it down flat on the counter away from your outstretched hand. “Thanks,” you murmur.

He noticeably bites his tongue.

“I want to be sure, is all,” you say.

“If you go to the doctor’s, they do it for free. And it has a ninety nine percent rate of accuracy.”

You hold the tests to your stomach. “I’m not… really sure what I’d want them to tell me, right now.”

“They’d tell you the truth, at least.” Reg seems to decide this line of conversation isn’t one he wants to continue, and he lets his mouth flatten into a thin, white line. You get the sense though that he isn’t done talking, and are rewarded for your patience with an inkling of an almost-smile. “Please know that I’m bound by duty of care while I work here, so if you are concerned about something, I can listen and offer advice. And if you don’t want to tell me private information, my uncle is the acting pharmacist, and he is more strictly bound by patient confidentiality law.” He looks you in the eye. “You’re only as alone as you allow yourself to be.”

“Who says that?” you ask, poked by the way he lays it out.

Reg doesn’t like your question and doesn’t answer. He picks up his book, murmuring, “I hope they give you the result you want.”

A different dark-haired boy is standing outside of the pharmacy when you leave. With a nice nose, eyes like a puppy, he’s handsome but hidden behind black frames. He stands from his car where he’d been leaning when the door swings out, sits back again when he realises you’re not who he’s looking for. “Sorry, lovely,” he says, pulling at a loosely-knotted tie. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Sorry,” you say back, holding the tests to your chest.

Your hand covers the boxes. His eyes flicker down to them regardless. You wait for disdain or embarrassment but see neither. Really, the only thing this new boy wears is pleasantness.

“Don’t stay out too long, will you?” he asks, smiling genially, “You’ll freeze.”

“I’m–” You clear your throat, caught off guard to have a stranger care about you so openly. No reluctance to his well wishes, and no strings. “Sorry– I’m going home now. I won’t stay out.”

“Good, shortcake. Have a good night.”

You should say you too. The wind chases you back to your flat, where you head for the bathroom, and, despite living alone, lock the door.

—

You take your pregnancy test and sit on the floor, too weak-legged to stand at the sink, waiting for two pink lines.

Sure enough. Control, result. One solid pink line, and one much lighter. It doesn’t matter —a positive is a positive, no matter how weak. The strip tests say the same thing.

In TV and movies, people always paint the test as the ultimate moment. As though the result is the result, and that everything after is fixed, but the result now is only a signifier for another decision to be made: will you keep your baby, or foetus? Do you feel as though it is a baby, or a foetus, or both? Is it welcome, or a foreign object? There is no right or wrong answer, only how you feel.

The migraine you get then is debilitating. Like toothache in every tooth, pain behind your eyes half-psychosomatic, half physiological stress. You’re not sure how long you’re in the bathroom holding your forehead, but it’s dark when you manage to stand again, and the tests have only gotten more obviously positive. You throw them all in the bin.

—

The third day you go back to Wilmand Street pharmacy, the desk is manned by your unfamiliar, smiling boy. He looks up when the door opens, his eyes browned honey set in a face that recently saw the sun, but not too much of it. Kissed by it. His cheeks are pinked. He must be the first person who’s worked here to bother turning on the heating.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” you say back. Voice croaky, you remember to be polite. “You okay?”

“I’m great, lovely, thank you. How are you?” He gives a nod toward the street. “It’s so cold out, are you gonna be warm enough in your jumper?”

You find yourself struck as you were the day before, so startled by genuine kindness that you can hardly work your mouth. “I’m okay. I’m going right back home after this.”

“Aw, good.”

You nod. What are you here for today? Not another test. You aren’t stupid enough to believe a third round will give you a different verdict, but you‘d felt an urgent need to move.

You grab a rounded basket from near the door and make your way to the haircare. There’s a handful of shampoos to choose from. You take the usual. Beneath them are baby shampoos and soaps. On a whim you pick one up, the words Tear and fragrance free stuck like a bad swallow at the back of your throat.

Babies need so many things. At the supermarket they have these great walls of baby food and it’s expensive enough to take your eye out every time. A quarter of an hours wage for every organic, soft meal, and sure, they don’t need organic, vegetables are organic intrinsically, whatever, but if you don’t buy organic pre-made meals you have to make the baby food yourself, how long does that take? You put the baby shampoo down and turn to the conditioners.

Unhappy, you scour them for nothing and turn on the spot. Why is Dr. Black never here? How are you supposed to ask him your questions if he doesn’t show up to work?

You’ll have to ask the brown-haired boy. Nice eyes, nice smile. He probably won’t judge you, at least not out loud.

He stands up from his rickety chair, soft leather seat worn and creaking as he pushes it away. “Yeah?” he asks.

“Do you have to do that patient-confidentiality thing?”

He smiles rather gently. “I do. A condition of my employment is to protect patient information. Legally, I can’t share private or sensitive information about you to anyone else in the world, unless I believe you’re in proper danger.” He holds his hands behind his back. “Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

Wind roars outside. Your eyes start to the door.

“There’s a private room in the back,” he adds.

“I don’t want to waste your time.”

“It’s not wasted. Even if I weren’t legally obligated to keep whatever secrets you may have, I’m worried you look a bit poorly.”

He speaks oddly. Or not odd, but different to any of the other men you’ve met. It’s friendly, and yet somehow he’s quiet, too. His interest feels real, so you cross the room to the desk and put your basket on your shoes.

You try to find a way to say it. “I know you’re not a doctor.”

“No, I’m an apprentice pharmacist.”

“Right. I know I should go to the doctor, and not you.”

“That depends. We’re here to help. Doesn’t matter if you should go somewhere, you can ask me first.”

You struggle. He waits. His hands lay steady on the edge of the desk, his face nearly blank besides a hint of warmth.

“Is it alright if it’s a question about, um, sex?”

He nods emphatically. “Of course that’s alright. I can’t promise I’ll know the answer, but you’re welcome to ask me anything and I can always get back to you if you’re not willing to ask someone else.” His smile turns wry. “I know it’s uncomfortable, but it’s only sex. I don’t mind.”

“I just…” You hold your hands together. “I wanted to know, if pain after… if it’s supposed to hurt so much after.”

His wry smile is quickly subdued, though he remains friendly looking. “It depends,” he says, measured, “on a few things. You probably know that the first time you have sex can be painful because of the initial perforation of the hymen, but usually sex isn’t supposed to be painful at all.”

“At all.”

“No. If sex hurts, it’s likely from a lack of preparation, bruising of the cervix, or it could be a condition called vaginismus. That’s where your muscles tighten suddenly when you attempt penetration. Having sex with vaginismus can be extremely painful.”

Something on his chest catches the light. A name tag.

He follows your gaze. “Oh,” he says. “I’m Remus. Sorry, it might’ve been nicer for you to know that before I started talking.”

Remus… You shake your head at him. “Um… Remus… Well, I’m not really sure what happened.”

“Right.”

“I wasn’t–” Your heart jumps before you can confess, horrible secret stuck to the roof of your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “are you sure you don’t want to go sit down in the quiet room with me? I can make you a cup of tea.”

“I can’t have caffeine.”

“I have night time tea. Is that alright?”

“The shop?”

“It’s okay, I’ll ask Sirius to come down. You really aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“I feel like I shouldn't ask you.”

“That’s a consequence of our great British society,” he says, lightly teasing as he lifts the counter to come from behind it and presses a small red button on an intercom box by the inside door. It’s an attempt to make you feel better, and it nearly works. “You feel embarrassed about something you have no reason to feel embarrassed of. Everybody has sex, and everybody has bad sex, sometimes, and needs advice.”

The intercom crackles before you can speak. “Moony?” a voice asks.

“Sirius, I have someone who needs to talk to me. You’ll have to come on the till for a bit.”

“Kay. Down now.”

Remus smiles. “That’s about as obliging as he gets.”

“Sirius, is he the– is he the one who reads?”

“Not often. You’re thinking of Regulus, his brother.”

Regulus, of course. “They look so similar.”

“They do.” He gestures for you to stand beside him as the inside door swings open, unveiling one of those dark-haired brother’s, the taller of the two.

“Oh, hi,” Sirius says, wet hair on his shoulders, his t-shirt sodden at the front like he’d swept it back, “okay? There’s biscuits in the left cupboard, Moons.”

Remus, Moons, Moony, holds the door back and lets you inside.

The walk to the quiet room is strange. Sitting down at the table with him as he passes you a box of biscuits, kettle boiling, he doesn’t put you on ends, but it doesn’t feel good. You slip your hand under your t-shirt where he can’t see and feel the hot stretch of your stomach for something that isn’t there.

“So,” he says, grimacing, “I’m going to ask you some precursory questions. You don’t have to answer any of them if you don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

“Are you in any active danger?”

You shake your head slowly. “None.”

“Is someone close to you hurting you?”

“No.”

“Are you alright?”

You twist your hands together tightly. “I don’t think so.”

“No?” He slips his chair closer to your own. “Are you hurt now?”

You look down at your lap. This is awful. This is why you didn’t want to go to see your doctor. “I don’t know. I’m not hurt, but it does hurt. I move and it feels like something sharp is digging into me.”

“I see.” He frowns. “This can happen sometimes with penetration. It’s like I said before, if your body isn’t, you know, prepared? If you aren’t using lubrication, if you aren’t relaxed, it can be as simple as friction having hurt you, but it’s possible you’ve got cervical bruising, or an issue with your pelvic floor. It could be that you have a UTI. If we go through a couple of questions together I might be able to suggest a solution, but I have to tell you to see your doctor if you can. Alright? Pain after sex can be normal, but it doesn’t have to be. When we go back out, I’ll give you some paracetamol as well.”

He looks as though he might have something else to say, but he stops when you open your mouth. “I don’t know what happened.”

Remus frowns again. “Right.”

The cellophane on the biscuits is shining under the light.

“I don’t really know what to do.”

“It’s a stabbing pain?” His frown gets impossibly deeper. “I have some ibuprofen. Off the record, you can have some of that with your tea. Here.” He procures a blister pack from his pocket and hands it to you, jumping up for the kettle, carrying it back to your mugs to set with the pint of milk. “It will probably go away soon, lovely, I would try not to worry, but it’s good to keep an eye on it too, and to book with the doctors if it gets worse. There are so many things that can go wrong in the body, but we’re also such good self-healers, it’s hard to know what to do.”

“It’s… something else, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering if the pain is maybe because I…”

Your face goes hot as coal embers, a furious sweat on the back of your neck. Remus doesn’t prod. He pours water into your mug until it’s a little over half full, the tea bag at the bottom staining it sepia.

“I think I’m pregnant,” you say, not sure why it hurts to say so much.

“Right.”

“Do you think it hurts because of that?”

Remus bites his lip as he pours his own mug of tea. He’s looking at you as he puts the kettle down. “No, I wouldn’t think so, but it’s not an impossibility. How pregnant were you thinking?”

“It was two weeks ago, so… so however long it takes to get pregnant.”

He looks alarmed, then. “Lovely, that was the last time you had sex?”

“Yeah.”

“And it still hurts now?”

“Only sometimes,” you say nervously.

He ignores his steaming tea. “Right. Well, I think I need to advise you to make an emergency appointment today. I can make it with you. You shouldn’t still be hurting after two weeks, pregnant or not. Ectopic pregnancies don’t tend to hurt until further along, so…” Remus slows, looking at you with that too-kind frown, brown eyes darker back here behind the fog curls of his tea.

You feel caught on something.

“I wasn’t awake,” you say quietly. “Just woke up hurting. I guessed what happened, ‘n now I’m pregnant. It could only have been...” You shrug it off, even as heat blooms behind your eyes, nose already hot and sniffly.

“You were assaulted.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Remus seems to freeze up. “I’m sorry.” He takes a few seconds, and then he meets your eyes. “I can’t imagine how scary that must have been, and how scary it still is.”

Your eyes line with tears. “I mean, it’s less scary now.” First tear tips forward as your voice falls to pieces. “I just don’t know what to do. Every day I’ve come here this week I’ve tried to ask about it, because I saw that poster, if I’m hurt then I can– then I can come to the pharmacy, but I’m not hurt, I’m fine now.”

“Oh,” he says gently, pushing his chair over a little to bring himself closer, his hand coming to rest on your hunched shoulder, “even if you weren’t in any pain at all, you’re more than welcome to come here and speak to us, to me. This residual pain, I imagine you must’ve been quite injured when it happened. You didn’t have any help at all?”

“I didn’t think there’s anything they could do.”

“That’s okay, it’s not your fault,” he says, rubbing your shoulder kindly. “I just want to know as much of the details as you feel alright giving me, so we can move forward in the best way possible.” His hand slides across your back, nearly hugging. “I’m sorry. Really. And I’m sorry for talking so much about ‘bad sex’, I didn’t realise what you were telling me.”

“I’m sorry for telling you.”

“What?” he asks, a soft incredulity to him, “You have nothing to be sorry for. You can tell as many or as few people as you like, but I’m extremely glad to be told, because no one should ever have to face this sort of thing alone, should they?” He rubs your back when you nod, again when you sniffle. “Alright. It’s alright. You’re okay.”

You don’t cry as much as you worry you might under a soft touch. The memory of waking up paralyses you for a bit, that confusion, the pain, the bruise across your neck. All of it makes you feel sick, but Remus shushes you under his breath, not to really shush you, but to calm you down.

“I’m okay,” you say, shamed.

“Try and drink some of this tea. Can I leave you alone for a minute?”

“Oh, uh– yeah, of course. I’m fine.”

His hand lingers between your shoulders. “Just for a minute, I’m going to find some bits for you–”

“I don’t need anything–”

“No, no, it’s okay, it’s just stuff I have to give you, and some things you might need.” Remus’ hand traces carefully to the front of your shoulder. He meets your eyes, nothing but compassion in the line of his mouth. “Okay?”

You say okay. Remus uses the door you came in through to head back out onto the pharmacy’s shop floor, letting it shut quietly behind him. You press your hand to your teeth.

—

To Remus’ credit, he apologises for both pamphlets. Abortion Explained. What to expect when you’re expecting. “For you to know your options,” he’d said. “Whatever you decide, it’s your decision.”

He can’t know you’ll spend a week pouring over them all, that you’ll worry at the corner of the STD clinic card, or that you’ll shove the RapeCrisis one down the side of your bed, desperate to throw it out, but terrified you’ll need it, too.

And some of the stuff he gives you. You don’t even know what to do with it. Painkillers, lavender oil, discreet pads for incontinence. You’d tried to pay and he’d touched the back of your hand without explanation. “No, it’s okay,” he’d said. Nothing else.

You spend days again wrapped in your own nausea, until Thursday evening, when you make your way to Community Support.

You honestly weren’t considering it when Remus first gave you the card, but he said his friend worked there, “My best friend, James,” he corrected, ”and his wife, Lily, too. She talks to people about all kinds of things. I just wonder if you might feel happier talking about it with a woman.”

Which was a nice sentiment, and possibly true, though Remus had been the first person you told. To be met with his sympathy in such a boundless capacity made it easier. Made you think, Maybe I’m not stupid for hating that it happened.

“I’m here every Monday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday,” he‘d said when you made up a lie about needing to leave, scared of overstaying, “seven ‘til three, but you can ask for me if you ever want to. Sirius usually knows where I am.”

And you had wanted to, but you knew you couldn’t. Being so desperately alone that you craved the comfort of a stranger’s hand is fine, but it didn’t feel okay to hold him hostage like that. Of course he feels sorry for you, of course he wants to make you feel better, how heartless would he look otherwise?

You’d chide yourself for thinking cynically about someone who’d only ever been nice if it would make a difference. Lonely, wrecked, you end up at the Community Support Group at the local leisure centre, wavering behind the swing doors.

A face appears on the other side of the door. Deep skin, eyes like cherry pits and lips painted a cheery red, a woman smiles at you and pulls it open.

“Hi! Are you here for the support group?”

“Uh– Yeh–” You swallow roughly. “Yes. Is that here?”

“That’s here.” She puts a thumb through the belt loop on her jeans. “Why don’t you come inside?”

You take a tentative step.

“I’m Mary,” she says.

“I don’t have to sign anything, right?” you ask.

Mary leads you into the room without stopping. “This is off the books only. Do you want some tea or coffee?”

“I can’t have caffeine.”

“Decaf?”

“Can I have water?”

Mary has a good smile. Like she knows you, like you’re already friends. She cups your shoulder and guides you to the refreshment table, an impressive splendor of coffee, tea, individually wrapped biscuits, and sandwiches. There’s a box of protein bars with a handwritten red felt note that says: Take me home if you want to!

“Aren’t hungry are you?” Mary asks.

“Not really.”

She ducks down at the table and pushes aside tablecloth to grab a crate of water from underneath.

“You haven’t been here before, then?” Mary asks as she stands. “I remember most faces, I don’t think I’ve seen you here.”

“No, I’ve never… um, someone at the pharmacy told me I can come,” you say tightly.

“Oh, you can! Of course you can. I wondered if you were new, that’s all.” She presses a bottle of water into your hands. You look down at her fingers, confused at their odd texture, your neck snapping up once you realise what you’re doing.

Mary has scars all over her hands, her wrists, and you’d been gawking at them by mistake. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“For what? Do you want me to stay? Or would you rather be by yourself?”

“We don’t sit in a circle, do we?”

Mary laughs lightly. “No, no circle yet, you can leave if you don’t wanna stay for the group talking therapy. For the first hour people just say hello to one another. There are a ton of counsellors here, okay? I’m just gonna wander, but if you want to talk to me, come and find me, yeah?”

“Okay, thanks. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, hun.” She smiles at you, a little softer than before. “You can sit down if it makes you feel less awkward, but be warned, the sofas are James’ territory. He loves to talk.”

Don’t wanna get stuck with James, you think. Though really, you’re here to talk. Or to turn around and go home with a pocket full of protein bars.

The community room is an emptied dance hall that’s been made nice. There are big boards of fliers, of last year’s trampolining club, and another of the Community Support Christmas club, whatever that had been. It looked busier then than it does tonight —there are a ton of sunny looking counsellors dotted around the room and talking in triangles, half as many people like you.

Someone random catches your eyes and you fluster, making your way to the terracotta sofas in the corner of the room on impulse. A man sits with an arm across his eyes, glasses on his chest, looking so sorrily tired for a second that you forget you’d come looking for help of your own.

“Are you okay?” you ask, stilted. James’ territory, and you’d walked straight in.

The man sits up starkly. He looks right at you, but you don’t recognise him until he puts on his glasses. It’s one of those pharmacy men.

No, it’s not, you’d just seen him outside.

“Hello,” he says, sliding his glasses up a strong-bridged nose. “I’m okay, I’m just resting my eyes,” —he laughs— “you alright?” You nod. “Yeah? Here for the support club? Or the sandwiches?”

“I–” Will you stammer every time someone asks you about it? “One of the– the pharmacy, one of the pharmacists told me to come.”

“That’s good,” he says earnestly. “I like those guys. Did you want a sandwich or something? I must’ve made a hundred. My hand still aches from the butter knife.”

“I’m okay.”

“Okay. Well, did you want to sit down? I promise I won’t hold you hostage or anything.”

What am I doing? you think miserably, taking a seat in the sofa adjacent to his.

He crosses one leg over the other. “Please don’t look so upset. I swear I genuinely won’t make you talk. I’m just here for the biscuits and lovely Lily, I promise. And lovelier Remus–” He laughs to himself.

“You’re James?” you ask.

“The last time I checked.”

“Remus– he mentioned you’d be here. I forgot.”

James only smiles. “He’s brilliant, isn’t he?” he asks, wriggling in his seat to procure one of those biscuit packets from his back pocket.

“He said that I might like talking to Lily.”

It feels weird calling her by her first name without knowing her, but James agrees, “I’ll introduce you when she gets here, if that’s what you want.”

“I just… I don’t know.”

“She’s just as nice as Remus is. Remus was nice to you, wasn’t he?”

You nod and look down at your clenched hands. “Yeah. He was nice to me.”

“That’s good.”

A tepid silence pervades for a moment.

“Do you want a biscuit or something? Or we have noodles and soup and stuff in the storage room, I’m happy to make you something warm if you want that.”

“You guys are like a restaurant,” you say, still not willing to look at him.

“It’s nice to have options.”

You nod hurriedly, sick to your stomach all over again. Options. Decisions.

Somewhere in the room, they turn on a radio. Shoes squeak on the waxed floor, a boy laughs like he’s being tickled. It was a mistake to come tonight. You desperately want someone to hug you and you know it’s too much to ask for, staggering to your feet with a headrush to be blinked back.

“You okay?” James asks.

“Yeah. Um, where’s the toilet?”

“Back out of the double doors, they’re right in front of you, okay? Straight in front and then to the left, you can’t miss them.”

“Okay.”

“Wait, Y/N?” he says.

You shoot him a look that betrays your surprise.

“Sorry, Remus told me to keep a look out for you. I just wanted to say, I know this is different, and it’s weird, I get that, and I have no idea why you’re here tonight, but I promised Remus I wouldn’t upset you, and I think I already have.”

“He didn’t tell you why I’m here?”

“Of course not.” James blows a breath that makes his hair fly away from his face in a wave. “It’s none of my business why you’re here. My job is to make sandwiches. I mean, some people come here just for the sandwiches or the warm room, and that’s fine.”

“The sandwiches are that good?” you ask.

“They’re great. We don’t fuck around, I use the real salted butter in the foil wrappings and the thick bread and everything. Proper ham, not the wafer thin stuff. And there’s veggie bacon too, if you don’t eat meat. I don’t know, could you please just let me feed you something? Remus won’t forgive me if you came here and you didn’t even eat.”

“I think you’re using Remus as a ploy,” you say quietly.

“I am! So let’s go have a sandwich or a biscuit or something.” He waves his biscuits at you. “They’re Border’s. Butterscotch Border’s, you literally can’t ask for better.”

Just try. Be brave for a bit. “I like the uh– the lemon ones.”

James shoots up onto his feet, grinning. “Amazing taste. Let’s go find you some.”

—

James takes you to the refreshment table. He finds you lemon drizzle biscuits, two packets, and he pushes two more into your hands with the command to take them home. He offers to make you dinner again when Lily arrives in a tizzy, with a chubby baby on her hip.

Harry, she says. Just turned three. Scandalised everyone at home, Lily’s sister kicked her out, disaster. Harry, though, is beautiful. James and Lily are beautiful, and happy. James takes Harry into his arms the moment he sees him murmuring about his boy, and the sensation of guilt under your skin grows worse than ever.

How are you liking group? Lily asks. Would you come back next week? That’s great! I’m so glad to hear it.

—

You’re walking through Wilmand Street to the corner shop a few days later when you see him. Brown hair wet with snow, ashing a cigarette into the brick wall by the library. Remus cringes as he does it, blowing smoke from the side of his mouth in a call, “Y/N!” he says, “Hey, lovely, how are you? Sorry about the smoke,” he adds. “I was hoping I’d see you this week.”

“Yeah?”

“I wondered how you were doing.”

