#because my brain is buzzing and i need something for it to focus on

[phoenixkaptain]

Tim proving himself through facing Scarecrow is so good. You don't understand: it's the setup, it's the layout, it's everything.

Of course Tim has to go against Bruce to prove he's ready to be Robin, that's a staple, every Robin doe sthat, but Tim specifically facing Scarecrow is the nail in the coffin, the significance is magnificent, it's Tim overcoming the fear because he isn't like Bruce

That's the whole thing, that's the detraction of Tim's character, you hear it all the time, "Tim's just like Bruce" and you aren't wrong but you're missing the fundamental part, the little piece that keeps Tim separate so dramatically and that makes him and Bruce a dynamic duo:

Bruce was crushed by his parents' deaths. In a way, he never overcomes the fear that gripped him. Scarecrow is his biggest threat in this and just about every other issue precisely because Bruce knows what he's most scared of and he can't just walk it off. He's so emotionally entangled that it's almost impossible for him to walk it off. It's almost impossible for anyone to walk it off.

Except for Tim.

Because Tim's greatest fear isn't his parents dying. Even at his mother's funeral, he's mostly apathetic. I doubt he came to terms with it was he said he did, but he was more upset by the lack of trust Bruce was putting in him by assuming that Tim would be so emotionally unbalanced he wouldn't be able to handle being Robin. Tim's greatest fear isn't his parents' death or his own death or anything else along those lines; his biggest fear is disappointing Robin. As in, he fears misusing the name, misrepresenting the colours, misunderstanding the role.

Tim walks off his fear because he isn't as emotionally attached to his mother as Bruce was his parents. He seems almost apathetic because he is apathetic. Does that mean it doesn't affect him? Of course not! Of course it affects him! They were his parents after all.

But Tim's only connection to his parents is that blood connection. While Bruce has blood, he also has memories of his parents genuinely loving and caring for him. He has fond memories of his parents. He never doubts that his parents loved him. He had an emotional connection, and when they died, it crushed him emotionally, physically, mentally...

Tim just doesn't have that same connection. His mom dying hurts him, but it's just that. It doesn't crush him. It can't crush him, because there was no real weight behind their relationship.

Where Bruce and Tim are similar, they are very similar. But in this, in the face of fear, Tim can overcome it when Bruce finds it difficult. Tim isn't afraid of loss. He never had it to begin with.

But he fears losing Bruce. He fears losing the connection he's built with Bruce. Bruce told him that coming out meant he would never be Robin and Tim wants so desperately to be Robin that he tries to convince himself that Bruce'll be fine, Batman is always fine, but he can't convince himself because he's too scared of losing Bruce.

Tim is scared of letting down Robin's legacy because Tim views Robin's legacy as protecting Batman. In his mind, it's Robin's main role: keep Batman safe. That's why he's so adamant that Batman needs a Robin in the first place - he wants Bruce to be safe, even from Bruce himself.

Tim doesn't go in the Robin suit. And this too is how scared he is of losing Bruce. As if even if he is wrong and Bruce is fine or if he's right and Bruce isn't fine, Bruce only told him not to go out as Robin, and he didn't go out as Robin, so even though Bruce will lose trust in him, surely he'll be able to see that Tim made an attempt to follow the rule, that Tim tried not to upset him?

And Bruce obviously is like "??? Why aren't you dressed as Robin?" Because bro knows his ass was so totally grass before Tim got there like-

I've said it time and again that Tim and Bruce are so similar yet so different and this proves it, this is all the proof, this is so good the way they are because-!

Bruce plays with the rules. Vigilante justice is a crime? Okay. See if he can't pay bail. See if he can't afford a fancy mob lawyer. If you even catch him in the first place.

Tim sidles along right next to the rules. "You said not to go out tonight, but I'm inside a car, so it can't really count."

And while the comic proves their differences, it still goes out of its way to prove their likeness because Tim uses fear to lure guards into traps and Tim ultimately smashes Scarecrow into Scarecrow's own fear gases, implying that Tim really just scared Scarecrow out of his own game. Scarecrow's gonna have nightmares about short people in red ski masks for weeks after this.

Tim uses fear as part of his strategy like Bruce and he disappears from the scene before the cops can catch him like Bruce.

And even as Tim assumes he blew his whole chance to ever even think about being Robin, he still went through with it because his biggest fear is always going to be losing Bruce over anything else. Whether that be losing Bruce's trust or Bruce losing his life.

I guess it can be summarized thusly.

Bruce became Batman because his parents died in front of him and he knew he would probably never catch the actual murderer, so he tries to make up for that by catching every other criminal in the city. And he knows that it will never really make up for it, but he has to do something because he felt powerless then, and he doesn't want to feel powerless ever again. Which is also why he takes in both Dick and Jason, two boys who are powerless but still try to fight back despite their situations. He teaches them power to keep them from feeling powerless again.

Tim became Robin because he saw a boy's parents die, he had nightmares about it for months, nightmares that he never shared with his parents, and the part that stuck out was that when the boy was at his lowest, his saddest, Batman saved him. And watching Batman became caring about Batman became wanting to be there when Batman was at his lowest, his saddest, to provide the same comfort to Batman that Batman provides to everyone else.

TLDR: Batman #455-457 are pretty good issues and I would recommend them to any Timmer fans. Personally a fan of how Tim thanks Dick for being at his mother's funeral, and while Dick and Bruce are thinking about how depressed and torn apart Tim must be, Tim is casually talking to a random guy in the background. I don't think I can ever emphasize enough how much Tim just. Feels nothing. It is both amazingly depressing and funny only to me. 10/10. Coulda used more Dick.

[gothcsz]

Hands To Myself | Javier Peña x F!Reader | ~4k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: You get to know the handsome stranger sitting next to you on your overnight flight to Mexico.

Tags: smut, reader is ovulating, hand job, fingering, dirty talk, lust at first sight again, sexual acts in public (on a plane), let's just pretend this is realistic okay, pwp, blowjob to completion, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, reader is a woman of color yet everyone is encouraged to read, no physical descriptions, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: this is all @probablyreadinsmut's fault tbh. coming into my inbox with horny thoughts, knowing i have to do something about it 😩 hehe i hope you guys like this, it's nothing special... i just need this man in any way i can get him! let me know what you thinkkkkkk🖤

You knew you were fucked the second you saw him at the gate. He isn’t just attractive—he’s ridiculously attractive. The kind of hot that only exists in movies or in passing, like some guy you make eye contact with and never see again. Except this time, he wasn’t just passing through. He was standing right there.

To make matters worse, your hormones are out of control. Peak ovulation. Just being around a man has your skin buzzing, like your body is betraying you on a biological level.

So yeah, you looked. How could you not? He’s tall, has broad shoulders, leaner than what you usually go for but still built in a way that makes your brain short-circuit.

Then the universe really had to mess with you—you are assigned the seat right next to him for the overnight flight.

Your stomach drops. Suddenly, your go-to comfy travel outfit, leggings and a cardigan, feels way too basic.

“I’m at the window seat,” you say, trying to sound normal.

He looks up, meeting your gaze, and smiles—actually smiles. His brown eyes are warm and a little intrigued as he gives you a once over.

“Okay.”

Just that one word and you are already overthinking. How good his voice would sound in your ear as he’s—

No, you won’t make things harder on yourself by having intrusive sexual thoughts about some stranger. No matter how good looking he is.

You shove your carry-on into the overhead bin and awkwardly step aside so he can stand and let you in. His body brushes against yours, and you get a whiff of his cologne, something woodsy, mixed with the unmistakable scent of whiskey from the airport bar.

Okay… so maybe you’d been watching him for longer than just at the gate. But who could blame you? The man is truly a sight to behold. It’s not like you were being a creep about it.

You mutter a soft “thanks” and sink into your seat, trying very hard to act normal while the flight attendants go through their safety spiel, though it’s hard to focus when you can feel his presence right next to you.

You need a distraction—fast. So, in a last-ditch effort to stop acting like a feral idiot, you pluck your book from your backpack and try to read.

It works, kind of. Not really.

“So, what’s waiting for you in Playa del Carmen?”

His voice, low and raspy, cuts through your attempt at reading—not that you’d absorbed a single word, still stuck on the same page since you opened it.

You glance over, and of course, he’s already looking at you. His leather jacket is gone, leaving him in a short sleeved button-down, a few undone buttons teasing the tanned skin of his neck, his thick biceps straining against the fabric.

You take too long to answer because he tilts his head slightly, lips twitching like he’s holding back a smirk. “Sorry—abrupt fuckin’ question.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You stumble over your words, mentally cringing at yourself. His brows raise slightly, amused, and you don’t miss the way his mustache tics when he presses his lips together. 

“A friend’s birthday trip. I got caught up at work, so I had to take a later flight at the last minute. What about you?”

He hums, the sound deep and thoughtful. “Work.” That’s all he offers. “Not as fun as what you’ll be getting up to, I’m sure.”

You bite your lip, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your book. “I’ve heard the beaches are beautiful. I’m excited to just lounge and take in the sun. It’s been so long since I’ve gone on a proper vacation.”

Your tongue is loose despite the way you’re vibrating under the weight of his attention.

“I know that feeling. Don’t even think my body knows what a vacation is…” He trails off, leaning back in his seat, thighs spreading in that way men do, which you usually find annoying but something about the way he does it has your pussy clenching, and you try no to let your eyes drop down to his crotch.

“How’s the book?”

You blink slowly, returning your attention to the paperback in your hand. “Got a slow start but so far it’s been alright.”

“I bet. You’ve been stuck on the same page since we took off. Must be the most riveting paragraph ever written.”

Heat creeps up your neck, and if it were anybody else, you’d be weirded out by their observation. Being hot does have its privileges. “Maybe I just like rereading. Really taking in the point the author is trying to make.”

“Uh-huh, right…” He chuckles softly and that sound triggers the desire that seeps into every pore of your skin.

The conversation continues flowing thereafter, which you definitely did not expect. His name is Javier, and he’s constantly traveling for work—though he’s vague on the details, and you’re not about to grill a stranger for his life story.

Instead, the topics meander, easy and flirtatious, both of you toeing the line between casual and something else.

You swear he’s flirting. He leans in slightly when you speak, holds your eyes captive just a beat too long, like he’s in no rush to look away.

You’re noticing everything the deeper you get into this… thing. The way lips form around each word, full and obnoxiously kissable. The way his brown eyes glint when he talks about things that should be trivial but feel interesting because he’s the one saying them. How the tendons in his forearms flex whenever he gestures, his fingers long and strong, the kind of hands that could make a woman very happy.

Your horny brain is spiraling.

“A mango marg is my go to. Preferably one of those ridiculously oversized ones with sugar on the rim.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You arch a brow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He scratches his jaw, flicking his tongue over his teeth. You admire how chiseled his jaw is. “Means you like to have fun. You probably get away with a lot.”

“And you think I get away with things?”

His eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second. “I think you could, if you wanted to.”

You cross your legs, shifting in your seat like that’s going to help anything. It just makes it worse. Focus. He’s just a hot stranger. A hot stranger that smells like whiskey and cedarwood and keeps throwing you these amused little glances like he knows what the fuck he’s doing to you.

You should probably end this before you embarrass yourself. But instead, you just keep talking, keep flirting, and keep waiting to see just how far this can go.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Javier’s voice snaps you back to reality, and you blink, heat settling on your cheeks as your brain scrambles to catch up.

“Sorry, what?”

His lips curve slightly like he’s fighting a grin, but his eyes give him away. “You keep staring at my mouth…” He trails off, but there’s something in the way he says it. As if he’s caught you red-handed and is enjoying watching you squirm.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs press together on instinct.

Fuck.

Panic surges through you, and suddenly, the cabin feels way too small, the air too thick. “No, uh—there’s nothing there. I just… I zone out sometimes.” You clear your throat, fingers fumbling with your seatbelt. “Would you mind letting me get to the restroom?”

You sound as pathetic as you feel, but Javier doesn’t let up. His smirk stays put, eyes flicking over your face like he’s contemplating something.

Still, he nods. “Sure.”

He stands, stepping aside, and as you squeeze past him, his hand just barely grazes your lower back. Light enough to be innocent, intentional enough to send a full-body shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, pretending not to notice—pretending not to feel the slick heat between your legs pulse at the contact—and walk as casually as possible down the aisle.

The moment you lock the restroom door behind you, you press your palms against the tiny counter, breathing hard.

Your reflection stares back at you, pupils blown, lips parted like you just stumbled out of a damn makeout session. 

You’re hot. Turned on from nothing but a little eye contact and some shameless flirting. And the worst part? It’s not going away anytime soon. Especially since you’re sitting so fucking close to him. Your body is wound tight, aching at the worst possible time.

Your panties are soaked, borderline ruined, pussy crying to get some relief, and you actually consider slipping a hand down there and rubbing one out. But you know yourself. Getting off with your fingers is a slow, frustrating process, and the last thing you need is to be locked in an airplane restroom, chasing an orgasm while Javier is sitting just outside, existing like that.

So you suck it up. Splash some cool water on your face. Take a deep breath. Get it together.

When you step back into the aisle, he’s already standing, leaning casually against the row of seats as if his demeanor and charm aren’t totally putting you under his spell. He looks even better now than he did before you left.

You give him a tight-lipped, awkward smile as you slide back into your seat. He follows, sinking into his own with a quiet grunt, the sound low and rough enough to send another spark of pleasure straight to your cunt.

“Everything good?” He asks smoothly, but there’s an undercurrent of playfulness to it, like he already knows the answer.

You force your legs to stay still, clenching your thighs subtly as you nod.

“Mhm.”

He hums. “You don’t have to lie, you know.”

Your eyes snap up to his, heartbeat hammering. “What?”

“I know when a woman’s turned on. And you haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”

Your stomach drops, your whole body flooding with embarrassment. “That’s ridiculous—”

“Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.” He shrugs. “Been thinkin’ about how good your ass looks in those leggings since I saw you back at the airport.”

Oh, you’re so fucked.

Your breath stutters, fingers gripping the armrest as if that’ll do anything to ground you. Maybe this is a dream, it has to be. No way he’s reciprocating the horny vibes you’ve been exuding because of your damn ovulation cycle. 

“Javier…” His name falls from your lips, shaky, uncertain.

His expression doesn’t change—still cool, still lazy, but there’s a darkness to it now. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything…” His knuckles graze your thigh, featherlight, making you shiver before he pulls away. “But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like I’m not attracted to you.”

You lick your lips, watching the way he follows the movement, how his hand balls into a fist against his leg. The cabin is dim now, most passengers lost in their own worlds or asleep, and the seats around you are conveniently unoccupied. The flight attendants have finished their last walkthrough, leaving you tucked away in a private little pocket of space.

Your pulse thrums, a decision forming in the haze of arousal clouding your mind. “What if…” You hesitate, but then let the thought take control, logic be damned. “What if I wanted to do something?”

Javier’s brows lift slightly, intrigue flashing across his face. The shift is instant—his relaxed posture stiffens, his jaw ticks, and his eyes dip just slightly as if assessing exactly how far you’re willing to go.

You’re barely breathing as he lifts the armrest between you, his body pressing in tight, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. You almost pass out.

“Yeah?” His voice is nothing but a whisper, matching the lust that’s thrumming in your veins. “Like what?”

The warmth of his breath has you letting out a soft, involuntary whimper.

“Anything,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, the need unbearable. “I just need you to touch me.”

Javi exhales a low, quiet laugh through his nose, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. His lips ghost along the side of your jaw, teasing, taunting.

“I can do that.” His fingers then trail up your thigh agonizingly slow, stopping just at the hem of your leggings. “Just need you to keep quiet.”

You nod weakly, head tipping back against the seat as his mouth finds your neck. He starts slow, pressing soft kisses along the sensitive skin before sucking lightly, dragging his teeth over your pulse. You resist the urge to squirm as his large palm moves up your body, fingertips teasing along the curve of your breast over your top.

Your nipples tighten instantly, and when he pinches one between his fingers, both of you let out a quiet groan.

“So sensitive. You need more?”

You bite your lip, nodding desperately again. “Yes.”

His hand slips beneath your shirt and finally—rough fingertips meet your bare skin. He palms your breast, kneading, tugging at your nipple, sending sharp little sparks of pleasure straight to your pussy.

You shift, desperately trying to find any friction. Your horniness is maddening and he knows it.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. “So worked up already. Bet you’re soaked.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you whimper, hips rolling ever so slightly.

Javier groans at the movement, shifting even closer, his thigh pressing against yours as he works your tits over with a practiced hand.

His lips move up to your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, eyes locking with his for a brief moment before you both give in—lips crashing together, mouths desperate and hungry.

He can kiss.

His tongue slides against yours, tasting and exploring. The fingers at your breast keep working, rolling your nipple between his fingers, twisting just enough to make you gasp against his lips.

“Javi…” His name is exhaled breathlessly. “More. Please.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Yeah?” Leaving your tits, he moves down between your legs and you spread your thighs, giving him enough room to begin rubbing you over your leggings.

You let out a sharp gasp, back arching slightly. The pressure has you melting, chasing the touch you so desperately need.

Javier watches you, drinking in the slight furrow of your brow, how your lips purse. “Goddamn.” He can’t help but nip at your lower lip, gripping your thigh with his other hand as he grinds a little harder against your pussy. “You soaked right through these.”

Your fingers dig into his forearm, the teasing unbearable.

“You’re so—” You shudder, exhaling shakily and he’s living for it. “You’re so fucking hot, I couldn’t help it.”

“I could probably make you come just like this, huh? Needy little thing needs her pussy played with so bad, she’s whoring herself out on a fuckin’ plane just to get an orgasm.”

Your jaw hangs open at his filthy words.

Javier is clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. His fingers keep moving, slow and firm, while your hand drifts down, pressing against the hardness straining beneath his jeans. Even through the thick denim, he’s big, and when you squeeze just slightly, his hips jerk into your palm.

He groans into the kiss you’re sharing, enjoying your touch. “This is risky, you sure?”

You nod, struggling to think through the fog of lust clouding your mind. “I don’t care.”

That’s all it takes.

He pulls back, just enough for both of you to move quickly. You shrug off your cardigan, tucking it beneath you before slipping your leggings and panties down to your mid thigh. You’re not about to put your bare ass on this plane seat.

He unbuckles his belt, freeing himself from his jeans, and holy shit.

Your mouth goes dry. He’s thick, a swollen, flushed cock with a prominent vein running down the side, curving just enough to make your walls flutter at the thought of him fucking your cunt.

Javi catches your lingering gaze and smirks. “You just gonna look, or—?”

You drag your tongue across your palm before wrapping it around his leaking cock, your touch making him shudder. Slowly, you stroke him, spreading the precum with your thumb, gliding it over the sensitive head before giving a firm squeeze, earning a growl from deep in his chest.

His fingers slip between your thighs, spreading your pussy lips open, and he wastes no time in teasing your sensitive labia, dragging his touch up and down attentively.

You moan quietly as to not get yourself caught. He groans at the feeling of you, slick and hot, his digits smearing your arousal all over your pretty pussy before pressing against your swollen clit.

“If we weren’t on this goddamn plane I’d fuck the shit out of you.”

You can’t hold back your soft whine, your head tilting back, wrist still moving, his own fingers working magic between your thighs.

“How? Please Javi tell me how you’d fuck me.”

He buries his head into your neck, licking, biting, sucking at your skin, his thick fingers now breaching the mouth of your cunt.

It’s pure bliss—the stretch so much deeper, fuller than your own fingers ever manage. His thick digits work you open, pressing against every sensitive spot inside you. The way he drags against your inner walls has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, but it’s the relentless pressure on your fleshy pearl that wrecks you, erasing every thought but him.

“I’d have you spread out, my head buried between your legs, fucking you with my tongue until you’re wet enough to take this big cock.” His hips grind into your jerking palm to emphasize his point.

You can only imagine how his wet tongue would feel up against your flesh, tasting every crevice, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you.

“Probably start over you, wanna see that pretty face while I slide inside this tight pussy baby, fuck,” he groans, fingers now knuckles deep inside your cunt and you moan, slipping into this fantasy with him, imagining how good it’d feel to have his dick stretching you out.

“Not really a missionary girl but I know you’d make me feel good, Javi.”

His thumb is slick with your sticky wetness, allowing him to swirl your clit around, massaging it and making your pussy drool even more. Your nipples are hardened and oversensitive, adding to the bliss when they brush against the fabric of your shirt with every deep inhale and exhale you take. 

Javi’s fingers begin to thrust into you more earnestly, the soft squelch of your pussy getting finger fucked thankfully drowned out by the hum of the plane. “How would you want it then? Tell me how you’d take it.”

Another bead of precum dollops from his slit and your mouth waters, picking up the pace to match the stroking of his fingers inside you.

“On top. I’d bounce on your cock until you’re filling me up. Put my tits in your face, make you suck on them.”

A thin sheen of sweat clings to your temples, the heat of his kisses still lingering on your neck making your temperature spike like a fever you don’t want to break.

Javier gets desperate, leaning in to put his lips on yours, imagining the way your pussy would feel while you rode him. You clench around his fingers, your orgasm on the brink of making a mess all over his hand.

“You’d let me come inside you?” His voice is a husky murmur, almost taunting, laden with lust as he cups your jaw with his other hand before sliding lower, wrapping firmly around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, keeping you in place as he curls his fingers, brazen eyes boring into yours.

Your breath stutters as ecstacy coils impossibly tight. “Mhm,” you nod weakly, tears welling in your eyes from how good it all feels.

A wicked smirk spreads across his lips, his grip keeping you steady as he drags you closer. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ love that.”

His lips crash against yours again, swallowing your cries as his fingers work you harder, scissoring inside you, his fat thumb flicking your clit rapidly. 

It sends you tumbling over the edge, your entire body clenches, muscles locking as waves of pleasure ripple through you, your release coating his fingers while you moan into his mouth, trying to keep quiet, trying not to let the whole damn plane know what he’s doing to you.

Your grip on his cock tightens but you lose your rhythm as he lets you ride out your orgasm, whispering praises against your lips, not seeming bothered by the lack of attention at his shaft.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you attempt to catch your breath, blinking away the stars clouding your vision while he pulls his fingers out, a sticky web following.

Javier lifts his fingers between you, still slick with your release, dark eyes flicking to yours as he takes in the scent of your pussy before he’s licking at them, using the hold he still has on your neck to bring you in so you’re both making out with his wet fingers between the two of you, your tongue moving sinfully, getting lost in the act.

You break away when his fingers are licked clean, attempting to catch your breath. After regaining some control, you continue to work his cock, urging him to slide into the unoccupied third seat by the aisle so you have room to take him in your mouth.

Javi blinks, caught off guard, dick twitching in your grasp as he registers what you’re suggesting.

“You sure?” His hands flex like he’s barely holding himself back.

“Yes. Don’t want to make a mess, right? Just make sure no one’s looking.” You purr, pulling your legging and underwear back up before shifting your body and bending over to lick at his tip, circling around his head before you’re taking as much as you can into your mouth.

The positioning is a little cramped and awkward, but you don’t care. He tastes so good, feels even better on your tongue. The blood is roaring in your ears, you can’t even hear any of the quieted noises you’re pulling from him but you do feel his hand landing on the back of your neck and he pushes you further down, forcing you to take almost the entirety of his cock down your throat.

You fondle his balls, sucking in your cheeks and bobbing up and down quickly. His stomach tightens and before you know it, ropes of warm and salty cum are filling your mouth, his fingers digging into your skin. You moan around him, slurping him up before pulling away with a soft pop, wiping at the corners of your mouth where the fluids had smeared.

He looks just as wrecked as you had when you came, his cheeks a little pink, eyes dilated, breathing heavily. He exhales a quiet, breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair before tucking himself back into his pants, watching you with something dangerously close to admiration.

You lean in, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to his lips, returning the favor and letting him taste the last traces of himself.

“Where are you staying? This can’t be the last time I see you.”

You tell him the name of the resort, watching as that familiar cocky smirk creeps back onto his face.

“Okay,” he murmurs, mind already made up. “Can’t let you walk away after that. Pussy’s too good. Hope your friends don’t mind me stealing you for a night or two.”

He caresses your cheek and you melt into him, resting your chin on his shoulder, staring up at him with starry eyes. You already know you’re going to get the lecturing of your life once you disclose what just transpired to your homegirls.

“They will. Maybe I should extend my stay just a little longer…” Your fingers fidget with the buttons on his shirt.

“I’ll pay for it. Anything to see you again.”

Oh god, is this irresponsible of you? Probably. But you’re not thinking with your brain right now, no, you’re straight up thinking with your pussy.

“Deal.”

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7. @mandaloriankait . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @clubsoft . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @biapascal . @angiewatson .

[manmuncher777]

Visiting kuna while he’s in prison. Eughhhh 😈😈😈 especially if he gotta go buzz 😩

Awh hell yeah nonnie, you just like me fr. Enjoy my love🌟🌟

18+ MDNI SMUT

“I-I” you stuttered out, unable to come up with an explanation that might soothe the feral man beneath you. Nothing good coming to mind

“You-You. You what sweetheart?” His gruff voice rings in your ears, snapping you out of your brain fog. Visiting your boyfriend in prison had it benefits. Especially when hes a well known gang member. It allows for certain perks. Like him being allowed to have your visits in his room, a room that he doesnt have to share. For this you were very glad, seeing as you were straddling sukuna on his bunk, having a very private conversation.