“Well, don’t worry about me, I’m okay. I…” You cringe, pulling a hand down your sore chest. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for the other day, for dumping that stuff on you, you don’t even know me and I told you such a horrible thing and made you worry, and your friends were so nice to me at the community group and I just didn’t say thanks or anything. I’m genuinely ashamed of myself.” You smile a weird smile, clunky, attempting to brush everything away like it didn’t mean anything, silly little you. “All the time.”

Remus’ expression goes odd, a wall you can’t read, left searching his winter jacket for clues as to how he’s feeling. “I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” he says, finally and simply.

“It was rude of me.”

“I have some experience with feeling ashamed for the things other people have done,” he says, flakes of snow kissing his shoulders, a white dot coming to rest and melt on his cheek. “I understand why you’re feeling this way, and it’s expected, but… How do I put this?”

You watch his eyes. Remus struggles to say anything more. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen a flicker of insecurity on him. He always seems calmly settled, as though he’s thought about the world and found what it is he was looking for in it a long time ago.

“Just because we think something doesn’t make it true,” he says, hiding his hands in his coat pockets. “You might feel like it was wrong to tell me, but it wasn’t, and you might think you were rude to my friends, but you weren’t. They didn’t have a single bad word to say about you. Not that either of them tend to say anything disparaging about anyone,” he adds as an afterthought.

“I wish I didn’t tell you, is all.”

“I’m sorry. I can go on as though you didn’t, if that’s what you want, whatever you want.”

You look down at your chest, nodding. “Okay.”

Which isn’t a yes or no to his suggestion, but he doesn’t pull you up on it. “Okay. Are you going to the pharmacy?”

“I– no. But I did hope to ask you something.” He nods, as if to say, Go on. “It’s about the sex clinic.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t really know what it is.”

Remus looks around the street and then up and down your arms. The jumper you’re wearing is thin, your teeth aching to chatter, and he’s noticed it already. “Do you want to have this conversation over tea, lovely?” he asks.

“Decaf?”

“Yes, and biscuits, if you’re interested.”

You follow Remus up the marginally steep hill that makes up Wilmand Street and enter the pharmacy behind him. It’s wooden front and newspaper clippings give way to the starker insides, where you find Sirius sitting at the front desk. Or rather, sitting on it, corded telephone held between his ear and his shoulder. “Oh, he’s just come in, but he has company. Yeah, he said.” Sirius presses the phone to his shoulder to give you both a small but earnest smile. “Hey, you’ve been snowed on. Turn the heating up before you catch your death.”

“It’s been caught,” Remus says with a wave. “We’re going to sit in the kitchen. Tell Reg not to interrupt us.”

Your mouth falls open, but Sirius only salutes his —friend? coworker? “James says he’s giving the phone a sloppy one for you.”

“Lovely.” Remus laughs brightly, his hand slipping behind your shoulder. “Alright?” he asks.

You give a nod and continue following him past the inside door to the kitchen you’d sat in before. Remus flicks the kettle on and sits down, forcing you to take his cue and sit opposite of him.

“Much warmer in here,” he mumbles, stripping out of his coat. “Alright. What did you want to ask me about the sex clinic?”

“Um… I don’t know. How do I go there?”

“We’ll make an appointment. It’s not far from the leisure centre, so you can walk, or I can book you a taxi, give you a lift. We'll work something out.”

“And they… won’t mind that I– that I don’t really know what I’m doing?”

You almost miss the dissatisfied noise he makes over the rising sound of the kettle. “They won’t mind.”

“Do I have to tell them what happened?”

“No. I mean, I assume it’s better if they have a clearer picture of the circumstances, but then again, you’re entitled to your privacy. You could just say you’re concerned about your intimate health.”

“But they’ll ask questions.”

“Yeah, they will. I know you don’t want to answer them, and that’s okay. You don’t have to answer them. Doctor’s, pharmacists, we just ask about stuff because we have to, but there’s no law that says you have to answer.”

Now you’ve had time to think about things beyond the aching and the angry horror, a new fear has curdled. “What if he gave me something?” you say under your breath.

“Then we can get you whatever medicine it is that you need and we can work toward you feeling better again.” His head tips as the kettle clicks. “Did you still want tea?”

“Yes, please.”

Remus makes you each a cup of decaf tea, bringing sugar and milk to the table for you to add yourself.

“We can go now, if you want to.”

“To the clinic?” you ask.

Remus nods slowly. “Mm-hm. It’s an emergency.”

“You’d come with me?” you ask, not breathless, but almost.

“If you’re okay with it and you want me to, I’ll come with you. It might not be so scary. Or I can ask Lily to take you.”

It’s not Remus’ fault that the person who assaulted you was a man like he is, but it does sound less intimidating to go with a girl. You’re not sure why. It’s not like he hasn’t been kind since the minute you asked him about confidentiality or that he deserves your distrust, but even sitting in this room with him now talking about the clinic has made you uncomfortable again. “Would she mind?”

“Lily would love to take you. I know that sounds strange. She wouldn’t love that you need to go, but she wouldn’t want you to go alone if you’re worried about it.”

“And she’ll go now?”

Remus pushes your mug toward you. “You have some tea and I'll go and ask James if she’s around.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” he says. “There’s biscuits in the cupboard, lovely. If you want some, you can help yourself.”

Things don’t pass that day in much detail after that. When Remus returns ten minutes later, you’ve finished your tea, and Lily is with him. She was on her way here already. She’d be happy to take you to the clinic.

So you go, and you get checked out, and you submit to their tests and their invasive, well-intentioned questions. Lily takes you to a cafe afterward and buys you a pastry you can’t do more than poke. She takes you home. You feel guilty for not saying thank you in the car, but you can barely speak. A few days later you get a phone call with your results. You take a course of medications. You cry yourself to sleep three days in a row, because, as they’d tested for STDs, they tested for something else, and they’d told you what you‘d already known.

You’re as pregnant as your home tests said you are. Despite everything, you feel an emotion you hate, and you push it down again.

—

The door to your flat shakes with a sharp knock.

You startle and stand, not sure what you’d been thinking, a hole burned into the floor at your feet. You’re in no state to answer the door, wet hair dripping a river down your back and your pajamas old. There’s nothing for it.

You take the handle into your hand and squeeze.

Dark-haired Regulus is standing in the hallway. You let the door close just an inch between you.

“Regulus,” you say, unsure if surprise will help or hinder you.

“Hello.”

“How can I…”

“Remus asked me to check in on you.”

You’re not sure you like what he’s saying. “How do you know where I live?”

“Remus didn’t ask me to come to your flat, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, it’s not. I’m confused that you know where I live when I didn’t tell you.”

He holds a deft hand up in surrender. “I live across the street, I’ve seen you come into the building, and your last name is on the postbox downstairs. I’m not doing anything illegal.”

Just weird, then.

“Remus asked me to keep an eye out for you,” he says, “but you haven’t been to the pharmacy, naturally.”

“So your solution was to come to my house?”

“I don’t think there’s any need to get twitchy.”

But there is. There is. He might not know what it is, and you might find thinking about it feels like a serrated blade end squeezed in your fist, but there is a need. You don’t want him to be here. It doesn’t matter that he’s small and skinny and has a sweet nose. This is your place to be by yourself, and to have nobody know where you are. This is the locked door.

He has the sense to soften his bravado. “Sorry. I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

You try to relax your shoulders. Your ribs ache with the tension. “Please,” you say gently, “tell Remus that I’m alright. Thank you for worrying about me.”

Regulus looks to the stairwell leading to the foyer. “He’s going to Community Support tonight if you want to tell him yourself. I am, too.” He doesn’t look at you again. “See you later,” he says to the stairs.

—

You go to Community Support despite yourself.

“Can you forgive me for not flirting with you?”

You surprise the urge to flinch hard, turning to the voice with a half-smile. Sirius is standing beside you suddenly, your faces reflected in the plexiglass covered notice board just outside of the community hall. “What?” you ask.

“I don’t mean to be offensive. I haven’t flirted because I thought Remus might have his eye on you, and I don’t want you to think it’s because you’re not beautiful.”

You have to turn to see him to realise he’s teasing you now to be friendly. “I’d be offended if you did flirt with me,” you say.

“Marvellous, then I won’t.”

“Remus doesn’t have his eye on me, though. He’s just been giving me pharmaceutical advice, I suppose.”

“Oh, I see. I thought maybe you’d… Well, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

He’s handsome enough that you’d be shocked if he actually did flirt with you, clear-skinned as his brother, but with a warmer smile, almost mischievous, like he knows something you don’t know and he’ll tell you for the right price. His shoulders are slim, his biceps particularly solid as he crosses his arms over his chest. He notices you noticing and gives a flex, to your laughter. “Like what you see?” he asks.

“Sorry.”

“We’re on the rugby team, you know.”

“You and Remus?”

“As if, Remus doesn’t like sports. He’s more of a walker. James and I are the sportsmen.”

Sirius didn’t strike you as somebody who plays anything either, but it’s not polite to say.

“Well, aren’t you coming inside?” he asks. “We could use a face like yours in there tonight. Beautiful girls are great for overall morale.”

You shake your head. “Don’t think so.”

“You came all the way here. You could at least come in for a bit of cake or something.”

“Community support or community kitchen?” you mumble.

“Everybody gets hungry. The best part of being in a community is making sure nobody goes hungry for long, right?”

You give him a sideways look. Somehow, someway, you’ve become acquainted with a circle of philanthropists. Normal people aren’t so generous. You’re too tired to be this kind.

“What kind do you have?”

“Carrot, red velvet, Victoria sponge, and plain chocolate, I think. Maybe a bit of walnut sponge if Marlene hasn’t mauled the whole thing.”

You’re not sure you can stomach it, just he’s looking at you so nicely that you want to go in with him. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Sirius slips a hand behind your back, letting it hover an inch from your skin as he shepherds you through the double doors and into the main hall. It’s far more crowded than it had been on your first visit, a small circle of people already in chairs talking a ways from the crowded food table, pilfered, more sandwiches in hands than hands to hold them, and enough brewed coffee to scent the air. James is immediately noticeable crouching at the table, having pulled a crate of juice boxes from beneath it, laughing about something someone is saying to him —something Remus is saying, the tallest man in the room and somehow completely non-imposing, his voice more colour than sound as he talks.

It must just be because Remus is attentive. Must be the memory of his nice hand on your shoulder, squeezing, that makes you pay special attention to his shaking. “Is he laughing?” you ask.

Sirius tunes in quickly. “Yeah. He’s done that since we were kids. He can laugh like normal, but when something really has him it’s like he can’t get the sound out.” He chuckles himself. “Idiots. Come on, let’s get you your slice of cake.”

You can’t help staring at Remus as Sirius takes you over to him and James. James is so happy to see you he almost loses his glasses.

“You’re back! I thought my shitty impersonation of a counsellor might’ve scared you off. Don’t want some soup, do you?”

“Don’t say yes out of pity,” Sirius says. “Nobody ever wants James to make them soup.”

“You like my soup.”

“I like Effie’s soup. She makes the best bowl of lemon chicken I’ve ever tasted, and you make a mediocre imitation of her recipe, which is as good as it gets while I’m away.”

“Effie’s my mother,” James explains, clambering to his feet with the crate of small bottles of juice held to his chest. “Euphemia. And she does make the best lemon chicken soup, but mines just fine! And anyways, tonight I made winter vegetable because all the Christmas veg was 8p and I have a fuckton. It’s delicious. I cut the swede up so thin it melts in your mouth, I got fresh thyme from the garden, little bit of spinach, all of it cooked in a metric ton of butter.”

Remus snorts softly. He meets your eyes, which has you smiling on automatic. “James is a bit of a soup addict.”

”I–” You feel hungry for the first time in weeks. “I’d quite like to, uh, try some. If you really don’t mind.”

James glows, shoving the case of juice onto the refreshment table next to the hot water towers. “Yes. How about toasties, lovely, d’you want a cheese toastie with it? You’ll love it.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyone else while I’m warming it?”

Remus meets your eyes again, like you’re sharing a secret. “I’ll have a bowl, Jamie.”

“Yes.”

“Alright,” Sirius acquiesces, “and me. And Reg will, too, wherever he’s gone off too. But he won’t have cheese–”

“Just toast, I know.”

James gets a look on him like he’s found the secrets of the universe. “I’ll make a garlic butter cheese toastie for all of you. Mm?”

Sirius waves him away.

Sirius grabs you a slice of cake even as you mumble about the soup and how it’s dessert before dinner. Doesn’t matter, he murmurs back, not worried about why you’ve gone shy, I promised you a slice.

You take an apple juice and follow him to a table. Remus comes with you. He looks sunnier today than the last time you saw him despite ever-cloudy weather. Maybe he’s just a bit golden. Steady, he sits at the table across from you with Sirius taking a seat perpendicular, the three of you three sides to a square, nothing to look at besides your hand squeezed around the handle of a plastic fork.

“I’m sorry about Regulus,” Remus says. “I didn’t mean for him to visit you at home. He told me you weren’t thrilled about it, and I can’t blame you.”

“I’m sorry too,” Sirius says, wrinkling his nose. “I have no clue why he did that.”

“And Regulus would be sorry, he just has a hard time realising when he’s overstepped.”

You nod at the table. “It’s okay. I mean, it did make me uncomfortable, and I– wasn’t super polite to him. I just wasn’t expecting him to be at the door, that’s all. And he said sorry, actually. So it’s forgiven.”

“Oh.” Sirius perches his hand in his head. “That’s unlike him. He doesn’t tend to be sorry.”

“Neither do you,” Remus says.

“It’s a family trait.”

“Can I save this for after soup?” you ask, shuffling your plate to the side. It’ll be easier to eat your cake when everyone else is eating as well.

“Course you can,” Sirius says, leaning back in his seat. “But if you don’t eat it, I’ll assume you don’t like me. I’m sensitive like that.”

Remus rolls his eyes, again gifting you with a great feeling, as though you’re in on a secret with him. He’s wearing an aviator jacket that looks incredibly soft, worn but not tattered, sherpa insides flattened but clean. The sleeves warp as he crosses his arms in front of him on the table and leans forward, conspirator.

“So, how was your morning? Besides Regulus’ unwelcome intrusion,” he says, almost drawling as Sirius does when he gets that playful look in his eye.

You’re not sure how to handle these boys. But you want to try. You’re sick of having nobody, of being nobody, even if it’s a little discomfiting sometimes to be with them. “My morning was fine. Tries to get through all my washing but it’s a mountain, so I left it and had a long shower instead.”

“How long is long?” Remus asks.

“Too long.”

“Like Remus’, then. I’m a one and done man, wash and go.” Sirius peels forward, “And Remus takes hours. Uses all the hot water.”

“You live together?” you ask.

“We did for a bit, didn’t we?” Sirius says.

“Six very long years,” Remus says. “But I have a flat, and Sirius lives on Wilmand Street now, thank god.”

“Thank god indeed,” Sirius says, “now I can actually wash my hair on a semi-regular basis.”

“Can you?” Remus asks.

“What are you implying?”

“Only that your hair seems distinctly unwashed lately, don’t worry.”

“He’s showing off ‘cos you’re here,” Sirius says, smiling despite the accusation as he takes a hand through his hair and pushes it back from his face. “I wash plenty.”

“Do you? I was almost hoping you’d stopped. Maybe that would explain the weird thing you have going on right here.” Remus scratches his upper lip.

“Fuck off, you just don’t like a scratchy kiss–”

Remus laughs suddenly. After a moment, it tapers into silence, though his shoulders still shake, and you can hear his laughter in his voice when he says, “That charming thatch of stubble would be the last of my worries if I wanted to kiss you, Sirius.”

“What’s top of the list then?”

“The smell, obviously. I’m getting top notes of wet dog and a headier dampness–”

“You sick bastard,” Sirius says, sounding absolutely delighted at his friend's insult.

“You just need a good wash, is all.”

You don’t mean to, but you laugh. Giggle, really, entertained by them and shocked a little by the way they snip and snap at each other. You pitch forward, face angled down, eyes tempted to shut completely. Sick bastard, you think, laughing still.

It only makes you laugh more when Sirius nudges you. “Hey, thought we were getting somewhere,” he murmurs.

You giggle some more. “Sorry,” you squeeze out eventually.

“Don’t be. He can take a hit. Even if he’s sensitive,” Remus says.

Sirius sniffs. “I’m not that sensitive. Can’t make a joke anymore without being entirely misrepresented.”

—

James’ soup becomes a staple for you over the next couple of days. Community Support is a daily occurrence, though some nights are more popular than others. The weekends are busiest, Friday and Saturday night, but Wednesdays have an uptick you aren’t expecting, sitting at one of the plastic tables with another cup or winter veg soup and a garlic buttered toastie. You blow on melty cheese as James brings the hot plate out to the refreshment table, making it easier to serve the many who want it. He’s gleeful, promising that they’re gonna love it, and then tacking on an amendment that anyone who doesn’t like it is more than welcome to something else from the kitchen.

With payday for most at midnight Friday, or some time after, it’s the hump of the week that hits hardest. You don’t come for the soup, but some people do, and they can’t be blamed for it; stretching money out isn’t easy.

Your stomach clenches. Your spoon wobbles in your hand.

From across the room, Remus sends you a warm smile, a kid in his arms and another at his thigh, chattering away as their mam takes a well-deserved breather by the terracotta sofas.

The next day is the same. James makes soup and ham sandwiches, ham off the bone, made it himself, and you pick at the crusts at a plastic table. Sirius keeps you company for a bit, and then Remus rags on him until he leaves. They’re both too smiley to believe any animosity.

On Friday, James isn’t there.

“Harry’s poorly.”

“I thought he might’ve had a day off.”

“He and Lily like the group too much for days off.” Remus scratches a hand through his hair. It’s the most boyish thing he’s ever done in front of you. “Are you liking it here? You haven’t missed a day all week.”

“James makes a good soup.”

“He left plenty, if you want it.”

You’re not sure you can stomach it. You give a small shake of your head. “Will Harry be okay?”

“Fine. He gets ear infections, James used to get them too, even when we were teenagers. He’s on antibiotics already, it’s just the crying that’s the worst. Makes him sick.” Remus smiles sympathetically. “Makes James sick, too. But they’ll be okay.”

“That’s good. It’s too quiet here when James isn’t around.”

The hall is practically silent. There are a few people milling around on the sofas and another handful drinking tea by the refreshment table. Mary is patting a crying woman with pink hair on the back. A two year old sits at her feet, staring up at her sullenly.

“I could go turn on the radio.”

You perch your chin in your palm, elbow on the table. Tired today. “That’s okay. It’s nice.” Quiet, but not lonely.

“You feeling okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You fight the urge to let your eyes shutter closed. “I’m okay. You okay?”

“I’m great. I’m really glad you’ve been coming. I know you don’t stay for group therapy, and you don’t have to, but… I don’t know, I think it’s just good to be around people.”

You feel like he meant to say a particular but dodged it at the last second. He hesitated.

He said he wouldn’t bring it up if you didn’t want him to, but maybe you do, just so you know it was real, and bad. It was awful, wasn’t it?

“I don’t like being alone,” you confess, scratching the back of your neck. “For a while…” You scratch scratch scratch, sounds of your nails over skin, then let your hand drop with a thump against your thigh. “I wanted to be alone. But now when I’m home by myself I feel awful.”

“It’s normal to want company.”

“Even after what happened?”

“Especially after what happened. I think the stereotype is that people… experience something bad, and that they retreat into themselves, and that’s based on a real process of emotions,” —he talks quietly but surely, without a lick of condescension— “and a real sort of phenomena. Everybody needs time to lick their wounds, to put it heavily. But it makes sense that you’d seek out company when you’ve just had a really, really horrible thing happen.”

You did retreat into yourself at first. Wasting days away in bed without an appetite, crying yourself sick and to sleep, hating yourself and the world and him, because it hurt so badly. But then you didn’t get your period when you were expecting it and it was like holding the times of a fork to a plug socket, a nasty shock flaring through your entire body from the tips of your fingers. And now you have decisions to make and a life to live after, it’s happening now, quickly. You aren’t feeling any better than you were that morning when you first woke up and realised you’d been attacked without fully knowing, but time is moving forward regardless. You don’t know why you crave other people, but you do. You like seeing Remus every night, even if he only talks to you once or twice. You like eating James’ home cooked food, like watching Sirius and Regulus bicker as they lean against one another, and you like seeing Lily press her nose to her baby’s. You wonder what that feels like. How soft is a small nose? What does it feel like to hold the person you made out of love and a little bit of every part of you in two hands?

You’re still so lonely it’s palpable. There are moments throughout the day where you can’t face it head on, but the support group is genuinely helping, if it’s just to spend an hour outside of your head.

Lonely, and with nobody to confide in.

Remus watches you think for a while. He’s waiting patiently for you to speak again.

“Can I tell you something stupid?” you ask softly.

“Sure.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I doubt I could.”

You let out a deep sigh. He’s all browns tonight in his old jacket. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown jacket. “I was thinking about keeping the baby. I don’t know if you’d consider it a baby right now,” you murmur, staring at the corner of his mouth, “but I think I want it to be one. And I can’t stop thinking that it’s a bad idea.”

“It’s your decision,” Remus says. When you sigh, he looks chastened, and you hadn’t wanted it to be a chastening. He clears his throat. “You already know that, don’t you?” Not expecting an answer, he leans back in his chair and levels you with a smile more friendly than you deserve. “Keep your baby if you want to, lovely. The point of– Well, of having the choice, is being allowed to choose yes, to choose to keep your baby, even if it’s a bad idea. Or looks like one.”

“I know, but…”

But it’s a bad idea. But it happened because somebody hurt you. But you’re completely alone.

“I’m not upsetting you, am I?” he asks.

“No, you’re not. You’ve been really nice to me,” you mumble, letting your aching eyes close as you lean into your hand. “It’s not you.”

Remus settles for a few seconds. “Can I put my arm around you?” he asks finally.

“Okay.”

So he does. His voice drops to match your own, his elbow right between your ribs as his thumb skirts across the top of your shoulder, “I’m sorry I can’t fix it for you, I wish I could tell you what to do that’s going to make you the happiest. I can’t, though.”

“I know.”

He rubs your shoulder. “I know you know.”

There’s a lot to think about. You aren’t pregnant by a miracle. Something bad happened to you, and the choice is yours now to take, and no one would blame you for wanting to forget the whole thing. At least, nobody here at the support group would. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it; lately, it’s the only thing on your mind. But the guilt of wanting it won’t go away.

“Sorry you have to do this again,” you mumble.

“What, give you a hug?” Remus’ voice turns softer. It feels less like the kind words of a stranger and more like a friend. “I don’t mind it.”

You try to stop feeling guilty. The most you can be right now is looked after, at least for a while, for as long as Remus will hold your shoulders.

“It’s not your fault,” Remus says. “You know that, too, I’m guessing. What happened to you wasn’t your fault.”

You’re not so sure. It’s a different guilt to look at in whatever light finds you when it happens. “I know,” you say, half a lie.

“And I know you have no reason to trust us with something so huge, but we’re here for you. That’s the whole point of the group.”

You sigh heavily. “I know,” you say under your breath. You’re just not sure it’s going to be enough.

𖦹

hi thanks for reading the first part! this is a heavy one but it’s also a fic I’ve wanted to write for a long time, or rewrite <\3 some of you may have read my first go at this years ago and I’m hoping to tie in some of the old stuff but it’s also its own story hopefully, it’s shaping up well!

https://rapecrisis.org.uk rape crisis UK — they have a support line! and many many articles

information about rape crisis https://247sexualabusesupport.org.uk/faqs/

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #marauders era #remus x reader #remus x you #marauders #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin blurb #marauders x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #the marauders

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d0rianw1lde · 4 months ago

Text

Pre-S4 Eddie who’s completely unaware of the true events of the Starcourt mall.

Pre-S4 Eddie who has to make sure that his eyes aren’t deceiving him- that Steve Harrington is actually in the back of his shitty van, cash in hand, waiting for Eddie to pick his jaw up off of the floor and give him the damn weed he’s trying to pay for.

“Sorry- not every day you uh..” Eddie starts.

“..See your high school bully ask you for weed?”

“What? No. No, those are my biggest buyers.” Eddie snorts, and hands over the baggy. Steve goes to hand him the money, and Eddie counts it, giving back half. Steve stares at him quizzically. “Consider it a first-buy deal.” Eddie explains, and Steve shrugs, unamused.

“You mind if I..” Steve grumbles, and Eddie puts his hands up.

“Be my guest. That’s a best-seller. Purple Palm Tree Delight. It’ll have you in another dimension.” Eddie grins, but Steve cringes slightly. He looks to Eddie, who, with slender, ringed fingers, beckons for the baggy back. “C’mon, let me roll it for ya. You look..beat, man. Heard scoops went up in flames.” Eddie lets out a low whistle- if only he knew.

Steve doesn’t answer. He just waits patiently for Eddie to hand him the little joint, offering him a light. Steve places the joint between his lips, and leans forward, allowing the flame to light the tip of the joint. He anticipates the feeling he knows all too well- the calming feeling. The beautiful, floating feeling that had allowed him to drift away from his parents fighting, from his tanking grades, from his girlfriend declaring their love bullshit. And that first drag in feels like bliss…it feels like drifting..It feels like..

Falling. Like spiraling.

Had Eddie’s van always been so small? So suffocating? Steve allows the smoke to leave his lungs, and Eddie leans back. Grinning and reaching out for the joint.

“So..What do you do now?”

“What?” Steve’s mind is racing- this isn’t bliss. This isn’t mellowness. God, why is Eddie’s van so goddamn small? Have the sleeves of his jacket always been so

So tight? Around his wrists?

The tacky lights in Eddie’s van shine brighter- they feel blinding.

“Just asking you where you work now.”

Where he works.

Who he works for.

“Scoops..” Steve mutters, but his voice is far away. Eddie plucks the joint from Steve’s fingers.

“What?” Eddie asks, taking a drag from the joint.

Steve’s mouth is dry.

He reaches out, places a hand on Steve’s shoulder, but the angle is awkward, and his fingers brush-

His fingers brush his neck.

The spot.

It burns. Steve swears it burns the same it did.

God, Eddie’s music is so obnoxious-

Or was it Robin’s screams?

Where even was he? He stares at the door at the back of Eddie’s truck. He crawls toward it, and fumbles helplessly with the handle.

“Hey- Steve? It’s uh- It’s just Indica, man-“

“Gotta- Get out. let me-“ Steve’s hands are trembling- his vision is blurring- is it the drugs? His tears? Was this dying? Had he ever left that dark room? That sterile metal box?

Eddie tries to lean over to open the door, but Steve’s frantic movements leave him blocked off completely. He crawls into the front quickly, and hops out of the van, running to the back to open the door up.

And Steve nearly falls out of the back- if it hadn’t been for Eddie scrambling to break Steve’s fall, he would’ve ended up with a mouth full of dirt. And judging by the ragged breaths leaving Steve’s lips, and the unintelligible ramblings tumbling from his lips, that was the last thing he needed.

Eddie was no stranger to a bad high. No stranger to coaxing his customers out of a panic when they first tried a bit of weed- but this?

If only he knew.

Pre S4 Eddie who’s completely unaware of the true events of Starcourt.

Pre S4 Eddie clutching Steve Harrington’s face, telling him he’s safe. That he’s at Lover’s Lake. That he’s just having a bad high.

Pre S4 Eddie holding the King of Hawkins High in his arms as he shrivels into a broken mess of sobs, and apologies that echo against the silent trees of Lover’s Lake.

#yeah duffer brothers I DO remember Steve Harrington’s trauma #Starcourt mall definitely had steve fucked for a bit #Steve ily and so does eddie #joseph quinn #stranger things #steddie #eddie munson #joe keery #joe quinn #steve harington has trauma too #steve harrington #yeah duffers take THAT #Dorian ficlet

1K notes · View notes

mochacoda · 5 months ago

Text

too nice | hjs

Pairing: Hong Joshua x GN!Reader

Synopsis: Joshua Hong is nice. Too nice. He’s the kind of nice that makes people think twice about their relationship to him, wondering if they might be special. The answer is, no. Problem is, he's your coworker and your neighbor.

Content: Fluff | Coworkers to Lovers, Neighbors to Lovers | Office AU

Tags: slightly insecure reader, totally inspired by the youngji chocolate milk grandchildren interview, lots of elevators, lots of tension, a bit of drinking, mutual pining, "sweetheart" as a petname, gentleman agenda indeed, except he goes a bit mad at the end, seungkwan is a comedic genius, woozi is the wingman of the year, konglish w/ context clues, reader is scared of loud noises, no "y/n," loosely connected to python (seungcheol)

Word Count: 10K

────୨ৎ──── Monday

Joshua Hong is nice. Really nice. He opens the door for you every morning walking into work. He insists that he carries heavy file boxes from your boss’ office to your desk. He buys you coffee from the cafe down the street, knowing that the instant machine is almost always broken. Whenever he passes you in the hallway, he always smiles and mouths “fighting!” He notices when your enthusiastic mask slips and your tiredness peaks through. He tells you not to work so hard, and asks if you’ve been sleeping well.

He’s the kind of nice that makes people think twice about their relationship to him, wondering if they might be special.

But the answer is, no.

“He’s just like that. He’s nice to everyone. Get a grip.”

You sigh, staring at your reflection in the mirror hanging above your vanity. You’ve been absentmindedly rubbing moisturizer on your cheeks for the last three minutes, at least, thinking about your coworker. How have you gotten to the point of talking to yourself in attempts to rationalize the thoughts of him clouding your mind?

All of a sudden, your alarm rings. You jolt upright, reminded that you have to leave your tiny apartment and head over to your equally small office cubicle.

You quickly stand up from your vanity chair, then walk over to your closet to grab a jacket. Relying on muscle memory, your hand moves toward the hook it always lies on, only to swipe at air.

The one and only winter coat you own isn’t there.

You groan, remembering that you’d put it in the laundry bin after staining it with beer over the weekend, at that disastrous company “bonding” event. You look down at the taupe sweater you’re wearing, pinching the material to guess if it’d be warm enough. It’s barely a centimeter of fabric.

Glancing at the time on your phone, you decide that the thin sweater would just have to do.

You turn back to the mirror to do one last check of your appearance, when something catches your eye. Sitting on your bedside table is the plushie Joshua had won for you at the arcade. The bunny stares back at you innocently. You’d placed it there last night before crashing out on your bed, fatigued from the chaos of the company outing—or, more specifically, the secondhand embarrassment recalling your attempts at trying to be normal around Joshua.

You shake your head roughly. You could cringe at yourself on the way to work. Grabbing your work bag and shoving your shoes on, you rush over to the door.

Squaring your shoulders, you open it and walk out. And for a moment, as you’re turning your key to lock the door, you think that you’ll be alone for the commute to work for once.

But then you hear a familiar voice.

“Good morning!”

You tense, heart beginning to race, then turn around with a weak smile.

“Hi, Joshua.”

Somehow, you’re not only coworkers with your crush, but also next door neighbors.

“Hey,” he says, then takes a sharp breath. “It’s pretty cold today. Is that sweater going to be warm enough?”

“I’ll be fine,” you say, avoiding eye contact as you drop your keys into your bag. “It can’t be that cold.”

You adjust the bag strap on your shoulder and walk toward the elevator on your floor, pressing the down button. It immediately opens.

“You sure?”

You nod as the two of you walk inside the elevator.

Hoping he’ll stop pushing you on your lack of a coat, you ask, “Did you look into the McKinley and Lee file yet?”

“Come on, it’s not even 9am and you’re already attacking me with work!” Joshua dramatically clutches his chest, then lightly punches your arm. “What’d we say about 워라밸, huh?”

You feel your face getting hot, your right hand reflexively going up to where he’d touched your left arm. Was it always this toasty in the elevator?

Meeting his eyes for the first time today, you say, “Yeah, yeah, work-life balance. You’re right.”

His lips turn up and his eyes crinkle into bright crescent moons. You find yourself smiling back at him, despite having tried so hard to avoid his stupidly sweet gaze.

“I’m just teasin’, you know?” he says, leaning casually against the steel walls of the small elevator.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble again, rubbing the handle of your bag and tapping your foot to give yourself something else to focus on, suddenly aware that the two of you were alone.

God, could the elevator move any slower? Fidgeting with the loose threads of your sweater, you were on the verge of melting from being near his vicinity for so long.

Ever since Joshua Hong had arrived two months ago as a transfer from the Seoul branch, you haven’t gone a day without running into him. It was HR’s fault, really. The Human Resources department had placed him in yours, and also gave him the company-funded apartment next door to you.

He’d spent so much time around you that, if you didn’t see the people who regularly flocked to him, you’d think you were his only friend in the States. It was, and still is, ridiculous. His constant presence has meant that you are constantly aware of yourself. Of how you’re breathing too loud, and how your heart is beating too fast, and how you were in too much of a rush to do your full routine this morning. He makes you care more than usual about how well you perform at work, and, worse, he makes you think about how happy and funny you appear to be.

The way he teases you for being nervous (although that’s only because he’s around practically all the time) and the way he always notices when you aren’t feeling well—it’s as if he sees right through you. Yes, he sees right through you, and it’s incredibly scary knowing he could confront you at any time—maybe even in this elevator—and say that he’s known all along that you’ve had feelings for him. And what’s worse is that you know he’d be polite with his rejection. He’d be a gentleman, carefully letting you down with—

“Hello? Hellooo?” Joshua says, waving his hand in front of your face.

You jump, blinking rapidly. “Huh? Sorry, what?”

“We’re here, sweetheart,” he says gently.

“Oh,” you reply lamely.

He gestures with his hand for you to walk out of the elevator first. Inside the lobby, he walks by your side. As the two of you approach the door, he reaches it first, and opens it for you to head outside.

You’re immediately hit with a blast of winter and harsh winds. Your arms instinctively tighten around your stomach, trying to prevent the cold air from rushing up your sweater.

Joshua turns to you, brows furrowed. His eyes glance over your sweater again, and you can tell he’s about to say something. Certain it’s an I told you so, you quickly say, “Before you start, I’m fine. It’s really not that cold, and the bus is coming soon anyway.”

You march forward toward the crosswalk before the bus stop, knowing he’s following behind you. Once you reach the start of the white lines, you slow down to a stop, waiting for the signal to change.

Still behind you, Joshua says, “거기 있어봐.”

“왜?” Though confused, you listen to his request to stay where you are. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, feeling somewhat awkward just standing with your back turned to him.

He doesn’t answer your question why, but you hear a shuffle and the sound of fabric rustling. Then you feel a warm coat draped over your shoulders.

You turn back to face Joshua with a start, opening your mouth to protest.

But before you can get a word out, he takes his pointer finger and lightly presses it against your lips.

“Shh,” he says with a smile. “Tomorrow, wear a jacket, okay?” He pats the top of your head.

Speechless, you barely bring yourself to nod, then remember to shut your jaw. Let’s just survive this bus ride, you tell yourself. God, it was unfair how nice he was. It only made it harder for you to believe he was like this with everyone—or to stop hoping that, somehow, you might be the exception.

────୨ৎ──── Tuesday

Ever since you showed up to work on Monday wearing Joshua’s coat, your coworkers have been speculating nonstop about your nonexistent relationship with the man. More specifically, your two closest friends in the department, Boo Seungkwan and Lee Jihoon, have had a lot to say.

Today would be no different. Huddled around the coffee table in the break room with Seungkwan and Jihoon, you’ve been roped into listening to their comments.

Eyes darting between the two of them, you silently sip on your coffee.

“I’m a hundred percent sure now. I swear it’s real, he’s so into you,” Seungkwan says while staring at you, waving his hands in the air like a madman.

Jihoon raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? Remember when you said that the delivery guy had a crush on this one,” he replies while pointing at you, “only for it to be me? Your 촉 is trash.”

Seungkwan scrunches his nose, and huffs in your direction, as if you’re going to defend his skill of guessing office relationships. (You’re not.)

“Your hunch is horrible, I said,” Jihoon says, goading him.

“No,” Seungkwan frantically shakes his head. “That was a one off. Remember when I said the nepo baby in Finance liked Director Chun’s secretary? He kept staring at her and nobody believed me but I was right!”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Lucky guess.”

“No, no, no, my 촉 is excellent, thank you very much.” Seungkwan turns to you, all pouty. “You trust my 촉, right?”

Finding the entire conversation ridiculous, you can’t help but shake your head and laugh. Though Seungkwan prides himself on his supposedly superior hunches, he is really only accurate half the time.

You raise your coffee cup to your lips and sip on the liquid inside, a perfect state in between steaming hot and lukewarm.

“Kkah, this coffee is great,” you say to Seungkwan, ignoring his question.

His eyes suddenly widen, and he frantically waves his pointer finger at you. “Oh, oh! Another thing! He always gets you coffee from that expensive place next door, Cafe whatever. He never gets us coffee, but he always gets you coffee.”

Taken aback, you put the cup down, saying, “No way, he does that for a lot of people. He bought coffee for the receptionist like, last week.”

“That’s because it was her birthday,” Seungkwan says.

“And how’d you know that?” you ask.

“Because there were happy birthday balloons next to her desk?” Seungkwan says matter-of-factly.

“Well—” you retort, before getting cut off.

“You know,” Jihoon suddenly interjects. “I hate to agree, but it’s true. Joshua doesn’t do that for anyone else.”

“Right?” Seungkwan exclaims, nudging your arm with his elbow. “Come on, I’m so right. Woozi said I’m right. Trust the 촉.”

You rub your temples, feeling ambushed by your loud friends.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You wave them off as you stand up from the little coffee table chair you’d been sitting on for the last few minutes. “I’m going to head out.”

“Where are you going?” Seungkwan asks.

“Away from you,” you joke.

“I know you’re going to the vending machine,” Jihoon accuses. "You always get a snack after coffee."

You raise your hands in mock surrender.

“Can you get me a granola bar, then? You know the one I like, the blueberry one.” Seungkwan asks.

“Oh, and a Coke Zero for me?” Jihoon adds. “Y’know, not everyone has a coffee fairy named Joshua, like you do.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You know it’s not like that. Besides, you guys just love using my money, don’t you?”

“Guilty,” Jihoon grins.

“Come on, I paid for karaoke last Friday,” Seungkwan complains. “That was way more expensive than a granola bar and a Coke.”

“Coke Zero,” Jihoon says, emphasizing the “Zero.”

“Tomato, tomato.” Seungkwan wrinkles his nose, enunciating the “ay” and “ah” in the two pronunciations of the word.

“Apples, oranges,” Jihoon insists.

“Okay, okay, let’s not fight, children. A blueberry granola bar and a Coke Zero, on your way.” You give a pretentious salute.

Grasping your coffee, you down the rest of it and get up from the table. You crumple the cup and toss it into the trash can before leaving.

Walking through the main hallway, you pass the vending machines on your department’s floor, which are known to swallow dollar bills without offering products in return. Between the youngest employees in the department—people like you, Seungkwan, and Jihoon—you’ve discovered a secret spot that has better machines.

Once you reach the elevator, you tap on the down button. When the doors open, you walk inside and press on the “G” and “Door Close” buttons.

The elevator doors close smoothly, and you tap your foot as you watch the numbers at the top right corner go down from 8. It reminds you of the awkward elevator ride from Monday morning, but you quickly shake those thoughts out of your head.

It’s best not to think of Joshua when you don’t have to.

The garage is a relatively far trek from floor 8, but it’s a worthwhile time sacrifice. The other floors (and by extension, their vending machines) are locked by key cards for employees of their respective departments, so it’s either you take a chance with the floor 8 machines or head to the basement. You, Seungkwan, and Jihoon have all found that you’d rather not take that chance.

The elevator announces your arrival to the ground floor with a ding, and as the doors open, you make a beeline toward the machines.

Seeing that someone is already using the vending machine closest to the elevator, you walk past it toward the machine closest to the doors leading out of the hall and into the garage.

“Blueberry granola bar, Coke Zero. Blueberry granola bar, Coke Zero,” you repeat to yourself under your breath.

Coming to a stop by the vending machine, you scan the snacks inside. Grabbing your wallet, you fish some dollars out and double check the numbers of the items before lifting your right hand up to the combination pad.

Jihoon first, because he was slightly less annoying than Seungkwan this morning: Coke Zero, number 405. You punch the numbers into the machine. When it flashes $2.00, your eyes widen.

“Two dollars for a soda is robbery,” you groan.

Still, you count two dollars out from the wad of cash in your left hand, then feed it into the machine. The machine begins whirring, the spiral in 405 moving forward. But just as you think the drink is going to come out, the spiral stops.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter.

You press on the small button next to the number pad that you guess is made for delivering change, but it doesn’t return your money.

Maybe putting in two more dollars would make the machine move and spit out two drinks? Immediately acting on the thought, you punch 405 in the number pad again and feed two more dollars into the machine, only for it to whir without delivering the Cokes again. Another two dollars later, and the same happens.

Taking matters into your own hands, you begin banging on the front of the vending machine. After around five seconds of failing to make the machine respond to physical force, your arms fall from the screen back down to your sides.

Clenching your fists, you sigh and count out two more dollars from your left hand. Then, your right hand stalls.

On second thought, you really don’t want to lose more money to the machine. Maybe you should try to force it out one more time? You shove the remaining cash into your back pocket.

You raise your clenched fists again, but before your hands meet the vending machine glass, a voice suddenly comes from right behind you.

“Whoa, whoa.”

Unfortunately, you’d recognize that honey-coated voice anywhere.

You spin around wide-eyed, coming shockingly close to Joshua Hong. His face is dangerously near yours, and his arms have wrapped around your body to clasp your hands in his.

“Shua? Wha—” Your voice is breathless, trailing off like you’ve forgotten how to speak.

“Hey, don’t fight the machine. You’ll only end up hurting your hands.”

His words are soft, but the way his thumb grazes your knuckles leaves a faint hint of warmth, like he’s lit a match against your skin. You should pull back—really, you should. But the closeness, the weight of his presence, keeps you frozen in place.

Your heart stutters in protest. This is nothing. He’s always like this. Always caring, always thoughtful. Always too close.

And yet, remembering what Seungkwan and Jihoon said, some part of you also wonders: Why does it feel different when it’s me?

Scowling, you drop his hands and take a step back, like distance will save you. "It's fine. I'm handling it."

His brow arches at your defiance, and for a moment, his gaze searches yours, like he’s looking for something you’re not ready to admit.

"Are you?" he asks, the words laced with amusement.

Your hands ball into fists at your sides, both in frustration and to keep them from reaching out for him again and betraying you.

“I am,” you insist, though the heat rising in your cheeks threatens to undermine your confidence.

But then, just as quickly, he tilts his head, and his lips curve into a smirk—soft, upturned at the corners, with those faint dimples that could bring a fortress down.

And for a moment, just a moment, you wonder if you’re the only one feeling this way.

But before you can think of a sharp retort, his voice cuts through the haze in your head.

“You should’ve just asked me for help—like always.”

The softness in his tone, the familiarity, pulls you up short. It’s almost unbearable how easy it is for him to say things like this. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not turning your brain into static.

It’s too much. He can’t keep getting away with this, with being so nice to you all the time. It’s not fair.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you blurt out, clenching your fists tighter. You’ve got to hold your ground.

Joshua cocks his head slightly. “I thought you like it when I help you?”

Your face gets, if possible, even hotter.

Honestly, what can you even say to that?

Desperately avoiding his face, you stare at the much safer collar of his shirt. It’s an off white color, like the fur of the stuffed bunny he’d gotten you at the arcade. It remains on your nightstand because you still have no idea what to do with it.

Realizing that you didn’t answer him, you finally deflect. “Where’d you even come from? I didn’t see you.”

“Over there,” he says softly, pointing at the vending machine by the elevator.

“Oh.” You press your lips together, belatedly realizing that the person you’d passed on your way to this vending machine had been Joshua all along.

“So, what’d you need? I’ll fix it for you.”

You feel your face getting hot again. “Coke Zero,” you mumble.

“I thought you didn’t like Coke?” Joshua asks.

He remembers?

“It’s not for me,” you explain. “For Woozi.”

“Woozi?”

“Oh, I mean Jihoon.”

Strangely feeling like you have to explain yourself to him, to let him know that you’re only friends, you say, “We went to college together. Me, Jihoon, and Seungkwan. We just happened to get into the same department here.”

Joshua hums in acknowledgment. “No wonder, I always saw the three of you together. Made me feel left out.”

Your heart drops. Eyes wide, you cross your arms repeatedly, saying, “I never—we never meant to exclude you at all!”

“That’s okay, I have you to talk to, right?” he says with what you can only describe as an upside down smile.

You swallow and nod.

“Y’know I was just teasing,” he says casually. “I wasn’t offended.”

Before you can confront him about the mental whiplash he’s putting you through, he grasps your shoulders and maneuvers you to the right, so that he can stand in front of the machine. His touch was fleeting, but your heart skips a beat anyway.

You watch as he grabs two dollars out of his wallet, then punches 405 into the keypad. As the spiral whirs, he sends two precise kicks to the bottom left of the machine.

Doubting his method, you raise your eyebrows in uncertainty. But just as you do, the whirring is accompanied by the sound of the soft drinks falling.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

That actually works?

Joshua bends down and sticks a hand into the bottom flap of the machine, pulling out the drinks that had just dropped from slot 405.

“Four Coke Zeros, at your service. Anything else?”

“Oh, a blueberry granola bar for Seungkwan. And those chips for me,” you say with mild surprise, pointing at slots 201 and 302.

“Sure thing.” He taps the corresponding numbers and slips some bills into the machine.

Thankfully, 201 and 302 are very cooperative, unlike 405.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to pay for those,” you say, your fingers brushing against his as you accept Seungkwan’s granola bar and your bag of chips. The faint contact sends an unexpected jolt through your chest, one you force yourself to ignore.

“Oh, it’s not for free,” Joshua replies, his lips curling into a smile that’s soft yet pointed. “You owe me a coffee from next door.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Tomorrow morning, then?”

He nods his head slightly, a gesture so casual it almost feels calculated. “How about today, after work?”