“Come on baby, use that big girl brain of yours and tell me, I wanna know.” Sukuna had been in prison for months now, and each night you were getting lonelier and lonelier. And of one of the nights you were missing him… badly. Deciding to write him a letter, describing exactly how badly you needed him, what you wanted him to do to you, and if that wasnt enough you included a few photos of yourself to show him how much you missed him. Only that had now backfired on you as you realised you had riled up an imprisoned man, and now you were going to have to face the consequences

“ I wanna know exactly what you were thinking when you sent that to me.” Huge hands that previously rested on your hips now travelling to your ass, holding the flesh tight through your skirt. Pressing you down onto his growing buulge that was highly visible in his orange jumpsuit

“Because to me, thats just not fair, teasing me with those fucking Polaroids, looking all pretty and shit when you come and see me.”

“Kuna…” your voice trailed off, unsure of what to say. No actual words flowing though your minds, only filthy thoughts of the man beneath you. Face flushing as he speaks. All you can do is try and focus on what hes saying to you, but that same feeling if need you had the other night is now crawling up your spine, soaking your little panties.

But Sukuna wasnt happy with that reaction, he wanted more from you. He wanted to get you as needy as you had made him that night.

The air in Sukuna’s cell is thick, charged, the tension palpable. His hands, lazily resting on your ass, don’t move—but his smirk? That deep, knowing smirk is a weapon in itself. He lounges against the cold wall like a king on his throne, utterly at ease.

And yet, it’s you who feels trapped.

Because his eyes, dark with amusement and something far more dangerous, trace the curve of your lips, the flutter of your lashes, the way your breath hitches every time he exhales against your skin. He’s enjoying this—enjoying you—and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

If you weren’t going to talk about the letter, he was just going to have to tease it out of you.

“So,” he purrs, tilting his head. “A little bird tells me you’ve been thinking about me.”

Your body tenses at his words, mind buzzing with so many thoughts, but you force yourself to answer him, doing your best to cling onto he little resolve you have left. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His chuckle is low, taunting. “Oh, don’t play coy now, sweetheart. Not after that filthy little letter you sent me.” His fingers flex against your thighs, not quite gripping, just there, a reminder of how easily he could control the situation if he wanted to. “What was it you said? You couldn’t stop thinking about me—” he drags the words out, watching your reaction closely, “—about my hands on you?”

Your stomach twists, heat rushing up your neck. “I—I didn’t—”

“Oh, you did.” His grin widens, razor-sharp. “You even described exactly what you wanted me to do to you.” His eyes darken as he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Such a dirty little thing, putting it all in writing. You wanted me to read it and ache for you, is that it?”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you try to push away, but his hands slide up to your waist, keeping you firmly in place. Not squeezing, not forcing, just holding—a warning.

He tilts his head, feigning concern. “Look at you. All flustered. You weren’t so shy when you were begging on paper.”

You suck in a sharp breath. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His lips are so close now, brushing against the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Should I remind you exactly what you wrote? Word for word?”

You shake your head quickly, a rush of embarrassment flooding through you, but he just hums in amusement.

“Mm. No? Shame. It was my favorite bedtime story.” His tongue clicks, mock disappointment laced in his tone. Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhales against your neck, letting his breath ghost over your skin. “I wonder… if I touched you now, would I find you as eager as you claimed to be?”

Your breath stutters, thighs instinctively pressing together, pressing yourself onto the bulge beneath you. And that’s all the reaction he needs.

His smirk sharpens. “Ahh… There she is.”

And you realize—he’s not done playing with you yet. Not even close.

“Now what was it you said?…:His hips subtly shifting upwards into your, pressing himself deeper into you. Knowing it was driving you wild. Fake pondering as he recalled your writing “You wanted my fingers, because yours couldn’t stretch out that pretty little pussy like mine do.”

“I- um” your eyes flit about the room, struggling to stay locked on his, his predatory gaze watching your every move

“How badly you missed my cock, deep inside” One of his hands trailing around to press on your tummy gently, right where his cock would show when he fucked you.

The words dying in your throat as he gives you a Cheshire Cat like grin. You were fucked.

“Tell me girl, did I get that right?” His pearly white teeth flashing as he spoke, fully aware he already knew the answer.

A small nod was all you could muster. But that was enough for him.

Sukuna’s hands slide lower, skimming the hem of your skirt, and you feel the ghost of his touch against your thighs—light, teasing, deliberate. He hasn’t even moved to lift it yet, but you swear your breath is already hitching, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach.

“What’s this?” he murmurs, dragging the tips of his fingers along the fabric. “Wearing something so short to see me… were you hoping I’d take it off?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

Sukuna chuckles darkly, his grip finally tightening, just enough to make you squirm. “Come on, sweetheart. You had all that confidence when you wrote to me. Tell me…” His fingers inch under the fabric, knuckles brushing against your bare skin. “Did you get wet thinking about me touching you like this?”

A sharp gasp escapes you as he pushes your skirt up, exposing more of your thighs. The cool air kisses your overheated skin, and you reflexively grab his wrist, a weak attempt at stopping him.

He laughs at the gesture—deep, rich, cruel.

“Oh? Now you want to act shy?” His other hand trails up your back, slow and possessive. “Should I stop?” His voice is a mockery of innocence, but the look in his eyes is pure hunger.

Your silence betrays you.

His smirk deepens. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

And then—so agonizingly slow—you feel him peel your skirt down, the fabric dragging over your thighs, your knees, your ankles until it’s gone, discarded on the floor.

Sukuna leans back against the wall, gaze devouring the sight of you. “Now, that’s better.” His hands settle on your now-bare thighs, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch. “You look much prettier like this, trembling in my lap.”

His lips curl as he watches you, his next words laced with dark amusement.

Sukuna hums, dragging his palms up your thighs, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch. He spreads his legs a little wider beneath you, making sure you feel the hard press of him beneath you, and fuck, you can’t stop the way your body tenses at the realization.

His smirk deepens. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His fingers skim higher, brushing over your inner thigh—light, teasing, barely there. “You were so bold with those little Polaroids… don’t tell me you’re already getting shy?”

You bite your lip, trying to glare at him, but it only makes his smirk widen.

Sukuna leans in close, lips ghosting against your ear. “Tell me,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark and syrupy, “when you wrote that letter… were your fingers between your legs?”

A sharp inhale. Your whole body heats at the question, and the moment you hesitate, his hand slides up—fingers just grazing over the heat between your legs.

Your hips jolt instinctively, and he fucking laughs. You can feel your mind slowly slipping with each passing moment, struggling to keep composure

“Ohh, you were, weren’t you?” He clicks his tongue, amused. “You really laid in bed, all alone, spreading your legs and touching yourself while thinking about me?”

You should deny it. You should push away that smug grin of his, but the way his fingers press a little firmer against your clothed core makes any coherent thought vanish. Prickles of pleasure flow up your skin as you finally get the touch you had been missing.

He watches you struggle, loves how easily he’s unraveling you. “Didn’t even have me, and you still came all over your own fingers, huh?” His voice is so mocking, so cruelly sweet, and then—without warning—his fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear.

Your breath stutters.

Sukuna exhales a low tch the second he feels it. “Holy fuck.” His fingers slide through the slick heat of your needy cunt, languid, slow, as if testing just how drenched you are for him. His smirk sharpens. “You’re soaking.”

You bite back a whimper as he drags his fingers through your folds, spreading your wetness, moving in agonizingly slow strokes that make your thighs twitch. His free hand grips your waist, keeping you still in his lap

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters, mostly to himself, the edge of a chuckle laced in his words. “Knew you’d be a mess for me.”

And then, just when your body starts to tense, when you need more, he pulls his hand away.

You make a noise of protest before you can stop yourself, and he grins. “Oh? You want more?” His slick fingers trace teasing circles against your inner thigh, refusing to give you what you so clearly need. “Then ask for it, sweetheart.”

Your pride fights against the growing, unbearable ache. You try to grind against his thigh instead, desperate for any kind of friction, but his hands are there, holding you in place.

“Ah, ah,” Sukuna tuts, dragging his tongue over his teeth. “You’re not getting shit until I hear you beg for it properly.”

His fingers stroke your thigh again—so fucking close, but still not enough.

You shudder, swallowing your pride. “Please.”

His smirk darkens. “Louder.”

You glare at him, breath shaky. “Please, Sukuna—”

And fuck, that’s all he needed.

He shoves his hand back between your legs, two fingers sliding inside you in one slow, deep stroke—so smooth, so effortless, your walls stretching around him as if your body was made to take him.

You choke on a gasp, clenching down around his fingers, and he groans against your ear. “Ohhh, there it is,” he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction. “That pretty little cunt was just waiting to be filled, huh?”

His fingers pump into you at a leisurely pace, dragging along every sensitive spot inside you, curling slightly with every deep stroke. Your head tips back, breathless, aching, because it’s still not enough.

Sukuna’s fingers work you open slowly, deliberately, making sure you feel every deep stroke, every lazy curl of his fingers against that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble. His other hand is firm on your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you, making sure you don’t squirm away from his relentless teasing.

“Fuck,” he groans, watching the way your body reacts to him, the way your walls clench around his fingers every time he drags them out just to push them back in, deeper, rougher. “You’re so tight. Haven’t been properly fucked in a while, huh?”

You whimper, clutching at his shoulders, your thighs tensing around his hips. He smirks. “Poor baby,” he muses, voice dropping, “Makin me feel bad for not being there to fuck you properly”

He buries his fingers inside you to the knuckle, pressing against the soft, spongy spot deep inside you that has you gasping, nails digging into his skin.

“Ahh, there it is,” he laughs. “That’s the spot, huh?” His fingers curl again, harder, pulling a sharp cry from your lips. “Yeah. I can feel you squeezing me so fucking tight. You gonna cum for me already?”

Your head tips back, your body rocking forward instinctively, chasing every stroke of his fingers, aching for more. But Sukuna sees it, sees you getting desperate, and instead of giving you what you need, he slows down.

Your breath stutters, a frustrated whine spilling from your throat as he deliberately drags out every motion, keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over.

Sukuna grins against your throat, teeth grazing your skin. “Tch. Look at you,” he murmurs, amused. “So fucking needy.”

He presses a kiss to your pulse, almost mockingly sweet. Then, with a slow, devastating thrust of his fingers, he curls them just right—just deep enough, just sharp enough—

And you break.

Your whole body tenses, pleasure ripping through you as your walls flutter around his fingers, your breath coming in broken, stuttering gasps as the tension inside you snaps. Your thighs shake against his hips, your nails scraping down his arms as you ride it out, grinding helplessly into his hand as he works you through it.

Sukuna groans, his free hand gripping your waist as you tremble against him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, drinking in the sight of you coming apart in his lap. “Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. So fucking messy.”

His fingers don’t stop until your body jerks from oversensitivity, and only then does he pull them out—slow, teasing, dragging it out just to watch you shudder.

Then he brings them to his lips.

You watch, dazed, as he licks the slick from his fingers, humming thoughtfully as he tastes you. His eyes darken, tongue dragging over the pad of his thumb as he smirks.

“Always miss your taste sweets.”

He tilts his head, gaze flickering over your wrecked expression. “Think you’re ready for my cock now?”=

Sukuna’s fingers leave you aching, your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks, but he doesn’t give you a moment to recover. No, he just smirks, eyes burning as he watches you struggle to catch your breath, utterly wrecked in his lap.

Then, with a sharp grip on your hips, he grinds up against you, letting you feel just how painfully hard he is beneath you.

You whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively, and Sukuna groans low in his throat, his fingers tightening against your skin. “Ohh, fuck,” he drawls, head tipping back for a second before his gaze snaps back to you, hungry, dark with something ravenous. “You feel that, sweetheart?”

You can barely think, let alone answer.

He chuckles, teeth flashing. “Of course you do. You’re already rocking against it, huh?” His hands guide your hips, forcing you to grind against his length, the thick heat of it pressing between your slick folds. “Tch. So fucking desperate.”

Your breath shatters as he moves your hips again, forcing more friction against your already aching clit, and the sensation sends lightning through your veins.

“You gonna let me fuck you now?” Sukuna mutters against your ear, voice thick with amusement, but fucking starving at the same time. “You got me so hard, you better be ready to take it.”

He shifts beneath you, one hand reaching down to free himself, and when you feel the hot, heavy weight of his cock slap against your slick folds—thick, unrelenting, already leaking at the tip—your whole body shudders.

Sukuna smirks. “Ohh, I know you’re wet enough for it, but—” He grips his cock, dragging the head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your slick but not pushing in. “—I wanna hear you beg for it first.”

You whimper, grinding down against the head of his cock, desperate, but he just laughs.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Be a good girl and tell me how bad you want it.” He presses his tip just against your entrance, teasing, mocking, but refuses to give you more. “Or else I’ll make you sit here and fucking wait for it.”

His free hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back slightly, his mouth grazing your throat.

“You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

His cock nudges at your entrance again, but still—still—he doesn’t push in.

And with the way your body is aching, the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way his breath is so fucking heavy against your skin—

You know.

He’s going to make you beg for it.

And he won’t stop until you’re screaming his name

But you can’t help it—your body is on fire, still desperate for him, and every breath feels like it’s drawing you closer to the edge again. Sukuna leans back, his smirk never fading as he watches you struggling to even form a coherent sentence at this point

“Missed your cock so bad Kuna~” you whine out pathetically, hoping he would show you mercy and give you exactly what you had been craving

Sukuna chuckles, low and dark. “You really thought I’d let you get off that easy? Tch, you’re adorable.” His hand snakes around to your back, fingers digging into the soft skin there, and he pulls you closer—pressing your body flush against his. The heat of his skin, the weight of him, it drives you wild all over again.

His lips brush against your ear, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You’re going to take every inch of me, aren’t you?” His words send a shiver down your spine. “All that teasing? I’ve been waiting for you to beg for me. You wanted me, now you’re going to take it.”

With a sudden, fluid motion, he grips your thighs, pushing you higher up his lap. You feel the tip of his cock against your entrance, teasing, just barely brushing you. His smirk is cruel as he watches your face flush with the need. “Go on, sweetheart. Show me how much you want me.”

You don’t need him to say it twice. With a sharp, needy gasp, you push down onto him, feeling his length stretch you, fill you as you sink down slowly, painfully, inch by inch. The stretch is almost too much, but the ache is exactly what you’ve been craving.

Sukuna’s eyes close for a moment, his lips parting in a low groan as he feels you grip him. “Fuck, that’s it. Such a tight little cunt. So fucking perfect for me.”

You rock your hips, hands gripping his shoulders for support as you start to move, his body perfectly aligned beneath you. Each thrust you make is slow, deliberate, a mix of pleasure and need, the way his hands dig into your skin, urging you on. His grip tightens with every movement, guiding you, making you feel every inch of him as he shifts beneath you.

But he doesn’t let you forget he’s still in control. “You’re so fucking desperate,” he mutters, voice thick with lust. “Cumming on my fingers like that, and now you can’t even think straight. Pathetic.”

Your body shudders with each word, the way his cock fills you deep, pushing you to the edge of insanity. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. You push harder, riding him, needing more, needing everything.

Sukuna’s hand finds your throat, squeezing lightly, not enough to choke you, but enough to make your breath catch in your throat as he pulls you forward. “Come on. You’re close, aren’t you?” His voice is low, commanding. “Beg for it. Tell me how much you need it.”

“P-Please! Kuna, need it so bad”

The way Sukuna’s hands grip your hips, guiding your movements as he watches you unravel, it feels like he’s claiming every inch of you—every piece of your will, your dignity, your ability to think straight. He’s controlling the rhythm now, forcing you to take him deep, making you feel every inch of him. His eyes are intense, burning with something darker than lust—something deeper, something possessive.

“Look at you,” Sukuna growls, his chest rising with every breath. “I’ve waited so long for this. You… you make me wait, tease me, and now you’re finally giving in. Isn’t that right?”

You can barely form a coherent thought, your mind spinning, body on fire, each movement more desperate than the last. But Sukuna doesn’t care. He’s not slowing down. He’s chasing his own pleasure now, pushing you harder, deeper, rougher, making you feel every inch of his cock, every thrust.

“You like that, huh?” Sukuna snarls, pulling your body flush against his, his teeth grazing your neck as he watches you struggle to keep up. “You love to tease me while im locked up in here”

His words only seem to make it worse, your body clenching around him with the reminder of what started all this. He remembers, and now you’re paying for it.

“I’ve missed you,” he admits, almost as though he’s surprised by it himself. His voice drops low, and for the briefest moment, there’s a sincerity to his tone that almost makes you forget he’s the King of Curses. “Missed how you taste. How you feel. How good you are to me. How you stayed with me”

He doesn’t give you time to process the weight of his words. Instead, he slams into you harder, faster, your body shaking with each thrust. He’s relentless—determined to take every ounce of control, making sure you’re his.

Your body is a mess of sensation, the pressure building, rising higher and higher with every thrust, every growl of his voice. The way his hands are gripping your body—like he’s scared you’ll slip away, like he’s afraid of losing you all over again—pushes you to the edge.

“You feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your ear, his voice thick with lust. “Tight. Perfect.” His grip tightens, and you feel him hit even deeper, the force of it pushing you toward the brink.

You can barely think now, only feeling—only craving the release that’s so close but seems just out of reach. His words—his confession of missing you, his twisted affection—sends something raw through you, unraveling every last shred of control you had left.

And then, without warning, he shifts his grip, pulling you harder down onto him, and that’s all it takes. The pressure inside you snaps. The orgasm rips through you in waves, overwhelming your senses, and you let out a ragged cry as you come apart in his lap. Your body shudders, spasms of pleasure wracking you as he holds you steady, refusing to let you go, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Sukuna doesn’t stop, though—his thrusts become more frantic, chasing his own release, but he doesn’t let go of you for even a second. His fingers dig into your skin, pulling you closer to him as he moves faster, his voice rougher now.

“Fuck,” he groans, his movements becoming more erratic. “You’re so fucking perfect. Cumming on my cock like the perfect girl you are”

And then, with a final, brutal thrust, he’s there, spilling inside you, his body shuddering as he grinds against you, his breath hot against your skin. For a moment, he just holds you, both of you tangled up in the aftermath, trying to catch your breath.

His hand slides to your back, holding you close. “I’m not letting you go,” he mutters, almost like a promise—or a warning.

You can barely respond, your body still trembling from the intensity, but you feel him stiffen slightly, his grip tightening even more possessively around you. His lips brush your ear again. “You’re mine, you know.”

[tikitakatia]

No Credentials — A. Putellas x Reader

"A Soft Place to Crash and Burn"

WC: 1k

Summary: Alexia’s cracking under pressure, and you’re the only one who sees it coming.

You see it before it happens.

Alexia’s good at hiding it, her unraveling. To anyone else, she just looks tense, maybe even tired and a little bit off her game. But you know better. You’ve memorized the tilt of her shoulders when she’s holding too much. You know the difference between focus and internal collapse.

And right now, she’s folding in on herself. Slowly. Quietly. Like a building made of glass right before it shatters.

She fumbles a pass and curses under her breath. Her cheeks flush. Not from exertion, from shame. That’s her first crack.

Pere says something sharp and meant to motivate. but she hears it like judgment. That’s the second.

You make your move.

Your matcha latte´s still in your hand and barely sipped. You don't say anything loud or dramatic, just slip off the bench and walk toward her with the kind of calm that gets people to follow without asking why.

“Capi,” you say gently.

“Estoy bien,” she shoots back. Eyes forward. Jaw clenched. Classic.

You nod, like you believe her. Like she hasn’t already lost the thread.

“I know, walk with me anyway.”

She hesitates. You tilt your head, already turning toward the hallway and she follows.

She always follows you.

The hallway is cooler than the field. White walls. Buzzing fluorescent lights. Echoes of sneakers and silence.

You pull a little pack of orange slices from your hoodie pocket and offer them without a word.

Alexia stares at you like you’ve handed her an insect.

“I’m not a child,” she says, but her voice is brittle.

“They’re not for children. They’re for people on the edge,” you say.

“And they’re cold. You need something cold right now.”

She doesn’t argue and takes them from your hand. You both sit against the wall, legs stretched out like it’s routine.

Because it is.

This is the unspoken ritual: the Alexia Meltdown Protocol, unofficial and fine-tuned by proximity. You’ve never named it, but it’s there in your bones.

You wait until she eats one. Until her shoulders drop an inch.

“You’ve got five minutes. Say it. All of it. No solutions, no judgment. I’ll just hold it.”

She closes her eyes like your voice hurts in a way that feels good.

“I feel like I’m breaking,” she whispers.

“And I hate it.”

You say nothing.

She keeps going.

“I keep messing up, and I don’t know why. I can’t focus, I can’t breathe half the time, and my brain won’t shut up long enough for me to fix any of it.”

You nod, just enough to let her know you’re here. Still listening.

“I feel like I’m failing, and I can’t afford to fail right now,” she says.

“Not when people are watching. Not when I’m supposed to have it together.”

Her voice cracks, and your chest pulls tight.

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“I’m not just ‘anyone,’” you say softly.

That gets her. Her eyes meet yours. And they’re glossy now, hazel rimmed with unshed frustration and grief and god-knows-what else she never says out loud.

You shift, turn to face her fully. She doesn’t flinch. That’s new.

“It’s okay to fall apart,” you tell her.

She shakes her head. “Not for me.”

“For exactly you.”

She bites her lip. “I’m tired of being strong.”

You move closer. Still slow and careful, like she’s made of something breakable that no one’s ever touched gently before.

You press your forehead to hers lightly and with intention.

Her breath stutters.

You feel it, how hard she’s fighting to hold herself together. You can almost hear the gears grinding in her mind, trying to sort logic from panic.

“Let go for a minute,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

A tear slides down her cheek. You catch it with your thumb.

Another one follows. She doesn’t hide it this time.

“I’m so tired,” she breathes.

“I know.”

You brush her hair back, blonde and damp at the roots from training, and let your hand rest against the side of her face. She leans into it, barely, like she doesn’t mean to.

“You always do this,” she says, voice quiet.

“Say exactly what I need before I even know I need it.”

You give her a small line.

“Not magic,” you murmur.

“Just you. You’re easy to care about.”

Her eyes go wide. Like that truth hit her somewhere she wasn’t ready for.

“Don’t,” she says, voice shaking. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

“I do.”

You say it without blinking. Because there’s no point in pretending with her. Not anymore.

She looks down at your joined hands. When that happened, you’re not sure. But they’re tangled now. She hasn’t let go.

“I think I…” she starts, then swallows.

“I don’t know.”

“Me too,” you say.

That’s all. Not a confession. Not a promise. Just a moment. Honest and open.

She exhales like that gave her permission to exist again.

Your thumb brushes the inside of her wrist. Her pulse is fast. Not scared, just full.

“You don’t have to be perfect right now,” you whisper.

“You just have to be here.”

Her head dips forward until it rests on your shoulder, and your arms go around her without thought. It’s not the first time you’ve held her like this, but it feels different now.

Like something shifted. Softly. Irrevocably.

“I’m sorry I snapped earlier,” she says into your hoodie.

“I’m not keeping score.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You’re always this good?”

“No,” you admit.

“Only with you.”

Another beat. Then:

“Do you… ever fall apart?”

You nod slowly. “All the time.”

“Do you let anyone see?”

You pause for a bit, then:

“Only you.”

Her arms tighten around your waist.

There’s nothing more to say.

And maybe this isn’t love yet, not in the way people define it with grand gestures and perfect timing.

But it’s care.

It’s knowing someone down to their last wire and staying anyway.

It’s orange slices and forehead kisses.

It’s the safest place to break.

And in your arms, Alexia finally lets herself do just that.

[little-diable]

How can I ever get over you? - Dean Winchester (smut)

The queen of song fics, I know, I know. Shamelessly inspired by Matt Schuster's new song "How Can I Ever Get Over You?". Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader broke up with Dean because her fear of living a life without him alive and breathing next to her got the upper hand. When she sees him easily flirting with others shortly after their breakup, she can't help but long for the man she once wanted to marry. And Dean isn't ready to ever let her go.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, angst, heartbreak, jealousy, slightly possessive Dean, happy end don't you worry

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader (2.5k words)

She had her knees pressed to her chest, eyes focused on Dean. (Y/n) could watch him through the windows of the shop, how he spoke to the girl behind the counter who twirled her hair as if she was casted in a romcom. An annoyed huff left her at the sight before she forced herself to avert her gaze. 

It had been three weeks since their breakup, three weeks that had been filled with an uncomfortable silence and long nights where she didn’t catch any sleep. His words still echoed through her brain, reminding her that it had all started because of some stupid fight after a hunt gone wrong. Angry words had been thrown at one another, words she hadn’t meant, and words he undoubtedly had only spoken to match her anger.

“You okay back there?” Sam’s concerned voice ripped (y/n) out of her thoughts. She blinked a few times to get rid of the haziness before clearing her throat and mumbling a small “yes”. “I’d understand it if you need some time away. Honestly, (y/n), I don’t think this is healthy for either one of you.”

“And where am I supposed to go, Sam?” The words had a sharpness to them that made her cringe. Perhaps Sam was right, perhaps she needed some time away to work through the breakup that had been all too sudden after endless years together. But she had no place to go to, no one to turn to. 

“I,” the words got stuck in his throat as Dean stepped out of the shop with a small smirk glued to his lips. He plopped down into his seat while his eyes were still focused on his phone. An uncomfortable silence hung between the three of them as if Sam was part of the ugly fight (y/n) could still recite word by word.

“How about we stay a night around here? I’ve got plans for tonight.” The words felt like a punch to the gut and judging by the tone of Dean’s voice they had been meant to hit. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply, kept quiet while Sam mumbled something (y/n) didn’t pay any mind to. 

Perhaps Sam had been right. Perhaps it was time to get away from the man who she had broken up with because her anxiety of eventually living a life when he was buried six feet under had won the upper hand. Perhaps it was time to find herself again without Dean Winchester by her side.