Your heart stutters. The way he’s looking at you—his eyes shining, eyebrows raised a little, with a faint crease between his brows—feels strange. It’s somewhat vulnerable, like he’s waiting for something.

No, surely not. Surely, he’s not—

The thought dies before it can fully form, drowned out by the thundering sound of your heartbeat.

“Sure,” you manage to squeak out, your voice embarrassingly small in the space between you.

His smile widens, but there’s a flicker of something else in his expression. Relief? Satisfaction?

You swallow hard and grip the snacks in your hands like they’re a lifeline. You need to get a hold of yourself. Joshua Hong is not asking you out. He’s just nice. That’s all.

────୨ৎ──── Wednesday

“You’re joking. You’re actually joking.” Seungkwan’s voice rings throughout his waterlogged apartment.

“Most unfortunately, I’m not.” You blink, feeling a droplet of sweat getting dangerously close to your eyes.

You carefully wipe the sweat that’s gathered at your forehead using your forearm, since your hands are gloved up. You definitely don’t want the nasty residue from the rubber gloves getting on your face.

Seungkwan glares. “You didn’t tell me that you were on a date with You Know Who! Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you.”

“Well, you did,” you say exasperatedly, grabbing an antique-looking lamp and lightly placing it in the box of items to throw away.

“Tell me what happened, exactly. Don’t leave a single thing out!” Seungkwan barks, waving at you from across the room, where he’s dismantling a chair to put in the box.

In the middle of clearing out Seungkwan's damp furniture, your mind drifts back to yesterday afternoon, to the cafe where…

────୨ৎ────

…The soft hum of coffee grinders and the steady chatter of customers make you feel warm inside, easing the tension from earlier that morning. You sit across from Joshua at a tiny table near the main window, taking in how the late afternoon sun casts a golden glow over his face. He looks like royalty, and you think you could watch him for forever.

He’s nursing a cappuccino, his slender fingers tracing absent patterns on the side of the mug, while you sip on a mocha latte, its foam already starting to lose its shape. Staring at the latte, you think it’s about time you moved on from small talk.

“You really didn’t have to pay for my drink,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction. It’s hard to argue with him when he wields his secret weapon every time.

He smiles, that same boyish, disarming grin he always gives you. “It’s just coffee. I get you one almost every day, y’know?”

“Yeah, but I was supposed to—”

“Exactly,” he interrupts, eyes sparkling. “Think of it as payback. For all the mornings you made brighter just by showing up.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, heat spreading down your neck as you lower your gaze to the coffee table, suddenly fascinated by the faint scratch marks on its surface. “You’re too nice,” you manage, the words feeling as flimsy as tissue paper.

“Only to you,” he says, and though his tone is light, the words feel impossibly heavy. Like they’re carrying something you’re both too afraid to name.

Your heart twists violently as your eyes snap up to meet his. The way he’s looking at you—steady, unyielding—makes your breath hitch. This is Joshua, you remind yourself, the nicest guy you’ve ever met. And yet, you can’t ignore the way it feels like he’s waiting for something. For you.

“You don’t mean that. I don’t believe that.” The words spill out before you can stop them, shaky and uneven. But even as you say them, a part of you aches with the knowledge that it’s not entirely true.

Because deep down, you want to believe him. You want to hold onto the idea that he’s different with you, that the warmth in his voice and the way he looks at you isn’t just another facet of his kindness but something more.

But that hope is dangerous.

If you believe him and you’re wrong—if this is just Joshua being Joshua, warm and selfless to everyone he meets—it’ll break you. So instead, you tell yourself that it’s impossible. That he can’t mean it.

You clutch onto every reason why: the way he always holds the door open for others, how he buys coffee for the entire team sometimes, the way he seems to know exactly what to say to make anyone smile. It’s who he is, you think, not just with you.

The idea of reading too much into his words—of exposing your heart only to realize you’ve misunderstood everything—is unbearable. So you push it away, burying the small flicker of hope before it has a chance to grow.

But even as you deny him, there’s a quiver in your voice, a hesitation that gives you away.

He leans forward slightly, his arms resting on the table, shrinking the distance between you. “You should. Don’t you ever wonder why?”

Your breath catches. His words hang in the air, heavy and charged, and for a second, you think he’s about to say something that will upend everything you’ve convinced yourself to believe about him.

“Joshua, I—”

Before you can finish, your phone buzzes loudly on the table, shattering the moment.

You scramble to grab it, breaking eye contact as you glance at the screen.

It reads: “Kwannie Kwannie Kwannie.”

You sigh deeply but answer the call, putting the phone to your ear. “What?”

“Help!” Seungkwan’s voice comes through in a panicked shriek. You take the phone a few inches away from your ear, wincing at the sound, then stiffen. His tone did not sound like one of his regular, made-up crises. Bringing your phone closer to your ear, you hear him shout. “My apartment’s flooding! There’s water up to my knees, my coach is floating! I don’t know what to do! Jihoon’s useless with this kind of stuff, and you’re the only person who knows where my emergency shutoff is—”

“Okay, okay, breathe. 4-7-8 method. I’ll be right there,” you say, shooting up from your chair.

Joshua watches you, his brows knitting together in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Seungkwan’s apartment is flooding. I have to go help him,” you explain, grabbing your bag.

“I’ll come with you,” he immediately offers, already standing.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it.” You force a smile, though you’re still buzzing with the tension of whatever had just happened. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Before he can respond, you rush out the door, heart racing—not just from Seungkwan’s crisis, but from the words Joshua almost said. You hear him calling your name, but you’re unable to bring yourself to look back, afraid you’d cave.

If you had, you would’ve seen a crestfallen Joshua still standing by the table, frozen in place...

────୨ৎ────

...Seungkwan drops a chair leg.

If the water hadn’t already been drained (by you, yesterday, when you figured out how to use Seungkwan’s emergency shutoff valve), the metal leg would have made a small splash and floated in knee-deep waters. Instead, it fell obnoxiously loudly onto Seungkwan’s hardwood floor, ringing throughout the half-empty apartment with full force.

“Ah! Seungkwan!” You jump, nearly dropping your drill, which you had been using to unscrew the legs of the coffee table while retelling what had happened Tuesday afternoon.

“He was about to confess,” Seungkwan says slowly and robotically, as if caught in a trance.

You can’t bring yourself to deny it.

“He was about to confess,” he repeats.

Letting out a major sigh, you hop up onto the dining table, tapping it. “You know, we have to dismantle this too.”

“He was about to confess!” His sudden shout startles you again. “And where the hell is Woozi when we need him?”

“Probably on his way, as he was when you checked 20 minutes ago?” you say dryly.

“He needs to get a load of this. I was right!” Seungkwan waves the chair leg in the air triumphantly, far too close to the ceiling for comfort.

“Dude,” you laugh, “you’re going to scratch the ceiling, put it down!”

Seungkwan pouts. “But this is my victory leg.”

“Tell that to Woozi,” you grin. “I think you should show him the leg, first thing.”

He lights up. “Excellent idea.”

All of a sudden, you hear someone knocking on Seungkwan’s door. Jumping off of the table, you skip across the living room down to the narrow main hallway. Once you reach the door, you crack it open a few inches—as far as the chain link will let you.

“Woozi, you’re so late!” Your face breaks out into a smile upon seeing your friend.

“My bad,” Jihoon says with a chuckle.

“`Y’know, Kwannie has a big surprise for you?”

“I can’t wait,” he says with a sigh. “How bad is the damage?”

“See for yourself.” You take down the chain lock and swing the door fully open with a smile, only to falter at the sight of the one person you thought you’d successfully avoided all day.

Joshua.

For there he was.

“Here to help,” he says shyly, hands folded behind his back.

You give Jihoon a panicked look.

Jihoon explains, “I was heading out of the office when I caught him in the hallway. He said he was down to help Seungkwan, and I figured the more, the merrier.”

The sight of Joshua standing in Seungkwan’s doorway makes your stomach drop. It’s like all the tension from earlier has come rushing back in, this time amplified by the unexpectedness of his arrival.

You plaster on a polite smile, though you’re sure it looks more like a grimace. “Great,” you manage to choke out, turning on autopilot to lead him and Jihoon down the hallway.

But inside, your thoughts are spiraling. What is he doing here? Does he know you’ve been avoiding him all day? Did Jihoon tell him anything on the way over?

Your chest tightens as you think about Seungkwan waiting in the living room, blissfully unaware of Joshua’s presence. You can already imagine the chaos—Seungkwan, ever the open book, accidentally blurting out something incriminating.

What if he says something about the coffee shop? What if he mentions the way you couldn’t stop talking about Joshua just now?

You’re half a step ahead of them, your mind racing through ways to keep the situation from unraveling, but drawing nothing but blanks.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of Joshua. He’s walking casually beside Jihoon, his hands tucked into his pockets, a beanie snug on his head. He looks different, less polished than usual, but still effortlessly himself. And for a moment, you falter.

Because despite your panic, there’s a part of you that’s almost glad he’s here. A part of you that can’t help but wonder what it means that he came at all.

When you reach the living room, you come to a hard stop, frantically making a small X with your arms.

But Seungkwan has his attention focused on that blasted chair leg, and of course, he immediately opens with: “Guess who has the biggest news of all time! The biggest action since the Great Orange Plaza Incident—”

Cue the obnoxiously loud laughter from you. “Joshua’s here! Say hi!”

Seungkwan turns to the hallway, where, indeed, Joshua is standing. Shocked, he drops the metal leg, and it announces its contact with the ground through a loud clang.

Wincing at the sound like earlier, you accidentally shift your body backward into someone behind you.

“Sorry,” you say, hoping it was Jihoon.

His arms come up to grasp your waist, holding you steady.

“No worries,” comes Joshua’s voice.

You shut your eyes, somehow both drowning in embarrassment and burning up at the spot where he’s touched you.

You quickly step out of his hold, trying not to let your flustered state show. “Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “Let’s go now.”

Joshua chuckles softly, his voice like velvet. “그래, 바로 가자.” Right, let’s go straight away.

Seungkwan, thankfully, is too caught up in his shock to notice the moment, though Jihoon raises a single eyebrow in quiet observation.

As you guide Joshua and Jihoon into the living room, you internally rehearse all the ways you can deflect or redirect the inevitable awkwardness. But before you can settle on anything, Joshua is already rolling up his sleeves. You avert your eyes from his biceps.

“What needs moving?” he asks.

You glance around the room, desperate for something to hand off to him. Your eyes land on the dining table—big, heavy, and far too ambitious for one person to handle. Perfect. “The dining table,” you say, trying to sound casual. “We need to get it downstairs to the lobby for pickup.”

Seungkwan perks up. “Oh, that thing’s a beast. Good luck.”

“I’ll help,” Joshua says immediately, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looks at you.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh, okay. You and Woozi can move it.”

But Jihoon smirks, catching on. “Actually, I just remembered I promised to help Seungkwan with,” his voice trails. “Something else. You’ve got this, right?”

Before you can protest, Jihoon grabs the metal chair leg and joins Seungkwan in the corner, leaving you and Joshua alone with the daunting table.

“Looks like it’s just us,” Joshua says, his teasing smile widening.

You swallow thickly, resigned. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Together, you begin maneuvering the table toward the hallway. It’s heavy and awkward, and you struggle to find a good grip on the edges.

“Here,” Joshua says, dropping his side of the table and moving closer. His hands brush over yours as he adjusts your grip, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “That should help.”

The contact sends a jolt through you, but you force yourself to focus. “Thanks,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper.

By some miracle, the table fits in the elevator, though the tight space forces you and Joshua closer together. You’re much too aware of how little distance there is between you, the faint scent of his cologne making your heart race even faster.

“This reminds me of Monday morning,” Joshua says suddenly, his voice soft.

Your head snaps up to meet his gaze. What is he talking about? The elevator? The coat? Both?

He nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Your stomach twists. “What about it?” you ask cautiously.

His eyes searching yours. “I just,” he hesitates for a moment, before continuing. “I feel like we keep dancing around something. Don’t you?”

Your breath catches, and suddenly the space feels even smaller. “What do you mean?”

Joshua steps just a fraction closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I mean,” he pauses for a second or two before picking up again. “This. Us. I feel like there’s something you’re not saying. And I’m not sure if I should say it first.”

The elevator dings, announcing your arrival at the lobby, but neither of you moves.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. “Shua, I—”

Before you can finish, the doors slide open, and an older woman waiting outside peers in, her curious gaze snapping you both out of the moment.

“Uh, sorry,” you stammer, quickly stepping out with your end of the table.

Joshua follows, but you can feel his eyes on you, his earlier words hanging heavy in the air.

As the two of you set the table down near the designated pickup area, he leans in slightly, his voice low. “This isn’t over.”

Your heart threatens to jump out of your chest, but you force yourself to nod, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah. Okay.”

Even as you head back to Seungkwan’s apartment, your mind is racing with the possibilities of what he might say—and whether you’re ready to hear it.

As you reenter Seungkwan’s apartment, the weight of Joshua’s words hangs like a thick fog in the air. It’s almost suffocating, the way your heart beats erratically at the thought of what he might say next.

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting Joshua to be right behind you, but he's still out by the lobby. The sound of Seungkwan and Jihoon’s voices floats down the hallway as they continue their discussion, oblivious to the tension that’s spiraling in your chest.

You step inside, but you can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change. Joshua’s words—“This isn’t over”—echo in your mind, repeating with every beat of your heart. What did he mean? What does he expect?

“Everything okay?” Seungkwan calls from the living room, looking up with a raised brow as you walk in.

“Yeah,” you chirp, trying to act normal, but your voice comes out too high.

He narrows his eyes. “You sure? You look a little off. Everything go well?” It’s unsaid, but you know there’s a “with Joshua” attached to the end of his sentence.

You force a smile, but it’s shaky at best. “Yeah, the table's gone now.” You can’t tell him. Not yet. Not with the weight of Joshua’s unspoken words still pressing against your chest.

Seungkwan studies you for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the hallway. “I’ll take your word for it. So, you two, huh?”

Your eyes widen involuntarily, and you try to laugh it off. “아니, 아니! 그런거 아니야, it’s really not like that.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. Sure. Anyway, me and Jihoon are going to go to the bar. Want to come?”

The offer hangs in the air, and you realize, suddenly, that it’s the perfect distraction. You need space from your own thoughts. You need to calm your racing heart. Maybe getting out of here will help.

“I’ll go,” you blurt, before you can second-guess yourself. “Haven’t gone weekday drinking in a while. Let me just grab my bag.”

Seungkwan gives you a knowing look but says nothing more. As you step into the hallway to grab your bag off a high-hanging hook, your mind is still whirling with the unanswered questions about Joshua.

Walking further down the hallway, you find Seungkwan and Joshua standing near Jihoon.

Jihoon’s already at the door, his hand on the handle. “Come on, let’s go. I need some drinks in my system after today.”

You nod, attempting to shove your thoughts away for the night. The cool air outside greets you, and the cacophony of the city feels like a welcome distraction. As you make your way to the bar, Seungkwan and Jihoon immediately dive into their usual banter, but your mind is elsewhere. You keep glancing over at Joshua, who seems uncharacteristically quiet tonight, his usually playful energy subdued.

By the time you reach the bar and order drinks, you’re beginning to relax. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact that you don’t have to think about what’s going on between you and Joshua, but you can’t help but feel like you’re walking a thin line between tension and relief.

But as the night goes on, Seungkwan and Jihoon quickly fall into drunken antics, leaving you and Joshua alone on the quieter side of the bar. The air between you both is thick, like an invisible thread is pulling you closer, yet neither of you dares to speak.

You fiddle with your glass, wondering if you should speak up first. You only have so much courage, though.

Thankfully, Joshua clears his throat, his voice low. “넌 좀,” he hesitates for a bit, before deciding to call you out, “조용한데?”

Well, it’s no secret that you’re being quiet. He was, too, at least until now.

You glance up, meeting his gaze for the first time since earlier. His eyes are intense, his lips pulled into that soft, half-smile you know and adore.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you like a dare.

Joshua leans in just slightly, his breath warm against your cheek. “What part?”

Your heart races, but you hold his gaze. “About how this isn’t over?”

He’s quiet for a beat, then smiles—just a little. “I meant what I said.”

And in that moment, you realize you’re in way deeper than you thought.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words settle in your chest, like a stone sinking deep into water. You want to ask him more, to press him, to demand answers, but the words feel trapped in your throat. Instead, you look away, fidgeting with the rim of your glass, your fingers tracing the condensation. The alcohol has started to mellow your nerves, but the tension still hovers in the air between you two, thick and almost palpable.

“You’ve been quiet too,” you manage to say, keeping your voice steady despite the jittery feeling in your stomach. “What’s on your mind?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away, his gaze flickering toward the noisy group in the corner where Seungkwan and Jihoon are laughing too loudly, practically leaning on each other for support. The laughter echoes in the background, a sharp contrast to the quiet bubble that has formed around you and Joshua.

It’s the kind of moment that feels too intimate, too close to the edge of something that could change everything.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and his voice is soft, thoughtful. “I guess I’m trying to figure out if you’re really as clueless as you act, or if you’re just pretending.” His eyes meet yours, and there's something almost vulnerable in his gaze, a flicker of hesitation that’s rare for him.

You feel your heart skip a beat, caught off guard by the question. “Clueless?” You repeat, the word tasting strange on your tongue. “I’m not clueless.”

“그래? Are you sure about that?” he asks, his smile barely there, his tone teasing but with an edge of something else—something deeper.

You narrow your eyes, a little irritated by how easily he toys with you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, and then immediately regret it. It sounds too defensive, too much like you’re trying to cover something up.

Joshua leans in slightly, his expression serious now, no longer playful. “I think you do. I think you’re scared.” His voice drops, barely above a whisper, but it lands like a truth you can’t deny. “You’re scared of what might happen if you admit what you feel.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The world feels like it slows down, the noise of the bar fading into the background as his words settle in your mind. The truth in them stings, and you don’t know how to respond.

He’s right, but you don’t want to admit it.

Not yet.

Not to him.

Before you can say anything, Seungkwan stumbles over, dragging Jihoon along with him. “You two are too quiet,” Seungkwan says with a grin, clearly tipsy. “What’s going on here? Trying to plot against us?”

Joshua straightens up quickly, his smile returning to its usual playful, disarming self. “Nothing like that, we were just talking,” he replies, his voice smooth and easy.

You take a deep breath, trying to push the moment away, but the tension still lingers in your chest. You force a smile, though it feels weak. “Yeah, just talking.”

Jihoon gives you both a sideways look, too drunk to notice the underlying current between you and Joshua. “You two really are something, huh?”

Seungkwan laughs, waving a hand as if dismissing Jihoon’s comment. “Yeah, yeah, don’t mind them. They’re just having a little ‘moment,’” he says, emphasizing the last word with air quotes.

You don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Contrary to Seungkwan’s comment, the moment’s long gone now, robbed by the chaos of their antics. But you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted, that you and Joshua are standing on the edge of something—something both terrifying and irresistible.

And for the first time, you decide that you’re ready to see where it leads.

────୨ৎ──── Thursday

You wake up on Thursday with a start, the events from last night already feeling faraway. Joshua had dropped you off, and you had spent most of the night restlessly thinking of him, going over how to confess.

The bright morning light filters through the blinds, causing you to squint at the time on your alarm clock. It’s much earlier than you’d usually get up. You fight the urge to go back to sleep.

With resolve, you push yourself up off your bed and run through your morning routine with extra care. And by the time your last alarm rings, you’re ready to tell him.

You walk over to the front door, waiting for the telltale signs of movement coming from the apartment next door. Only, you hear nothing. Not even footsteps shuffling around.

Your elevator ride is silent. Your bus ride is silent.

Joshua had left before you’d even woken up—and you’d woken up pretty damn early—and his absence only made you more aware of the pressing silence between the two of you.

When you reach your cubicle, your eyes graze over the desk repeatedly, finding something is wrong.

“Hey, what’s gotten into you?” Jihoon asks from the cubicle next to you.

“Nothing.” Everything.

You stare at the spot where Joshua puts a cup of coffee from the cafe next door every day. It’s empty.

“설마,” you whisper. No way. Did he decide to drop you because you didn’t answer him? But what else could explain his radio silence? You haven’t gone to work alone in over a month.

“설마 what?” Seungkwan asks, dropping into his office chair to the left of you at 9 on the dot.

When you don’t answer, he asks Jihoon, “What’s going on over here?”

Jihoon shrugs. “Probably drama with You Know Who.”

“Oh,” he says, and the two of them drop it.

Before you know it, the clock has hit 5pm, and you’ve spent the entire workday soullessly typing on your keyboard, lifting your head up every time you’ve seen movement in the room. Only, the man you were looking for was nowhere to be seen.

You miss the stolen glances and bright smiles you used to exchange. The silence had been stifling. You really did want to talk to him, to clear the air today, but he just never showed. Heart sinking, you pack up your bag and put on your coat. You stall for a moment remembering how he’d given you his coat just a few days prior. Did he really decide to give up because you weren’t responding well?

The bus ride back to your apartment is silent, but your head is full of speculative thoughts. When the driver announces your stop, your heart settles into a newfound determination.

Maybe he could let go, but you can’t. You won’t let him go.

“I’ll just barge in! Say my piece, then let him talk,” you mumble under your breath, pushing the lobby doors open.

Is it a good plan? You aren’t sure, but hopefully he’d forgive you for being hesitant for so long. You honestly don’t know how he did it—how he was able to stand your wishy-washiness?

Eyes tracing the ground, you make a beeline for the elevator, continuing your whispers. “And what am I going to say? God, I need a good opening line. Something like, please please take me back? Actually, we were never dating, so I guess that doesn’t make sense. Please please like me back? Is that too desperate? Well, I am desperate, so—”

Out of the corner, you see the elevator beginning to close.

“Hold the doors, please!” you shout, running as fast as you can. Speed is of the essence, so you can confront him as soon as possible.

You make it across half the lobby in record time, panting as you enter the elevator.

“Thank,” you say in between breaths, hands on your knees, “you—”

When you look up, your heart stops.

Joshua Hong. Dressed dapper in an all black suit and carrying, of all things, a briefcase?

“Shua?” you say breathlessly, immediately straightening.

Joshua looks down, his usual calm expression faltering for just a second when he sees you out of breath. For a moment, the two of you simply stand there in silence, the elevator’s gentle hum filling the space between you.

“Where were you?” you ask, your voice quieter than you'd intended, a hint of nervousness creeping in despite your earlier determination.

Joshua clears his throat, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. “Director Chun had me accompany him to the Lee meeting. You?” he asks, his gaze softening as he watches you catch your breath.

Your mouth suddenly feels dry. The reality of the situation hits you hard.

This was it.

This was the moment.

But now that you’re face to face with him, you’re unsure of what to say. You should’ve prepared a real speech, practiced your words properly. Instead, the dreaded silence lingers.

“I,” your voice trails off. “I just—” You let out a shaky breath, then shake your head as if to clear the mess of thoughts swirling inside. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About things. About us.”

Joshua tilts his head slightly, a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “About us?”