…

“How about we find another place for drinks? I doubt you want to see this.” Sam mumbled the words while he stood next to (y/n). The sticky floor of the bar kept their boots glued to the spot, loud music filled the bar, and the smell of cheap booze hung in the air. But all she could focus on was the sight of Dean leaning against the bar while he spoke to the girl from the shop. 

“No, it’s alright. He can do whatever he wants, and who knows, maybe I’ll find someone too.” She shot Sam a smirk before walking towards the bar to order some beer for her and Sam. Her eyes wanted to move back to Dean and the girl, but she forced herself to look at the other people, eyes eventually meeting those of a somewhat handsome guy who watched her from the dart spot. 

“I’ll be back in a bit.” She mumbled the words to Sam before she drowned most of her beer in one go. Her head was buzzing from the loud music, her heart was aching from the pain of seeing Dean with that girl, but she was determined, set on proving to herself that she could live without the man whose name she had dreamt of carrying one day. 

“Hi.” With a smile thrown his way, (y/n) came to a halt in front of the guy. He was nowhere near as handsome as Dean and yet he was sweet enough to distract her for a moment or two. He leaned against his high chair, arms crossed in front of his muscular chest as he studied her with deep brown eyes that were nowhere near as intense as the forest green ones she saw whenever she closed her eyes. 

“Hey there, darling. You’re new round here, ain’t you? Just passing through?” Her hand tightened its grip on her bottle, trying to calm herself as her body begged her to move away from him. She wasn’t used to flirting with other men, wasn’t used to putting on a show since she hadn’t been forced to worry about these kinds of things for the past years. The sombre feeling thumping through (y/n) was about to wipe her smile off of her lips, but she tried to keep up the act, just for a few more minutes at least.

“Yeah, something like that. You’re from here?” The guy pushed himself away from his chair, eyes wandering up and down her frame. He towered over her as he stood closer, allowing her to pick up on the cheap scent of his cologne, which smelled of anything but the comforting mixture of old books and whisky she was looking for. 

“Born and raised, I could show you around, if you want.” She got no time to reply as an arm was thrown over her shoulder to pull her into a broad chest. (Y/n) didn’t need to turn around to know who was touching her, and for a second she didn’t want to pull away. The weight of his arm was all too familiar, just like the scent of his cologne she had once gifted him for their first anniversary. 

“She’s seen enough of this place already. We’re leaving.” Dean pulled her away from the guy all too quickly, making her lose her balance. The bottle fell from (y/n)’s clammy hand, letting it smash to the ground beneath them. And for a second everything seemed to freeze. To (y/n) it felt as if her broken heart was now laying on the ground, only for Dean to pick up on the shards he wouldn’t be able to glue back together if he wouldn’t put the effort in now. 

Green eyes wandered from the ground to (y/n)’s glassy eyes, he stared at her for a second before he tightened his grip on her forearm and tugged her closer once again. She didn’t have the strength to pull away, felt her surroundings blur together while tears kept on welling up in her eyes. No word was shared between them as Dean guided her back to Baby where Sam was already waiting for them. No word was shared between the three hunters as Dean drove them back to their motel, only to follow (y/n) to her own room after Sam had bid her goodnight with a strong hug. 

“What the actual fuck, Dean?” The angry words left her the second the door fell close behind them. An almost maniac laugh left her, rumbling through her while her tears kept on rolling. Tears of heartbreak. Tears of anger. Tears of confusion. “What was that?”

“I didn’t like seeing you with him.” It was a simple reply, forced path gritted teeth and only slightly parted lips. A fire was burning in his green eyes, a fire so strong it could burn down a forest carrying the colour of his eyes. 

“Oh? Well, newsflash, you asshole, I didn’t like seeing you with that girl either. But I didn’t step in, did I?” She took a step away from him to plop down on her bed. Trembling fingers tried to undo the lacing of her boots, though without any luck. She didn’t manage to undo the knot, struggling to even tug on the laces, until Dean crouched down in front of her and quietly undid them for her. 

“You know that all of this is your fault, right?” Dean mumbled the words, but they weren’t fuelled by any spite nor hatred. It was a simple whisper that drew another sob out of her. She moved back on the bed to desperately try to get some distance between them, knees pressed to her chest while her sadness kept pulsing through her. 

“Of course I do. But you almost died because of me, Dean. You almost lost your life because you were too focused on me than on the hunt. I messed up and you almost paid the price for it. I can’t live like that. All I saw was a life without you, because I did something wrong. Do you know how that feels? I wouldn’t ever be able to live with that guilt.” She sobbed the words, they spluttered from her lips with a tremble that shook through her core. (Y/n) couldn’t look at him, not when he stood at the end of the bed with his hands balled into fists and his angry eyes burning holes through her skin. 

“And you think I want to live without you? Do you think that little of me?” His words made her scoff. She tried to dry her tears with her sleeves, though without much luck as they kept on rolling. 

“Well, you had no problem getting over me and finding someone new, did you?” Within seconds he was in front of her, knees pressed to the mattress, cold fingers finding her chin to force her eyes towards his. Pain swam in his pupils, a pain so intense (y/n) could feel it thumping through her veins like a gunshot set on ripping her from this life. 

“It was nothing but a stupid try to make you jealous. I needed you to feel the pain I can’t shake. I can’t get over you, (y/n). I never will.” The sob that rumbled through her was swallowed by the kiss Dean pressed against her lips. He could undoubtedly taste her salty tears and the pain burning on her tongue, but all he did was press himself even closer. 

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Dean. I love you, so much, but I am so scared.” With his forehead pressed against hers, Dean took a deep breath. Silence wrapped itself around them, a silence that was only interrupted whenever another sob clawed through (y/n). 

“Don’t let your fear destroy this. Don’t throw us away because of your anxiety. I promise, I will be more careful, hell, I will happily leave you behind while Sam and I go on hunts. But I can’t do this without you, sweetheart. Not without you.” Her red eyes found his again, and all (y/n) could do was nod at his words. As much as she feared eventually having to bury him, she knew she wouldn’t be able to go on without him. He was hers, as much as she was his. 

“I am sorry, Dean, I am just so scared.” She mumbled the words against his lips as he kissed her again. Both got lost in the kiss, allowing their broken hearts to slowly mend back together, letting go of the pain that clung to them like a shadow sewn to their heels. 

“I’ve got you, and I won’t leave you, I promise.” No reply left (y/n) as he pressed his knee against her core, using just enough pressure to make her gasp. She needed him close, to prove to herself that he wouldn’t leave her, not now, not ever. There would be a lot she’d need to work through, allowing herself to adjust to this stronger growing fear she had managed to drown out for the past years, but tonight she just needed to feel Dean close. 

Her hips pressed (y/n) further against his knee, which drew a raspy chuckle out of Dean. He kissed his way down her throat while his hands disappeared beneath her shirt, undoubtedly feeling her goosebumps rise on her skin. She kept moving against his knee as Dean let go of her for a moment to pull the shirt over her head, groaning at the sight he hadn’t been able to focus on for the past weeks. 

“Look at you, sweetheart. You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Heat clung to her at his praises, a strong heat that kept on swallowing her. No word left her, nothing but soft sounds Dean revelled in. He touched her breasts, bra pushed down to let them spill over while she felt her orgasm move closer, all because of a few simple touches – something only Dean Winchester would manage to make her feel. 

With another kiss pressed to her lips, he broke the moment. Dean rose to his feet to pull his shirt over his head, allowing her wide eyes to instantly find the tattoo she’d normally trace in the early mornings when he was still fast asleep. Their eyes held contact as he undid his trousers, stepping out of them to expose his tented boxers, all while (y/n) mimicked his movements. 

Their naked bodies found back together, lips pressed together while Dean rolled a condom down his cock before pushing into her. It was a sweet moment, an unusually soft moment both couldn’t help but groan at. He took his time, as if they had to adjust to one another again after their time apart, but the second he began to move, (y/n) felt the ecstasy she had always taken for granted. 

Dean fucked her slow with calculated thrusts – thrusts to meet those spots which made (y/n) see stars. No matter the time apart, he’d always know her body like the back of his hand, made for him only. He was focused on her sounds, on the way she arched her back off the mattress with every thrust that pushed her closer to the edge. A sight so beautiful, Dean knew he’d never find something even close to similar in another woman.

“Dean,” (y/n) choked on his name, her fingernails scratched at his back while trying not to give in all that quickly. “More, please.”

“Like that, sweetheart?” He used more speed for his thrusts, pushing himself even deeper. She was trembling beneath him, lips parted, eyes closed to get lost in the sweetest sensation. Her fingernails were undoubtedly drawing blood by now, but Dean didn’t seem to care, solemnly focused on pushing her over the edge before he’d let go. 

“I love you,” she whispered the words the second she came, body clinging to Dean as the intense waves flushed through her. Dean’s fast thrusts prolonged the sensation, making it buzz through her like lightning hitting her body over and over again. He followed her seconds later, letting go with a deep groan before his head found rest on the spot where her neck met her shoulder.

“I love you too, sweetheart. And I will put a ring on that finger the second the sun rises, that much I can promise you.”

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝑈𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑆𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙

Pairing- Kim Minjeong (Winter) x fem reader

Genre- Fluff, slow burn, enemies to lovers

Word count- 10813

A/N: tumblr is being a bitch rn so I have to split the fic into two parts since apparently it’s too ‘long’ so here.

Part 2

It started with a text.

You had just finished up a long day at the library, your brain fried from the hours spent buried in textbooks, when your phone buzzed on the desk. Frowning at the unfamiliar number, you unlocked it.

*Hey loser, I bet you’re still doing your stupid homework. I’m about to go to a party, but don’t worry, I’ll think of you while I’m having fun. ;) *– Minjeong, your new best friend

You blinked at the message. First of all, who even was Minjeong? You didn’t know anyone by that name. Second, loser? You glanced over at your untouched dinner—instant noodles—and sighed. Well, she wasn’t wrong.

You stared at the phone, debating what to do. Was this some kind of prank? No way this was real. Still, your fingers typed out a careful response.

Uh, sorry, I think you have the wrong number. I’m not sure who you meant to text, but I’m not your best friend.

The response came quickly, as if she’d been waiting for you to reply.

Oops. Sorry, loser. I’ll try again next time. Have fun with your noodles. ;)

Your eyebrow twitched at the audacity. You weren’t sure if you should be offended or impressed by how casually rude this person was.

The next day at class, your phone buzzed again, and you groaned inwardly before checking it.

How’s your loser day going, huh? Are you hiding under the desk to avoid attention again?

You stared at the message, unsure of how to react. Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly typed back.

This isn’t funny. Stop texting me.

Aww, don’t be such a buzzkill. I’m bored, so I’m just sending you some entertainment. Maybe you should loosen up a little. Have you ever tried going to a party?

You frowned. You were way too shy for parties. Definitely not your scene. But this person didn’t seem to care about your feelings.

I don’t go to parties, and I’m not interested in whatever this is. Please stop texting me.

There was a pause before the next message came through.

Oh, I see. Another shy nerd. Alright, well, don’t have too much fun being all lonely and miserable. I’ll catch you later, loser.

You resisted the urge to throw your phone out the window. Why was this person so insufferable? You could already picture some snobby rich kid typing that message with an exaggerated smirk.

A few days later, you were in the library again, trying to focus on your notes when your phone buzzed again. This time, you didn’t even hesitate before checking.

I hope you’re enjoying being a nobody while I’m out living my best life. Got a new Louis bag. It’s so much better than your stupid backpack.

You blinked at the message and felt a small surge of annoyance.

Why do you keep texting me?

Because it’s fun. You’re fun to mess with. Plus, I think you need me in your life.

You let out a frustrated breath and leaned back in your chair. Why did you care so much about a person who didn’t even know you? Still, something about this exchange—it was infuriatingly addictive. As much as you hated the arrogance behind every message, a tiny part of you almost looked forward to it. Maybe because it was the closest thing to excitement you’d had in a while.

Well, I don’t need you.

Uh-huh, sure. That’s why you keep replying, loser.

Your fingers twitched, and you stared at the screen for a moment. You weren’t sure if it was frustration or something else—something you definitely didn’t want to admit—but you couldn’t help yourself.

Fine. Whatever. But I’m not playing your games anymore.

Oh, you’re playing. You just don’t know it yet. :)

_____

The next week, you found yourself standing outside the classroom when you heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, nerd.”

You froze. No way. You turned around, heart suddenly hammering in your chest. Standing there, her arms crossed and a smug grin on her face, was none other than Kim Minjeong. The Kim Minjeong. The girl everyone talked about on campus. The one with the perfect hair, flawless skin, and an attitude that could probably melt steel. And yet, she was looking at you like you were her next personal project.

“You’re the one from my texts,” she said, clearly amused. “I didn’t expect you to actually show up in person. I was starting to think you were just a boring little avatar on my phone.”

You cleared your throat, completely caught off guard. “Uh… I—”

“Shut up. I’m not here for your excuses. I just wanted to see what kind of loser texts like that. What’s your deal? You too shy to have a real conversation with people?” She tilted her head, her smirk growing.

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Was this really happening? You weren’t sure whether to feel angry or completely embarrassed.

“Well, no matter,” she continued, inspecting her nails. “You’ll be my little project now. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. For now.”

You stared at her, unable to speak. All you knew was that this was the start of something much, much bigger than you ever anticipated. And for some reason, you had the feeling it wasn’t going to be easy to get out of it.

You stood there, dumbfounded, as Minjeong—Kim Minjeong, the girl everyone on campus gossiped about—stared at you, completely unfazed by your awkward silence.

“You’re not much of a talker, huh?” she asked, leaning slightly forward, her tone almost mocking. “That’s fine. I’ll speak for both of us.”

You swallowed, feeling a little dizzy. She was even more intimidating in person. Her pristine appearance, her confident posture—it all screamed “don’t mess with me,” and yet here you were, standing in front of her, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Minjeong said, stepping a little closer. “But it’s really funny how you just take all my texts without saying anything back. You don’t even stand up for yourself. You just… let me walk all over you.”

You felt heat creeping up your neck, realizing she was right. You had been letting her mess with you, every text cutting through your defenses like a hot knife. And instead of standing up for yourself, you just let it happen, every time.

“Don’t worry,” Minjeong continued, her lips curling into a playful smile. “You’ll get used to it. Or not. I really don’t care either way.” She tilted her head, studying you with almost too much interest. “But hey, you’re not completely useless. You’re smart, right? The whole campus knows you’re the best in class. Maybe we can make a deal.”

You blinked, utterly confused. “A deal?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “I need help in a few subjects. And since you’re such a little genius,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically, “I guess I’ll let you tutor me. But only if you agree to one thing.”

Your mouth went dry. “What thing?”

Her smirk widened, the challenge in her eyes making you want to back away, but you were frozen in place. “You’ll stop being such a boring, quiet little nerd. I want to see a little more of a… backbone from you.”

You swallowed, unsure of what she meant. Was she actually asking you to change? To become someone else? Or was this another game she was playing? Either way, something about the way she was looking at you made it hard to say no.

“And if I don’t?” you asked, your voice shaky but defiant.

She stepped even closer, closing the space between you, her presence looming in a way that made your heart beat faster. “Then I guess you’ll just stay in your little corner, the same nobody you’ve always been.” Her voice was low, almost teasing. “But hey, that’s your choice.”

You stared at her for a moment, torn between the frustration of her arrogance and the tiny spark of curiosity she’d ignited in you. You had always been invisible to people like her—perfect, untouchable Minjeong. But here she was, asking you for something. Something that felt… a little too much like a dare.

“Fine,” you finally muttered, unsure of what you were agreeing to but too stubborn to back down. “I’ll tutor you. But don’t expect me to be your personal project or anything.”

Minjeong’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oh, but I think you already are my project, sweetheart.” She let the words hang in the air, her tone thick with a teasing edge. “You just don’t know it yet.”

_____

You tried to concentrate on your notes in the library. You really did. But the truth was, you couldn’t stop thinking about Minjeong. Every time she texted you, every time she cornered you between classes, she left you reeling. You couldn’t figure out if she was just messing with you or if she really expected you to change for her—whatever that meant.

Your phone buzzed again.

Hey loser, I finished that paper. I hope you’re not crying because I got it done before you.

You groaned and typed back.

You’re not funny.

I’m hilarious, and you love it.

You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. But before you could type anything else, another message came through.

Meet me after class. I want to make sure you’re doing your job properly. I’ll be in the usual spot.

Your heart skipped a beat. The usual spot? What was that supposed to mean? You could already feel the nerves crawling up your spine. But there was no turning back now. You were in this—whether you liked it or not.

_____

You walked slowly across campus, your hands shaking in your pockets as you tried to ignore the growing anxiety in your chest. You had no idea what Minjeong wanted from you. Was she really expecting you to start acting differently? To… become someone like her?

You rounded the corner and saw her leaning against a tree, her sunglasses perched on her nose, looking effortlessly cool and completely out of place. Minjeong. The epitome of confidence, sitting there with her legs crossed and a casual smirk on her face as if she owned the whole campus.

She looked up when she saw you approaching and immediately stood up, her gaze shifting from indifferent to something more dangerous. “Well, well. Look who decided to show up.”

“I’m here,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, still not sure what to say to her.

Minjeong crossed her arms, eyeing you up and down. “So… how’s this tutoring thing gonna work?” she asked, a cocky edge to her voice. “You gonna teach me something useful? Or are you just gonna sit there and tell me about boring equations?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m here to help you with the subjects you need, not your attitude.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that so?” She took a step closer, almost invading your personal space. “And what if I don’t want to listen to your ‘help’? What if I want to see if I can break you first?”

Your heart raced as she loomed over you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. You didn’t know whether to be terrified or intrigued by the way she was looking at you. But in that moment, you realized something.

You were in deeper than you thought.

_____

You sat at the table in the corner of the campus library, the one you usually claimed as your quiet spot. Your heart was racing, palms sweaty, despite the fact that you were technically prepared for the tutoring session. You had organized your notes, had everything ready, and you were determined to act professional.

Except that Minjeong was coming.

You had no idea how it was going to go. Would she actually listen? Would she make fun of you the entire time? The idea of having her so close, her eyes boring into you while you tried to explain math or history or whatever… It was enough to make you squirm in your seat.

The sound of footsteps broke you out of your thoughts, and you looked up. There she was. Minjeong. She sauntered toward your table with a confident smirk plastered on her face, her designer bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, the soft click of her heels echoing in the otherwise quiet library.

“Hey, nerd,” she greeted, sitting down a little too close for comfort.

You flinched slightly, your body tense. The closer she got, the harder it was to keep your thoughts in order. You had to remind yourself that she was here to study. You weren’t just some random person she was bothering—no, she needed your help.

Right?

“Ready to teach me, or do I need to entertain myself first?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, casually brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes were playful, as though she knew exactly how she was affecting you.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “We’re starting with history,” you muttered, opening your notes to the chapter you had planned on covering first. “I… I’ll just explain it, okay?”

“Sounds boring,” Minjeong said nonchalantly, but she leaned in anyway, her gaze never leaving you. “Go on. Teach me then. But, I gotta warn you, I’m not the best student.”

Her words shouldn’t have affected you the way they did, but they did. The teasing lilt in her voice, the way she sat just a little too close—it was making it hard to focus.

You coughed, trying to push the thoughts aside. “So, uh, this chapter is about—”

Before you could finish, Minjeong casually kicked her legs out, letting one of her feet brush against yours. You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Her eyes flicked down to where her foot had made contact with yours, then back up to meet your wide-eyed expression.

“Oops,” she said sweetly, almost too sweetly, “Did I do that?”

You nodded quickly, trying not to look like a mess. Why was she doing this to you?

“Focus, focus,” you muttered under your breath, forcing yourself to look at your notes. You opened your mouth to start again, but Minjeong wasn’t making it easy.

She leaned in closer, her face now dangerously near to yours, her lips just a breath away. “You’re really cute when you get all shy, you know that?” Minjeong’s voice was low, and the tone sent a strange shiver down your spine. “Makes me want to see just how far I can push you…”

Your cheeks went red instantly. You turned away, trying to act like you were still in control. You’re supposed to be tutoring her, you reminded yourself. You’re not supposed to be a nervous wreck.

“Stop distracting me,” you whispered, hoping she couldn’t hear the way your voice wavered.

Minjeong’s chuckle sent another wave of heat rushing to your face. “Distracting? I’m just trying to help you relax. You know, get rid of that stiff little nerdy vibe you’ve got going on.”

You wanted to protest, but the words didn’t come. Every inch of you was telling you to focus, but Minjeong wasn’t letting that happen.

She reached across the table, just a little too casually, and tapped the edge of your hand with her fingers. “You’re so serious all the time. Lighten up, will you?”

You jerked your hand back, feeling your pulse quicken at her touch. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She wasn’t supposed to make you feel like this. You were the one in control here, the tutor, the smart one. Not her.

“I… I’m just trying to teach you,” you stammered, feeling the heat rush to your neck. “Can we please just focus on—”

But Minjeong wasn’t done yet.

Her chair scraped the floor as she moved just a little closer, until her body was practically pressed against yours. You stiffened immediately, trying to ignore the way her perfume clouded your senses. You could feel the heat radiating off her, and the distance between you was practically nonexistent.

“You’re cute when you get all flustered,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s honestly kind of adorable. Who knew the quiet nerd could be so… touchy?”

You swallowed, unable to think straight as she invaded your personal space even further. Minjeong’s lips were so close, and the way she was looking at you—like she was studying every reaction you had—it was making your head spin.

“I’m not—” you tried, but the words got stuck in your throat. You couldn’t even form a coherent sentence with her so close. You felt like a complete loser.

“Not what?” she teased, her breath warm against your skin. “Not flustered? You’re definitely flustered.”

You wanted to say something, anything to regain some of your composure, but Minjeong was relentless. She moved closer again, her hand resting casually on the table, dangerously close to yours. “I bet you don’t even know how much I’m messing with you right now. You’re such an easy target, you know?”

You couldn’t even look at her anymore. You were certain your face was so red, you might actually combust.

“Are you gonna answer me, or are you just gonna keep looking all embarrassed?” she purred, the teasing tone in her voice making you want to curl up into a ball.

“I… I don’t…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. You just wanted to get through this tutoring session without completely losing your mind.

Minjeong chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on you. “Don’t worry, loser. I’m not that cruel. I’ll give you a break. But only because I’m feeling generous.”

You barely managed a shaky breath as she leaned back in her chair, her smile still playful, her eyes gleaming with amusement. You couldn’t believe how much she was affecting you with just a few words, a few touches. It was like she was purposefully breaking down every wall you had, and you couldn’t stop her.

You’re in over your head, you thought, unable to ignore the way your heart pounded against your chest.

You were trying. Really.

Trying to focus on the page in front of you, trying to explain the importance of some war or treaty or whatever the hell you were supposed to be teaching Minjeong. But it was impossible with her next to you, stretching in her chair like this was a spa day and not a tutoring session.

At some point, she had slid her chair even closer, until your knees were touching under the table. You had pulled back instinctively, but she only followed.

“I don’t bite, loser,” she whispered, her tone sickeningly sweet, “unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

You immediately choked on your own breath and coughed into your sleeve.

“God,” Minjeong laughed, “you’re such a mess.”

You slammed your textbook closed without meaning to. “I’m not a mess,” you muttered, even though your face was on fire and your hands were shaking slightly.

She leaned forward again, elbow on the table, chin resting on her palm, just watching you.

“Mm, sure. You’re not a mess. You’re just sweating and stuttering and can’t look me in the eye for longer than five seconds. That’s totally normal,” she said, voice laced with mock sympathy.

You clenched your fists in your lap, biting your tongue.

This was hell. She was hell.

“I don’t know why you’re even here if you’re not going to take this seriously,” you mumbled.

Minjeong blinked slowly. “What makes you think I’m not taking it seriously?”

You blinked back at her, dumbfounded. “Because you haven’t even opened your notebook.”

She smiled, almost innocent. “Yeah, but I’m watching you. That counts.”

“That’s not how studying works,” you said, exasperated, but your voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which absolutely killed any authority you were trying to have.

Minjeong reached across the table, slowly, and grabbed your pen. You thought she was going to mess with you again—but instead, she flipped your notebook toward herself and scrawled something at the top of the page.

You looked.

It said:

Loser Tutor’s Notes (feat. Me, Your Favorite Distraction)

You stared at it, dumbstruck.

“I’m going to murder you,” you said under your breath.

She just grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Now that’s more like it. There’s the spark I wanted to see. Who knew the little mouse could growl?”

You groaned and dropped your head onto the table.

“Oh my god. Please just read the chapter.”

Minjeong didn’t move.

You lifted your head slightly and gave her a side-eye. “What?”

She smiled like the devil. “You’ve got something on your face.”

You blinked. “What—?”

And then, without warning, she reached out and gently brushed her thumb across your cheek. You froze—completely, absolutely froze—because her hand was warm and soft and why was she touching you?!

“There,” she murmured, thumb lingering a beat too long. “Got it.”

You could barely breathe. Your brain was short-circuiting. You were ninety-nine percent sure your soul had just left your body.

She pulled her hand back slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” she said, tilting her head. “Are you okay, tutor?”

You nodded way too fast. “I’m—fine. Totally fine. Great. Studying. Yes.”

Minjeong bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.

“God, you’re fun,” she whispered.

You looked down at the table, your notebook blurry through the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks. You didn’t know if this was some long-con bullying tactic or actual flirting or just Minjeong being a chaotic menace, but whatever it was—it was working.

You were completely, helplessly flustered.

And Minjeong? Minjeong was thriving.

You were certain the library air conditioning was broken. That had to be it. No way the heat rising in your face, the pounding in your ears, the flushed feeling in your chest—it couldn’t just be because Kim Minjeong was looking at you like she was waiting for you to fall apart.

And you were dangerously close to doing exactly that.

She’d stopped “studying” five minutes ago—if she ever started. Now she was slouched low in her chair, legs stretched out under the table, one of them still brushing yours every time she shifted. She hadn’t moved it. Not once.

You, however, had shifted four times and were now practically sitting sideways in your own chair, clutching your pen like it was a lifeline.

Minjeong tilted her head again, her ponytail swinging over one shoulder. “You keep running away from me and we’re not even on problem three.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was dry and your face felt like it was melting off.

“Are you nervous?” she asked softly, voice almost gentle. “Because I don’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

You accidentally dropped your pen.

She immediately leaned down to pick it up, and you scrambled—too late. Her fingers brushed yours as she handed it back, and you swear your heart jumped so hard you saw stars.

“Thanks,” you whispered, looking anywhere but her.

“You’re so cute when you’re panicking,” she murmured. “Seriously. I should mess with you more often.”

“You already do,” you muttered, surprising even yourself with how fast it came out.

Minjeong’s brows rose. “Oop. Did the mouse just bite back?”

You clutched your pen tighter. “I’m just trying to help you pass history. That’s it.”

“Yeah? And I’m just trying to help you grow a backbone.”

You looked at her finally, eyes narrowing.

She smiled—lazy, smug, teasing. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. She wasn’t even doing anything outrageous—just being there, being her. Minjeong had this way of making even the smallest things feel dangerous. Flipping her hair, licking her lip, leaning just a little too close when she didn’t need to. It was like she knew what she was doing to you.

And worst of all: it was kind of working.

“I think we should take a break,” you said suddenly, standing a little too fast. Your chair scraped loudly across the floor, drawing a few judgmental librarian glares. You winced and hunched your shoulders.

Minjeong blinked up at you, smirking. “Running away again?”

You didn’t answer. You were already speed-walking toward the little vending machine nook down the hall, trying to calm your nerves. You needed air. Or sugar. Or maybe holy water.

Behind you, you heard her chair scrape, and then the soft click of her shoes as she followed. Of course.

You stared blankly at the vending machine, pretending to decide between juice and soda, even though your hands were shaking too badly to press any buttons.

Minjeong came to stand beside you, casually leaning her shoulder against yours. “If I knew tutoring came with this much entertainment,” she said, “I would’ve signed up ages ago.”

“You’re evil,” you mumbled, pressing a random button. You weren’t even sure what snack you picked. It clunked down into the bin below and you reached for it blindly.

“I’m effective,” she said with a grin.

You didn’t move, just stared down at your snack. “I don’t get you.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s what makes this fun.”

You turned to look at her. She wasn’t teasing now. She looked… curious. Like she was watching you figure something out and enjoying every second of your confusion.

“I don’t know if you’re making fun of me or if this is just your weird way of flirting,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Minjeong tilted her head again. “Can’t it be both?”

Your stomach flipped.

She stepped a little closer—barely noticeable, but enough that you felt her body heat again, that magnetic pull she always seemed to carry with her. “You’re not like everyone else. You’re awkward, and twitchy, and you talk to yourself under your breath, and it’s hilarious. But…”

She hesitated.

“But I think it’s kind of cute.”

You froze.

She leaned in, lips near your ear.

“…Which is really inconvenient, because I was planning on just messing with you until you cried.”

You stared at the vending machine like it held the secrets of the universe.

Then you whispered, “You still might.”

Minjeong laughed.

“Okay,” she said, tugging your sleeve, “break time’s over. Come back. I might actually let you teach me something this time.”

You followed her back to the table.

But your heart was no longer racing from panic.

It was racing because now, you weren’t sure where this game was going.

But you definitely weren’t losing anymore.

_____

You had been trying to keep a low profile. Hoodie up, headphones in, eyes on the ground. But apparently, fate—or maybe just Minjeong—had other plans.

You saw her before she saw you, standing under the shade of a tree with her usual entourage: Jimin, Aeri, and Yizhou. They looked like a poster for a perfume ad—flawless, bored, and too cool for the sun. Minjeong was leaned against the trunk, arms crossed, sipping an iced drink like she owned the quad.

And then she spotted you.

Her eyes lit up, sharp and interested, like she’d just remembered a game she wanted to keep playing. She straightened immediately.

“Loser!” she called, way too loud. Students nearby turned to look. You wanted to sink into the earth.

You paused, already overheating as she sauntered over, her friends watching with curious amusement.

“C’mere,” she said, grabbing your sleeve and tugging you away from the crowd and her clique. “I need to talk to you.”

“Uh, okay,” you mumbled, letting her lead you a few steps away. You glanced nervously at her friends, who were now openly watching the scene.

Minjeong didn’t seem to care. Her grip on your sleeve tightened like she thought you might run away if she let go.

“What’s with the hoodie? You trying to ghost me?” she asked, arching a brow. “You haven’t replied to my texts.”

“I didn’t think you actually… wanted me to,” you said honestly. “I figured you were just messing with me yesterday.”

She gave you a flat look. “If I was just messing with you, I wouldn’t have remembered your hoodie smells like vanilla and anxiety.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly, cheeks barely pink. “Listen. There’s a party tonight. You’re coming.”

Your stomach twisted. “Minjeong, I don’t really—”

“Party,” she repeated, voice firmer. “Tonight. You. Me.”

You shook your head. “I’m not a party person. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” came another voice suddenly—light, amused. You turned to see Jimin, striding over, hands in her jacket pockets and smile too pretty to trust.

She gave you a slow once-over. “You’re the little tutor, right?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“She’s my tutor,” Minjeong cut in, fast and clipped. “Mine.”

Jimin just smiled wider. “Relax. I’m not stealing your study buddy.” Her eyes flicked to you. “But if she ever gets tired of Minjeong’s attitude, I’m around.”

Minjeong stiffened beside you.

You, meanwhile, were having a mental shutdown.

Jimin winked. “You free tonight, sweetheart?”

Before you could combust on the spot, Minjeong reached over and grabbed your wrist, dragging you back toward the tree.

“She’s busy.”

“Am I?” you asked weakly, trailing behind her.

Jimin finally turned to her, raising a brow. “I didn’t ask what she was doing, Minjeong.”

“She’s going to a party,” Minjeong said through clenched teeth.

“Oh?” Jimin looked back at you, eyes glinting. “Are you?”

“I, um…” You hesitated, caught between them like you were the final rose on a reality show. “She just invited me…”

“She just invited you?” Jimin echoed, mock-surprised. “And you’re going? That easy, huh?”

Minjeong bristled beside you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Jimin said innocently, though she looked two seconds from grinning. “I just didn’t know our little tutor was such a yes-girl.”

“Back off,” Minjeong muttered, taking a step closer to you—not touching, but unmistakably claiming.

Jimin smirked, completely unbothered. “Relax, Minjeong. I’m just making conversation. Unless…” She looked at you again. “You wanna ditch her and come with me instead?”

You made a sound that might’ve been a nervous laugh, or maybe just your soul evacuating your body.

But before you could process the chaos any further, Minjeong leaned in close—her voice dropped to something lower, more serious, and surprisingly soft:

“Don’t listen to her.”

Minjeong stopped, turned, and stared at you. Her eyes were… not playful now. Not exactly angry either. Just tense. A little frustrated. A lot possessive.

Then her voice dropped to something quieter. “Come to the party. Please.”

The word please came out soft. Not bratty. Not sarcastic. Just… honest.

You looked up at her, stunned.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you said, barely audible.

Minjeong met your eyes. “I do.”

Just those two words. No teasing. No smug grin.

You swallowed hard, heart thudding. “…Okay. I’ll go.”

Her expression broke into something triumphant, and maybe just a little too pleased. “Good.”

She let go of your wrist—finally—and turned to walk back toward her friends, but not before tossing over her shoulder, “Wear something cute. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re single.”

You stood there, stunned.

And then:

Wait.

Did she just—

_____

Your bed looked like a tornado had passed through it. Clothes were everywhere. Hoodies, jeans, shirts you hadn’t worn since high school—piled up like casualties of war.

You stared at the mirror, frozen.

A skirt.

You were wearing a skirt.

A cute one, too—soft black pleats that hit just above the knee, paired with a tucked-in oversized cream sweater and the tiniest bit of lip tint you nervously applied three times. It was… girly. Way too girly for you. But you had tried jeans first. Three different pairs. And none of them felt right.

But the second you pulled on the skirt and glanced at your reflection, your brain screamed: Minjeong would stare at this.

Which. Was a problem. Because now all you could think about was her reaction. Would she tease you? Laugh? Say something like “Trying to impress me, loser?” and then flash you that smug grin that made your stomach somersault?

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m going to die,” you muttered to the ceiling. “She’s going to eat me alive.”

Your phone buzzed.

[Minjeong]: u ready or r u still panicking abt ur outfit

You stared.

How the hell did she know?

Before you could respond, another message came through:

[Minjeong]: put something cute on. like that skirt u wore in that insta pic 4 months ago. i remember.

Your soul left your body.

That post had maybe three likes. You’d deleted it two hours after posting because you thought you looked awkward. She remembered it?

You swallowed hard, quickly typing back:

[You]: …i am literally wearing that skirt rn

Her reply came instantly:

[Minjeong]: good girl

You dropped your phone face down and covered your face with both hands.

“I’m not surviving this night.”

_____

The music was loud. The lights were low and warm and golden. People spilled out onto the porch and into the kitchen, laughing, dancing, shouting over whatever playlist was blasting from someone’s half-broken speaker.

You stuck to the wall like a nervous cat, clutching a solo cup filled with something fruity you hadn’t even tasted yet. Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since you stepped through the door.

Then—

“Holy shit.”

You turned. It was Minjeong.

Her eyes scanned you up and down. Slowly. She blinked like she’d just walked into something unexpected.

“You actually wore it,” she said, voice low, a little breathy.

You shrugged, cheeks on fire. “You said it looked good.”

Minjeong bit her lip, very visibly, and took a step closer. “I didn’t say good. I said cute. You look… dangerously cute.”

You blinked at her. “Dangerously?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, reaching out to tug at the hem of your sweater, her fingers brushing your bare thigh for a second that felt like an eternity. “Someone might flirt with you again.”

You swallowed. “Is that a problem?”

She stepped in fully now, her body practically brushing yours, voice dropping just enough that it buzzed against your skin.

“It is if it’s not me.”

You laughed nervously, but her eyes didn’t move from yours. She was serious again—Minjeong-serious, which meant she was probably five seconds from either kissing you or ruining your life with one sentence.

“You really look good,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

She looked down at your mouth, then back up.

And just like that, the space between you started to disappear.

The room spun a little, not from the drink—honestly, you were too scared to actually drink much—but from the way Minjeong was looking at you. Focused. Intense. Like she was choosing what to do with you very, very carefully.

You weren’t even sure what you were supposed to do. Say something cool? Flirt back? You were lucky you hadn’t spontaneously combusted the second she touched your thigh.

Minjeong’s fingers lingered on the hem of your sweater, her knuckles grazing skin. She leaned in just a bit more—her mouth dangerously close to your ear—and said, voice low:

“Everyone’s looking at you.”

Your heart jumped so hard you nearly choked.

She pulled back slowly, smug. “Bet you didn’t think wearing that skirt would make you the main character.”

You blinked, struggling to find your voice. “I didn’t wear it for them…”

Minjeong raised a brow.

“I wore it because you asked.”

That got her.

The smirk faltered for a half second, replaced by something softer—surprised, maybe even a little shy, though she’d never admit it. Her tongue poked the inside of her cheek as she looked you over again.

“…You’re gonna kill me,” she muttered under her breath.

And then—

“Hey!” someone shouted across the room. “We’re doing truth or dare in the living room. Get in here, Minjeong! Bring your girlfriend!”

Your brain stuttered.

Minjeong didn’t correct them. Just turned to you with a tilt of her head. “You in?”

“I—” You hesitated. “I’m bad at games.”

“You’re bad at everything,” she replied sweetly. “Come on.”

You were pretty sure your legs didn’t even work right as she grabbed your hand—your hand—and pulled you through the crowd. People glanced over as you passed, some whispering, others straight-up staring. You, the awkward, quiet tutor girl, holding hands with the most terrifyingly attractive brat on campus like it was normal.

You sat down beside her on the floor in the circle, already tense. The game had clearly started—half-empty cups, people mid-laugh, someone yelling about a dare involving whipped cream and the upstairs bathroom.

Minjeong didn’t let go of your hand.

Jimin sat across the circle, raised a brow at the sight of you, and smirked knowingly.

It was Minjeong’s turn. The bottle spun, slow and lazy, until it landed directly on… you.

A chorus of “oooooh”s filled the room.

You swallowed hard.

Minjeong leaned forward, that bratty glint fully returning to her eye. “Truth or dare, loser?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought about lying.

“…Truth,” you said weakly.

She pouted. “Coward.”

Then her eyes gleamed.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Do you like anyone right now?”

Your whole soul short-circuited. The entire circle perked up.

Your voice cracked. “That’s your question?”

“What?” she said innocently. “It’s just a game.”

You looked around. Everyone was watching you. Even Jimin, lips curled into a smirk like she already knew the answer. Especially Minjeong—leaned in, eyes locked on yours, like she was testing something.

You looked at your lap. Then, quietly:

“…Yes.”

Minjeong’s smile froze.

And then her voice dropped, quieter than before. “Do I get to know who?”

You looked up.

And just barely—only loud enough for her to hear—you whispered:

“If I said it was you, would you stop teasing me?”

Minjeong blinked. For once, she was speechless.

Then she laughed, almost breathless, and leaned in closer than ever before. “No,” she said. “That would just make me worse.”

And she still didn’t let go of your hand.

like she always did when she got her way.

Minjeong just stared at you. Like she was recalibrating something in her head.

Then, in classic Minjeong fashion, she leaned back like nothing happened at all—like you hadn’t just admitted you liked her in front of a crowd—and said lazily, “About time you said it.”

You flushed to your ears.

Someone whistled from across the circle. “Damn, is this a real thing now?”

“Obviously,” Minjeong replied with a toss of her hair, tightening her grip on your hand like it was proof.

“She didn’t say your name though,” Jimin pointed out slyly, swirling her drink. “Could’ve been me.”

Minjeong’s head snapped around so fast you could feel the heat rolling off her.

“Oh, really, Jimin?” she said, voice all sugar and knives. “You wanna go there again?”

“I’m just saying,” Jimin shrugged. “She did look kinda cute blushing when I talked to her.”

You, still attached to Minjeong’s hand, wished to be buried in a hole. Immediately.

But Minjeong was already turning back to you, letting go of your hand only to casually sling an arm around your shoulders. You stiffened like a board.

“She blushes when I breathe near her,” she told the group, shooting a smug grin at Jimin. “That doesn’t make you special.”

You whispered, “Oh my god,” under your breath.

The group howled with laughter.

You sank lower against the couch, every inch of your body warm, but Minjeong didn’t move her arm. In fact, her fingers started playing with the loose ends of your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Next round,” someone called, spinning the bottle again. The game moved on, but Minjeong stayed close, thigh pressed to yours, one leg bent so her knee bumped against yours every now and then.

Every time someone got dared to do something loud or messy or flirty, you flinched. But Minjeong? She didn’t let them near you.

“Dare me to kiss anyone here,” someone slurred two seats away, clearly tipsy. “I dare you.”

“Not her,” Minjeong said immediately, pointing at you without even looking up. “She’s off-limits.”

You stared at her.

“Why?” someone asked with a grin.

Minjeong finally turned her head, looked at you—really looked at you, eyes a little darker now, a little softer.

“Because I’m gonna kiss her later.”

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

_____

You weren’t sure how you got here.

One second you were in the living room, sitting next to Minjeong with your face burning and your thoughts short-circuiting. The next, she was tugging your hand again, weaving you through the crowd like she owned the place (which, for all you knew, she might), until you reached the back hallway—quiet, dimly lit, with only the low bass of music muffled through the walls.

You stopped just outside an empty guest room.

She let go of your hand but stepped in close again, crowding you gently against the wall, her gaze unreadable but focused like a laser.

“You okay?” she asked, and for the first time tonight, her voice was calm. Serious.

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Just a little warm.”

Minjeong smiled—crooked and knowing. “You always get like this around me?”

You wanted to lie, but all you could do was squeak, “Maybe.”

She hummed, pretending to think. “That’s cute.”

Your breath caught when she reached up and brushed your hair away from your face. Her fingers were light, warm, more careful than you expected. And you hated—hated—how easily you melted under her touch.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured. “About kissing you.”

Your throat closed up. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she said plainly. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

You looked up at her, heart hammering, cheeks hot. You didn’t say anything—but you didn’t pull away either.

That was enough for Minjeong.

She leaned in slowly, giving you time, watching you for even the smallest flinch.

And when her lips finally brushed against yours—soft, teasing at first—you forgot how to think. It wasn’t rough or rushed or showy like you thought it might be. It was patient. Curious. Gentle, even as her hand settled on your waist and her body pressed a little closer.

You gasped just slightly, and she smiled into the kiss like she’d won a prize.

When she pulled back, it was only by a few centimeters. Her breath was warm on your lips.

“You’re really bad at hiding it,” she whispered.

“Hiding what?” you managed to breathe.

“How much you like me.”

You didn’t deny it.

Minjeong grinned—smug, beautiful, bratty. “Lucky for you, I like you back. Even if you’re a total loser.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said, dazed.

She kissed you again.

And this time, you kissed her back.

_____

The air hit you like a wall the second you stepped out the front door. Crisp, cold, sharp against your legs—the skirt suddenly felt like a criminal choice.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, already regretting not bringing a jacket. Not that you’d planned to be here long enough to need one.

Minjeong followed behind, pulling the door shut, the muffled sound of music and party noise sealing off in an instant. The night was quiet now. Just the wind, a few distant voices, and your heart still fluttering from what had just happened.

“You’re freezing,” she said, eyes flicking to your bare arms.

“I’m fine,” you lied quickly. “It’s not that—”

Before you could finish, she was already sliding off her jacket. Not just any jacket. A black designer bomber, subtly monogrammed with tiny initials and a luxury brand name you definitely couldn’t pronounce.

She held it out.

You blinked at her. “Minjeong, that’s like… probably worth more than my tuition.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a jacket. And you’re shivering.”

“I’m not—”

“Take it,” she said flatly. “Before I get mad about it.”

You stared.

She stared back.

You slowly took the jacket, and the weight of it was immediate. Heavy, expensive, warm—and it smelled like her. Some kind of clean, expensive perfume and something uniquely her. You pulled it on, the sleeves way too long, the shoulders slightly too broad.

And still, it felt… safe.

Minjeong looked you over once, then smirked. “Cute. Loser in designer. New aesthetic?”

You scoffed. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look like you’re mine,” she said under her breath. Then louder: “And it’s not ridiculous if I say it’s hot.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

She watched you fumble, grinning smugly, before walking ahead a few steps—then pausing and turning around, waiting for you to follow.

You did, hugging her jacket closer to your body, still buzzing from the kiss, her scent, her voice—everything.

She glanced back at you again.

“You hungry?”

You looked up. “What?”

“I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s go get food. I’m not ready to drop you off yet.”

“Minjeong—”

“Don’t argue,” she cut in. “You’re wearing my jacket. That makes you my responsibility.”

You rolled your eyes, flustered and grinning, and followed her into the cold.

The diner was exactly what you needed. Small, dimly lit, and filled with the faint hum of quiet chatter from a few other late-night customers. The warm glow from the neon signs outside flickered through the windows, giving everything a surreal, almost dream-like feel.

You slid into the booth across from Minjeong, still wearing her oversized designer jacket, which now felt like it belonged to you—despite the overwhelming scent of her still lingering on it. She didn’t say anything as she picked up the menu, her face softening for a split second before she took a casual glance at you.

You glanced down at the menu too, trying to look normal, but your fingers were still numb from the cold and your mind was racing a million miles an hour. You couldn’t stop thinking about what just happened—what she had said, the way she kissed you, how she’d taken off her jacket without hesitation and handed it to you.

She leaned back in the booth, her eyes scanning the menu, though you caught the way her gaze flicked to you every now and then, like she was waiting for you to say something.

“Don’t make me do all the talking,” she finally said, voice teasing. “Order something. It’s late. And I’m starving.”

You nodded, but before you could even pick something, she already waved the waitress over.

“I’ll have the pancakes and a coffee,” Minjeong said casually, flipping the menu shut. Then she turned to you with a raised eyebrow. “You?”

You hesitated, still feeling the weight of the moment, the kiss, the intimacy of it all. Finally, you settled on something easy—“Uhm, I’ll just have a burger, I guess.”

The waitress nodded and left.

You stared at the table, the silence between you stretching on. Minjeong didn’t say anything at first, letting you stew in your thoughts, her posture relaxed but the slight smile on her lips betraying a soft satisfaction.

“You’re really quiet all of a sudden,” she finally remarked, leaning in just a little. “That’s not like you.”

“I’m just… thinking,” you admitted, not really wanting to meet her gaze, but feeling the pull to do so. “About, well… everything.”

Minjeong’s lips curled up, a half-smirk forming. “And what exactly are you thinking about?” Her voice was lighter, teasing, but there was something underneath it, a small vulnerability that slipped through the cracks in her usual brash demeanor.

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to explain. “Just… you know. How things just kinda… happened?”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning your face for a moment. “It wasn’t that sudden, was it?” she asked, her tone more serious now, the playful edge gone.

You shrugged. “I mean, you were kind of… teasing me all night, and then the kiss, and now we’re here. I guess I didn’t really think it’d go this way.”

Her gaze softened a little, and she leaned forward just enough to close the space between you two. “You didn’t think I’d kiss you?”

You shook your head, feeling like an idiot. “No, I— I don’t know what I thought.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Minjeong reached across the table, her fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second, making your heart skip a beat.

“I’m not gonna lie,” she said softly, her gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that was rare for her. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”

You froze.

“I just didn’t know if you’d want it. I didn’t know if you’d be into it.” She paused, biting her lip in that way that sent a shiver through you. “But when you looked at me like that… I kinda lost control.”

You felt your face flush again, your chest tightening. “You’ve been wanting to kiss me? Seriously?”

She smirked again, just a little, but there was no mistaking the softness in her eyes now. “Why do you think I’ve been teasing you? Flirting with you?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind was still processing. Minjeong… wanted you? All along?

Before you could speak, the waitress arrived with their orders, setting the plates down with a quiet smile before walking off.

You reached for your burger, but your hand was shaking—just a little.

Minjeong noticed.

She leaned back in the booth, crossing her arms over her chest, the soft smile still on her lips as she watched you carefully. “Relax,” she said gently. “I’m not gonna bite. At least, not unless you want me to.”

You shot her a playful look, finally shaking your head and trying to settle into the moment. “I’m still figuring out what to do with you.”

“Good luck with that,” Minjeong said with a grin, reaching for her coffee. “I’m not easy, you know.”

You laughed quietly, still trying to get used to the idea of this—her teasing, her soft moments, the fact that she wanted to be close to you.

Minjeong’s eyes softened again, a little less cocky now, a little more real. “I’m serious though,” she said, her voice quieter, almost shy. “You do look cute in my jacket.”

You smiled, a little more at ease. “Thanks, Minjeong.”

“Anytime, loser.”

______

You took a bite of your burger, still flustered but feeling more comfortable now that the silence wasn’t quite as awkward. Minjeong was sipping her coffee, her fingers wrapped loosely around the mug, and you couldn’t help but notice the way she looked—more relaxed than usual, a little less like the untouchable queen of the campus and a little more like… well, someone you could actually talk to.

After a few more seconds of silence, you caught her glancing at you, a playful glint in her eye as she waited for you to say something.

And, for some reason, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Jeongie,” you said out of nowhere.

Minjeong blinked, the coffee cup pausing halfway to her lips as she stared at you. “What did you just call me?”

You tried to hold back your smile, knowing you had the upper hand now. “Jeongie. It fits you. You can’t just be ‘Minjeong’ all the time. It’s way too formal.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Jeongie?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your grin getting wider. “It’s cute. I think it suits you better than ‘Minjeong.’ It sounds more… playful. Fun.”

Minjeong set her cup down, a small laugh escaping her as she leaned forward, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Jeongie, huh? Is that what you think of me?”

You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant despite the fact that your heart was suddenly racing again. “I don’t know. I mean, you’re definitely a little bratty sometimes, but I think you have a softer side. I think you like the nickname.”

Minjeong leaned back in the booth, crossing her arms and giving you a sideways smile. “You’re bold, aren’t you?”

You shrugged again, but this time your grin was playful. “What can I say? You bring it out in me, Jeongie.”

Her eyes narrowed in mock annoyance, but there was something warmer behind them now—something that made her seem less like the untouchable goddess and more like someone real. Someone you could actually imagine getting to know better.

“You’re gonna regret that nickname, loser,” she said with a sly grin, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile.

“No way,” you retorted confidently, biting into your burger. “It’s perfect. You look more like a Jeongie than a Minjeong anyway.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, she leaned across the table again, her face now just inches from yours. “You’re so cute when you’re being a little brat, you know that?”

Your breath caught at the closeness. The teasing tone in her voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Stop flirting,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Minjeong’s smirk only deepened, and she sat back in her seat again, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m not flirting. I’m just telling you the truth.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Jeongie, you’re impossible.”