You nod, trying to steady your breath. The elevator seems to be going slower than usual, as if the universe itself is giving you more time to process, to speak. You feel a strange mix of nerves and determination pushing you forward.

“I didn’t handle things right. I was,” you pause for a moment, carefully choosing your next words. “Unsure. Confused. And I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, I’d be able to ignore everything. But I can’t,” you say, the words finally coming out in a rush. “I can’t ignore you. I don’t want to.”

Joshua’s eyes soften, his posture shifting, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hands. “You’re not the only one who’s been confused,” he admits, his voice low, almost vulnerable. “I didn’t know what to do either, but I couldn’t let you slip away without at least trying. I care about you. A lot.”

The elevator jerks suddenly, and you both look up in surprise as the lights flicker. A loud noise rings through the space, and with a groan, the elevator comes to an abrupt halt. You both freeze, and your heart jumps into your throat.

“Shit,” you gasp, instinctively taking a step back from the elevator doors, but your foot catches in a brief moment of panic, and before you know it, you’re pulled toward Joshua.

He catches you effortlessly, his hand impossibly warm at your back, steadying you as you stumble. “괜찮아?” His voice is gentle but concerned.

You can’t help but laugh nervously, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, him holding you in his arms, your heart still racing from the shock. Then you both realize the situation. No Wi-Fi. No way to call for help. Just the two of you, stuck in this tiny box, the tension thick in the air. The sound of your heavy breathing fills the silence as the elevator remains motionless.

Joshua clears his throat, his voice teasing again. “Well, if you think about it, this isn’t that new.”

In response, you lightly laugh, thinking back to all the times throughout the week where he's kept you steady. The you of Monday morning never would have thought you’d be in this position now, not to mention the you of two months ago.

You glance up at him, mind still racing. The unexpected turn of events had thrust you into a corner. And yet, in some strange way, you felt it was just the kind of moment the two of you needed.

Alone.

No distractions.

No running away.

“Well, at least we have some time to talk now, huh?” you say with a small, tentative smile.

Joshua meets your gaze, his eyes full of understanding. “Yeah. Looks like we do.”

And for the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like an opportunity, a moment to finally clear the air.

────୨ৎ──── Friday

You’ve been in the elevator for hours, but it doesn’t feel like it. Somehow, conversation just flows.

“I liked you first,” you find yourself saying, voice barely above a whisper as you rest your head on his shoulder.

“그래?” comes Joshua’s soft reply, so close that you can feel the vibrations in his chest. Really?

You can’t believe he even has to ask. Yes, really. You were so obvious about it. So affected by him that you couldn’t even look at the stuffed bunny he’d gotten you on Sunday, reminded of his soft, kind eyes.

So you nod, “Mm-hm.”

Your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your body still adjusting to the peaceful rhythm of being near him. You’d been thinking about this for the longest time, but now it feels so natural, so certain, and you can’t help but regret all the time you’d spent secretly pining over him. God, you’d even asked him to stop being so nice to you out of pure desperation. Who does that?

“Since when?” His voice is smooth, warm, like a soft melody, and you can’t help but feel drowsy with the way it lulls you into comfort.

You pause, eyes drifting to the floor of the elevator as you try to gather your thoughts. “Since when?” you repeat, the memory taking you back.

It was a chaotic day, the kind of day where everything felt so loud and full of people. You were at that welcome party for the new transfer—Joshua—but it had been too overwhelming. So, you’d slipped away, finding solace in the quiet of the cafe next door. You’d gotten a coffee to-go, and you sat outside on a bench, letting the world pass you by as you listened to your audiobook. That was your kind of perfect Saturday.

You never saw him that day.

But you did see him a week later, in the hallway of your apartment building. You’d just locked your door, ready to head out when you noticed the man next door fumbling with his own keys. His moving process had seemed slow, but that day, you finally got to exchange quick introductions before stepping into the elevator together. And somehow, in that brief exchange, you found yourself already falling, the way his laugh filled the space between you, the way you both laughed at the coincidences stacking up—the apartment, the floor, the building, the department. It was electric, the start of something special.

You glance up at him now, still leaning against his shoulder. “When we first met, in the hallway,” you finally say, voice soft.

Joshua smiles, a glint of fondness in his eyes. “That was when we first met?”

You furrow your brows, confused. “Wasn’t it?”

Joshua laughs quietly, the sound like a comforting hum in the otherwise still elevator. “I remember differently,” he says, poking your cheek gently.

You tilt your head. “If not the hallway, what was it?”

“The first day I came here, sweets,” he says, his fingers brushing a lock of your hair from your face.

Your mind races, wondering if you’ve forgotten an important memory. “But we didn’t meet, did we?”

Joshua hums, the kind of hum that carries a story behind it. “I guess you didn’t see me, but I saw you.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him right. “When?”

He leans back slightly, eyes distant as if replaying the scene in his head. “I remember being bombarded by all the office workers. God, it was so chaotic. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out, so I said some BS excuse about needing a drink.” He chuckles softly, then his expression shifts, softer now. “I went to the drink station by the window, grabbed whatever they had, and just stared out. I was wondering how long I could hide before it was socially acceptable to go home, when I saw you.”

You shift, intrigued by his words.

“You sat outside on the bench. You weren’t even aware of the crowd inside, just focused on,” he pauses, thinking of the right word, before continuing, “Existing? Listening to something, I guess. I watched you for a while. You were so still, so peaceful in the middle of all that noise. It made me stop and think. I’ve never really done that before. I’ve always been in ‘go, go, go’ mode. But there you were, just being, and I don’t know. I think that’s when I started thinking about you.”

His words settle over you like a blanket, warm and unexpected.

“I decided then to keep giving you coffee after that,” Joshua adds with a shrug. “You’re my elevator to my small enlightenment, if you will. You made me slow down, sweets.”

At that, your heart flutters in your chest. “I never knew,” you murmur. “I thought you were just nice to everyone. All this time, you’ve been looking at me like I’ve been looking at you.”

Joshua smiles softly, his fingers brushing against yours. “I’ve been thinking about you for a lot longer than you’ve been thinking of me.”

“Only a week!” you protest.

Joshua’s eyes shine as he looks at you, crinkling into crescents. His hands steadily clasp yours, thumb rubbing against the back of your left hand. “Still think I’m too nice?”

“No,” you say, burying your face in his chest. “Keep being nice to me.”

When the elevator finally dings, and you can hear firefighters shouting things past the doors, it’s a few minutes past 12am. But neither of you moves, content in making up for lost time late into the night.

Masterlist

Author's Note: yes they were stuck in an elevator for like 7 hours from thurs after work to midnight, 내 마음이야

Disclaimer: nothing i write is representative of how svt acts off camera, take their names as stand-ins for oc's!!

Taglist: @syluslittlecrows - @junplusone

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sunshinesfreckless · 29 days ago

Text

His Spoiled Kitten

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Lee Know x fem!reader

Summary: Leeknow loves showing his Favourite Girl who she belongs to.

Warnings: Luxury ownership. Designer collars. ehehehe minho being sexy

A/N: Leeknow arrived to the spoiled series… Han and Changbin are next, don‘t worry my kittens <3

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Hyunjin ୨ৎ Bangchan ୨ৎ Jeongin ୨ৎ Seungmin ୨ৎ Changbin ୨ৎ Han

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Minho didn’t do flashy.

He didn’t need to. He did exclusive.

Her Gucci collection didn’t come from store shelves.

It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.

A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.

A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so she’d always have him beneath her.

A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk — he named it “Mine.”

“I want her to smell like she belongs to me,” he’d told them. “And something sweet. She is sweet.”

He never let her see the invoices.

She didn’t need to.

He’d slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.

Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that weren’t cold, just to see her wear his name.

And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events — deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals — he only had one response:

“She’ll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.”

And she did.

In their bedroom.

With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.

────୨ৎ────

He once got her a travel bag.

Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.

She laughed. “I don’t travel enough to need this.”

“You will,” he said, zipping it open. “Check the inside.”

She did.

It was packed.

With envelopes.

Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:

• Paris – for the kiss on the Seine.

• Tokyo – for the night we stay in.

• Milan – for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.

He’d planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies — and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.

“Minho,” she whispered, teary-eyed.

He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. “Told you. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

And she did.

────୨ৎ────

He swore he just came for a wallet.

Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy — just something to replace the worn one he’d been using for three years.

But the second she sighed, it was over.

Minho followed her gaze without a word.

The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie — butter leather and gold hardware. She didn’t even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t know he noticed.

He tapped the glass counter lazily. “We’ll take the bag too.”

The cashier brightened. “Anything else? It comes in a set with three—”

“Yes,” he cut in. Didn’t even let her finish.

His Girl turned, eyes wide. “Wait—”

“Choose the other bags,” he said simply, leaning back on the counter. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

The cashier smiled. “Follow me, Miss.”

This wasn’t the first time. Not with Minho.

Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.

Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.

He just gave.

Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar — dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.

“Come here,” he’d said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.

“Now everyone knows who my kitten is, right?”

He’d tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.

And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.

God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.

Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.

“Mine,” he’d growled, hips thrusting deeper, “look how fucking pretty my girl is like this.”

Minho didn’t just spoil. He claimed.

────୨ৎ────

He cooked for her like it was sacred.

Wouldn’t let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.

“Let me help—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.”

He’d press kisses to her knee. Sometimes he’d undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.

She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.

And he?

He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous — but hers.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn’t supposed to be used like this.

The scarf had been a gift — crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. He’d tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.

But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.

“Shhh, baby,” Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper — slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.

He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.

The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift — now her gag — pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.

And he loved it.

Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.

A trembling doll made just for him.

“I should buy you another,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “One for every time I make you cry on my cock.”

He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.

“Maybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?”

She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.

────୨ৎ────

Minho had one room in their house locked.

She wasn’t supposed to go in.

But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.

What she found was a vault.

Dozens of boxes. Wrapped. Labeled.

Gucci. Cartier. Loewe. Rare editions. Archived pieces.

All neatly stacked, waiting for the right moment.

Shoes she hadn’t worn yet.

Dresses he never let her even see.

She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.

Caught red-handed.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Curious kitten.”

Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.

He sat her down — right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.

She gasped.

“Since you’re up here,” he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, “might as well give you a reason to come back.”

Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.

“Every one of these gifts,” he grunted against her ear, “is yours. But I’m your favorite, right?”

She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.

“Say it.”

“You,” she whimpered. “You’re my favorite gift.”

He smiled.

And made her scream that line three more times.

────୨ৎ────

But oh — she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.

No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.

She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance — Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if she’d always belonged.

And he did too.

Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door — and there she was.

His girl. His home.

Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

And he’d kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.

“You stayed up?”

“Always.”

Because no matter how much he spoiled her — she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.

He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought,” he teased, and she smacked his arm.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You’re priceless.”

And she was.

The one thing he couldn’t put in a shopping bag.

Only in his heart.

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #stray kids #lee felix smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #lee know #leeknow x reader #leeknow smut #leeknow skz #lee minho

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ozzgin · 7 months ago

Note

Streamer reader that has a PO box and as a stream one day, opened a box to find toys lol no one will admit which one of them sent it

Shark daddy is rich enough to buy a full box of toys tho 👀... just saying

-🐶

I already have a post where I talk about adult toys from your monster followers in general, so I thought this time I'd focus on the Big 5 and what they'd get you in particular. content: gender neutral reader, NSFW!!

Regardless of his choices, LizardKing5 always goes one size too big. He knows it won't fit, he knows you'll struggle. He loves it. He'll sit before the screen and probably jerk off to the image of you trying and failing, only making it to the tip before giving up, embarrassed and flushed. He lives to tease you.

SharkMan does have the money for any luxury, though he finds the idea of buying you adult toys somewhat tasteless. He'll gift you other things, like expensive lingerie, or self-care appointments. Unless you ask for something yourself, he'll stay away from it. He prefers to wait until special events, like the follower milestone, to provide you with firsthand experience instead.

HornyMantis is the real trouble. Not only does he flood you with packages, but he somehow manages to find the strangest, most particular items. Half the time you'll open the box and find yourself staring at the perverted tools, asking yourself: it's a thing? Additionally, he's big on cosplay, especially cow-themed costumes. Doesn't matter if you're a guy or a gal, you'll find it either way - the slutty lingerie with a handwritten note, Take care of those milkers.

DefNotAStalker is not much of a giver. After all, he already has front row seats to all your intimate performances. He likes to show his appreciation through small, loving gestures instead; changing the batteries, switching to your favorite settings, putting the stuff away before guests arrive. Probably touches himself to the freshly used toys, or from a safe distance while you're actively using them.

Y/NSimp, unsurprisingly, is extremely vanilla. He'll gift you a basic vibrator and giggle to himself the entirety of the stream, thinking he'll make you blush and shock all other monsters with his cheeky act. Then he'll stare in horror at all the other shameless toys you're unwrapping. He didn't even know some of these things exist.

[Monster Streaming] | [All Monster Series]

#monster streaming #monster followers #monster x reader #monster x human #monster smut #monster fucker #terato #teratophillia

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captain-huggy-bear · 4 months ago

Text

Perfect Fit

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You fit perfectly into Quinn's family, knowing how much they love you just makes Quinn realise that you're it for him.

Notes: Requested by an anon, I hope you like it. I went with a kind of snapshot of events vibe for this one

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

He's never had a girlfriend who fit in quite so well into his family because you were quite literally a perfect fit. Every single member of his family loved you. His mom, his dad, his brothers, his grandma, all his cousins. There wasn't a single person who didn't ask where you were when you couldn't come to a family event or who didn't write you a Christmas card or a birthday card. You were in every family group chat, on everyone's list of Christmas presents to buy.

You'd integrated so well into his family that he couldn't really imagine a life without you because suddenly there'd be a missing puzzle piece in the family puzzle, a glaring gap. The sort of hole that would be so noticeable, so obvious.

It's extra obvious whenever he goes to a family event without you, like tonight. You're held up with a big work project, leaving Quinn to go to the big family get together on his own. He knew everyone would be upset about it, there was only so often that all the family were in the local area and you not being there would be obvious to them.

His grandma has already found herself a comfortable armchair when he arrives for the party, cousins, aunts and uncles milling about. His brothers talking to his parents by the snacks, Luke stuffing his face between sentences because he seemed to have hollow legs these days.

"Hey, Grandma'"

"Hey, sweetie," He kisses his grandma on the cheek letting her pull him in tight for a hug, but it's clear her attention isn't on him, her eyes looking over his shoulder, searching.

"You alright, Grandma?" He's a little put out to be honest. His grandma, who he hasn't seen in months, barely looking at him, eyes scanning the room.

"Where's Y/N?"

"Oh, she couldn't make it, she's got a big project goin' on at work and has to stay late for the next week or so." There's part of him that preens at her question because his grandma loves you, something he can't help but love. He loves it for himself, but he also loves it for you knowing you didn't have the best relationship with your own grandparents, knowing that his grandma had healed something in you that no one could see.

"Oh, but I wanted to see her so badly, Quinn! I was going to give her my recipe, the one she asked for to make those snickerdoodles she liked so much." She looks genuinely sad and Quinn briefly considers face timing you to show you because you'd probably cave and drop your work project for his grandma and then he'd have you here. God, he misses you...

"Well, I can give it to her, grandma."

"No! I want to give it to her, what if you lose it?" He can't help the offended scoff he lets out or the way his jaw drops open in shock. His grandma not trusting him more than you hurt a little, even as he loved that she adored you so much. He was perfectly capable of not losing a stupid snickerdoodle recipe...

His mood is no less grumpy when Jack and Luke sling their arms over his shoulders, laughing at him and the way his grandma is holding her recipe to her chest as if he might snatch it from her.

Jack is the worst, "Oh he'd definitely lose it, grams!"

Quinn glares at him, "I'll make sure she comes to the next one, grandma, yeah?" He tries his best to not take his annoyance with Jack out on his grandma, trying to focus on that fuzzy little feeling in his chest at how much she seems to love you. He's never had a girlfriend his grandma really cared much about beyond the occasional question, but you? God, she's not happy to just see him anymore, if he doesn't bring you along she's always visibly disappointed.

"Mmm, it'll have to do! Tell her I love her will you?"

"Course, grandma..." He grunts out, rolling his eyes as Jack and Luke laugh and start dragging him away. As he goes he can't help but mutter under his breath, "More than you love me clearly"

"Jack Rowden Hughes!" Your hands are on your hips glaring at Jack outside the Lake House, a smoking microwave between the two of you where Luke and Quinn had tossed it after hearing your panicked calls for help. The microwave in question had been briefly on fire, not something Quinn really thought he'd be dealing with today.

"Oh god, he's done it now..." Quinn can't help but grin, leaning against the side of the house as he watches you, Luke stood next to him looks more concerned and less amused.

"Should we save him?"

"Nah, I wanna watch this." Quinn's grin widens at the way Jack seems to shrink under your glare like a naughty kid. You've definitely got the mom voice down. It's like watching a younger Jack whenever their mom had to tell him off for something stupid or reckless.

"You just want to watch your girlfriend rip into him because you think it's hot."

"And can you blame me?" He can't even deny it. Quinn thinks you're beautiful all the time, but there's something especially thrilling about watching you rip into his little brother about nearly setting the Lake House on fire.

There's a pause from Luke where he looks at Quinn unsure, words coming out slow and cautious, unsure, "I feel like that's a trick question."

"You would be correct, don't even think about suggesting my girlfriend is hot." Quinn glares a Luke even though the truth is he's playing about. He knows you're beautiful and he also knows both his brothers consider you to be a sister figure, he knows he doesn't need to worry. But, it's funny to give Luke a hard time sometimes.

"So, should I say she's ugly?"

"She's gorgeous but you don't need to think that. Strictly platonic thoughts only, Lukey."

"Quinn?" He looks over with a raised eyebrow, "I love you, but you're insane." They're both pulled from their conversation by the sound your voice again, loud and clear and very much scolding.

You've still got your hands on your hips, a glare has developed on your features and Jack looks even more like his teenage self if possible. His hair is a mess, hands having run through it repeatedly, tugging on the strands.

"What on earth possessed you to think putting tin foil in a microwave was a good idea?! It's metal, Jack! You nearly blew up the microwave!" You feel like you're back at university, dealing with barely legal individuals who can't figure out that cooking a whole chicken in a microwave is simply not going to work. Jack Hughes has managed to give you a headache. His sheepish grin manages to soften some of your edges, but you're still baffled and confused by Jack's sheer lack of common sense.

"How was I supposed to know that that wasn't something you should do?!"

"It's common sense, Jack! Did you not pass science?" You know he did, well aware that Jack was not in fact an idiot. But, Jesus Christ on a bike...tin foil in the microwave? The microwave?! The smell of burning plastic and metal is still assaulting your nose, the adrenaline from thinking the house was about to burn down still running through you.

"...I hate you." Jack's pout breaks you a little, a huff of a laugh leaving you as your shoulders relax somewhat because in reality the whole situation is funny, now that the Lake House isn't about to burn down.

"No you don't."

Jack sighs loudly, stepping around the microwave to pull you into a side hug, "No...I don't...I'm sorry for nearly blowing up the microwave."

"It's okay, I love you even if you're an idiot." You grin up at your boyfriend's brother, who looks at you aghast, jaw dropped at your audacity.

"Hey!"

Quinn can't help but smile, the way you just fit in with his baby brothers, how Jack enjoys your company and how easy you find it to mess with him. You fit in like a puzzle piece.

Summers at the Lake House might be your favourite, the warm wood of the deck beneath your feet, the sun on your skin, a little chubby toddler running towards you at full pelt while you laugh, Quinn watching on from the side lines because he can't help but adore how you act with his baby cousins. You're made for it, made for his family, but made for interacting with little kids too, so gentle with them, but fun too. They love you so much that he can't help but practically develop heart eyes.

"Up! Up!" Quinn's baby cousin, Chase, is at your feet, arms in the air making grabby motions with his hands. His floppy sun hat is a little too large for him and covers his eyes in an adorable fashion, but at least it protects him a little from the summer sun at the Lake House.

"Up? You want to be up here?" You gesture with you arms as you grin down at the little toddler, his chubby cheeks red from running towards you, his skin covered in sun cream.

"Up!" His hands continue to make grabbing motions at you, hands clenching into fists and unclenching in quick succession. He grins at you wide, his gap filled smile endearing.

"What's the magic word?" You're smiling wide at his cousin, even as you remind him of his manners and there's just something so...so affable, so natural about the whole thing.

"Up, pwease!" His little toddler lisp more pronounced on the word, drawing it out until you're laughing, reaching down to grab him under the arms and lift him up into your own.

He squirms a little at first before settling himself comfortably against you, head leaning on your shoulder, smiling up at you like you've hung the moon in the sky. You hold Chase so naturally that Quinn can't really help but think about what it might be like one day when the toddler in your arms is your own. A little toddler with his nose, your eyes and some combination of you both that just seems to work. How you'd carry them around the Lake House, helping them toast marshmallows over the firepit and teaching them eventually how to swim.

"She's good with the kids..." It's his mom who comes up behind him, smiling wide, blue eyes practically glowing as she puts her arm through his.

"I know..." He can't take his eyes off you, you've started to tickle chase, the toddler squirming in your arms as he laughs loudly, big grin on his little face as his favourite person gives him undivided attention. You're practically glowing, wide smile on your face, your own laugh resonating through the air. His chest tightens with affection, an ache for something he hasn't got quite yet, a yearning in his chest.

"Makes you think, huh?" His mom is smirking at him and he knows he's being obvious, knows she can tell how in love he is, how desperate he is to make you a permanent fixture in his life...to make the image in front of him slightly different, a toddler that looks like a combination of the two of you in your arms rather than his baby cousin.

There's a beat of silence where Quinn watches you, a soft smile on his lips, eyes full of love, and his mom watches him, the way he can't seem to hide how deeply he loves you. It's how she knows you're it for him before he even says a word, it helps that Ellen can't help but love you. She's always been welcoming to Quinn's past girlfriends, but she's never quite loved one as much as she loves you. You're good for Quinn, that's the real crux of why she loves you so much...because you give Quinn something to love that's not hockey, you give him another purpose while getting him to shut off, to rest. Of all her sons Quinn is the most dedicated, and with that dedication comes the weight of the world on his shoulders. It's like you walked in one day, and stepped underneath the globe with him to make holding the weight a little easier.

"I think she's it, Mom...I think that's my wife right there..."

"Yeah? I'd hope so because I'll ground you for life if you let her go."

"I'm 25 years old, Mom." He can't help but laugh at his mother, eyes rolling as she grins at him, laugh lines deepening around her mouth and besides her eyes. He's missed this during the season, the unrestricted family time, the back and forth with his mom that makes everything feel simple, even the concept of a proposal, of marriage.

"I can still ground you, I'm your mother." Ellen pokes him in the ribs, Quinn twisting away with a huff.

"Well, good thing I'm not planning on letting her go anywhere anytime soon." He pats his jacket pocket, the shape of a box just visible enough to cause his mom to gasp and he knows, fuck, he knows it's the right choice.