“That’s why you like me,” she replied smoothly, looking far too smug for someone who had just claimed that they weren’t flirting.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you filled with a mix of teasing and something else—something soft, almost like you were both trying to get used to the idea that you were sitting here together, just the two of you, talking in a way that felt more real than the game you’d been playing earlier that night.

Then, Minjeong’s voice broke the silence, quieter than before.

“You know, I’m really glad you came tonight,” she said, her tone a little more genuine, less teasing. “I… I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up to the party. Or if you’d even want to be around me, after everything.”

You were caught off guard by the vulnerability in her voice. Minjeong—Jeongie—wasn’t the type to let people see her like this. She was usually cocky, sure of herself, a little untouchable.

But now? There was something else there. Something softer.

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But… I’m glad I did too. I… I like being around you. Even if you’re a brat.”

Minjeong looked down for a second, almost like she was processing your words, before her gaze met yours again. There was that familiar spark in her eyes, but it was mixed with something else now—something warmer.

“I like being around you, too, loser,” she said softly, before leaning back in the booth with her usual cocky grin. “But don’t get used to me being nice.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, feeling a wave of warmth spread through you. There was something about this side of her—the side she only showed when it was just the two of you—that made you feel a little braver. A little more confident.

“Jeongie, I don’t think I could ever get used to you being nice,” you teased, feeling more playful now. “You’re way too much of a brat for that.”

Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward again, her voice low and dangerous. “Keep calling me that, and I’ll make sure you never forget who’s in charge, loser.”

The intensity of her gaze sent a thrill through you, but you couldn’t help but smirk back.

“Only if you can keep up, Jeongie.”

[fangirlfuel]

Ready to be a Father

Kimi Antonelli was in the middle of an intense testing session in Bahrain, his focus razor-sharp as he navigated the track, gathering valuable data for the team. The mechanics and engineers monitored his every move, analyzing every fraction of a second, every minor adjustment. The pressure was immense, after all, this was his first year in Formula 1, and expectations were already sky-high.

During a short break, he sat in the garage, helmet resting on his knee as he grabbed a water bottle. His phone buzzed on the table next to him. He wasn’t one to check his messages during testing, but something made him glance at the screen. The moment his eyes landed on the picture you had sent, his entire world tilted.

A tiny, pink baby onesie.

With the caption: You're going to be a daddy! 🩷

His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering against his ribs. His hands trembled slightly as he re-read the message, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. Pregnant? You were pregnant? His mind short-circuited. He was only eighteen. You were only seventeen. He had just started his career, barely getting used to the chaos of F1. And now… a baby?

A mix of emotions crashed over him like a tidal wave. Panic. Shock. Fear. And then, something else, something warm and overwhelming. Love. The idea of having a family with you, of holding a tiny baby in his arms, made his heart swell. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. Could he do this? Would he be a good father? Would you be okay? He had so many questions, so many worries, but one thing was certain—he loved you, and he would do anything to make this work.

With shaking hands, he took a deep breath and, without really thinking, forwarded the picture to his parents with a voice note , his voice trembling. "Mom, Dad… I have to tell you something important......Y/N is pregnant".

Immediately, his phone exploded with notifications. His mother was calling him nonstop, and his father sent a string of panicked texts.

Kimi Lorenzo Antonelli, ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW!

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

You’re EIGHTEEN, Kimi!

KIMI, WE ARE GETTING ON A PLANE.

Kimi felt like he was going to pass out. His hands were sweating, and his helmet slipped off his knee onto the floor with a loud clatter. His engineer, noticing his pale face, frowned. “Kimi, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I just did,” Kimi muttered.

He barely made it through the rest of the testing session. His engineers kept asking if everything was alright, and he brushed them off with forced smiles. The second he was done for the day, he bolted to the nearest store, heart pounding in his chest. He found a small, soft teddy bear, something perfect for a newborn to cuddle. Holding it in his hands, he made a silent vow to be the best father he could be.

When he finally arrived home, his hands were shaking as he unlocked the door. You barely had time to turn around before he was wrapping you up in a tight embrace, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured against your skin. “I–I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but I swear, I’m going to be the best dad. I’ll do anything for you, for our baby.”

You froze. “Our… baby?”

He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with the softest expression you had ever seen. “I know it’s unexpected, but I swear, I’ll be there for everything. Doctor’s appointments, late nights, everything. I’ll make sure you and the baby have everything you need.”

Your mind reeled, trying to piece together what was happening. Then, a small bark broke the silence.

Your eyes flickered towards the couch, where a tiny golden retriever puppy sat, its tail wagging. And there, draped over its tiny frame, was the pink baby onesie.

Realization hit you like a lightning bolt.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth. Your shoulders started shaking with laughter. “Kimi, no! The onesie wasn’t because I’m pregnant, it was for the puppy! I was trying to surprise you with our new pet!”

His face turned a deep shade of red. “Wait… what?”

Tears of laughter streamed down your face as you clutched his arm. “Kimi, you actually thought I was pregnant?”

Kimi groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I just had an entire existential crisis for nothing.”

You grinned, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “A very cute crisis, though.”

Just as Kimi was about to respond, the apartment door burst open with a loud BANG.

“KIMI LORENZO ANTONELLI!”

Kimi jumped, nearly dropping the teddy bear as his parents stormed inside, looking completely frazzled. His mother, eyes blazing with fury, marched up to him and smacked his arm. “You thought you could just TEXT US something like this and NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE?!”

His father, though slightly calmer, was running a hand through his hair, looking at you with wide eyes. “Kimi, what were you thinking?! You’re both so young! We are about to rearrange our whole lives for this!”

You were doubled over in laughter at this point, tears streaming down your face. Kimi held up his hands. “Mom! Dad! It was a misunderstanding! Y/N isn’t pregnant!”

His mother stopped mid-rant, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Kimi pointed to the couch, where the tiny puppy was now chewing on the onesie’s sleeve. “The onesie was for the puppy! Y/N was surprising me, and I misunderstood!”

Silence.

Then, his mother smacked his arm again. “IDIOTA! Do you know what you just put us through?! We nearly had a heart attack on the way here!”

His father let out a deep sigh of relief before shaking his head. “You’re lucky we love you, Kimi.”

You wiped at your tears, still giggling. “I think this is the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Kimi groaned. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

His mother crossed her arms. “Not from me.”

His father smirked. “Or from me.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around Kimi’s waist. “And definitely not from me.”

Kimi let out a dramatic sigh. “Great. Just great.”

But despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but smile. Because even though this wasn’t the life-changing moment he thought it was, he still had you, and now, a tiny puppy that you would raise together. And maybe, just maybe, one day, the real onesie moment would happen.

Just… not today.

----

[jeonginsleftcheek]

A new beginning (drabble)

a/n: this is just a short fluffy (a bit angsty but happy ending) drabble i spit out after a 9 hour shift (horrible and i am exhausted). happy new year, my friends!❤️✨

Of course he's here.

How could he not be? After all, he's in your friend group and that makes it kind of hard to avoid him.

You weren't even supposed to be at the party but Jeongin gave you the cutest pout he could muster and you were too weak at the sight of his adorable face.

He even added in a 'please' and a fake sniffle, making Felix gag in the back as Changbin smirked.

You weren't too surprised they invited you dragged you out of the house since you hang out with them whenever they have free time but you really didn't wanna leave the comfort of your blanket.

The holidays always made you feel a little nostalgic, like you were saying goodbye to someone you know, the reality of another year quickly passing by settled in your brain.

It's been months since you last saw Hyunjin, and even then you avoided him like the plague.

Ever since that night two years ago, when you were so stupid to believe his lingering touches and sweet words meant something more.

You let yourself fall for him, believing wholeheartedly that he would catch you so you confessed. Hyunjin looked surprised, kind of like someone slapped him out of a trance while he stuttered out some excuse about 'not being ready for a serious relationship'.

You were so embarrassed at that moment as you mumbled something out and excused yourself. After the embarrassment came the disappoinment, then the sadness and doubt.

You started to think about every moment spent with him, how he was always so attentive towards you, how you could spend hours talking to him, that one time he held your hand, the way he smiled at you...

Were you wrong to think he loved you like you loved him?

Since then, you used every and any excuse to avoid him whenever everyone was hanging out together. You only went if he wasn't there, you couldn't even look at him after he rejected you.

But now, you had nowhere to run, not when his eyes caught yours as everyone walked out to the balcony to watch the fireworks.

A minute left until midnight. A minute left until your life changes completely. A minute left until your heart explodes together with the fireworks.

It felt like slow motion, all the other people around you becoming a blur as Hyunjin made his way towards you, a small unsure smile on his plump lips when he finally approached you.

You swallowed your heart and stared at him expectantly.

Thirty seconds left.

"Hey." he said.

God, you missed his voice.

"Hi." you almost ran out of breath.

Hyunjin wanted to say so many things to you.

That he was sorry, that he couldn't stop beating himself up for being terrified of something he always dreamed about, and he needed you to know that he loved you back then and has never stopped.

His tongue got twisted as you stared at him, the air became heavy with unspoken emotions and you were buzzing from being so close to him after all this time.

It was as if you hung out yesterday, talking about your dreams, your favorite albums, your biggest fears.

The countdown started.

Hyunjin's lips parted as he leaned in closer to you and your heart dropped in your stomach.

Five...

Four...

You could see your reflection in his adoring eyes.

Three...

His breath hit your face and like always he pulled you like a magnet, your soul screaming to stay in his presence.

Two...

Everyone was yelling but your focus was only on Hyunjin who was closing the gap that had grown between you.

One...

His lips pressed on yours as fireworks exploded in the background, shining over your heads as your friends cheered for a new beginning.

But no one cheered as happily as you and Hyunjin did, butterflies dancing in your tummy because finally everything you had dreamed of was about to come true.

This was going to be an amazing year, with many more to come.

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @starlost-mochi-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @eastjonowhere @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them

[qrrieterisunnq]

Flour Prank - Jack Hughes

strawberry girl masterlist

JACK!HUGHES X AMARA!JAMES — WARNINGS: nothing just sweet pure content — SUMMARY: Amara pretends that the bowl she uses is stuck on the counter, and she calls Jack to help her. Only for him to end up covered up in flour when he picks it up. — WORD COUNT: 0,8K PART OF STRAWBERRY GIRL AU

“Oh my gosh,” Amara giggles as she carefully fills the bowl with flour, scooping it in with way more precision than she usually manages. “He’s so gonna kill me after this.”

She’s already buzzing with energy, her brain practically racing through the logistics—camera angle, flour placement, timing, Jack’s reaction. It’s chaotic, but in her head it all makes sense. Her thoughts jump ahead, imagining the poof of flour, the look on Jack’s face, and the sound of Luke wheezing from the living room.

She peeks around the corner—Jack’s still zoned in on the game, eyes locked on the screen, one leg hanging off the couch like he’s melted into it. Luke is on the other end, flipping through something on his phone, earbuds in one ear.

Perfect.

Amara tiptoes back into the kitchen, snatching her phone from the charger and fumbling with the camera app. “Okay, okay, okay,” she mutters to herself, setting it up behind another bowl. “Angle’s good. Lighting…eh, whatever. This is gold either way.”

She’s still adjusting the placement when she hears someone come up behind her. She jumps, nearly knocking over the bowl. “Luke!”

He raises an eyebrow, finishing a bite of apple. “Why do you look like you’re about to commit a felony?”

“Because I am,” she whispers with a wild grin. “Okay, okay, listen—don’t distract me. I have one shot at this.”

Luke laughs. “That’s exactly what someone says before it all goes wrong.”

Amara waves her hands dramatically. “Focus! I filled this bowl with flour and I’m gonna tell Jack it’s stuck to the counter. When he picks it up—poof. Instant snowstorm. I’m talking flour bomb level chaos.”

Luke stares at her, chewing slowly. “You planned all this?”

She shrugs, bouncing on her toes. “It just came to me like, five minutes ago. I was supposed to be making cookies but then the bowl made this little suction noise and I thought, ‘what if I made it a trap?’ And then flour happened. And now we’re here.”

He laughs. “Classic ADHD spiral, huh?”

She gives him a mock salute. “Hyperfocus activated. Chaos mode: engaged. Are you in or not?”

I’m so in,” Luke says, already invested. “You want me to distract him?”

“Yes. Stall him if you have to. Make him think this is legit.”

Luke shakes his head, still laughing. “Man, he’s never gonna trust you in the kitchen again.”

Amara just grins. “He barely does now.”

Luke heads toward the living room while Amara positions herself near the counter, one hand lightly resting on the edge of the “stuck” bowl and the other ready to play innocent.

“Jack!” Luke calls out. “She says she needs help in the kitchen. Bowl’s stuck or something.”

“What?” Jack yells, not looking away from the screen. “What do you mean stuck?”

“I don’t know, she’s acting like it’s super glued,” Luke says with a snort. “You’re up, man.”

Amara does a quick bounce to shake out the jitters. She can’t help it—her brain’s running a hundred miles a minute and her excitement is hard to contain.

Jack sighs, pausing the game. “You two are exhausting,” he mutters as he walks into the kitchen.

Amara turns toward him, all big eyes and pretend confusion. “Seriously, I don’t know what happened. I think it vacuum-sealed itself or something? I can’t get it to budge.”

Jack eyes the bowl skeptically. “You didn’t glue it, right?”

“Why would I glue it?” she says innocently, barely suppressing her grin.

He steps forward, muttering under his breath. “This better not be another baking experiment gone wrong—”

He lifts the bowl.

POOF.

A full-on flour explosion bursts into the air, coating Jack in a fine white dust from head to toe. It covers his hoodie, his hair, his eyelashes—everything.

Amara’s eyes go wide for half a second before she bursts into laughter. “OH MY GOD. JACK. YOU LOOK LIKE A DUSTED CINNAMON ROLL.”

From the living room, Luke is absolutely howling. “BRO. YOU GOT DOMED.”

Jack doesn’t move. He just blinks slowly, turning his head toward the counter where Amara’s phone is very visibly recording.

“You two planned this.”

Amara is wheezing now, hands on her knees, nearly crying. “I—I can’t breathe. Your face—you looked so betrayed!”

Jack takes one slow step toward her, grabbing a fistful of leftover flour from the counter. “This is war.”

“Jack, no—Jack—JACK!” she squeals, backing away just as he lunges.

Too late. He grabs her, hugging her tightly and smearing flour all over her hair and shirt. She screams, both laughing and trying to escape.

Luke’s doubled over, filming it all. “This is the best day of my life.”

“I’m gonna flour you next,” Jack threatens, lobbing a scoop in Luke’s direction.

Luke dodges and bolts into the kitchen. “Nope, you’re not catching me—Amara started it!”

Amara, still breathless with laughter, wipes flour off her face and yells, “And I regret nothing!”

[joocomics]

1k followers celebration event — ⌞⌗ xdh drabble⌝

𓂃⠀𓈒 bf!jooyeon x fem!reader

genre: smut ( 18+ ) ── 0.6 words

request: “you're mine. and don't you forget it” + squirting

✎… established relationship, sub!reader, descriptions of jealousy, unprotected sex, squirting, multiple orgasms (f!rec), overstimulation (f!rec), pet names, light choking (f!rec)

( event masterlist | xdh masterlist )

Jealousy isn’t something you can kiss away easily.

Even though Jooyeon had stripped you from your clothes, and had already covered each bit of skin on your body in rough kisses and warm whispers of lust and possession, there’s still something twisting inside him.

He’s still thinking about how one of your friends was looking at you; how he was talking to you as if unaware that you're his, even with his hand tightening around your waist.

It’s infuriating.

The scene of his shameless gaze peeking into your chest keeps replaying in his head even now as he’s inside you; even as you scream at how good he makes you feel with his cock, because at the end of the day, you’re his - and he gets to do that, not anyone else.

“Babe,” you whimper helplessly, staring at your boyfriend’s face; you fight back to keep your eyes focused upon him, but they’re too glazed over by the strong pleasure. “Baby!”

“Keep screaming for me, baby…” Jooyeon exhales, maintaining your legs bend against your chest and trying to focus on the amazing angle this position provides. “Let me hear your pretty sounds… show me how you feel when I fuck you, c’mon.”

“Fuck!” Your voice cracks as you’ve been loud for a while now. The pleasure consumed your body the moment you came home, and has been continuing to buzz inside you ever since; it seems like your boyfriend doesn’t plan on slowing down soon. “Only you can have me this way… you know it.”

You're perfectly aware why he’s like this and you find it frustrating, but also thrilling at the same time.

“You’re mine,” he whispers; almost like he’s talking to himself, “all mine—“ As if it’s not a known fact, but something he needs to remind himself of.

In the next few seconds, he slows down the pace, just for a short moment to catch his breath. After pressing a wet kiss near your ankle he picks up the rhythm again, watching the familiar ecstatic expression settle on your face as he thrusts deeply into you.

“Shit—“ He groans, his own core burning just as strongly. “You’re mine to fuck, baby.” Though his mind is barely thinking straight, he keeps babbling while chasing both of your highs; his voice is low, hissing through raspy words. “This pussy is all mine, look how damn tight she is for me, fuck— my pretty toy.”

“Joo—“ Your nails dig into your heated flesh the moment you feel it - the scorching energy rising and making your brain go completely numb.

For a moment, it was so warm… too warm - in your lower tummy which your thighs applied extra pressure on as you kept your knees close to your chest.

But what has you swallowing your tongue is something else that happened during the intense seconds of the sensation; something you realise after the fog clears up your mind - you squirted.

“This pussy fuckin’ loves me.”

You open your eyes to see Jooyeon grinning at you - with eyes not so dark anymore.

You shake your head at the cocky curl of his lips, slightly flustered from the experience since it’s never happened to you before. Then, you finally stretch your legs; they feel too soft and wobbly, with dripping inner thighs as you readjust them around his waist.

Jooyeon uses the chance to lean down to your mouth.

Before he kisses you, his hand shifts to your neck, resting fingers around your throat as a way to tilt your chin up, but more than that… he simply likes how it feels and looks - obsessive and appealing to his eyes because of the way it causes your eyes to sparkle.

“You’re mine,” he mutters, relishing the way you hold onto his gaze, “and don’t you forget it.”

“Never,” you respond.

Hopefully, he’ll keep that spark in his eyes forever - the one that appears only when he’s looking at you.

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise for any mistakes i’ve might missed

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 3: “THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY.”

The buzz of a new workweek vibrated through the precinct. Phones rang. Radios crackled. The hum of conversation and the occasional barked command created the usual chaotic symphony that made the building feel alive.

For the first time in three weeks, Detective Dylan Jenkins stepped back into it.

She wore her full uniform for the first time since the shooting—crisp blues, her badge catching the light on her chest. Her left arm was no longer in a sling, though she still moved it carefully, the stiff way someone does when their body remembers trauma before their brain does. The bruises had faded, but there were remnants in her posture, the tightness in her eyes, the way she instinctively scanned every room like something might explode.

Still, she looked sharp. Focused.

And she was glad to be back.

Sort of.

Her first stop wasn’t the bullpen, or the break room where Lucy had probably already stashed a welcome-back donut. It was the Watch Commander’s office—where she now stood outside the open door, knocking twice on the frame.

Sergeant Wade Grey looked up from behind his desk, his hands steepled over a manila folder.

“Detective Jenkins,” he said with a nod. “Come in.”

She stepped inside, arms crossed loosely, giving him that standard Dylan smirk that she used to deflect anything remotely emotional. “You called me in here to personally inspect my battle scars?”

Grey didn’t even blink. “No. I called you in here because before I send anyone back out onto my streets, I need confirmation they’re not just physically cleared—but mentally ready.”

Dylan sighed and dropped into the chair opposite his desk. “So, therapy mode today. Fantastic.”

He opened the folder and tapped the paper inside. “You passed your medical clearance. Shoulder’s healing well. Range of motion acceptable. No nerve damage. But none of this tells me what I actually need to know.”

“Which is?” she asked, already bracing.

“That you’re ready to come back and not pretend like getting shot didn’t affect you.”

Dylan scoffed. “Come on, Sarge. I’ve been through worse. This isn’t my first traumatic Tuesday.”

“I’m aware,” Grey said calmly. “I read your London file. The forced entry that went sideways. Your partner who bled out. That time you were held at knifepoint by a domestic suspect and refused to stand down. Your brother.”

Dylan’s smirk faltered. Just slightly.

“This,” Grey continued, “isn’t about what you can survive. You’ve already proven that. Repeatedly. This is about how you survive it. Whether you’re going to let this job eat you from the inside out like it has a thousand others who thought they were invincible.”

She shifted in the chair. “I’m not one of those people.”

“No?” Grey leaned forward, voice low. “You dragged a bleeding officer out of a gunfight while you were bleeding yourself. You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even notice—because your adrenaline was pumping so high, and your focus was so external, you ignored your own life being on the line. That doesn’t go away when the stitches come out.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. Looked away for the first time.

Grey studied her a beat longer, then softened—just a touch.

“You’re good, Jenkins. Damn good. But you’re not made of steel. Neither is Bradford.”

At that, her eyes flicked up. Sharp.

“He needs to take it easy too,” Grey said. “You both do. That kind of bond—what happened out there—that’s not just something you walk off. You took a bullet for him. He watched you go down right in front of him. You think either of you came out of that untouched?”

Dylan swallowed.

“No one’s telling you not to be here,” Grey added. “But slow down. Be smart. This job doesn’t reward martyrs—it buries them.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then: “You done psychoanalyzing me now, or should I get horizontal and talk about my childhood?”

Grey leaned back, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Just go easy on the hero complex for a few weeks.”

She stood slowly, the sarcasm already returning to her voice like armor. “I’ll try. Can’t promise anything if Tim gets sentimental again, though. Might have to throw myself into traffic.”

Grey smirked. “Welcome back, Jenkins.”

As she left the office, Dylan’s expression was unreadable—wry on the surface, but something quieter underneath.

Maybe Grey was right. Maybe flipping the switch didn’t work like it used to.

But if she was going to do this job right—again—she might need to start learning a different way to survive.

The moment Dylan Jenkins stepped out of Grey’s office, her head was buzzing — but not in the way it usually did before a shift. It wasn’t adrenaline. Not nerves. Just… noise. The kind of internal hum you get when someone touches a nerve you didn’t realise was still raw.

Grey’s words echoed behind her eyes: “This job doesn’t reward martyrs — it buries them.”

She tucked them away, buried deep behind her usual smirk, and headed toward the briefing room, where the rest of the squad was already beginning to filter in. The place was half-full when she slipped in and leaned against the back wall, one arm hanging loosely by her side, the other still stiff from the injury, though she was pretending otherwise.

At the front of the room, Sergeant Grey stood with his usual quiet authority, clipboard in hand. The second she walked in, his eyes met hers. A single nod.

Then, in his no-nonsense tone, he spoke.

“Alright, listen up. We’ve got a priority case from last night. Armed robbery, downtown. Citizens’ Bank on Seventh. Five masked suspects. Got away with over eighty grand in cash.”

A few murmurs rippled across the room.

Grey held up a hand, then motioned toward the aide next to him, who began passing out photocopied stills from CCTV footage. Blurry, grainy images showed figures in tattered, grimy clothes — makeup smeared across their faces, fake blood splashed over ripped shirts.

Zombies.

Dylan squinted at the grainy image as the sheet landed in her hand. “Oh, for f—”

“Yeah,” Grey said, hearing her before she finished. “Halloween came early.”

A chuckle floated from somewhere near the front. Tim Bradford, seated with arms folded across his chest, gave Dylan a look — amused, knowing — but said nothing. She returned it with an eye-roll.

“These five suspects,” Grey continued, “stormed the bank at 2:37 a.m., full ‘undead’ getup, armed with handguns. One fired into the ceiling. No casualties, no injuries, but they cleared the vault in under four minutes and vanished before patrol arrived.”

“Witnesses?” someone asked.

“Only one worth anything,” Grey said. “Night janitor. Said they moved like they’d done it before. Coordinated. Not amateurs.”

Dylan tapped her sheet with one finger. “So we’re looking for a pack of criminal thespians?”

Before Grey could respond, the door at the side of the room opened, and in walked Captain Andersen — composed, elegant, eyes sharp as ever.

The room stiffened slightly. Her presence always commanded attention, not through volume, but precision.

Her gaze scanned the group quickly — and then stopped squarely on Dylan.

“Detective Jenkins,” she said, her voice firm but warm.

Dylan straightened instinctively.

“Glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Ma’am,” Dylan replied with a respectful nod.

“If you need anything,” Andersen continued, walking toward the front of the room, “you come directly to me. Any resources, any support — medical or otherwise. Understood?”

There was a beat of silence. Dylan could feel a few heads turn in her direction. Not pitying — just… watching.

“I appreciate that,” she said, calm and measured. “But I’m good.”

Andersen studied her for half a second longer, then gave a curt nod and turned to the group.

“Regarding the robbery,” she said, taking over from Grey with seamless authority. “Intel suggests the suspects are part of a fringe performance collective — formerly tied to small-time theft and vandalism. They call themselves the ‘Dead Awake’ Crew. Most of their previous run-ins have been harmless. Art school dropouts with a flair for dramatics.”

Someone near the front snorted.

“They’re not a joke anymore,” Andersen said coolly. “They’re armed. Organised. And they’ve just pulled off the cleanest bank robbery we’ve seen this year.”

Tim’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the photo again. “Why now? Why escalate?”

“That’s what you’re going to find out,” Andersen replied. “Grey will coordinate the ground work. Jenkins — I want you plugged in on the criminal psych angle. Dig into their previous group affiliations. Bradford, you’ll partner.”

Dylan blinked. Her eyes shifted sideways — and locked with Tim’s.

He raised an eyebrow.

Of course.

Grey clapped the clipboard shut. “You know your assignments. I want updates by end of shift. Dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Conversations bubbled. Officers began filing out, some excited by the bizarre case, others rolling their eyes at the thought of chasing down zombie-costumed robbers.

As Dylan folded her copy of the CCTV stills, Tim walked by and smirked at her.

“So. Back on the clock.”

“Back in the frying pan,” she muttered.

“You know, if you wanted attention, you could’ve just worn a cape,” he added, falling in step beside her as they walked toward the exit.

She shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m saving the cape for the press conference. Think it’ll match my bullet scar?”

Tim chuckled.

And just like that — the day began.

But beneath the sarcasm and weirdness of zombie crews, Dylan felt something settle inside her. She was back. Still healing. Still raw.

But back.

And this time, she wasn’t doing it alone.

The afternoon sun cast long streaks of light through the windshield of the patrol car as it cruised slowly down Melrose, weaving through a maze of street vendors, graffiti-tagged alleyways, and the occasional jaywalker with a death wish. It was the kind of shift that felt deceptively calm—no high-speed chases, no shootouts, no chaos. Just simmering tension beneath the surface.

In the front seat, Dylan Jenkins sat slouched with one leg bent against the dash, flipping through case notes for the “Dead Awake” robbery. Her shoulder twinged every now and then, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to mention it. Not after the looks she’d been getting all day.

Beside her, Tim Bradford drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the radio, gaze scanning the street with practiced calm.

For a while, the only sound was the distant chatter of dispatch and the occasional rustle of paper in Dylan’s lap.

Then Tim cleared his throat.

“You uh… bleeding out again, or just brooding dramatically?”

Dylan’s eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Wow. Subtle.”

He didn’t look at her. “Just asking. You’ve been quiet.”

“Because I’m reading.”

“You hate paperwork.”

“And yet it still makes better company than you.”

Tim smirked, but she could tell he was still watching her—really watching. His eyes drifted toward her shoulder, toward the way she shifted every so often, like the seat wasn’t quite right. She could feel it—his concern tucked beneath sarcasm, like it always was.

“I’m fine, Tim,” she said flatly.

“You sure?”

“Don’t start,” she snapped, sharper than intended. “If one more person asks me if I’m okay like I’m made of glass, I’m going to scream.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you were made of glass.”

“Didn’t have to.” She dropped the files onto her lap and turned slightly toward him, the fire behind her voice impossible to miss. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it. You think Grey would’ve cleared me if I wasn’t ready? You don’t see me fussing over you, and you got shot too, or did we all just forget that part?”

Tim was quiet.

The tension between them hung in the cab, thick and heavy, until finally—he exhaled.

“Alright,” he said, nodding slowly. “Fair.”

Dylan looked away again, jaw tight. Her fingers drummed against the case file, restlessness creeping in. She hated this part. The hovering. The worry. People thinking they were being kind when really, they were just picking at the scab before it healed.

A beat passed.

Two.

Then, softly—almost too soft to hear over the hum of the engine—Tim said, “Good to have you back.”

Dylan turned her head slowly.

Her expression shifted, just a touch. Still guarded. But something about his tone caught her off guard. It wasn’t a joke. Wasn’t performative. Just honest. A little raw around the edges.

Her lips curled into a slow, smug smile.

“Of course it is,” she muttered, turning back to the window. “Your life’s boring without me.”

Tim let out a short laugh. Quiet. But real.

“I’ll give you that.”

They didn’t say anything more for a while.

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, or heavy. It was something else. Something earned.

The kind of silence that lives between two people who’ve been through something together—and come out the other side still on the same page.

Not partners in name only anymore.

Something deeper.

Something real.

The call had come in just after lunch. A Code 44 — entrapment. Unusual location: a bank ATM vestibule. Even more unusual? The trapped subject was not a thief, but a repair technician who’d somehow gotten wedged inside the back of an ATM overnight after crawling in to fix a malfunction.

By the time Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up in their shop, the sidewalk outside the small neighborhood bank was buzzing with confused onlookers, two twitchy bank managers, and one extremely muffled voice yelling something about “airflow” from within the ATM booth.

“Only in L.A.,” Tim muttered as he slammed the door shut.

Dylan squinted at the glass-walled enclosure just off the main lobby, where the clunky metal ATM sat bolted into the wall like an angry refrigerator. “How the hell does someone get stuck inside an ATM?”

“Apparently he crawled in through the maintenance hatch, the latch jammed, and no one noticed he didn’t leave last night,” Tim replied, reading from the report. “He’s been stuck in there for almost twelve hours. And his oxygen’s running out.”

Dylan blinked. “There’s no air vents?”

“Not proper ones. Machine’s designed for security, not comfort.” Tim turned to the flustered manager. “Fire department?”

“On their way,” the man said, wiping sweat from his temple. “But ETA’s another ten minutes. They’re dealing with a multi-vehicle pileup on the 101.”

Tim glanced back at the ATM, then at the tiny speaker where a garbled voice was shouting something about “suffocating in here!”

“Ten minutes is too long,” he muttered. Then, to Dylan: “Get the breaching kit from the trunk. We’re breaking him out.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “You want us to hammer down the wall of a bank?”

Tim was already striding toward the shop. “The part of the wall surrounding the ATM, not the safe. Don’t get dramatic.”

“I’m British. We invented dramatic,” she muttered, but followed him.

Moments later, both of them were back in the vestibule, geared up with mini sledgehammers, crowbars, and a tactical pry bar. The bank staff looked uneasy. Tim ignored them.

“Start on that left panel,” he instructed, “right where the power cables meet the base. It’s weakest there.”

Dylan nodded and braced herself, gripping the sledge with her good arm and using the injured one for balance. She swung — once, twice — and felt a sharp jolt of pain sear down her shoulder and into her chest.

The third hit didn’t come.

She stood still, breathing hard, jaw clenched, her body locked in place by the flare of agony. The old bullet wound pulsed beneath her skin, deep and raw despite the healing. She stared at the wall, not moving, her hammer gripped tightly in one hand.

Tim’s voice came from beside her. Calm. Steady.

“You good?”

She didn’t look at him.

“I’ve got it,” she muttered, teeth gritted.

Tim watched her carefully. “You’re compensating. Your grip’s off.”

“I said I’ve got it.”

She lifted the hammer again — but stopped halfway. Her shoulder gave a warning throb, and she knew: one more hit, and she’d be down.

Silence lingered for a moment.

Then, without a word, Tim stepped forward.

He gently took the hammer from her hand. Didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t mock. Didn’t offer sympathy.

Just got to work.

Swing.

Swing.

Swing.

With practiced rhythm, he drove into the panel where Dylan had started, the metal groaning under each impact. Cracks spread through the drywall and insulation until, finally, a panel gave way with a crunching pop.

A loud gasp came from inside the ATM as fresh air rushed through the opening. “Oh thank God! I thought I was gonna die in here!”

“Hold tight,” Tim called, grabbing the crowbar to widen the gap.

Within two minutes, they’d peeled away enough of the surrounding wall to slide the technician out — drenched in sweat, wide-eyed, and babbling his thanks like he’d just been reborn.

EMS took him from there.

Tim set the tools aside, breathing hard. Dust clung to his sleeves. Sweat beaded on his brow.

He finally turned to Dylan.

She hadn’t moved much. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall that no longer existed.

“I was fine,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Tim replied, brushing dust off his vest. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

She looked at him then. Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just tired.

And grateful, in a way she didn’t say aloud.

Tim didn’t push.

Didn’t press.

They walked back to the shop in silence.

And though she wouldn’t admit it — not even under interrogation — letting him take over just this once didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like partnership.

The kind built one busted ATM at a time.

The drive back from the ATM call had been quiet.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward, or even heavy — just tired. They both smelled like drywall dust and sweat, and Dylan’s shoulder still pulsed like it had its own heartbeat. But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

They were almost back on patrol, cruising down a wide East L.A. street, when Tim’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen, and the change was instant.

His knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. His back straightened. His whole body seemed to lock into place — like a building bracing for an earthquake.

Dylan noticed it immediately.

“You good?” she asked, brows furrowing.

He didn’t answer. Just clicked on the Bluetooth and answered with a tight, “Yeah. It’s Bradford.”

A voice crackled through. Too muffled for Dylan to make out the words. But she didn’t need to hear them to understand.

His jaw clenched.

Then: “Which hospital?”

More garbled words.

Tim’s entire demeanor shifted. A flash of something in his eyes — fear, fury, panic. He ended the call with a stiff jab of his finger and floored the accelerator.

The car lurched forward, tires screeching slightly as he cut across two lanes and gunned it through a yellow light turning red.

Dylan gripped the dash. “Jesus — Bradford. What the hell’s going on?”

His voice was clipped, dry. But underneath, it cracked. “Emergency Room. County General.”

Dylan didn’t ask questions. She just buckled her seatbelt and braced.

They pulled up to the emergency bay minutes later, the cruiser barely in park before Tim threw open the door and stormed into the hospital. Dylan followed at a slower pace, more cautious — watching him from behind, watching his shoulders tense with every step.

Inside, the fluorescent lights were brutal, and the waiting room buzzed with distant cries, the rustle of paperwork, and the low wail of someone down the corridor.

Tim went straight to the front desk.

“I’m looking for Isabel Bradford,” he said, voice steady but barely contained. “She was brought in maybe thirty minutes ago. OD.”

The nurse didn’t even blink. “Room 14.”

He didn’t thank her. Just turned on his heel and marched toward the hall.

Dylan followed — a few paces back now, unsure of where she stood in this. But instinct told her not to leave. Not yet.

As Tim reached Room 14, the door opened — and there she was.

Isabel.

She looked even worse than last time. Gaunt. Pale. Her skin had a yellow-grey tint, and her eyes were dull, ringed in dark bruises like smoke. She was wearing hospital scrubs now, thin socks on her feet, arms trembling slightly as she moved.

She froze when she saw Tim.

Her lips pressed together in a bitter line. “Oh. Of course.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He reached for her arm — gently, but firmly — and guided her back into the room, closing the door behind them.

Dylan was left in the hallway, just outside. But the walls were thin. The door wasn’t fully latched. And the moment Tim spoke, she heard it all.

“You OD’d.” Tim’s voice cracked — not with rage, but with heartbreak. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are that someone even found you?”

“I didn’t ask to be found,” Isabel replied, her voice hollow, tired.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snapped. “You’re trying to disappear, and if you keep doing this — you will.”

There was a long pause. Then he went on, voice rising, emotional.

“Do you know how many dead junkies I bring in every month? Alone. Blue-lipped. Ice cold. No ID. No family. Just another bagged body someone has to zip up while the rest of the world shrugs.”

“Tim—”

“No. You don’t get to cut me off this time.” His voice cracked. “You think I don’t get it? You don’t want to come home. You don’t want help. Fine. I can’t drag you back. But what do you think this is doing to the people who still love you?”

Silence.

“To me?” he added, voice low now. Broken. “You think this doesn’t rip me apart every time I wonder if the next OD call I get is going to be you?”

Another pause.

Then Isabel spoke, flat and cold.

“Save the tough love for someone else.”

Tim’s breath caught.

“I’m not your responsibility anymore,” she went on. “I stopped being your wife the day I left. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I don’t—owe—you?” he echoed, stunned.

She laughed bitterly. “Stop trying to be my white knight, Tim. You couldn’t save me then. You can’t save me now. Just let it go.”

And then the door burst open.

Isabel stormed past Dylan without even a glance, scrubs flapping, hospital socks skidding slightly on the tile.

Tim stood inside the room, staring at nothing. Shoulders heaving.

Dylan didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just stood outside the door, quiet — still.

The hallway outside Room 14 still buzzed with fluorescent light and low murmurs, but Dylan didn’t hear any of it.

She was frozen, eyes locked on the corridor where Isabel Bradford had just stormed off, shoulders tense, body vibrating with the sting of what she’d heard behind the door.

Inside that hospital room, a silence had fallen — sharp and echoing.

Then—

BANG.

A crack echoed through the wall, deep and jarring. Dylan flinched.

She didn’t wait.

She pushed open the door to see Tim, standing in the center of the room, fist buried in the drywall, knuckles scraped and red, his entire frame heaving with barely suppressed rage.

The wall had dented around the impact — a jagged, angry wound matching the look in his eyes.

“Tim,” she said quietly, closing the door behind her.

He didn’t turn. Just stared at the wall like he might punch it again.

Her voice was lower this time. Calmer. “You alright?”

He yanked his hand from the hole, shaking out his fingers. The skin over his knuckles was already turning red, the kind of bruising that would bloom purple by morning.

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Dylan blinked. The sharpness in his voice wasn’t surprising — but it was too sharp, too immediate. It wasn’t defense. It was deflection.

She took a step closer. “Yeah, okay, but if you’re planning on breaking every hospital wall we visit, I’d appreciate a heads up. I’ll bring gloves.”

He turned sharply toward her, jaw clenched. His face was pale with fury and frustration, his eyes rimmed red — but no tears. Tim Bradford didn’t cry. He just imploded quietly.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Sure,” she said coolly. “Which is why your hand is bleeding and your jaw looks like it’s about to snap in half.”

He shook his head, biting down the snarl of emotion bubbling behind his eyes.

“You didn’t need to follow me in here.”

“No,” she replied, crossing her arms, “but I did.”

His eyes met hers then — a flicker of something raw and barely contained.

That was when it hit her.

He was exactly like her.

Stubborn to the bone.

Too proud to admit when something cut too deep.

Too afraid of what would happen if they stopped to feel it all.

And maybe that was why she didn’t back down.

But before she could say anything else, his radio crackled.

Dispatch, crisp and cold:

“7-Adam-19, Units in the area respond.”

Tim grabbed it instantly.

“7-Adam-19 responding. En route.”

Dylan stared. “Seriously? After that?”

He was already heading to the door. “We’re still on duty.”

“Tim—”

“I’m fine, Jenkins.”

He didn’t wait for her. Just walked out, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of a hospital room that had seen too many kinds of pain in one day.

She looked at the hole in the wall. The dust still floating in the air. The smudge of blood on the plaster.

Then she exhaled, grabbed her jacket, and followed him.

Because stubborn or not, he didn’t need to be alone right now.

Even if he didn’t say it — especially if he didn’t.

Echo and Franklin wasn’t exactly the glitziest part of town on a good day — but tonight, it looked like trouble had parked itself and cracked open a few beers.

As Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins pulled up to the curb, they were greeted by the low thrum of engines and the roar of masculine laughter. Chrome flashed under the streetlights. A pack of six bikers, all thick-necked, denim-vested, and clearly drunk, stood outside a rundown bar, smashing bottles against the curb and revving their bikes like they were gunning for a drag race in the middle of the sidewalk.

The Dead Bastards.

Dylan eyed them through the windshield. “Charming.”

Tim didn’t respond right away. He gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw still locked from the hospital. His expression was unreadable — which told Dylan exactly what she needed to know.

“You sure you’re good to do this?” she asked quietly.

He unbuckled his seatbelt. “Yeah.”

She didn’t move.

“Tim,” she said, softer now. “After Isabel—”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice wasn’t sharp this time — it was flat. Cold. Like he was trying to cut off the feeling before it reached the surface.

Dylan glanced out at the bikers again. One of them was already watching the cruiser, arms crossed, a toothpick hanging from his mouth like a dare.

“This group have a rep?” she asked.

Tim nodded once. “Dead Bastards. Local outlaw motorcycle club. Half of them have records. Guns, fights, DUI, some armed robbery. But not all of them are in yet.”

Dylan raised a brow. “Prospects?”

“Exactly. The way it works,” Tim continued, finally slipping back into his calm, informative rhythm, “is that to earn your patch — full membership — a prospect has to commit a felony. But not just any felony. It has to be done in front of patched members.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “So this isn’t just some drunk guys posturing.”

Tim shook his head once, eyes still on the group. “No. This is an initiation waiting to happen.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, scanning the cluster of bodies, the barely-contained aggression. One guy — younger, twitchier — kept flexing his fists. He didn’t have a vest. No patch.

She followed the logic quickly. “The unpatched one’s going to swing at us.”

“Probably.”

“Then we should call backup.”

Tim turned to her, expression unreadable. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Dylan gave him a flat look. “That’s not an answer. That’s a reckless one-liner.”

He was already opening the door.

“Bradford.”

He looked back at her. That edge of fire still smoldered beneath the surface, his knuckles bruised from the wall, his heart still bleeding from the hospital.

But his voice was calm when he said, “I’m not letting today spill into this. You cover my six, I’ll cover yours.”

Dylan didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she knew she wasn’t letting him go in alone.

She stepped out of the car.

The bikers turned toward them like wolves scenting blood.

“Evenin’, officers,” one of the patched men called, voice oily. “Come to join the party?”

“Party’s over,” Tim said, approaching with hands raised just far enough to show calm, not submission. “You’re loitering, you’re drunk, and you’re blocking the sidewalk. Get on your bikes and leave.”

The young prospect stepped forward.

Exactly as predicted.

“Or what?” he sneered. “You gonna arrest me for breathing too loud?”

Dylan stepped up beside Tim, her hand hovering near her belt. “No. But the minute you take a swing, I’m going to be the one putting you face-first into the asphalt.”

The biker grinned, stepping closer. “You sound fun. Maybe you cuff me nice and slow.”

Tim’s voice dropped. Low. Dangerous. “You make one move toward her, and you won’t like how I handle it.”

Tension snapped like wire pulled tight.

The moment the prospect stepped forward, chest puffed and nostrils flared, Dylan could feel it.

Tim Bradford wasn’t diffusing the situation.

He was feeding off it.

The tight set of his jaw. The way he squared his stance. The way he looked at the younger man like he wanted him to make the first move.

Then came the words.

“Alright,” Tim said, loud enough for everyone to hear, tone razor-sharp. “Here’s the deal. We fight. If I win, you get cuffed and booked. If you win, you walk. No charges. Just me and you.”

Dylan’s head snapped toward him. “Bradford.” She warned, for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

He ignored her. Eyes locked on the prospect.

The biker’s lips curled. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

It was reckless. Impulsive. So stupidly out of character it chilled Dylan’s blood.

The biker didn’t hesitate. He lunged.

Fists collided with ribs. Boots scraped against gravel. Tim and the prospect slammed into each other with the weight of barely-contained violence, grunting and growling as they swung.

The crowd surged, forming a circle of shouts and jeers. Dylan tried to push through, hand on her radio, “10-10 in progress,” already in her mouth — but something about the look in Tim’s eyes stopped her cold.

This wasn’t just a fight.

This was a man bleeding out emotionally, and trying to stuff it all back inside with his fists.

Tim took a hard jab to the side — right near his healing bullet wound — and staggered. His grunt of pain was sharp, but he kept going, ducking low and driving his shoulder into the biker’s gut, both of them crashing to the ground in a scuffle of limbs and curses.

The prospect landed two more punches — one to Tim’s ribs, another to his jaw — before Tim rolled, mounted him, and slammed his fist down hard enough to split the guy’s eyebrow.

Blood sprayed.

The cheering stopped.

And in the hush that followed, Tim yanked the biker’s arms behind his back and cuffed him, breathing like a warhorse, face flushed with fury and pain.

The silence between Tim and Dylan was deafening as they walked back to the cruiser.

Dylan’s boots stomped hard against the pavement. Tim moved slower, one hand pressed discreetly to his side — trying, and failing, to hide the fact that he’d reopened something beneath the stitches.

They reached the car.

Dylan spun on him.

“What the hell was that?”

Tim said nothing at first. He reached for the door, wincing. Then, without looking at her: “Handled it.”

She stepped in front of him. “That wasn’t handling it. That was picking a fight with a wannabe criminal so you could bleed out your emotions on the sidewalk.”

He looked up then — eyes sharp, defensive. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“No,” she snapped. “It didn’t. It made you reckless. It made you stupid. And it made me watch while you tried to implode because you can’t deal with the fact that Isabel OD’d.”

He stiffened.

“You think that was police work?” she went on, relentless. “That was a fucking therapy session with fists.”

Tim said nothing.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice low now — tighter, furious, but barely trembling. “I’ve seen what this kind of thinking does to good cops. First you chase the adrenaline, then you start believing it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything. You’ll stop calling for backup. You’ll stop thinking about protocol. And one day, someone’s gonna end up dead.”

Still, he didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the cruiser.

So she hit him with the last card.

“If you ever pull something like that again,” she said, voice cold and sure, “I’m telling Grey.”

That got his attention.

He looked at her now — really looked.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

And behind all that righteous anger was something else — fear. Not just for him. But for the version of herself she recognized in him.

Finally, after a long, taut moment, he nodded. A shallow, heavy nod.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

Dylan exhaled and turned away, opening the car door.

“Good.”

And as they sat in the silence of the cruiser, neither of them spoke.

But something had shifted.

Because for the first time, Tim Bradford had been slapped with the truth — not from a superior, or a therapist, or an ex.

But from someone who actually saw him.

And wouldn’t let him fall.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the haze of downtown L.A., casting long shadows across the cracked concrete and flickering neon signs. Tim Bradford pulled the shop into a grim-looking side street just south of Pico — the kind of neighborhood that reeked of hopelessness and long-faded ambition.

Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, gaze flicking between Tim and the crumbling apartment block they’d parked in front of.

“Where are we?” she asked cautiously.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small white box, sealed and labelled in bold: NARCAN – NALOXONE NASAL SPRAY.

Dylan’s heart sank.

“Tim…”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “I’ll be two minutes. Stay in the car.”

“Seriously?” she said, her voice sharp. “You brought me here without telling me? You’re just going to march into a junkie den with a gift bag of Narcan?”

Tim paused, his hand on the door.

“It’s not a gift,” he snapped. “It’s life-saving.”

“And it’s enabling,” Dylan said, matching his tone. “You’re not helping her — you’re just keeping her alive long enough to do it again.”

He turned back toward her, the heat rising in his face. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me. You don’t know how it feels.”

“Don’t I?”

That silenced him.

Dylan opened her door and stepped out, letting it slam behind her. She faced him full-on now, her voice quieter but dead serious.

“You think you’re the only one who’s ever watched someone you love disappear into an addiction? My dad drank himself into a seizure when I was seventeen. I found him. I smelled the blood before I saw it. He didn’t want saving either. But I didn’t go bringing him whiskey just because I wanted to feel close to him.”

Tim’s shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths. He looked away, jaw tight.

Dylan kept going. “I get it, Bradford. You love her. You feel responsible. And you think if you can just keep her alive a little longer, maybe one day she’ll pull herself out.”

“She might,” he muttered.

“Or she might die, and you’ll have spent the last six months slowly destroying yourself trying to stop it. She left, Tim. She left you. And I am not going to let you throw yourself into her fire and drag me in after you.”

His eyes flashed. “This is my choice. Not yours.”

“No, it’s not,” Dylan snapped. “You’re supposed to be training me. Showing me how American policing works. Not dragging me into some twisted vigilante-style Florence Nightingale routine because you’re too angry at yourself to let go.”

The silence between them was brutal. A slow-building static that hummed against their skin.

Tim looked down at the Narcan box in his hand like it was both a weapon and a lifeline.

Dylan stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You don’t want to see how she’s living. You don’t want to see what she’s let into her life. You’re holding on to a version of Isabel that doesn’t exist anymore.”

She held out her hand.

“Give it to me. I’ll take it up.”

Tim looked at her, torn — the internal battle playing out behind his eyes: love vs logic, grief vs duty, past vs present.

Then, reluctantly, he handed her the box.

Dylan nodded. “I’ll be back in five.”

She turned and walked toward the building, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

And Tim?

He stood frozen beside the cruiser, watching the woman who was supposed to be his trainee step into the kind of mess he’d tried so hard to clean up — and finally realized:

Maybe she was training him too.

The stairwell of the apartment block smelled like damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke. The kind of building where the light flickered overhead, and you kept one hand near your weapon, even when things seemed quiet.

Dylan Jenkins climbed slowly, the Narcan box tucked under one arm, her free hand brushing the railing. She didn’t like being here — not just because of the building or what she might find, but because it wasn’t her mess.

It was Tim’s.

But someone had to clean it up today.

She reached the third floor, found apartment 3B, and knocked.

It took a moment before the door cracked open, chain still attached. Behind it, Isabel peered through with glassy eyes and a hollowed-out face that seemed even thinner than it had a few hours ago.

She blinked. “Oh.”

Dylan held up the box. “Delivery.”

Isabel stared at it, then slowly unlatched the chain and opened the door.

Dylan stepped in — cautious, controlled — and took in the room.

It was… not what she expected.

There were no needles on the floor. No filth. No blaring music or strangers passed out on the couch. In fact, it was tidy. The curtains were drawn, the air stale but not rancid. Still, it had that quiet, sterile kind of sadness that Dylan recognized from her dad’s flat back in London, the way addicts sometimes lived in limbo between pretending to function and slowly dying.

She placed the Narcan box on the counter.

Isabel lingered in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her hoodie swallowed her, sleeves tugged over shaking hands.

“He send you to check on me?” she asked.

“No,” Dylan replied. “He told me to stay in the car. I decided not to.”

Isabel huffed a soft laugh. “Sounds like him.”

There was silence for a moment, thick and pulsing.

Then Dylan said, “You used to be a cop?”

Isabel’s head lifted, eyes narrowing. “He told you that?”

“No. You’ve got old certifications on your fridge. CPR expiry. Defensive tactics flyer. Something told me you didn’t just pick those up for fun.”

Isabel’s posture sagged slightly. “Yeah. I was LAPD. Before everything went to hell.”

“Is that how you met Tim?”