He loves you, adores you, can't imagine a life without you and his mom? She's so excited, so happy, not just because it's Quinn, but because it's you. He'd love you even if his family didn't, but there's something about how much they do love you that makes this perfect, makes this feel so utterly right.

Now he just needs to find the right moment, the right time to finally make you a permanent part of the family.

#huggy bear writes #quinn hughes/reader #quinn hughes x reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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cheapshrimpysheep · 7 months ago

Text

Pocky Game

SUMMARY: How would they react if you asked them to play Pocky with you? Do they already know the game? What is it like to play with them? And how would a game with them end? 💋

CHARACTERS: Demon Brothers + Dateables (- Luke) = Lucifer; Mammon; Leviathan; Satan; Asmodeus; Beelzebub; Belphegor; Diavolo; Barbatos; Simeon; Solomon.

TAGS: Fluff; GN Reader; Bullet Points; Kissing; Suggestive?

WORD COUNT: An average of 240 words per character.

COMMENTS: I've already given up questioning the lore of this game, trying to find canon in the stories of the cards and events. I'm just going to write what I want and if there's something similar in a card or something, I don't know anything anymore. 😅😭

I hope you enjoy ❤️

CONTEXT: The Pocky game is a party game played with Pocky, a Japanese chocolate- or candy-coated biscuit snack. Two participants place the Pocky between them “Lady and the Tramp” style, and try to be the last to hold onto the biscuit, often resulting in a kiss.

How to play:

Pick a partner that you wouldn't mind kissing.

Face your partner and put a Pocky stick between you. Each partner takes an end of the Pocky stick in their mouth.

Each partner bites their end of the Pocky stick until their mouths meet in the middle. The first person to pull away loses!

To ensure that the others don’t interrupt or prevent you from playing, you go to his room.

Lucifer doesn't know what game this is. He doesn't usually have much interest in being up to date on these matters. That is more a Levi or Asmo thing.

“If you want a kiss, you can just ask for it, you know?” He tells you with a seductive smile after you've explained the game. But you insist that you want to play. He sighs amused. “Fine, if you want it that much.”

He comes closer to you and gently holds your hand with which you hold the box. Without taking his eyes off yours, he opens the box, leans over to bite into one of the biscuit sticks, takes it out with his mouth and points the other side at you. Before you bite the other side and start the game, he also places his index finger and thumb on your chin to tilt your head.

He plays with that seductively piercing gaze of his fixed on your eyes. As intimidating as it is inviting.

When there is only one bite left to finish the game, he grabs you by the waist and pulls you in, taking the last bite and kissing you passionately.

He breaks the kiss but doesn't take his face away from yours, speaking with his lips still very close to yours. “Well, I played your game. Will you play mine now?” He lifts you up and carries you to his bed.

Mammon knows what game this is. Some Succubus and Incubus have already tried to convince him to play with them. “Hey, I said they tried! Of course I didn't play. Who do you think I am?” So... would he accept to play with you?

“W-with you?” He blushes. “Well, s-sure. You're the only person I wouldn't mind playin’ with.” That he wouldn't mind? “FINE, that I would like to play with. Happy now?”

Yes! You take a biscuit stick out of the box, put it in your mouth and point the other side at him so he can bite it. He does so, blushing. He ends up letting go and relaxing as the two of you take your bites.

When the last bite comes and it's his turn, he ends the game and kisses you. It starts out relaxed, but within seconds it becomes needy. To the point that he cups your face and gets so close to you that you almost feel the need to take a step back so he doesn't completely eliminate the empty space between you.

He doesn't want to, but he breaks the kiss. “I hope you only wanted to play once, ‘cause now I just want to enjoy my prize.” He kisses you again, picks you up and takes you to his bed.

OF COURSE LEVI KNOWS THIS GAME! What kind of fake Otaku do you think he is? He even started rambling about the times he had read in mangas or seen in animes scenes like that and wanted to experience it and know what it was like.

He even goes so far as to comment on a character in a game that he loves doing this to him (the player) and... he sees you start to get upset with him. “NO, NO, NO! It's nothing like that! I swear! I mean, I like the character and I wanted to know what her route was like, b-b-but I was wondering the whole time...” He already had a small blush on his cheeks, but it got even bigger. “...ho-how it would b-b-be with y-you.” He also does that thing where he puts the tips of his two index fingers together.

Well, lucky for him, you also want to know what it's like to play with him and you have a box for that. His blush deepens, practically spreading across his entire face. BUT HE IS SO HAPPY!!! You also want to know what it's like to play this with the person you love? AND IT IS HIM? You'll need to find a way to calm him down so you can play.

You are the one who puts the biscuit stick in your mouth and points the other side at him for him to bite. He will be nervous the whole time you are playing. And when the last bite comes and it's his turn, he can't take it, he stops, perhaps in a mental struggle whether he should kiss you or let you decide. You're the one who ends up deciding to end the game and kiss him.

And now, with this confirmation from you, he can no longer contain himself and wrap his arms around you. And even after you break the kiss he will want to continue snuggling with you.

Yes, Satan knows the game, or at least the description of it from some books. “You want to play it with me?” He smiles. “Of course, I would love to! I would also like to know what it is like.”

He lets you set up the game. You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and let him bite the other side. Although he's blushing a little, he maintains his composure while playing with you, while looking into your eyes with affection.

When there is only one bite left to finish, even if it is his turn, he stops. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants you to be the one to choose how you want to end the game. And you finish the biscuit stick by kissing him.

You feel his lips form a smile, his arms wrap around you and surprise you when he pulls you in a way that you lose your balance and lie down supported by his arms.

He breaks the kiss gently and looks at you to see your reaction. He smiles, happy that he surprised you so positively. He rests his forehead against yours. “I can see why people like to write about this game. Would you like to play it again?”

But OF COURSE Asmo knows this game! He tells you he's even played it before, and then regrets it a little when he sees your reaction. “Oh no hon, it was just a few quick kisses, just a little touch. Don't be sad, you know that my special kisses are aaall for you~. You still want to play with me right?” He makes puppy eyes.

“Yaaaay~” He gets so happy and excited when you say yes. He's so cute he looks like a kid in a candy or a toy store.

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and he wastes no time in biting the other side. He plays the entire time with that cute smile and his eyes shining as he looks into yours. But in the last few bites, that look begins to change and become more seductive.

When there is only one bite left to finish and it’s his turn, he stops. His inviting gaze tells you he wants you to be the one to end the game and give him your love.

You do so and, as if that had been a way for you to give him permission to show his love for you, he hugs you passionately and deepens the kiss.

You're going to have to be the one to break the kiss because if it were up to him you'd stay like that for hours. “Oh, do you want to take a break? Do you want to play again? Sure! I can play with you until the box is empty. And then we can continue the kisses without the sweets right~?”

You hesitate to ask Beel about the game. I mean, it's a game that involves food... and it's Beel. But he realizes that there is something you want to tell him, so you end up giving in and telling him about the game.

He thinks he heard about the game from Levi, but the only thing he remembers is that there were biscuit sticks involved. You say you would like to play it with him, emphasis on the play.

“Don't worry, I understand what you mean. I know I'm at risk of being tempted to just eat the biscuits, but if you want to play I'll do my best to restrain myself.” He smiles warmly. “Even though biscuits may be tasty, I like making you happy more.”

You are the one who puts the biscuit stick in your mouth (because if it were Beel he would simply eat it whole) and point the other side at him so he can bite. He rubs the back of one hand with the other, nervous because he's afraid he'll end up eating the whole biscuit and ruining the game. But he takes his first bite anyway.

His first two bites go well, but on the third he gives in to the temptation of chocolate and ends up taking a bite that almost ends the game. You are both surprised and he looks away sadly. But you can still take one last bite.

You take the last bite, ending the game and kissing him. You try to convey through your kiss that everything is okay and you forgave him. You realize you've made it successfully when you feel him smile, hug you and deepen the kiss.

“Hey, I liked the game, but can we separate food and kisses for now?” He says when you break the kiss. “I was really scared that I might accidentally bite you.”

Belphie recognizes the name of the game because he's heard Levi or another brother talk about it. But could you explain the rules again? It's a game that doesn't require effort and that brings you both closer together, so: “Okay, sounds fun. Who starts?”

You were going to put the biscuit stick in your mouth, but then you decided to hand it to Belphie for him to bite first, as if you were feeding him. You know he loves it when you spoil him. You bite the other side and the game begins.

He is very chill when playing and have a sweet smile on his face. There is no tension during the game, just a warm and comfy feeling.

When there is only one bite left to finish the game, it is his turn and he ends the game by kissing you softly. You stay like that for a while until the kiss is broken gently.

You keep playing until either one of you gets bored or the box is empty. After that, he will convince you to lie down on the bed and cuddle. “It's a fun game. We should play it again sometime.”

Diavolo doesn't know the game, but he's super excited to learn everything about it and play with you. He listens attentively and with a smile to your explanation. “Ha ha ha. Looks like a simple but fun game. I will play with you with pleasure.”

You put the biscuit stick in your mouth and point the other side at him so he can bite it. He does so with an amused smile. The game goes smoothly and without tension, just with a warm and comfy feeling.

When there is only one bite left to finish the game and it is his turn, he stops and looks you in the eyes. You giggle and he understands this as the confirmation he was looking for. He ends the game and kisses you sweetly.

He hugs you and pulls you gently against him. He deepens the kiss before breaking it with a big warm smile. “What a lovely game.” He caresses your cheek. “Thank you for showing it to me. Do you mind if we play it again? I really enjoyed playing it. And I enjoyed doing it with you even more. Your sweet kisses are the best thing I've ever tasted.”

Barbatos doesn't know this game, but he will be happy to learn how to play it if you don’t mind teach him. He listens attentively to your explanation and the more you talk the sweeter his smile becomes.

“I see, the rules seem simple. It will be a pleasure to fulfil such a request coming from you. Do you want to start the game or would you like me to do the honours?”

You let him start the game and hand him the box. He takes out one of the biscuit stick, puts it in his mouth elegantly, and leans forward slightly, as if bowing, so that the other side of the biscuit is level with your lips.

You bite the other side and the game begins. As expected, he is a perfect gentleman throughout the game. When there is only one bite left to end the game, even if it’s his turn, he will stop so that you can decide how you want the game to end.

You finish the biscuit stick and kiss him. His kiss is gentle and loving. You feel his gloved fingers on your chin, caressing your face until they reach your cheek, the feeling of a soft, well-cared-for fabric.

If you take too long to break the kiss, he will politely break it. He chuckles. “It will be my pleasure to provide you with all the care and love you desire. But shouldn't we distribute this feeling out across the game rounds for it to be more fun?” He brings his index finger to his chin. “Unless one round was enough for you.”

Simeon doesn't know the game, but he will be happy to learn how to play and do it with you. He smiles sweetly the whole time you are explaining the rules. “Ha ha. Sounds like a fun game. I would love to play with you. How do we start?”

You put one of the biscuit stick in your mouth and point the other side at him so he can bite it. He does so with a cute smile. The game goes smoothly and without tension, just with a warm and comfy feeling.

When there is only one bite left to finish the game and it is his turn, he eats it, kissing you. It's a kiss that starts off sweet but becomes more intense, with him cupping your face and deepening the kiss. You can feel the smile on his lips.

He breaks the kiss slowly. “Hum... This was the goal, right?” He asks slightly embarrassed. “Did I overdo it? I’m sorry if I did.” You say he didn’t, that everything is fine and that you even liked it. “Oh, really? I’m glad. I got excited when I when I felt your lips. But don't hesitate to let me know if I do, okay?”

Of course Solomon knows this game. From Asmo? Thirteen? Someone else? You will never know. “Ha ha ha. I don't remember who told me first, but I've known it for some time. Don't worry about it. I'm looking forward to playing with you. Can I start?”

You tell him he can and hand him the box. He takes out one of the biscuit sticks, puts it in his mouth, places his index finger on your chin to tilt your head and places the other end of the biscuit at the same level as your lips. When you bite it, he smiles.

Even though his face doesn't have a very different smile than usual, there's a certain mischievous tension throughout the game. The closer your faces get, the more this feeling grows.

When there's only one bite left, even though it's his turn, he stops, and looks into your eyes waiting to see what you're going to do. You finish the biscuit and the game, kissing him. You can feel his smug smile. He wastes no time in grabbing you by the waist to press you against him to deepen the kiss.

You'll have to be the one to break the kiss if you want to continue playing, otherwise he'll simply lead you to his bed.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

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jungwnies · 23 days ago

Text

f1 grid (1/2) | friendly interactions... or not

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : meeting your friends who they seemingly get along with...kinda...not...really?

୨ৎ : genre : comedy (angst if u squint) / slight beef ୨ৎ : word count : 3008

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was so fun and unhinged i loved being able to create different personalities for the friends and everything LMFAO // oscar's was my favorite one to write i love it...

ʚ・max verstappen

you’d warned them ahead of time.

“he’s not rude, he’s just… quiet. and blunt. but like, in a sweet way. sometimes.”

that did not stop your friends from collectively side-eyeing you like you’d announced your boyfriend was a literal dragon.

“max verstappen? that max?”

“i just feel like he’d roast me for my driving.”

“do you think he even knows how to have small talk?”

you rolled your eyes. “he’s literally so normal. you’ll see.”

they didn’t believe you until thirty minutes into girls’ night, when max wandered in after his workout, sweat-tousled and comfy in joggers, and waved like he didn’t just walk into a room full of skeptical women.

“hi.” he looked between all of them. “you’re the ones who always send her those weird memes, right?”

cami gasped. “wait… you read our group chat?!”

you groaned. “max!”

“i didn’t scroll,” he said, completely unbothered. “i just saw the one where someone said ‘he probably dreams in dutch and drs.’ that was funny.”

syd choked on her drink. “…that was me.”

max turned to her, expression dead serious. “you’re not wrong.”

you covered your face. “this is going horribly.”

“no it’s not,” he said, crossing the room to kiss your forehead like it was nothing. “your friends are funny. i like them.”

that was the turning point.

thirty minutes later, max was sat between cami and val on the couch, holding one of their iced coffees like it was a fine wine, eyebrows furrowed.

“so you’re telling me,” he said, gesturing at syd’s phone, “this guy left you on read for four days, but still viewed your story?”

syd nodded. “yup.”

max shook his head. “he’s done. block him.”

“oh my god, you do get it!” she laughed.

“i’m not heartless,” he mumbled, cheeks slightly pink. “people just need to stop wasting her time.”

you leaned in from the kitchen. “should i be worried you’re starting a girl gang without me?”

he grinned. “we’re gonna get jackets made.”

later, as you walked him out so he could head back to the hotel, max laced his fingers through yours and said, “your friends are cool. i thought they’d hate me.”

you smiled up at him. “they thought you’d hate them.”

“that’s stupid.”

“they also thought you’d be scary.”

he stopped, leaned in close. “do i scare you?”

you laughed. “only when you’re behind me on track in karting.”

he smirked, kissed the tip of your nose, and said, “tell them i’m free next friday. i’ll bring snacks.”

ʚ・lewis hamilton

“i’m warning you now,” you said as you opened the front door. “don’t act weird.”

“you’re dating lewis hamilton,” mariah whispered like you’d just casually admitted to dating royalty.

jess widened her eyes. “do we call him sir lewis? like—is that a thing?”

you didn’t have time to respond, because lewis walked in holding a box of vegan pastries and a bottle of wine, dressed in cozy neutrals and smelling expensive.

“hi, beautiful,” he said, kissing your cheek like nothing else in the room mattered. then he turned to your friends with a megawatt smile. “you must be the infamous trio. i’ve heard so many stories.”

nina blinked. “from her?”

he nodded, handing her the wine. “and i remembered all your names. don’t quiz me though. it’s been a long day.”

mariah snorted. “okay, i like him already.”

fifteen minutes in and they were obsessed. not just because he was lewis hamilton, but because he was soft-spoken, asked thoughtful questions, and had the kind of eye contact that made people feel seen.

jess: “so… do you ever get nervous before a race?”

lewis: “not as much now. i get more nervous when she’s watching.”

mariah: “why?”

lewis: smiles “because i care what she thinks.”

meanwhile, his hand never left yours. fingers brushing yours under the table. knuckles against your thigh. every now and then he’d look over at you with this quiet little smile, like you were some kind of calming center.

when you got up to grab more ice, you heard nina whisper:

“dude. he hasn’t stopped looking at her all night.”

jess added, “he gave her the softest little smile when she laughed at that dumb joke. i almost cried.”

mariah leaned in. “okay, no, but that man is in love. like, core memory level in love.”

you froze in the kitchen doorway. “he’s right there.”

“we know.” jess whisper-yelled. “and he doesn’t care. he’s a certified loverboy.”

when he finally left, he gave them all warm hugs and said, “thank you for loving her. it means the world.”

and before heading out, he turned to you, cupped your face gently, and murmured, “text me when you’re home, okay? sleep’s always better when i hear from you.”

when the door clicked shut, mariah flopped on the couch like she’d run a marathon. “girl. i can’t even be fake salty. he’s so in love with you it’s romantic comedy level ridiculous.”

ʚ・george russell

you knew george was a bit territorial.

not in a scary way — more like the gentleman version of a cat that rubs his head on you to claim ownership. he’d do things like put his hand on your back when someone complimented you. or slide closer when you talked to strangers in the paddock. but this? this was new.

“wait… who’s micah?” george asked as you grabbed your bag.

you blinked. “micah? my best friend?”

his brow furrowed. “you said you were going out with friends tonight, not… guys.”

you laughed. “babe, literally every friend i’m seeing tonight is a guy.”

his jaw did a subtle tighten. “right.”

when you got to the rooftop bar, george was civil. polite. british, even.

but the grip on your waist tightened just a bit when luca hugged you. and he didn’t laugh when micah said, “god, you’re so hot when you parallel park.”

george just said, “she’s hot doing anything,” with the fakest smile you’d ever seen.

you tried not to laugh.

halfway through the night, you leaned over and whispered, “you good?”

he smiled. “of course. why wouldn’t i be?”

you gave him a look.

he exhaled. “you didn’t tell me all your friends were dudes. i’m just trying to… assess.”

“assess what?”

“if i need to fight anyone.”

you snorted into your drink.

the turning point came when micah and luca started arguing over whether george clooney or paul mescal was the superior white boy crush.

micah went, “listen, i’d let paul ruin my life but george is my tax bracket soulmate.”

and luca added, “you’re forgetting dev patel exists, which is crazy because i would risk it all.”

george blinked.

then turned to you, slowly. “i’m sorry. are they all—”

“gay?” you said, trying not to wheeze. “yes. every single one of them.”

“oh.” he sat back in his chair. “oh.”

you leaned in, grinning. “were you feeling threatened?”

he cleared his throat. “i was… aware.”

“they all follow you on instagram, george. they send your shirtless pics in the group chat with heart emojis.”

micah shouted across the table, “he’s on my lockscreen!”

george turned red. “i—really?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” luca deadpanned. “it was a joke. you were standing next to lewis.”

later, on the uber ride home, george had his arm slung around you, looking appropriately sheepish.

“i really thought luca was into you.”

you laughed. “he literally helped me pick your birthday gift and called you ‘delicious.’”

“i wasn’t listening. i was too busy panicking.”

you kissed his cheek. “you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

he kissed the top of your head. “i’m also lucky your friends are hot and unavailable.”

“micah’s still flirting with you.”

george shrugged, smug now. “he has taste.”

ʚ・carlos sainz

when you told your friends you were bringing carlos to the group dinner, the reaction was immediate.

“wait—like carlos sainz?”

“the spanish one?”

“the one with the hair?”

“bro. he’s hot but does he talk?”

you laughed. “he’s so normal, guys. you’ll see.”

carlos showed up exactly two minutes early with a bottle of wine and a handmade bouquet he’d “accidentally” picked up on the way because he “thought it looked like something you'd like.”

immediate chaos.

“oh, he’s dangerous,” said tiff, already hiding behind her wine glass.

your bestie eli raised an eyebrow. “he’s not allowed to make eye contact with me. i’m weak.”

but then he spoke.

“so,” carlos started, standing there with his hands awkwardly folded in front of him, “who is in charge of… uh… the vibes?”

there was a beat of silence. then eruptive laughter.

“you mean like the playlist?”

“no, i think he meant the vibes.”

“oh my god he’s an actual golden retriever.”

“no, he’s like a very polite tourist.”

you couldn’t stop laughing. “carlos, baby, just sit down.”

to be fair, he tried.

he listened to the conversations, nodded thoughtfully, smiled politely.

but then he pointed to amara’s glass and said, “you drink that very fast. is that normal?”

she blinked. “…it’s a margarita, carlos.”

“oh. i like tequila. but not margaritas. they’re… too horizontal.”

everyone paused.

“too… horizontal?” eli echoed.

carlos nodded. “too flat. i like drinks that have… structure.”

you whispered, “i have no idea what he’s talking about.”

“he’s handsome. let him be strange,” tiff murmured.

but then he helped clean up the dishes without being asked. offered his jacket to eli when they stepped outside. complimented. tiff’s nail color in a way that wasn’t creepy, just genuinely curious. when amara made a joke, he laughed even though he clearly didn’t get it — just because everyone else was laughing.

by the end of the night, your friends were perched on the couch, dissecting him like an art exhibit.

“he’s awkward. but like… warm awkward.”

“like golden retriever professor awkward.”

“like if a sexy man had the brain of someone who collects model trains.”

you threw a pillow at them. “he’s just spanish!”

carlos poked his head in from the kitchen. “who is spanish?”

eli grinned. “you are.”

carlos blinked. “…yes. i know this.”

in the car on the way home, he leaned into you, a little sheepish.

“they laughed a lot.”

“with you,” you said quickly. “not at you.”

“…i was strange, wasn’t i?”

you kissed his cheek. “you were perfect.”

ʚ・charles leclerc

“okay. i need you all to be normal.”

you stood at the kitchen island while your three closest friends — maya, bri, and jade — collectively ignored you in favor of speculating about your boyfriend.

“i just feel like he’s intense,” bri said, sipping her wine.

“he’s monegasque,” jade replied like it explained everything.

maya added, “i bet he’s one of those guys who listens too closely and then says something super personal and makes you cry. in a good way.”

you groaned. “you guys are insane. he’s literally just charles.”

and then he walked in, hair a little windswept, cheeks pink from the cold, carrying pastries and wine with the proudest smile.

“hello,” he said. “i brought snacks. and the red wine that she said tastes like… uh… the floor?”

you winced. “i said it tasted earthy.”

he kissed your cheek. “same thing.”

to your surprise — and theirs — he fit in immediately.

and not just like, polite boyfriend sitting quietly kind of fit in.

like, full-on engaging, bantering, storytelling with hand gestures and wild facial expressions kind of fit in.

“and then,” charles said, wide-eyed, “i realized the bike i had taken was not my bike. it was—how do you say—locked to someone else's bike. so i am dragging two bikes across monaco like a thief.”

jade was crying. “did no one stop you?!”