“Academy,” she said, voice dull. “He was the uptight one. I was the wild one. He said it balanced us.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “And now you’re here. Getting Narcan hand-delivered by the next woman stuck cleaning up your mess.” That hit. Isabel flinched. Dylan didn’t soften. “He got shot, you know.”

Isabel’s eyes widened.

“Saving someone. Because that’s what he does. He saves people. But today he almost got himself killed again, and I think part of him would’ve been okay with that if it meant not feeling this anymore.”

Isabel blinked fast, lips parting like she wanted to speak — but no words came.

Dylan stepped closer.

“You’re not just ruining your life. You’re ruining his. And the worst part is — he’ll keep letting you.”

There was a long pause, full of brittle tension.

Then Isabel whispered, barely audible: “Tell him not to come back.”

Dylan stared at her for a beat. Searching for something — maybe regret, maybe fight. But all she saw was emptiness. A hollow shape of someone who used to be something else.

She nodded once. “I will.”

Then she turned and left.

Back at the cruiser, Tim was waiting behind the wheel, one arm resting on the window. He didn’t look at her as she got in.

The silence stretched.

One minute. Two.

Then Dylan said, “She was a cop.”

Tim exhaled sharply, like someone had pulled the air from his lungs.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “Met her at the Academy. Thought I was lucky. She was… smart. Sharp. Wild. I thought she was just tired all the time. Out late. I assumed she was having an affair. Never thought it was the drugs.”

He looked out the windshield, eyes distant.

“By the time I figured it out, the hook was already in deep.”

Dylan stared ahead too, resting her arm along the door. “Her place is alright. Clean. Tidy. Doesn’t look like a trap house.”

Tim mumbled, “Thanks.” They didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.

But the air between them had changed. Less fire. More gravity.

Tim had let her in, even just a little.

And Dylan had seen the truth up close — the thing eating him alive.

And now?

Now, it belonged to both of them.

The sun had long dipped beneath the skyline when they finally returned to the precinct.

The bullpen had thinned out. Radios quieted. The sound of ringing phones had faded into an eerie hum of end-of-shift exhaustion. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly — too bright for a room this tired.

Dylan Jenkins slipped away toward the locker room first, her movements sharper than usual, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

It wasn’t until she tugged off her outer shirt — stained from dust, sweat, and the day’s chaos — that she saw it.

Blood.

Her white undershirt was soaked along her shoulder. A fresh bloom of deep red.

“Shit,” she hissed, digging into her locker and grabbing the nearest wad of paper towels she could find. She pressed them over the reopened wound, swearing under her breath, trying to slow her pulse — trying to stop the bleeding.

It had torn. Probably during the scuffle. She’d felt the pull, the ache, but ignored it.

Because of course she did.

She pressed harder, gritting her teeth.

The door creaked behind her.

She didn’t look up — didn’t need to.

Tim Bradford’s voice was quiet. “Dylan?”

She didn’t answer at first, too busy trying to mop up the blood, the tissues already turning crimson.

When she finally turned around, he was already halfway across the room, his expression falling instantly from its usual stoicism to pure concern.

His gaze flicked from her face to her shoulder, where blood was now sliding down her bicep in slow, stubborn rivulets.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“No shit, Detective.”

“You tore it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine—”

“Sit down.”

His voice was firm, not angry — not yet — but threaded with something else.

Guilt.

Tim crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the first aid kit from the wall without waiting for her permission.

She sat on the bench, annoyed, breath shallow. “You don’t have to—”

“You shouldn’t have been in that fight.”

Dylan flinched — not from his touch, but from the truth in his tone. “I didn’t even fight. It must’ve just twinged during the heat of the moment. Maybe I got shoved… I don’t know. I was fine until I wasn’t,” she muttered.

Tim knelt in front of her, opening a sterile pad. “That’s not good enough. You should’ve said something earlier.”

She looked down at him. “And what? Have you tell me to take another week off while you fight your way through every emotionally-charged biker gang in the state?”

He looked up at her, eyes narrowed.

“Touché.”

She smirked, despite herself.

Then winced when he dabbed at the wound. “Ow. Gentle.”

“You’re the one who took the bullet for your T.O.”

“You’re the one who was so dramatic I had to focus on you.” She teased.

He sighed, shaking his head.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The door opened again.

Sergeant Grey walked in, arms crossed, brow raised, surveying the scene with all the practiced disappointment of a father finding his kids elbow-deep in trouble.

“Well,” he said. “Is this the part where I get to say ‘I told you so?’”

Dylan didn’t miss a beat. “If you must.”

Grey walked in slowly, eyes locking on the blood, then drifting to Tim’s face.

He didn’t need to say a word. He knew what kind of day it had been. Knew about Isabel, knew the pressure Tim was under, and now saw his officer bleeding again because neither of them could stop throwing themselves into things they weren’t ready to face.

Grey rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re both a pair of stubborn idiots, you know that?”

“Absolutely,” Dylan said, deadpan.

Tim was still focused on securing the bandage, but his hands slowed slightly.

Grey exhaled. “I was going to give you two separate lectures.”

Dylan arched a brow. “Still planning to?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Grey said. “But I’m thinking we do it over three pints instead of one. I have a feeling it’ll go down smoother.”

Tim looked up, a flicker of gratitude behind his worn-out expression.

“Your treat?” Dylan asked.

Grey smirked. “You wish.”

And for the first time that day, in the still of the locker room with bloodstained gauze and raw emotion still in the air, Tim and Dylan laughed — not because things were okay.

But because for once, it felt like maybe they weren’t carrying it alone.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[obvithe-bestsoph]

when it hits, i'll be there.

masterlist requests word count: 1.6k

a/n: i'm really sorry everyone! i know i said i was going to post yesterday but I got injured pretty badly at my game and I'm out for the next few weeks so maybe more fics for you all lol. yeah, sorry again, I was just in a lot of pain and found it hard to get motivation for writing. anyway, enjoy! genre: angst to comfort warnings: social anxiety, panic attacks.

summary: you don’t mean to fall apart at his celebration, but when you do, it’s pedri who finds you - quietly, gently, like he’s always does.

You knew it was a mistake the moment the elevator doors opened. 

The lounge is packed. People laughing, clinking glasses. Cameras flashing. The hum of too many voices buzzing beneath the surface like static in your brain. You should’ve said no. Or stayed in the car. Or pretended you were sick. Or just said, “I’ll meet you later.”

But Pedri looked so happy. So excited to bring you this small post-match celebration for the Copa del Rey, a victory dinner for the team, nothing too huge, just the players, their partners, their families, and some staff.

Just enough people to make your hands go sweaty. 

You’ve never liked crowds. And lately, with general life stress and not much good sleep, your tolerance is even lower. You told yourself it would be. You’d stick close to him. Smile when necessary. One hour, maybe two. Then back to the hotel room. 

But within minutes, he’s swept into a conversation with Ferran, who’s waving over more teammates from across the room. Someone else offers you a drink. 

You take it. 

Not because you want it, or are thirsty, but because it gives you something to hold. Something to focus on. 

And when you finally catch Pedri’s eyes from across the room, you give him a small smile - a lie you’ve mastered. He sends one right back, warm and soft and proud. He mouths, “¿Estás bien (are you okay)?” 

You nod.

Lie number two. 

The room gets louder.

Someone near you spills their drink. Another person brushes against your back too close, too casually. The ceiling lights feel like interrogation beams. Your breath begins to shorten before you even notice. You can’t hear what the woman next to you is saying. You laugh anyway. 

Fake. Distant. 

You find a wall. Lean against it.

You scan for Pedri. He’s in conversation still, nodding, charming, his eyes crinkling as he laughs. You’re glad he’s happy. You don’t want to ruin that. 

But your heart is racing now, fast. Too fast. 

You try grounding yourself. Five things you can see. Four things you can touch.

Your palms sting.

Your chest tightens. 

Three things you can hear.

One - someone calling Pedri’s name.

Two - a phone camera clicking. 

Three - your own breath, stuttering and shallow. 

You can’t do this. 

You turn quickly, heading for the bathroom. You keep your face neutral. You don’t want anyone to stop you. If they try, you’ll cry. You know it. 

The hallway is better. Calmer. 

You walk through the restroom door, it’s quiet. That’s all you need.

You slip into the last stall, lock the door, and sit on the floor, back against the cubicle wall, curling into yourself, your hands trembling. Your chest is tightening, breath is coming too fast. Your knees press to your chest. You try to stay quiet. 

You can’t.

Your whole body feels like it isn’t listening to your brain, like it’s betraying you. Your breathing stutters. A whimper escapes. Your hands are icy cold, and your vision feels like it’s going dark at the edges. You clench your jaw, press your fists into the tops of your thighs. 

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

The sound of the bathroom door opening barely registers in your mind. 

You freeze.

Footsteps, measured and steady, moving softly across the bathroom tile. 

You hold your breath, heart pounding. Please don’t see me. Please don’t hear this. Please don’t know. 

There’s a pause just outside your stall. Then, the sound of someone shifting. Not leaving. Just… listening. 

It’s too late when you realise what gave you away.

Your shoes. The ones Pedri picked out and gifted you for your birthday. The same ones Rosy, his mamá, has complimented before the match. 

You’re not sure how long she will stand there. 

You know it’s her. She knows it’s you. Still, neither of you say anything. 

But then the footsteps move again and the bathroom door opens once more.

And closes. 

She’s gone. 

You’re trying to breathe, trying not to make noise, but your chest convulses, your ribs hurt, your fingers are numb and trembling. 

It’s not the first time.

But it’s been a while.

You feel small and ashamed. Embarrassed. You’d told Pedri things were fine. That you could handle it. And now you’re shaking on a random hotel bathroom floor like a scared little kid.

You try the counting thing again. Sometimes it helps. 

Five things. Five-

You’re still shaking, head spinning, world tilting, when the door opens again. 

Then, a voice you could recognise from anywhere. 

“¿Mi alma?”

Pedri. 

Your breath catches in your throat. 

“Can you open the door for me?” 

You feel like you can’t move in. Frozen in place. Frozen in time. But somehow, you find your hands shakily twisting the lock on the cubicle door. You barely get it open before just takes you in - crumpled on the floor, eyes wet, lips pale and trembling, your hands white-knuckled against your legs.

“Oh, Y/N…”

You turn your face, trying to hide. 

“Please go,” you choke out. “I’m okay… I just- I just need a second.”

He turns your face back to look at him. “No seas tonta (don’t be silly). You’re not ‘okay’ at all.”

You gently brush his hands off your cheeks. “You have people out there. Teammates and friends and- and- and I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

He looks at you like you’ve just stabbed him. 

“Embarrass me?” 

You feel his arms gently wrap around your back. He doesn’t try and pull you to your feet or move you at all. He just holds you there, grounded. Present. Calming. A hand running up and down your spine. 

“Amor, mírame (love, look at me).”

You do, slowly. 

“I would rather walk out of every press event, every match, every conversation in my life than ever see you suffer alone like this again. “No tienes que ocultármelo (you don’t have to hide this from me). No debería ser algo de lo que avergonzarte (it shouldn’t be something you’re ashamed of). Y a mí, desde luego, no me avergüenza (and i’m certainly not embarrassed of it).”

You hiccup softly, tears burning down your cheek. “I didn’t want to ruin your night.”

“My night is only good if you’re okay too.”

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, not caring if your smudged makeup gets on his shirt. “You’re not some burden to me, ¿lo sabes (you know)?”

You start crying again - this time, not from panic. Just overwhelmed. He holds you through it all. 

At some point, he sits down properly and pulls you sideways into his lap, your cheek pressed against his firm chest, his heartbeat right next to your ear. Strong and steady. 

Beating for you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, once the storm in your brain quiets. “It just… it hit so fast. I didn’t see it coming.”

“I know,” he murmurs, “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise for how you react. That’s not really your fault.”

You shake your head weakly. “You’re not understanding. I’ve been doing better lately. I didn’t want you to think that I was getting bad again.”

Pedri tilts your chin so you have to look at him. 

“Going through something hard isn’t ‘getting bag again’. It’s being human. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The words feel soothing. 

Safe. Genuine. 

“Te amo,” you whisper, like it’s a secret.

“Te amo,” he whispers back, like it’s a promise. 

Minutes later, when your breath has steadied and the walls don’t feel so much like they’re closing in, he helps you to your fet. You feel shaky, but stronger with him beside you. 

“Do you want to leave?” he asks softly. 

You mod. 

He slips his hoodie over your head and walks the two of you out of the bathroom without a second thought. Doesn’t say goodbye to anyone. Doesn’t check over his shoulder to see if anyone is filming. 

Only keeps his arm snug around your waist.

The walk through the hotel is quiet. Peaceful.

His fingers never leave yours. 

When you reach the room, he helps you change into soft clothes, tucks a blanket around you, and brings you a drink. He doesn’t hover, helicopter or smother. He just stays close, offering quiet comfort the way only someone who really knows you can. 

At one point, you whisper, “Do you still want me to come to things like that? After today?”

Pedri looks genuinely confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t want to make you worry.”

“I’d rather be worried than smile without you.”

Your throat tightens again. 

“And, inevitably, when we do something like that again,” he adds, “We’ll have a aplan. We don’t even have to stay the whole time. We’ll make signals. We can go together, leave together. You never need to be stuck like that again.”

You lean into him, your head resting in the crook of his neck. His arms tighten around you. 

“I’m proud of you, you know?” he says quietly.

“For what?” “For being honest. For trying. For getting through it.”

You let the silence stretch for a while, but it’s warm now. Comfortable. 

Then you whisper something you hadn’t let yourself believe before;

“Thank you for not making me feel broken.”

He shakes his head against your hair. “You’re not broken. You’re the strongest person that I know.”

And he kisses you, it’s not rushed, dramatic or particularly passionate. Just slow. Certain. 

You fall asleep in his arms that night - not because you’ve forgotten how panicked and overwhelmed you felt, but because, for once, it doesn’t own you.

Because someone saw you at your worst… and stayed. 

And somehow, with him there, it starts making the world feel okay again.

[ijustwannabecool]

Somewhere Only We Know - Part 1

Lando Norris x Reader

Based upon this request:

Hi!!! First of all, I love love loooove your stories. I don't know if you're open to writing for Lando. Just wanted to maybe suggest this: we all know he's spiraling at the moment, maybe someone who he meets and steadies him? I know he has that typical athlete fboy image. But maybe someone who he changes for and really helps him mentally as well. Seeing that change from an outside perspective from people in F1 or fans would be pretty cool. Just a thought that popped up! Thanks! Will be anxiously waiting for your next uploads!

Summary... He wasn’t looking for anything when he found you — just a diner, a coffee, a moment to breathe — but somehow you became everything. This is the story of how he fell, how you stayed, and how together you built something louder than the noise trying to tear you apart.

A/N: I hope this story does justice to your request! I wrote it like a book, so it has chapters within the story. Also, the story was so long that I had to split it into two parts because Tumblr would not allow me to post it. I had such a blast writing it, and I hope you all have just as much fun reading it. As always, thank you so much for being here, for supporting these little worlds we create, and for sharing your love with the characters too.

Happy reading, and have a beautiful day today!! 🖤✨

If you enjoyed the story and feel like supporting my writing, you can donate a strawberry matcha through my Ko-fi! 🍓🍵 (No pressure at all — your kindness is already everything.)

Like, comment, reblog, enjoy (:

Chapter 1: Quiet Places

The hotel room was suffocating. Walls too close, lights too harsh, the buzzing in his head louder than anything outside.

Lando sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie half-pulled over his head, staring at the carpet like it might offer answers. His phone buzzed once. Then again. Group chats. Team messages. Notifications about another headline he didn’t want to read.

Partying again. Lando Norris spotted leaving club at 3 AM. Is McLaren’s golden boy losing focus?

He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t entirely true. It didn’t matter how lonely the nights felt after race weekends that didn’t go the way they were supposed to. It didn’t matter that sometimes the noise in his head got so loud, he just needed somewhere — anywhere — to drown it out.

Tonight, even the noise couldn’t fix it.

His chest felt tight. His breathing shallow. I need air.

Without thinking, Lando grabbed his room key, shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans, pulled his hoodie tighter around him, and slipped out into the night.

—

The city hummed in a way hotels never could. A low, steady thrum of life: streetlights blinking through misty air, taxis splashing through puddles, people moving in and out of places he didn’t know. It was cold — not winter cold, but enough to bite at his fingers.

He walked without a destination. Past neon-lit bars, past groups laughing too loud, past windows that showed lives he didn’t belong to. His sneakers splashed through a puddle, and he didn’t even care.

Just keep walking. Maybe if he kept walking, the buzzing in his brain would go quiet.

It didn’t.

Not until he saw it.

A diner. Tiny. Wedged between two dark shops, almost hidden except for a flickering OPEN sign that fought to stay alive against the night.

Above the door, in faded, curling blue paint, a small sign read: The Bluebird Diner.

There was even a little bluebird painted near the handle — tiny and easy to miss, but somehow it caught his eye.

Inside, the air smelled like coffee and pancakes. Warm. Safe. Real.

He tugged his hoodie lower over his forehead and pushed the door open, the bell above it giving a sad little jingle.

He slid into the booth furthest from the windows, shoulders hunched, head low. Just a guy looking to be left alone. He pulled out his phone out of habit, but the screen glare felt too bright. He turned it face-down on the table.

That’s when he noticed her.

Sitting alone at the counter, a few stools down, a girl — about his age maybe — stirring her coffee absentmindedly with a spoon. A book sat open in front of her, its pages stained and loved. She didn’t look up when the door jingled. Didn’t stare. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t even seem to care.

For once, someone wasn’t looking at him like him.

It was... strange. And weirdly grounding.

He stared at the laminated menu without reading a word, mind drifting somewhere fuzzier, quieter.

Until—

"You look like you lost a fight with a thunderstorm."

The voice came from the counter. Light. Almost teasing.

Lando blinked, looking up slowly. The girl — the stranger — was smiling at him, just a little. Not mocking. Just... seeing.

He coughed awkwardly, dragging a hand over his jaw. "Something like that," he muttered.

She nodded like she understood. Like she wasn’t going to ask for details.

"You want coffee?" she offered, tilting her mug slightly like a peace treaty. "It's terrible, but it’s hot."

A laugh — real, cracked around the edges — escaped him before he could stop it. The first laugh in what felt like forever.

He shook his head, smiling under his hoodie. "Sure. Why not."

The girl slid off her stool with a soft scrape of leather boots against tile. She crossed the diner in slow, unhurried steps, refilling her coffee mug behind the counter before grabbing a second chipped white cup for him.

No one else was there. No waitress in sight. Just the jukebox playing something old and sad, the rain starting to splatter softly against the windows, and her — a small anchor in a world that felt like it was spinning too fast.

She set the cup down in front of him without ceremony.

"No judgment," she said lightly, curling into the opposite booth seat without being invited. "Just company."

Lando blinked at her again, unsure whether to laugh, thank her, or pull his hoodie lower. Instead, he mumbled, "You always hand out coffee to sad strangers?"

She grinned into her mug. "Only the ones who look like they need it more than me."

A silence stretched between them — but not uncomfortable. A soft kind of silence. The kind that lets you breathe without pretending.

"I’m L—" He caught himself. Old habit.

She arched a brow, playful. "Let me guess. Lucas? Logan? Liam?"

He huffed a laugh, ducking his head. "Something like that."

She didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just sipped her coffee like it didn’t matter.

"You don’t have to tell me," she shrugged. "You can be whoever you want here. Pretty sure that's the whole point of a place like this."

He stared at her for a beat longer than he meant to. Whoever you want to be. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone gave him that option.

The neon sign buzzed faintly behind her, casting a golden halo around her hair. She looked real. Solid. Untouched by the headlines and chaos he lived in.

"You from around here?" he asked finally, voice scratchy.

She shook her head, setting her cup down. "Passing through. Like you, I guess."

He wondered if she was running from something too.

Outside, a car whooshed by, sending spray across the pavement. The rain came harder now, drumming against the windows like a heartbeat.

The girl glanced at him again — really looked this time — and her smile softened into something quieter. More knowing.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong," she said. "But if you want to — I’m a good listener. World's worst advice giver, though."

He barked a short, broken laugh.

"Good," he said, cracking a ghost of a smile. "I'm not looking for advice."

She leaned back in the booth, tucking one knee up against the vinyl seat.

"Then we’re a perfect match," she said, toasting him with her mug.

Lando watched her for a long moment. The way she didn’t push. The way she didn’t want anything from him. The way she offered nothing more complicated than a crappy cup of coffee and a seat across from her.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that.

He wrapped his hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into his cold fingers. His hoodie still shadowed his face, but for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he didn't feel the need to hide.

Not from her.

Not here.

At The Bluebird Diner.

Somewhere between the broken race weekends and the headlines he couldn't outrun, Lando Norris started to breathe again. And it started with a stranger who never asked for his name.

———

Chapter 2: Rain Between Us

The coffee was terrible. Burnt, watery, exactly what you’d expect from a diner fighting to survive the 2 a.m. quiet. But somehow, with her sitting across from him, it tasted like the best thing he'd had in weeks.

He took a sip, grimaced, and set the cup down. She laughed under her breath, hiding it behind her own mug.

"Told you," she said, voice warm with amusement.

"You weren't kidding," Lando muttered, tapping a finger against the chipped rim.

The jukebox crooned something old and broken-hearted, a perfect soundtrack for the flickering neon, the rain outside, the shared silence stretching between them.

"So," she said after a moment, stirring her coffee like she wasn't even drinking it, "Mysterious Almost-Lucas. You just wandering, or are you running?"

The question was soft. Not a trap. He could lie if he wanted. Hell, he could get up and leave and she wouldn’t chase him.

Still — he found himself shrugging, the truth spilling out without much thought.

"Little bit of both," he said, voice rough.

She nodded like she understood. Like she'd been there too.

"Sometimes you have to get a little lost," she mused, tracing the edge of her mug with a fingertip, "before you figure out where you're supposed to be."

Lando watched her. The way she spoke without pretending she had all the answers. The way she sat like she belonged to no one and nowhere, perfectly at peace with it.

"You some kind of fortune cookie in disguise?" he asked, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

She grinned, playful. "Nah. I just read too much."

She tapped the battered paperback lying abandoned beside her coffee.

He squinted at the title, smirking when he caught it: The Art of Getting Lost.

"Seriously?" he asked, incredulous.

She just shrugged, her smile easy and unapologetic. "Like I said," she teased, "perfect match."

Time blurred inside the diner. Minutes folding into each other until the rain outside turned from a light patter to a steady downpour. Neither of them moved to leave.

It wasn’t until a particularly loud crack of thunder rattled the windows that she glanced at the clock and sighed.

"I should probably get going," she said, sliding off the booth seat reluctantly. "Before I turn into a pumpkin or whatever tragic fairytale ending is waiting for me out there."

Lando found himself standing too, his legs stiff from sitting so long. The diner felt too big all of a sudden. Too empty without her in it.

"Where you headed?" he asked before he could stop himself.

She shrugged, slipping on a worn denim jacket. "Couple blocks over. Motel with questionable sheets and even worse cable."

A part of him — the reckless part — wanted to offer to walk her there. The smarter part knew how dangerous that could sound.

She must've seen the hesitation flicker across his face, because she tilted her head, grinning.

"You can walk me to the corner if you want," she said lightly. "I promise not to scream stranger danger."

He laughed — a real, full laugh this time — and shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

"Deal."

—

The rain was cold, soaking into the edges of his sneakers almost immediately, but he didn’t care. They walked close but not touching, their shoulders almost brushing every few steps.

She didn’t pull out her phone. Didn’t rush. Just let the night wrap around them like a secret.

"This your thing?" he asked after a beat, pulling his hood tighter. "Late-night diners? Making sad strangers feel less sad?"

She smiled up at him, rain catching in her eyelashes. "Maybe," she said. "But only the ones who look like they might forget how to come back to themselves."

He looked at her — really looked — and felt something unfamiliar twist low in his chest.

Hope.

It scared him a little.

At the corner, under the orange glow of a flickering streetlight, she stopped and turned to him.

"This is me," she said, nodding toward the dim outline of a motel a few blocks down.

He nodded, unsure what to say.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Then, impulsively, she dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out a pen — the kind hotels leave on bedside tables — and grabbed his hand.

Before he could react, she scribbled something across his wrist.

A number. A name.

Y/N.

She capped the pen with a snap and smiled, a little mischievous.

"In case you get lost again," she said. "You know where to find me."

And then — before he could say anything — she winked, turned, and disappeared into the rain.

Leaving Lando standing there, heart thudding in his ribs, staring down at the ink bleeding slowly into his skin.

Somewhere between the cold rain and the bitter coffee, he realized: Maybe getting lost wasn’t always a bad thing.

Not if it brought you to someone like her.

Not if it brought you to the Bluebird Diner.

———

Chapter 3: A Rainy Day

The hotel room smelled like cold coffee and regret. The kind of night that clung to your skin even after you showered, the kind that weighed heavy behind your ribs.

Lando sat at the small desk by the window, hoodie still damp from the rain, staring at the smudged ink on the inside of his wrist.

Y/N. A string of numbers trailing after it.

The rain dripped down the glass in slow, tired patterns. The city blinked below, indifferent to the people trying to survive it.

He grabbed a notepad — the kind every hotel left on the nightstand — and carefully, almost reverently, copied the number down. His pen hovered for a second.

Save it in your phone, his mind whispered. Text her. Call her. Do something.

But his heart was a mess. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Instead, he tore the paper free, folded it in half, and slipped it into the back of his phone case — tucked safe behind the transparent plastic like a secret. A promise he wasn’t brave enough to cash in yet.

"For a rainy day," he muttered to himself, voice rough.