“they stared! i waved and said, ‘it’s okay, i am very sorry!’ which is not helpful if you look like a criminal.”

bri gasped between laughs. “you’re unhinged.”

charles shrugged. “it is not my fault all bikes look the same.”

but what really got them wasn’t just the stories — it was how he looked at you.

when you got up to get more drinks, his eyes followed you automatically. when you sat back down, he rested a hand on your knee like it grounded him. when you laughed, he smiled like it was the only sound that mattered.

at one point, when you reached for the wine, he gently pulled it back. “drink water first,” he said softly, like it was second nature. “you get headaches.”

later that night, when he went to take a call from his brother, your friends immediately rounded on you.

“okay. i get it now,” maya whispered.

“he’s funny,” jade added, stunned. “like. actually funny. and kind of chaotic?”

“and so in love with you,” bri finished. “like, if you asked him to move to the moon with you tonight, he’d be like, ‘yes, let me pack my helmet.’”

you tried not to blush. “he is a little awkward sometimes.”

“he is, but in a hot way,” maya said. “like… emotionally available french cartoon character energy.”

you nearly choked.

ʚ・lando norris

“are you sure he’s ready for this?” you asked as you poured drinks.

your best friend zara smirked. “is he ready, or are you scared we’ll like him more than you?”

“both,” added amina, already plotting.

and then, of course, lando showed up five minutes early with takeout, a mischievous smile, and a hat too big for his own head.

he looked around the room. “so. you’re the ones she keeps texting during our dates.”

“depends,” zara said. “are you gonna give us something to talk about?”

lando blinked. “that sounds threatening.”

“good. you’re learning.”

they clicked immediately.

amina asked about his sim setup. zara grilled him about his spotify playlists. jules challenged him to mario kart and then screamed when he barely won.

and the whole time, lando kept up effortlessly — tossing jokes, throwing fake shade, and flashing you the smuggest grin every time he got a laugh.

“oh, so you think you’re funny now?” you teased.

“i know i’m funny. ask your friends,” he said, sliding closer.

zara leaned in. “he is. unfortunately.”

at one point, the conversation somehow devolved into an argument about cereal rankings.

“frosted flakes are top tier,” jules said.

lando gasped. “that’s so vanilla of you.”

“sorry, mr. i-buy-fancy-cereal-in-monaco,” jules shot back.

amina whispered to you, “i get it now. he’s just one of us in a more expensive hoodie.”

you smiled. “i told you.”

but it wasn’t just jokes.

it was the way lando would pause mid-story to rub your back. or how he leaned over to top off your drink without asking. or the moment you yawned and he whispered, “want me to wrap it up?” against your shoulder.

zara caught it and mouthed he’s obsessed with you across the room.

when he left that night, jules dabbed him up like they’d been boys for years.

“you’re alright, norris. for a mclaren driver.”

“i’ll pretend that didn’t hurt,” lando said dramatically.

zara hugged you and whispered, “he can stay.”

amina added, “but only because he beat me at uno.”

later that night, you were scrolling through your phone when lando texted: your friends are chaos and i love them. also, zara’s playing it cool but she’s totally a fan. i saw the twinkle. also also. you looked stupid pretty tonight. thanks for sharing your people with me <3

ʚ・oscar piastri

you’d prepped him on the way there.

“they’re loud. you’re not. please don’t shut down.”

oscar glanced at you from the driver’s seat. “i don’t shut down. i just… conserve energy.”

you laughed. “whatever you call it, try not to look like you want to leave the whole time.”

he rolled his eyes, but you caught the faint smile.

the moment you walked in, your best friend dani narrowed her eyes.

“that’s him?” she mouthed.

you nodded, and she replied with a very slow, hmm.

you sighed.

oscar stood next to you like a polite guest at a wedding, smiling faintly, hands in his pockets.

“you alright?” you asked, low.

he nodded once. “i just feel like i’m being judged.”

you smiled. “because you are.”

to his credit, he tried.

made small talk. laughed (softly) at jokes. asked how everyone knew you. but dani wasn’t biting. she stayed suspicious, arms crossed, watching him like she was waiting for a slip-up.

meanwhile, your friend luke — loud, dramatic, and a certified flirt — came up behind you and slung an arm over your shoulder.

“hey, sunshine. you look hot.”

oscar’s eyes did a slow blink.

you didn’t catch it — but dani did.

later, while you were grabbing drinks, dani cornered oscar in the hallway.

“so. what’s your deal?”

he blinked. “my… deal?”

“you like her?”

oscar’s brows lifted slightly. “very much.”

“then why do you keep glaring at luke like you want to run him over with a scooter?”

oscar blinked again. “because i do.”

dani paused.

“…okay,” she muttered, then turned and walked off — almost smiling.

back in the kitchen, luke was showing you something on his phone when oscar came up behind you and casually slid his hand around your waist.

you leaned into him instinctively.

“having fun?” you asked.

he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “loads.”

luke looked between you two. “oh. so you do like her.”

oscar blinked. “why does everyone keep asking me that?”

later that night, when you were saying your goodbyes, dani pulled you aside.

“i still think he’s too quiet,” she said, eyes narrowed. “but. he passed.”

you grinned. “he grew on you?”

she shrugged. “he has some personality. i just think he’s got trust issues.”

you blinked. “based on what?”

she looked over at oscar — who was very subtly glaring at luke again. “…girl. he’s five seconds from growling.”

in the car, you nudged him.

“hey. be honest. you hate luke, don’t you?”

oscar didn’t look away from the road. “he’s too friendly.”

you tried not to smile. “you mean he called me hot.”

“he also winked.”

“he’s gay, oscar.”

oscar blinked. “…is he?”

you burst out laughing. “you are so bad at this.”

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agentsinopia · 11 months ago

Text

yandere coworker ( pt.2 <3 )

yandere coworker who insists you move into the cubicle next to him- how else is he going to keep an eye on his intern?

yandere coworker who makes it a point to compliment you every day, lest someone else fill your head with insecurities and lies

yandere coworker who listens intently as you open up about your personal life, mentally filling in the blanks where his stalking fell through

yandere coworker who “accidentally” spills his coffee on your suit jacket at work, and insists he has to take it to his “personal” dry cleaners before you can get it back

yandere coworker who later sets the jacket on a mannequin in his room, relishing the faint scent of you it gave off

yandere coworker who has no shame talking, hugging, and cuddling with the mannequin- with a wig and your perfume he could close his eyes and pretend it was the real thing

yandere coworker who lets all his fantasies and delusions manifest while he holds mannequin you- he enjoys telling “you” how his day was and how “you” looked so good today and how “you are the only light of his life”- all while closing his eyes and stroking the wig of hair on top of the mannequin

yandere coworker who sulks when the mannequin starts smelling more like him and less like you, which leads him to the conclusion it’s time to return the suit jacket (only after he’s properly cleaned it up of course)

by the time you get it back and on your body, your other coworkers have a chuckle at how you smell just like yan coworker- what a coincidence!

yan coworker watches as you smile innocently, unaware the suit jacket was just the first of many pieces of clothing that was yet to be taken

authors note: would you guys like to see more yan coworker content? if so, would you prefer this format or short story? lmk in the ask box!

pt. 3 , Q&A Event

all works belong to and written by @agentsinopia

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abitsourthenspicy · 12 days ago

Text

nanami kento and the love language types

not proofread, sorry for the mistakes.

words of affirmation

nanami kento is not a very expressive man- everyone knows it. but what everyone doesn't know is how encouraging and appreciative he can be. he says the sweetest things with such a straight face, it sometimes feels uncanny.

***

"can you pass me the soy sauce, honey?" he asks while stirring the fried rice in the wok.

"there you go," you hand him the bottle and sneak a peek at him from the corner of your eye.

"thank you. i needed that," you hum and give him a back hug. you feel a flutter in your heart from his words.

***

"darling, where are my glasses?" he asks while looking around panicked.

"ken... they are on your head." you say, deadpan.

"oh, alright. thank you, dear." he takes the glasses from his hair. "what would i do without you?"

your heart flutters again. what a silly man.

***

your boyfriend sits on the couch, rubbing his temples. his tie already discarded somewhere, his shirt half unbuttoned.

"you forgot to do the laundry." you sit beside him.

realization hits him. it was his turn to do the laundry this week. "i really forgot... i'm sorry. work has been constantly on my mind lately." his expression gets pensive. "i'm sorry you had to do my share of chores again."

"it's okay. i understand." you pat his hand. "it's a tough week for you. it can happen to anyone. don't push yourself too hard."

he sighs and brings your hand to his lips. "you are too kind to me." he presses gentle kisses from your hand to your shoulder, burying his head in your neck.

"what would i do without you?"

there he goes again. making your heart beat quicker than anything and anyone.

♡

quality time

one thing about nanami kento is no matter where he is, no matter what he is doing when you are around him you get his undivided attention. even though you both have your own very busy schedules, he is more than willing to make time for you.

***

on a rainy evening, you were curled up on the couch reading a book. the faint noise of the documentary kento had been watching was the only sound in the cozy apartment. until he spoke.

"can i join you?" he turns off the tv and scoots closer to you without waiting for your answer.

"oh? of course. i'm more than willing to share my book." you smile. he nods, carefully taking the book from your hands. "can we cuddle too?" you tilt your head.

"yes, please." he agrees. too easy- you didn't even need to give him puppy dog eyes.

***

you're chopping vegetables when you hear the front door open. you check the clock. 5 pm? his shift just ended, but he is already home..?

"kento, honey?" you call out his name. "is that you?"

he walks in the kitchen, loosening his tie. "it is me." his hands snake around your waist. he buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent.

"you are early today." you smile and stop chopping.

he nods, pressing a kiss to your neck. "i kindly asked gojo to do my last mission. i didn't want to miss the dinner."

you pause, "you asked gojo to help you out? out of all the people." a bit surprising to hear this from the man you love; asking help from gojo.

he shrugs casually. "he said something about me being 'a total simp' and 'down bad' and agreed for a box of kikufuku."

you laugh. he buries his head in your neck again and sighs deeply.

***

"you got us reservation here?" you hold his hand across from the table. "this day isn't even that important.. and you got us a table from here." you look around awkwardly. everyone sitting here was fancy. extremely fancy people.

"since when did you make the reservation? i thought you had to wait for months to get even a-"

"of course, it is important." he squeezes your hand. "every little thing about you and our relationship is important to me."

a beat of silence.

"now i feel bad. what day is it? it is not our anniversary, not your birthday, not the valentine's day.." you note every significant event.

"today is the day you held my hand for the first time."

"that's it? i thought i missed something." you say as the feeling of relief washes over you. this man..

♡

acts of service

nanami doesn't always vocalize his love for you, but he makes sure you feel his love. he shows his love in his own quiet ways. it's in the coffee he made just how you like it, the groceries restocked without you asking, the way he notices and remembers the little things about you.

***

you wake up to the smell of food. it's too early for breakfast, at least for you. it must be your boyfriend preparing something.

you shuffle into the kitchen and see nanami in his pajamas, hair still messy, flipping pancakes while listening to the news.

"what's the occasion?" you mumble and approach him.

"you mentioned craving pancakes last night. figured i'd make them before i head off to work." he places a plate on the table, then gently guides you to sit. "eat while it's warm, dear. would you perhaps like whipped cream or maple syrup with it?"

you blink at him, still half-asleep, touched beyond words. you didn't even remember saying that!

***

this week has been particularly hard for you. you have been pulling all nighters, skipping meals, stressing, stressing and stressing some more.

lucky for you, you have a very supportive partner like kento. he has been doing your share of house chores, cooking when you weren't in the mood, keeping an eye on you so you'd eat (even a little).

when you get home on a friday evening all tired you find your laundry folded, your favorite snacks on the counter, and a note in nanami's neat handwriting.

'my dear, dinner is on me. please get some rest- kento.'

you smile as you read the note. when he comes from work with takeout from your favourite place, you were already fast asleep on the couch, curled up in a blanket.

***

"you didn't need to do all this," you murmur. "you have already done a lot for me. i feel guilty. you already come tired from work, plus i exhaust you a lot."

he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. "you are sick. of course, i need to do all this. if it was me, you'd do the same and more."

you want to deny it, but you know it's the truth. "don't kiss me ken, you'll get sick too."

he laughs softly and presses more kisses to your face as if to lift your mood. you gently push him away, not wanting to spread your flu to him.

"i'll make you some chicken soup, okay? you'll get well soon. and then i'll kiss you as much as i want." he pats your head and heads to the kitchen.

how can a man be this adorable?

♡

giving/recieving gifts

nanami kento wasn't a flashy man himself. he preferred to be a rather modest and simple person. he didn't feel the need to parade his wealth to people around him. but when it comes to you, it's different. totally different.

***

you once told him, way before you started dating him, that you had a childhood plushie you loved very much and lost it when you moved for college. eventually when you started dating him, you showed a few pictures of you holding the cute toy and that was it.

you didn't think he'd remember- because at this point even you didn't remember.

but on october 28th, he gives you a neatly wrapped package. you look at him weirdly.

"thank you. this is very unexpected... what day is it again?" you hold the package awkwardly.

"plush animal lover’s day," he says with a deadpan expression.

"what is that supposed to mean?" you shake the box to hear and guess what's inside. you had an idea what could be inside from his words, but you were still confused about the whole ordeal.

"it's a day where people give extra love to their plush animal toys."

"you got me a plushie? ken, you are such a sweetheart," you excitedly open the package. "oh my god- are you serious?!" you hold up the plush toy. this looked exactly like your missing childhood toy. the tears rush to your eyes quickly.

this might be the most valuable gift anyone ever given to you.

***

"do you remember the shoes you talked about?" he asks on a random sunday morning. you both lay on the bed, not ready to start the day yet. your head on his chest, you were scrolling on your phone. he was playing with a strand of your hair.

"what shoes, ken?"

"the high heels with red bottoms."

"what about them?"

"i got them for you, but i don't know if you still like them."

you put your phone on the nightstand and chuckle. "i still like them, silly. what made you think that?"

he shrugs and pulls you closer. "felt like it."

you let out a laugh this time and you feel his hold on you getting a tiny bit tighter.

***

after a long day, you come home to find a new pen- no, a bunch of pens on your desk. the exact brand and color you'd been complaining about running out of. you start questioning the other resident of your apartment.

"you needed a refill," he says like it's no big deal. "figured it'd save you the trouble."

just a pen.

but it still meant so much to you, just like to him.

you don't think you'll be able to use any other brand of pen ever again.

♡

physical touch

nanami kento is reserved, yes. but with you, touch becomes his second nature. he's not loud with his affection, but... the way his hand always finds yours, the kisses he gives you, the weight of his arm around your waist at night speak volumes about his love and devotion to you.

***

you begrudgingly sip your morning coffee while your darling boyfriend prepared for his 9 to 5 job.

"do you want me to tie your tie?" you ask.

"i'm fine, honey. i'm actually running late." you hum and continue sipping your coffee.

when you see him off at the door he places a quick forehead kiss on your head. then a sweet peck on your lips.

"ken, you are going to be late."

"it's okay. i need to recharge before work." he places one last kiss on your lips and rushes to the subway.

***

"...and i was surprised too, because no one was expecting a proposal from them. they were arguing in the middle of the street!"

he hums, encouraging you to continue while his fingers absent mindedly tracing patterns on your hand.

"well, she proposed and he rejected it. but, then he proposed to her and she accepted it. it was a weird moment."

he hums again and kisses your knuckles.

"kento, are you even listening?"

"yes, yes i am. please continue." he kisses your palms next. you smile brightly and continue from the place you left off.

***

maybe taking the train during the rus hour was a bad idea.

no, not maybe. it was a bad idea. being pressed against many people was not an ideal way to go home after a romantic date.

you shift uncomfortably. being crushed like this was not nice.

lucky for you, your saviour nanami was standing behind, shielding you from the back. one hand holding you from the waist while the other was holding on to a grab handle.

"you alright?" he murmurs into your ear.

you nod, too tired to speak. he hums, gives a squeeze to your waist, then his hold on you tightens.

***

at night, after doing your routine tasks, you tuck yourself under the blanket alongside kento.

you scroll on your phone as usual before you feel his hands slowly wrapping around you. his cold hands warming themselves under your pajamas with your body heat. his hands gently rubbing your waist and stomach.

"can't sleep? you have work tomorrow." you quietly ask before locking your phone.

"no, not without you." he replies sleepily, his voice raspy, dripping like honey, heavy with honesty.

you snuggle up to him, muttering a 'big baby', giving him one more good night kiss and drifting off to sleep by his side.

this was what a peaceful night looked like to him.

reqs are open <3

my masterlist!

#jjk #jjk nanami #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami x you #jjk drabbles #drabble #jjk fluff #nanami fluff #fluff #jjk x reader #nanami fanfic #fanfic #my hcs #x reader

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pitlanepeach · 23 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Nine

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, time-skips, the Oscar girlies are gonna looooove this one, also general warning for the shitbox that was the MCL60.

Notes — Amelia Norris, welcome back to McLaren.

*Max Verstappen voice* Mate, my taglist is fucked! — Peach x

Lando’s alarm never went off.

Because Amelia had turned it off at 3am.

She let him sleep. It was his day. She made pancakes in silence—banana and oat, the way he liked them best when he was following his meal plan—topped with a candle she’d found in the back of a drawer and a slightly wonky blueberry smiley face.

“Happy birthday,” she said, soft and fond, when he eventually shuffled into the kitchen, hair everywhere.

He blinked at the plate — the birthday plate. They shared it now. “You made me a goblin pancake.”

“It’s smiling!” She told him.

“It looks terrifying.” He told her.

He ate it anyway, barefoot and shirtless, perched on a stool while she scrolled through her phone and told him that no, he couldn’t open presents before coffee.

Later, he unwrapped things slowly. A framed photo of the two of them from a race weekend in 2019, (“Where did you even find this?”), and a book of Amelia’s annotated sim notes from her time at Red Bull. “You always said you wanted to understand how my brain works.” She shrugged.

“I was mostly joking,” he whispered, thumbing a tabbed page. “But this is…”

She leaned into him. “It’s yours now. Might help. Might not. Still yours.”

That night, after three hours dancing at a Jimmy’z, he fell asleep with his head in her lap and his hand curled around her wrist, and she thought; this was a good birthday.

—

Monaco was glitter and glass and sea spray in December. It didn’t snow, but Amelia didn’t care.

Their flat was warm and low-lit. She’d spent too long arranging ornaments, Lando had simply dropped all his on one side of the tree with chaotic delight. It looked ridiculous. It looked perfect.

They had no real schedule. No one expected them anywhere. They gave each other stockings stuffed with little gifts. Amelia gave Lando a pair of designer sneakers with her initials burned into the soles. Lando gave her a little wooden box he’d built himself (badly), lined with soft felt and filled with folded notes. Things I love about you, written one per page. He told her not to read them all at once.

She thought, after peeking at one, that she might never be able to read anyone—his handwriting was atrocious.

They went on a walk by the water, holding gloved hands. A few fans stopped them, gently, politely. Amelia just smiled at them all and when they were alone again, Lando kissed the top of her head.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I love you.”

They cooked together. Burned the first batch of roasted potatoes. Argued about how long to cook Brussels sprouts (Lando was very, very wrong). They watched a film under a blanket, her feet cold against his legs.

Later, under the twinkling Christmas tree lights, she kissed the side of his neck and whispered, “I know what I want for Christmas next year.”

He kissed her shoulder. “What, baby?”

She whispered the words in his ear.

He sucked in a sharp breath. The apples of his cheeks went pink.

And then… Then he was beaming.

—

She always liked to keep her birthdays quiet.

No parties. No dinners. No events. Just them.

Lando had been preparing for weeks. Quietly. Sweetly. Every part of the day was hers. Coffee in bed with oat milk and a heart-shaped spoon. Her favourite music playing low in the background while he made breakfast. A note on the bathroom mirror; You are the prettiest wife in the world.

They spent the afternoon in pyjamas. She built a LEGO set on the floor while Lando FaceTimed with her mum to confirm the recipe for her birthday cake. He wore an apron. He got flour on his nose. She kissed it off.

That evening, they sat on the floor eating cake straight from the pan, and she cried when he gave her an expensive notebook embossed with her name.

Amelia Norris.

“It’s not flashy,” he said. “But all of your other notebooks still have your old name, so...”

She just stared at him for a long time, her head tilted. “You’re the best. You know that?”

“Yeah,” he said, smug. “I know.”

She laughed, tackled him, kissed him breathless.

They didn’t leave the flat all day.

It was perfect.

—

The McLaren Technology Centre always smelled the same—polished steel, ozone, something faintly botanical from the lobby planters—but everything else felt different this time.

Amelia had a keycard with her name on it now.

Not “Visitor.”

Just: Amelia Norris, in black and papaya.

Her shoes clicked softly on the curved white floors as she walked the familiar path from reception, past the design offices, into the engineering wing. The glass walls gleamed. The lake shimmered outside. It should have been intimidating. Overwhelming. But Amelia had done intimidating. She’d helped engineer two world championships. She’d married the boy everyone had tried to separate her from.

This?

This wasn’t pressure.

This felt like coming home.

She found her new office on the corner, just past the chassis lab, with a good view over the test bays. The door was closed. The old paper sign had been replaced—somewhere between Christmas and now—with a proper etched plaque.

Amelia Norris Race Engineer – #81 Performance & Development Group

Her throat pinched unexpectedly.

She remembered, all at once, being ten years old and walking into the McLaren building behind her dad for the first time. Seeing a plaque with his name on it. She’d stood there, tracing the letters with small fingers, wide-eyed and awed. Now she was here. Different name. Different door. Different role.

But the same lineage.

Belief.

Hard work.

Love.

She opened the door. The air inside smelled faintly like new carpet and fresh whiteboard markers. Her desk was spotless. A neat stack of McLaren-branded post-its waited beside a rendered miniature model of the 2023 car—her nose scrunched unhappily at the sight of it. A framed photo had already been hung on the wall; her and Lando on the wedding day, his arms around her waist, her hand on his chest, both of them caught mid-laugh. It was small. Tasteful. She rolled her eyes and grinned.

A knock at the open door.

It was Oscar, carrying two coffees, looking slightly overwhelmed but trying not to show it. “I got the ones with the oat milk,” he said, holding one out. “Because Lando said you don’t like dairy. Is that okay?”

“You did great,” she said, accepting the mug. “First day. How are you feeling?”

He gave her a tired smile. “Like this is all suddenly very real.”

“It is real,” Amelia said, settling into the chair behind her desk. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time in this office, you and me. Meetings, sim data, post-session debriefs, late-night panic coffee when the floor upgrades come in weird—so don’t knock if I’m already in here. Just walk in.”

Oscar glanced around the space, tentative. “Feels like… your territory.”

She shook her head. “Nope. This is ours now. I’ve just had a head start.”

That got her a small, grateful smile. He stepped further inside, letting his gaze linger on the whiteboards, the framed photo, the car model.

“So,” he said after a beat. “Where do we start?”

Amelia stood. “We start by checking in on the car.”

She led him down the corridor toward the fabrication bay, familiar turns in the MTC’s clean white maze. The sounds of drills and chatter floated up as they descended a level—production technicians deep in the quiet, obsessive rhythm of building something meant to move at 300 kilometres an hour.

The #81 chassis was sitting on its frame stand, half-clad in carbon and glinting under the overheads. Its nose wasn’t mounted yet. Wires trailed from the cockpit. The halo was freshly attached, still matte from the final torque tests. The papaya-orange paint was only partially finished—bare in some places, ghosted in others.

Oscar stepped forward slowly. His expression changed.

“I’ve seen it in renders,” he said. “But not like this.”

Amelia folded her arms and smiled beside him. “This is the part no one really gets to see.”

“You didn’t design it?” He asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’ve been talking with the aero team. There’s a lot I want to change, but it’s unrealistic to expect them to change the entire chassis so close to testing. So… this year, Oscar,” She gave him a look that she hoped conveyed hope. “This year, just grin and bear it, even if it’s awful, okay? I promise you that next year’s car will be better. Built for you, not the other way around.”

Oscar let out a breath. “It’s kind of insane, isn’t it?”

She glanced over at him. “Yeah. You think you’ll be able to trust me with this?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Then me and you, Oscar, will be just fine.” She said.

He didn’t smile—but his shoulders dropped.

And Amelia looked at the half-built car, at the number #81 she’d fought to earn, and felt something slide gently into place.

This was going to be one hell of a year.

—

The lights in the briefing room had dimmed. Most of the engineering team had filtered out hours ago, but Amelia was still there, flipping absently through tyre degradation projections from last season — data that wouldn’t mean much in a few weeks, but still gave her something to think about. Something to do with her hands.

She was about to pack up when the door creaked open again.

Her dad poked his head in. “Got a second?”

Amelia blinked, surprised. “Sure, Dad.”

He stepped in with that familiar slight limp — the one she’d grown up watching as he trailed alongside mechanics at every paddock stop, years of karting crashes softened into a permanent rhythm. Behind him came her mom, cardigan draped over her shoulders, McLaren lanyard around her neck. VIP badge and all. It made Amelia smile. “Hi, mom.”

“Didn’t think we’d find you alone,” Her dad said, settling against the edge of the long table. “You giving Oscar a break already?”

Amelia nodded. “He was starting to get a bit pale, so I sent him home. Told him to sleep, hydrate, and be back tomorrow at seven sharp. Then I got comfy here.”

Her mom set a bottle of water in front of her, like muscle memory. “You used to hide in closets with puzzle books when the house got loud. Same thing, right?”

Amelia chuckled. “Yeah. Some things don’t change.”

Her dad looked between them, something unusually soft in his expression. “I’ve been meaning to say this for a while,” he said, “but now just felt like the right time.”

She turned toward him fully, head tilting.

“I’m proud of you,” Her dad said simply. “And I’m incredibly lucky to have you here. McLaren’s lucky.”

Amelia blinked. Her throat pulled tight. “Dad…”

He raised a hand, gently waving off the emotion. “Should’ve made it happen a lot sooner. That’s on me. But now that you're here, I hope you know how much it means. To me. To the whole team.”

Her mom placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding and warm. “He’s right. You’re doing everything you dreamed about. Everything we dreamed about with you. I’m so proud I could burst.”

Amelia huffed a quiet laugh, but it cracked a little. “You guys can’t say things like this when I’ve only slept for four hours. I’m emotionally unstable.”

Her dad grinned. “That’s why it’s the perfect time.”

Her mom pulled her in gently, and Amelia didn’t resist. She let her eyes flutter shut, breathing in that familiar lavender hand lotion and wool-sweater smell.

“You belong here,” her mom whispered.

“I know,” Amelia said. And this time — for real, for the first time — she did.

Her dad cleared his throat, though his voice was still thick. “Now go home to your husband. Rest. The cars will still be broken tomorrow.”

Amelia rolled her eyes but smiled through it.

“Thanks, boss.”

“Anytime, Norris.”

—

Oscar arrived in Monaco for his pre-season training camp with a backpack, a foam roller, and the most earnest expression Amelia had ever seen on a human being — in fact, the only reason she could even name it was because she’d seen it a hundred times before. On puppies.

“You know,” she said from the kitchen doorway as he stepped in, “you’re not going to inconvenience us by being here. We invited you.”

Oscar set his things down neatly by the shoe rack, eyes flicking around the flat. “Yeah. It’s just—your place is really nice.”

“Thank you,” Amelia was grinning. “It’s still a work in progress, but it’s home.”

Lando padded in barefoot from the balcony, already in training shorts and a tank top. “Mate, if you think this is nice, wait until you see what Zak wants us to rent for the post-season media thing in Abu Dhabi. That place has a literal waterfall in the living room.”

Oscar blinked. “What? Why?”

“Rich people don’t need reasons,” Amelia said, stepping aside so Oscar could follow them further in. “And my dad is a show-off.”

The flat had that relaxed chaos of somewhere well-lived-in—running shoes kicked off near the front door, a stack of magazines on the coffee table, a lingering citrusy scent. It was spacious without being overwhelming, modern without being sterile.

Lando threw a hand over Oscar’s shoulder and guided him toward the guest room which doubled as Lando’s streaming room. “You’re in here. Don’t touch the minibar. It’s all mine.”

Oscar peeked inside. “Is that a fridge full of Capri-Suns?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to,” Lando called, already walking away.

Amelia leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching them. She liked this. Lando at ease. Oscar softening. Her home being something useful, not just pretty.

Later that evening, after a sweaty cardio session and a cool-down stretch on the balcony, the boys collapsed onto the oversized sofa, Amelia wedged between them with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

Lando passed Oscar the remote. “You get to pick tonight, since you’re the guest. Just know if you choose anything from the Fast & Furious franchise, Amelia will walk out.”

“I will not walk out,” Amelia said, indignant.

Lando arched an eyebrow.

“…I’ll just complain loudly the whole time.”

Oscar snorted, already scrolling. “Right. Noted.”

The movie ended up being some critically acclaimed indie drama that neither of the boys fully understood.. Lando made them all hot chocolate afterwards, and by the time they were all just about ready to turn in for the night, Oscar was laughing at something dumb Lando said and Amelia’s shoulders were loose.

As she brushed her teeth, Lando leaned on the doorframe beside her.

“He’s nervous,” she said quietly.

“Yeah. But he’s got you now,” Lando replied, bumping her shoulder with his.

She turned to look at him in the mirror. “Us.”

He smiled indulgently. “Yeah. Us.”

—

The morning sun spilled golden across the Monaco coastline, already warm against the stone path where Oscar was mid-sprint. His breath came in sharp bursts, chest rising and falling as he rounded the final bend and came to a staggering halt beside Lando, who was doubled over, hands on knees.

“Time?” Oscar huffed.

Amelia looked up from her iPad, where she’d been quietly timing their intervals with clinical precision. She didn’t even blink. “You beat him by two seconds.”

Oscar glanced over at Lando, who let out a dramatic groan and dropped onto the grass.

“I’m filing for divorce,” Lando muttered, voice muffled against the ground.

“You wouldn’t,” Amelia said, calmly tapping in their recovery timer. “The paperwork would confuse you too much.”

“Tell that to my lungs.” He wheezed.

Oscar grinned, sweat dripping from his jaw. “So what’s next? More hill sprints? Or can we just die now?”

“No. Dying is inefficient,” Amelia said. “Hydrate. Then core work.”

They obeyed without argument.

The thing about Amelia, Oscar had quickly learned, was that she didn’t bark orders. She didn’t have to. Her tone was measured, her words precise, and when she glanced up from the iPad and said things like, “Your balance is off on your left side, Oscar,” she was never wrong. She was observant. Quiet power in noise-cancelling headphones.

She didn’t train with them, didn’t have the interest or the inclination, but she was there every morning, hair up, thermos of coffee in hand, tracking performance and recovery stats like it was an active session at the factory.

“You know,” Oscar said between planks, “you could charge for this. Drivers would pay for a week with you.”

“I don’t have the patience for other drivers,” she replied, scribbling a note on a clipboard.

Lando groaned from the mat next to him. “She only yells at me because she loves me.”

Amelia snorted. “If you think this is yelling, you’ve never heard me at a strategy debrief.”

Oscar just grinned.

Later, after stretches and protein shakes and a failed attempt to get Lando into a cold plunge tub, the three of them sat in the shade of the terrace overlooking the bay. Amelia had her feet tucked under her on the lounger, iPad back in her lap, editing performance curves from Oscar’s last sim session at the factory.

Oscar looked at the way she leaned into Lando’s side without thinking, how his hand found her knee instinctively, like their bodies were in permanent sync.

They sat quietly for a minute, the breeze rolling in from the sea. Oscar took a long sip of his smoothie, then glanced over at Amelia. “So,” he said, carefully, “what’s it going to be like like—having you on comms?”

Amelia’s fingers paused mid-scroll.

Lando laughed before she could speak. “You mean what’s it like being managed by someone who knows when you’re about to crash before you do?”

Oscar raised his eyebrows. “That accurate?”

“Yes,” Lando said, grinning as he nudged Amelia’s knee.

She finally looked up, eyes cool and thoughtful. “You’re asking what kind of race engineer I’m going to be.”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Firm. Clear. I don’t do sugarcoating unless it’s strategic. You’ll never have to wonder what I mean. I’ll say exactly what I mean — respectfully, but directly. And if I sound like I’m babysitting you, it’s because you’re doing something reckless and I’m trying to keep you alive.”

Oscar blinked. “Okay. That’s... intense.”

Lando sipped his drink. “It’s great. You don’t realise how much mental bandwidth it saves until you have someone like her by your side.”

Oscar looked back at Amelia. “You’re always confident?”

“No,” she said plainly. “I’ll never pretend to know something I don’t. And if I think I’ve made the wrong call, I’ll say so. Accountability matters.”

Oscar nodded slowly, letting that sink in. “And… if I mess up?”

“You will,” she said. “We all do. I’m not here to protect your ego. I’m here to make you better. As long as you meet me halfway, we’ll be fine.”

There was no warmth in her tone, but there was no cruelty, either. It was measured. Practical. Fair.

Oscar smiled. “Honestly? That sounds kind of ideal.”

She tilted her head. “You say that now.”

Lando leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’ll be in the best hands, mate.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I believe you.”

—

Two weeks later, Oscar was slumped in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, while Amelia stood by the screen at the front, laser pointer in hand, calmly dissecting sector times.

“Your turn-in at turn nine still needs work,” she said, tapping the data overlay. “You’re braking a shade too late, trying to save the lap, but you’re compromising the exit.”

Oscar nodded, brow furrowed. “That’s the only part I can’t feel yet. I know it’s wrong, but it’s like—my brain doesn’t register it until I’ve already done it.”

“Give it time,” she said. “Muscle memory is a process.”

Lando appeared in the doorway, holding two takeaway coffees. “One for the newly-minted golden boy,” he said, tossing one toward Oscar, “and one for my beloved engineer wife who abandoned me for another driver.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Amelia said mildly, taking the cup. “You’re just in time.”

“For what?”

Amelia walked over to her desk, opened a tin, and revealed a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies. Perfectly golden. Still warm.

Oscar’s eyes widened. “You bake?”

“Only when you do well in a session,” she said, offering him the tin. “Which today you did.”

Oscar blinked down at the cookies. “You’re the best race engineer ever.”

Lando scowled. “Okay, rude. You never make me cookies.”

Amelia raised a brow. “When was the last time you called me the best race engineer ever?”

Oscar, mouth full of cookie, muffled, “She’s terrifying, but I love her.”

Lando leaned against the desk, narrowing his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching my wife emotionally cheat on me with my teammate.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “You knew what this was.”

Oscar glanced between them. “Wait, is this, like… a bit?”

“She calls you ‘ducky,’” Lando said, like it pained him.

Oscar blinked. “Ducky?”

Amelia shoved the tin toward him again, giving Lando a stern glare. “Don’t worry about it, sweet amazing talented driver of mine. Just eat your cookies.”

Oscar did as instructed.

Lando groaned. “I hate it here.”

“You love it here,” Amelia said, slipping an arm around his waist and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Because you love me, don’t you? You did marry me.”

He narrowed his eyes, but there was no real heat there. “Fine. But I get the last cookie.”

Amelia snorted. “Of course.”

Oscar made a sound of betrayal. “You’re picking favourites.”

“I married him, Oscar.”

“Still feels unfair.”

—

The McLaren garages were alive. Mechanics moved with efficient purpose, telemetry streamed in real time on the screens, and the dry desert air seeped in through the open shutters. The scent of brake dust, sun-warmed concrete, and machine oil hung in the air. Cloying and irritating and perfect.

Amelia stood at the back of Oscar’s garage, headset resting around her neck, iPad in hand. Her new team uniform still felt crisp against her skin—papaya and black, her name stitched cleanly above the heart. It was real now. No more transitioning. No more waiting.

Oscar was getting into the car for his first run of the day, glancing over at her briefly as the mechanics helped him buckle in. She gave him a little nod, her calm face belying the thrum of nerves and excitement in her chest.

“You good?” Lando asked, appearing beside her. He was in his own suit, visor up, half-laughing at her expression. “You look like you’re about to start pacing.”

“I don’t pace,” she said, but her fingers were flexing on the edge of the tablet. “This is just… a big moment.”

Lando smiled, softer now. “Yeah. It is. You’re allowed to feel everything. Just don’t cry; you’ll scare the interns.”

She elbowed him lightly.

Andrea approached from the pit wall side, arms crossed over his chest. “There she is,” he said with a warm smile.

Amelia straightened a little. “Andrea. Hi.”

“I just wanted to say—welcome. I know everyone’s said it already, but truly… I’m very glad you’re here.” He told her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m really glad to be here too.”

“I’ve been following your work for years, Amelia. Red Bull were lucky to have you. And now we are.” His voice was kind, but earnest. “You and Oscar — I think you’re going to be a very strong pair.”

She felt a little warmth creep up her neck. “Yes. We will.”

—

She stepped up onto the pit wall platform, put her headset on, and opened the channel.

“Radio check, Ducky.”

There was a beat of static. Then, “Loud and clear. I’d prefer that nickname didn’t stick.”

“Okay,” she said, amusement in her voice. “Let’s see what this car can do. Prepare to line up in the pit-lane.”

—

Testing was over for the day; cars were tucked back into the garage, data was uploading.

Amelia was crouched by the pit wall, collecting her headset, untangling cords, and making a few tired annotations on her iPad. She didn’t look up when a bottle of water appeared beside her.

“Thanks,” she said, assuming it was Lando.

“It’s the least I could do,” said Will.

She blinked. Looked up.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

Will Joseph, who had been Lando’s engineer longer than Lando had been allowed to rent cars, gave her a crooked smile and sat down next to her on the concrete step. His jacket was unzipped to the waist, arms wrapped around his knees.

“So,” he said casually, “you’re the other half now.”

Amelia stared at him. “Of the married couple?”

“No.” He gestured loosely toward the track. “Of the race engineer pair. Me and you. I figured we should talk before we both start yelling instructions across the garage like divorced parents.”

She laughed. “Good thinking.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

“He’s doing well,” Will said eventually, nodding toward Oscar’s car. “Really well. And he listens to you.”

Amelia gave a small smile, then sipped her water. “He’s eager. Smart. Needs a bit of runway, but when he clicks, he clicks. Reminds me of Max, a little bit. All instinct and edge.”

Will nodded. “He trusts you. That’s the important bit. You can’t teach that.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

Will glanced at her, thoughtful. “And you — you’ve slotted in like you’ve always been here. It’s a little annoying, actually.”

“Sorry,” she said, not sorry.

“You should be,” Will deadpanned. “Took me five years to get a decent coffee cup in this place. You walk in and suddenly there’s a new espresso machine and colour-coded run plans.”

She made a face. “I’m a bit much, I know.”

“No,” Will said, serious now. “You’re brilliant. The way you’ve got Oscar dialled in already… it’s impressive.”

Amelia looked down, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Thanks.”

“You’re also married to my driver,” he added. “So I reserve the right to glare at you if he starts acting like a brat.”

“He already does that all the time,” she muttered, then smiled.

Will leaned back on his elbows, looking toward the now-quiet pit lane. “This year’s gonna be something, huh?”

Amelia followed his gaze. “Yeah. I think it is.”

—

The restaurant was one of Lando’s favourites in Bahrain — low lighting, good food, quiet enough that nobody bothered them. Amelia had picked the table. Tucked into a corner, facing a floor-to-ceiling window. Oscar had shown up five minutes early and had to hover awkwardly near the entrance until they turned up.

Now, halfway through their mains, Lando was poking at his pasta with a fork and Amelia was mid-rant about diffuser regulation changes when Oscar leaned back in his chair and went suddenly still.

“What?” Lando asked, around a bite of bread.

Oscar blinked. “I just realised I’m third wheeling right now.”

Amelia stopped mid-sentence. “What?”

Oscar gestured at them. “You two. Married. Clearly telepathic. Lando ordered for you.”

“That doesn’t make you a third wheel,” Amelia frowned.

Lando swallowed his bite. “Mate.”

Oscar looked at him. Warily.

“You’ve been a third wheel in this relationship since you were in F3.” Lando said.

Amelia nearly choked on her water. “Lando!”

“No, no, let’s be honest!” Lando leaned back, grinning. “He was always around. And you were fixated on him, babe.”

“I was literally just doing my job,” Oscar said, flat.

“Yeah, well,” Lando shrugged, “now your job is to let us be disgustingly in love while you sit there and suffer.”

Amelia laughed, eyes soft, and reached out to squeeze Oscar’s arm. “You’re not a third wheel.”

He gave her a look. “You just reached over your husband to comfort me for being your awkward sidekick.”

“Well, yeah,” she said. “But you’re our awkward sidekick.”

Lando raised his glass. “To being contractually stuck with us.”

Oscar sighed. “God help me.”

They clinked glasses anyway.

And when dessert came, Amelia passed her spoon to Oscar without thinking, and Lando threw a napkin at him for stealing a strawberry off her plate, and Oscar just smiled to himself.

Third wheel or not, it was kind of nice to be included.

—

Most of the media groups had cleared out by the time Thursday night fell, the floodlights humming softly above the garages.

Amelia had just finished her final round of pre-race checks with Oscar when she ran into Max. He was leaning against the railing, sipping from a Red Bull can, and raised a teasing eyebrow when he saw her. “Look who it is,” he said.

She smiled, tugging her McLaren jacket tighter around her. “You’re here late.”

Max shrugged. “You’re one to talk, zusje. Shouldn’t you be off managing your husbands nerves or something?”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Lando’s fine.”

Max tilted his head slightly. “Still weird seeing you in papaya.”

“I know,” she said, quiet.

There was a beat of silence. Comfortable, familiar.

“I miss you,” Max said.

Her eyes stung a little. “I miss you too.”

He didn’t move, but his voice softened. “It won’t be the same tomorrow.”

Amelia smiled faintly. “You’ll be fine.”

“I know. But still.”

She reached over, gave his wrist a squeeze. “Good luck tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Try to keep your rookie from crashing into me.”

“No promises,” she said, then stepped forward and let him hug her for a minute before they had to go their separate ways again.

—

When she entered their hotel suite an hour later, she didn’t expect Lando to be… well, naked.

“Hi baby,” he said casually from the bed, lounging. “Welcome back.”

She blinked. “Are you… is this going to become some kind of welcome-home ritual?”

“Could be,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Depends how much you like it.”

She laughed, kicking off her shoes. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

“And yet, you married me.”

“Unbelievably,” she said, walking over and tugging the covers up over him pointedly, “I did.”

He caught her wrist and pulled her down beside him. “You okay?”

She nodded, nuzzling into his bare shoulder. “Yeah. Ran into Max.”

“Oh?” He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Everything good?”

“He misses me,” she murmured. “I miss him too.”

“Of course he does. You were his second brain.”

“I was his friend,” she said, voice muffled by his skin. “Sister. Or something.”

“That too.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“You ready for tomorrow?” She asked, quietly.

Lando tilted his head down to kiss her temple. “I’m ready if you’re there.”

She smiled. “Always.”

He grinned. “Even if I show up to driver briefings naked?”

“I will quit on the spot.”

He laughed, pulling her closer. “Okay. I’ll save that surprise for Suzuka.”

—

The sun was slipping below the horizon, throwing orange light across the desert as the cars rolled out for the formation lap. Amelia sat at the McLaren pit-wall, headset settled snugly over her ears, telemetry lighting up across her screen. Her fingers hovered above the radio trigger.

“Car 81, radio check,” she said, voice steady.

“Loud and clear,” Oscar replied, a hint of tension in his voice, but nothing she hadn’t heard before.

“Copy,” she said, softer now. “You’re all set. Let’s go through it one more time.”

He didn’t ask what she meant. They’d already talked about it in sim, in briefings, walking to the grid, but he let her say it anyway. Maybe he needed to hear it.

“Be clean off the line. You don’t need to win the race in the first hundred metres. Give yourself space, keep your head on a swivel through Turn 1; we’ve seen chaos there before. Stay tight and controlled.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve got good tyre temp. ERS settings look fine. Sensors are happy. You’ve done this a hundred times in the sim.”

“But not in real life,” Oscar said, and she could hear the nerves now.

Amelia smiled a little, despite herself. “Not in real life. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. You’ve earned this. All I want you to do is drive the car the way I know you can.”

“Right.” A breath. “Okay. Thanks, Amelia.”

She glanced up at the screen. Cars were lining up now. The tension in the garage thickened. Engineers froze in place. Pit wall comms turned clipped and quiet.

“Hey, Oscar?” she said, just before the lights started to come on.

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you. I’ve got you the whole way. Let’s go racing.”

He didn’t respond in words, but the burst of static and the slight hitch of breath on the other end was enough.

Five lights. Four. Three.

And then they were off.

For maybe four laps, things were steady.

Then Oscar’s name blinked red.

"Car 81. Box box," came the call, clipped through Amelia’s headset. She didn’t flinch. Just hit her button and said calmly, "Copy. Oscar, we’ve got a pneumatic pressure issue. Bring it in nice and easy. No risks."

He confirmed. Voice low. A little shaky.

She switched channels immediately. “Can we get it back out?”

“No,” came the reply from the garage. “It’s terminal.”

Beside her, Will swore under his breath. “One down.”

“Could’ve been worse,” she said, tone even. “Could’ve been two.”

Which, of course, was the cue.

Just as they hit the halfway mark, Lando came over the radio. “Guys… I’m losing power. Something’s wrong.”

Will jumped in, trying to diagnose it live with him. Amelia kept her eyes locked on the data, flicking through cooling systems, oil pressure, everything she could find.

It was no use. It was happening again.

"Box, Lando. We’ll retire the car."

Silence. Then a tight, “Okay.”

Will leaned back from the wall, exhaling slowly. “Two DNFs.”

Amelia didn’t answer. Just stared at the screens in front of her, mouth pressed in a thin line.

Finally, she said, “Well. Shit.”

Will huffed a bitter laugh. “Welcome back.”

“Yeah,” she said dryly. “Such a pleasure.”

They stayed quiet for a moment, just watching the race unravel without them.

Then Will added, “Next week can’t be worse.”

She didn’t look at him. Just sipped from her McLaren bottle and muttered, “Things can always be worse.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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