He set his phone down screen-side up, hiding the paper from view, and collapsed back onto the bed.

Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, for the first time in a long time, Lando Norris let himself hope there might be more than headlines waiting for him. Someday.

—

Two Weeks Later

The world didn’t stop spinning just because he wanted it to. It kept roaring forward — race after race, city after city, good days and bad days bleeding into each other until he barely remembered where he was half the time.

The wins were loud. The losses were louder. And somewhere in between — when the engines went silent and the hotel rooms got too big — he thought of her.

The girl at the Bluebird Diner. The one who handed him terrible coffee and a better kind of silence. The one who smiled at him like he was a person, not a headline.

Sometimes he caught himself scanning crowds, stupidly, looking for a flash of her denim jacket or the soft curve of her smile. Sometimes he dreamed of rainy streets and cracked vinyl booths.

He hadn’t pulled the paper out. Not yet.

He kept telling himself he was too busy. Too tired. Too much of a mess.

But late at night, when sleep wouldn’t come and the weight of everything pressed heavy against his chest, he found himself reaching for his phone, fingers hesitating over the case.

One night — after a brutal race weekend where nothing had gone right — he gave in.

He peeled the phone case back slowly, like uncovering something sacred.

The paper was still there. Crumpled a little. Still holding her number like a lifeline.

His heart thudded against his ribs as he stared at it.

Now or never.

He opened a blank message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Paused.

Deleted it.

Started again.

Lando: Hey. Not sure if you remember me. Coffee at 2AM. Bluebird Diner. Bad jokes, worse coffee. I’ve been carrying your number around like a fool. Mind if I cash it in?

He hit send before he could lose his nerve.

Set the phone face-down on the bed like it was going to explode.

Paced the room. Ran a hand through his hair. Cursed under his breath.

It buzzed five minutes later.

He stared at it, heart in his throat.

Y/N: Hard to forget someone who made bad coffee taste better. Where to?

He smiled. Really smiled. The kind that cracked him open a little and let the light seep in.

Maybe getting lost wasn’t the end of the world after all.

Maybe it was just the start of something better.

———

Chapter 4: After Hours

He didn’t know what he expected.

Maybe that she wouldn’t show. Maybe that he would chicken out and turn back at the door.

Instead, he found himself standing in front of a narrow storefront tucked between a closed tailor shop and a boarded-up art studio. The only light came from a cracked neon sign above the door: Ink & Ivy.

Inside, warm golden light spilled over books stacked in messy piles, fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. It smelled like old paper and rain-soaked wood.

And there she was. Curled up on a worn armchair in the corner, thumbing through a battered novel, a soft, unreadable smile tugging at her mouth.

Y/N.

Something in his chest unclenched just seeing her.

She looked up when the door chimed, smile widening when she saw him.

"You made it," she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Lando shrugged, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. "Had to," he said, voice rough from nerves. "Owed you a coffee, remember?"

She grinned and stood, sliding a bookmark into the pages before tucking the novel under her arm.

"You're in luck," she said. "They make a mean hot chocolate here. Coffee's still crap, though."

He laughed, following her deeper into the shop, past shelves that leaned under the weight of forgotten stories.

There was a tiny counter at the back — barely big enough for a cash register and an old espresso machine. No other customers. Just the two of them and the endless hum of rainy-night quiet.

Y/N ordered two hot chocolates without asking what he wanted.

He didn’t mind.

It felt... good. Being led for once instead of leading.

They settled at a small table by the window, mugs steaming between them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy. It was just... them.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"So," she said, stirring her drink, "did you find yourself yet?"

He smiled, a little crooked. "Working on it."

She nodded like she approved.

"I think that's the trick," she said thoughtfully, tracing the rim of her mug with a fingertip. "You don't just wake up one day and have all the answers. You kind of... stumble into them. Trip over them. Sometimes they show up in crappy coffee at 2AM."

He laughed, shaking his head. "You and your fortune cookie wisdom."

She tilted her head, pretending to think.

"Maybe I'm just psychic," she teased. "Or maybe I'm really good at pretending everything's fine."

He looked at her — really looked — and felt something tighten low in his chest.

There were shadows under her words. A mirror of his own. It made him want to know every story she kept hidden behind that easy smile.

"You don't have to pretend with me," he said before he could think better of it.

Her eyes softened, the kind of look that made you feel seen without saying anything.

"Neither do you," she whispered.

The rain outside blurred the city into watercolor smears of light and shadow. Inside, the world shrank down to just two people and a thousand unsaid things hanging between them.

He should’ve been scared of it. Of what it meant. Of what it could mean.

But sitting there — with a chipped mug warming his hands and her quiet presence filling all the empty spaces inside him — Lando thought maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be afraid.

Not tonight.

Not with her.

———

Chapter 5: Paper Moons

They stayed in the bookstore until the owner flipped the sign to "Closed" and politely pretended not to notice them still tucked into the corner.

Lando couldn't remember the last time he lost track of time without the roar of an engine or a schedule ticking in the back of his mind.

She made it too easy.

They talked about everything and nothing:

Their favorite childhood cartoons. The worst books they were forced to read in school. How pineapple absolutely does belong on pizza (her opinion) and how it absolutely does not (his).

At one point, while thumbing through a stack of battered travel guides, she glanced up at him, mischievous.

"So what is it you do, exactly?" she asked, tilting her head. "Professional traveler? Pizza connoisseur? World’s slowest book club president?"

Lando laughed, shoving a hand through his messy hair.

"Something like that," he said, half-truthful.

She narrowed her eyes, playful. "Mysterious again, I see."

"You wouldn’t believe me if I told you," he said, half under his breath.

She grinned. "Try me. My bet's still on undercover barista."

He laughed again — a real one, deep and rough and unfiltered. God, when was the last time he laughed like this without feeling like he had to perform it?

"I drive," he said finally, shrugging like it wasn’t a whole world. "A lot."

She arched a brow. "Like... truck driver? Racecar driver? Food deliveries?"

He barked another laugh, shaking his head.

"One of those," he said.

She studied him for a beat — not with suspicion, but with something lighter. Curiosity. Amusement.

Then she shrugged like it didn’t really matter.

"Well, I hope you're a better driver than you are a coffee drinker," she teased, bumping her shoulder against his as she passed by to the next shelf.

He smiled to himself, warmth blooming quietly in his chest.

She didn’t press. She didn’t treat him like a puzzle to solve. She just... accepted the pieces he offered and kept walking.

It felt like breathing again after years of holding his breath.

—

Later, they sat cross-legged in the aisle between "Travel" and "Mystery," flipping through a book of weird world records.

"Did you know," she said, tapping a finger against the page, "someone once stacked 500 doughnuts into a tower and balanced it on their forehead?"

Lando snorted. "New life goal."

She laughed, tossing a crumpled receipt at him. It bounced off his hoodie and landed in his lap.

He picked it up, pretended to examine it.

"Is this your phone number?" he teased.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "No. It’s the bill for your terrible jokes."

He grinned — wide and boyish and unguarded.

For a moment, he let himself forget the cameras, the headlines, the pressure. For a moment, he was just a boy in a bookstore, sitting next to a girl who didn’t need anything from him except what he was willing to give.

And for the first time in a long time — he wanted to give it.

———

Chapter 6: In Between Places

They never made official plans. No "meet me at 8" texts. No set routines.

They just… drifted back into each other’s lives, night after night, like gravity pulling them in without asking permission.

—

One night:

They ended up back at the Bluebird Diner, squeezed into a booth so worn it sagged in the middle. A plate of soggy fries between them. A crumpled napkin-turned-scorecard as they argued over the dumbest trivia questions pulled from a beat-up game box the diner kept behind the counter.

"Name three countries that start with 'Z'!" Y/N demanded, pointing a fry at him like a sword.

"Zimbabwe, Zambia—" Lando started confidently, then paused, face scrunching.

Y/N leaned in, grinning wide. "Clock's ticking, racer boy."

He slapped the table dramatically. "There’s not a third one! That’s cheating!"

"Zanzibar," she said smugly, popping a fry into her mouth.

"That’s not a country!" he protested, laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his drink.

She shrugged innocently. "Maybe if you traveled more, you'd know."

He choked on a laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Unbelievable. First you bully my coffee skills, now my geography."

She grinned and kicked him lightly under the table. "And you love it."

He couldn’t even deny it.

—

Another night:

They sat side-by-side on the hood of his car, parked on the edge of the city where the skyline blurred into open sky.

A half-eaten bag of gummy bears between them. A terrible playlist of early 2000s pop songs humming from the car speakers.

Y/N leaned back on her hands, head tilted toward the stars.

"Sometimes," she said softly, voice nearly lost in the night air, "I feel like I’m just... floating through life. Like I missed the turn somewhere but I’m too scared to go back."

Lando turned his head, watching her instead of the stars.

"I get that," he said, voice low. "I feel like that a lot too."

She glanced at him, surprised. He just shrugged, plucking a gummy bear from the bag and tossing it in the air before catching it in his mouth.

"You're not the only lost cause around here," he said, grinning crookedly.

She smiled — a real one, fragile around the edges.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel so alone in the floating.

—

Sometimes:

They didn’t talk at all.

They just wandered through late-night bookstores, or old record shops that stayed open too late for no reason, or abandoned playgrounds where the swings creaked in the wind.

Sometimes Y/N would tell him about the cities she wanted to see but never had the money to visit.

Sometimes Lando would tell her stories about places he’d been — twisting them into ridiculous adventures just to make her laugh.

He left out the race tracks. The fame. The noise.

It wasn’t lying. Not really.

It was protecting something he wasn’t ready to lose.

Not yet.

—

One night:

Sitting on a swingset at some forgotten park, boots dragging lazy lines in the sand, Y/N turned to him with a thoughtful look.

"You know," she said, nudging his shoulder with hers, "you’re not half as mysterious as you think you are."

He raised a brow, grinning. "Yeah?"

She nodded sagely. "You’re just a guy who’s a little lost, a little tired, and way too competitive about trivia games."

He laughed, the sound bubbling out of him before he could stop it.

"Maybe," he said, kicking at the sand. "And you’re just a girl who’s smarter than she lets on and drinks way too much terrible coffee."

She gasped mock-offended. "I tolerate terrible coffee. There’s a difference."

He shook his head, smiling at her like she hung the stars.

And maybe, just maybe, she did.

Little by little, the walls between them cracked.

Little by little, they learned each other’s rhythms.

Little by little, two lost souls stopped floating alone.

And neither of them even realized it was happening — not until it was too late to turn back.

———

Chapter 7: Cracks in the Armor

The night had fallen into one of their easy silences.

Sitting on the swings again, bundled in too-thin jackets, hot drinks warming their hands, they watched the city breathe around them.

Somewhere far away, a siren wailed. Closer, the breeze whispered through the trees, tugging at Y/N’s hair.

"You ever think about just... leaving?" she asked, her voice soft and faraway. "Packing up and disappearing somewhere no one knows you?"

Lando stared at the dark sky.

"All the time," he said quietly.

She glanced at him, catching the rawness in his voice.

"You could," she said gently. "If you wanted to."

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"It’s harder than it sounds," he admitted. "When the world... expects things from you."

She nodded slowly, sipping her drink.

"You don’t owe the world anything," she said simply.

The words hit harder than he expected.

Like maybe — just maybe — she meant them.

He fiddled with the sleeve of his hoodie, debating.

Then — impulsively, stupidly — he said:

"I travel for work. A lot. Different countries every week sometimes. Cameras, interviews... noise."

He didn’t look at her when he said it. Couldn’t.

The air shifted between them. Not colder. Not tenser. Just... aware.

Y/N set her drink down carefully in the sand between them.

"You a rockstar or something?" she teased lightly, trying to keep the moment easy.

Lando huffed a laugh. "Not exactly."

She bumped his shoulder with hers, playful.

"Secret agent?"

He smiled a little, finally looking at her.

"Something like that."

Y/N studied him for a beat, the city lights flickering in her eyes.

She could have asked. She could have pushed.

Instead, she just shrugged, easy and sure.

"Whatever it is," she said, picking her drink back up, "you’re still the guy who sucks at trivia and drinks hot chocolate like it’s a competitive sport."

He stared at her, something hot and unfamiliar swelling in his chest.

"You’re not curious?" he asked, surprised.

"Oh, I’m curious," she said, grinning. "But... I figure if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me."

Simple. No pressure. No performance.

Just a choice — left in his hands.

For the first time in a long, long time, Lando felt like he wasn’t being cornered into being someone.

He could just be.

And maybe — Maybe that was the whole point of her.

A lighthouse when the rest of the world just wanted to watch him drown.

—

Later, as they walked back toward the car, Y/N kicked a rock along the sidewalk, hands stuffed deep into her pockets.

"You know," she said casually, not looking at him, "you’re kinda like a bluebird."

He blinked, thrown.

"A what?"

She shrugged, smiling faintly. "You show up when people need hope the most. You just... don’t know it yet."

Lando stopped walking.

Just stared at her.

The Bluebird Diner. The paper tucked behind his phone case. The way she made him feel like he was finding pieces of himself he thought he lost.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

"You’re wrong," he said, voice rough.

She arched a brow. "Oh?"

He smiled — wide, real, and a little sad.

"I think you’re the bluebird."

She blushed, looking away, pretending to be annoyed.

"Great. Now I sound like a Disney character."

He laughed again, bumping her shoulder lightly.

But deep down — he knew he meant it.

Even if she didn’t understand yet, even if he couldn’t say it properly

She was his bluebird. And he was already terrified of losing her.

———

Chapter 8: The Fast Lane

It started with a text.

Lando: You busy tomorrow?

Y/N: Define "busy."

Lando: I know a place. Not far. Not fancy. Bring sneakers.

Y/N: ...You’re not going to murder me, right?

Lando: 50/50.

She sent back a laughing emoji, and he smiled at his screen for a solid minute before remembering he was supposed to be cool about this.

He wasn’t.

Not even a little.

—

The next afternoon was gray and crisp — a rare stretch of calm between rainstorms — when he picked her up.

No fancy cars. No entourage.

Just a beat-up old black SUV he borrowed from a friend because it didn’t scream his name at every intersection.

Y/N climbed in, wrinkling her nose playfully at the state of the floorboards.

"Should I be concerned about tetanus?" she teased, buckling in.

Lando grinned, heart kicking against his ribs.

"Only if you plan on licking the gearshift," he shot back.

She laughed — easy, bright — and he felt the knot in his chest loosen.

This was why he wanted her here. Because with her, everything felt... lighter.

They pulled up to a private karting track just outside the city.

Quiet. Empty except for a few staff members and a handful of guys milling around near the pit lane, helmets tucked under their arms.

Lando killed the engine and rubbed his palms against his jeans.

"Okay," he said, turning to her. "Don't freak out."

She raised a brow. "Should I be freaking out?"

He shrugged, trying to play it off. "I might have a bit of a reputation around here."

Y/N smirked. "Lemme guess. World's Slowest Kart Driver."

He barked a laugh, nerves unraveling a little.

"Something like that," he said, climbing out.

She followed, looking around curiously.

The place was small — nothing glitzy — but even she could tell it wasn’t some random rental track. It was built for serious drivers. The kind who lived and breathed competition.

A tall guy with a messy head of curls jogged over, clapping Lando on the back.

"Mate, finally!" he said, grinning. "And you brought a friend."

His eyes flicked to Y/N, friendly but curious.

"Max, this is Y/N," Lando said casually. "Y/N, Max."

She smiled easily, sticking out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Max shot Lando a quick look — the kind that said we’re going to talk about this later — but just shook her hand and winked.

"Good luck surviving him on the track," Max said to her with mock seriousness.

Y/N snorted. "Oh, please. I can handle him."

Lando raised a brow. "Big talk for someone who’s never seen me drive."

She just grinned, all innocent. "Big ego for someone who needed a second coffee to beat me at trivia."

Max laughed outright, slinging an arm around Lando’s shoulder. "I like her," he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

Lando flushed — actual, real color flooding his cheeks — and shrugged him off, muttering, "Piss off," under his breath.

Y/N watched the exchange, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth.

She didn’t say anything.

But she saw it — the way Lando relaxed around these people. The way he lit up.

The way they lit up seeing him like this.

They geared up quickly — helmets, gloves, coveralls.

Y/N struggled with the zipper on her suit, muttering curses under her breath, and Lando doubled over laughing.

"Shut up!" she yelled, trying to wrangle the stubborn metal tab.

He was still chuckling when he came over and helped her, fingers brushing her wrist.

A tiny touch.

A stupid, electric jolt straight to his ribs.

He pretended not to notice.

She pretended not to blush.

Neither of them said a word about it.

On the track, she was... terrible.

Absolutely, gloriously terrible.

She stalled twice, took corners like a drunken giraffe, and very nearly spun herself into the grass on lap three.

But when she pulled into the pit lane, yanking her helmet off with a huge grin, Lando swore he’d never seen anyone look more beautiful.

"I almost died!" she announced proudly.

"You almost killed me," he corrected, laughing.

She shrugged, unbothered. "Minor details."

He looked at her — flushed cheeks, wild hair, laughing eyes — and thought:

This. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Later, sitting on the pit wall swinging their legs like kids, they shared a bottle of lukewarm water and watched the sky turn pink with sunset.

Max and the others were off somewhere, giving them space without saying they were giving them space.

"You’re... good at this," Y/N said, nodding toward the track.

Lando shrugged, pretending it didn’t matter. "Been doing it a while."

She sipped the water, thinking.

"Not just good," she said thoughtfully. "You look... happy out there."

He stared at her, thrown.

Because she didn’t say "famous." She didn’t say "fast." She said happy.

And he realized — with a pang so fierce it nearly knocked the air out of him — that he was.

When she was around, he was.

———

Chapter 9: Cracks in the Bubble

The second time Y/N got into a kart, she looked determined.

Deadly serious.

"Okay," she said, yanking her helmet down with a snap. "No more driving like a drunk baby giraffe."

Lando bit back a laugh.

"You sure?" he teased, hopping into his own kart with practiced ease. "I was kinda looking forward to seeing if you could set a world record for most spins in one lap."

She flipped him off cheerfully, gunning her little kart forward with a wild screech of tires.

He laughed so hard he almost forgot to start his own.

—

The next thirty minutes were chaos.

Y/N barreling into corners like she had a personal vendetta against gravity. Lando weaving around her, slowing down to tease her, tapping her bumper lightly with his kart whenever he passed just to mess with her.

She screamed fake outrage every time.

At one point, she tried to block him from overtaking by swinging wildly across the track like a Mario Kart character.

He narrowly avoided crashing into her, throwing his hands up dramatically.

"THAT'S ILLEGAL!" he yelled over the roar of the engines.

She laughed so hard she nearly spun out — again.

—

Eventually, red flags waved them back into the pit lane.

Y/N pulled off her helmet, hair a wild mess, cheeks flushed from adrenaline and laughter.

Lando pulled up next to her, helmet under his arm, grinning like an idiot.

"Improvement," he said, nodding seriously.

She beamed. "Didn't die this time!"

Max wandered over, towel slung around his neck, smirking.

"You guys looked like the world's worst synchronized kart dancers," he said, mock-stern.

Y/N bowed dramatically. "Thank you, thank you. We try."

Max elbowed Lando lightly. "Mate," he said in a low voice, smirking. "You're smiling so much it’s scaring the staff."

Lando rolled his eyes but couldn't wipe the grin off his face if he tried.

Max clapped him on the shoulder and wandered off, laughing.

Y/N watched the exchange, something soft flickering in her eyes. But she didn’t say anything.

She just tossed Lando his helmet and said, "Rematch?"

And he thought — not for the first time — I’m so screwed.

—

After they cleaned up and changed back into their normal clothes, Lando suggested grabbing a bite at the tiny café across the street.

Nothing fancy. Greasy fries. Plastic tables. Exactly what he needed.

They sat by the window, sharing a basket of fries, teasing each other about their "racing skills" when it happened.

A teenager — probably fifteen, maybe sixteen — walked past the window, did a double-take, and froze.

Eyes wide. Mouth opening slightly.

Lando stiffened automatically, years of instinct kicking in.

He glanced at Y/N — ready for the shift. The awkwardness. The questions. The change.

Instead, Y/N just smiled warmly at the kid, nudging the basket of fries closer to Lando like nothing was happening.

Giving him space.

Letting him decide.

The kid edged closer, nervous.

"Um... excuse me?" he said, voice cracking slightly. "Are you... are you Lando Norris?"

Lando smiled — small, tired, but real.

"Yeah, mate," he said, easy. "What's up?"

The kid fumbled a phone out of his pocket. "Could I, uh... get a photo? If that's okay?"

"Of course," Lando said, standing up and clapping the kid lightly on the shoulder. "No problem."

They snapped a quick picture. The kid practically vibrated with excitement, thanking him about ten times before hurrying off down the street.

Lando sat back down slowly.

Y/N popped a fry into her mouth, still acting like nothing had happened.

"You’re famous," she said casually, like she was observing the weather.

He stared at her, thrown.

"You're... not freaking out?"

She shrugged, smiling faintly. "Should I?"

He blinked, scrambling for words.

"I mean — most people — it’s just..." He trailed off, frustrated with himself.

Y/N leaned her chin on her hand, watching him with quiet amusement.

"I figured you did something cool," she said. "Didn't figure you for a kart salesman."

He barked a surprised laugh.

She grinned, kicking his shin lightly under the table.

"Relax, Speed Racer," she said. "I’m still gonna beat your ass at trivia next week."

He stared at her — open, vulnerable — and realized in that exact moment: She’s different. She’s safe.

She didn't want a piece of the spotlight. She didn't want anything from him except the pieces he willingly gave her.

And for someone who had spent years being looked at like a prize to win or a headline to write it was terrifying.

And it was everything.

—

Later, walking back to the car, Y/N bumped his shoulder lightly with hers.

"For what it's worth," she said, glancing up at him under the streetlights, "I think you're pretty cool. Fame or no fame."

Lando swallowed hard.

"You too," he said, voice thick.

Maybe more than pretty cool. Maybe the coolest thing that had ever happened to him.

———

Chapter 10: The Things We Carry

It started because he was curious.

They were sprawled across her tiny living room floor one night, surrounded by half-eaten pizza, empty soda cans, and the remnants of a half-serious movie marathon.

At some point, between arguing about whether animated movies counted as “real cinema” (they absolutely did, according to Y/N) and who had the worst taste in music (definitely Lando, according to Y/N), she pulled out a battered old sketchbook.

He caught the flash of it out of the corner of his eye — the frayed edges, the bent corners, the cover smeared with fingerprints.

"What’s that?" he asked, nodding toward it.

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then shrugged, casual, like it didn’t matter.

"Sketchbook," she said, flipping it open and showing him a page without ceremony.

Pencil sketches filled the paper — messy but alive, full of motion and feeling. Faces. Cities. Dreamscapes.

Lando blinked, stunned.

"You did all this?" he asked, voice softer than he meant it to be.

She smiled, a little self-conscious. "Yeah."

He flipped through a few more pages, handling the book like it was made of glass.

"You’re insane," he said, awe creeping into his voice. "This is... this is amazing."

She shrugged again, brushing it off, but he could see the faint blush creeping up her neck.

"You wanna try?" she asked suddenly, tossing him a blank page and a pencil.

He stared at it like it was a bomb.

"Me? Draw?"

She grinned wickedly. "Come on, Speed Racer. How hard can it be?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Famous last words."

—

It was a disaster.

An absolute, hilarious disaster.

Lando’s hand cramped within minutes. His "dog" looked like a melting sock puppet. His "car" resembled a very angry toaster.

Y/N laughed so hard she nearly fell over, clutching her stomach as she tried — and failed — to offer helpful critique.

"Okay, okay," she wheezed between giggles. "Maybe stick to driving."

He threw a crumpled piece of paper at her, pretending to be offended.

But inside — he felt lighter than he had in months.

Because she didn’t care that he was terrible. Because here, in this tiny messy apartment, surrounded by pizza boxes and bad art, he wasn’t Lando Norris the racer.

He was just Lando.

And she was just Y/N.

Two people slowly stitching themselves back together in each other’s company.

—

Later that week, back at the McLaren simulator center, Oscar cornered him.

"Mate," Oscar said, arms crossed, smirking. "I don't know what's going on with you, but you're like... different."

Lando raised a brow. "Different how?"

Oscar waved a hand vaguely. "You're not snapping at the engineers every ten minutes. You’re smiling for no reason. You’re even letting Zac beat you at table tennis. It’s creepy."

Lando rolled his eyes, but couldn't help the small smile tugging at his mouth.

"Maybe I’m just... happier," he said, almost daring Oscar to make fun of him.

Oscar stared at him for a beat longer than necessary. Then he smiled — real and wide — and clapped Lando on the shoulder.

"'Bout time," he said simply.

And Lando felt it, deep in his bones — the way change sneaks in when you’re not looking.

—

The whispers started then.

Tiny things.

Jon joking during a debrief about Lando "finally being a human again." A mechanic muttering under his breath, "Whatever he’s doing lately, it’s working."

No one said her name. No one knew.

But Lando did.

Every smile. Every lighter step. Every deep breath that didn't feel like it might choke him —

It all traced back to her.

To the girl who handed him a terrible cup of diner coffee. To the girl who laughed at his terrible drawings and beat him at trivia. To the girl who never once asked him to be anyone but himself.

The things he carried used to be heavy. Expectations. Guilt. Fear.

Now he was starting to carry something else.

Hope. Home. Her.

And for once, he wasn’t afraid of the weight.

———

Chapter 11: The Space Between Us

It should have been just another night.

Pizza. A stupid romcom playing on her tiny TV. Them fighting over who got the last slice (he let her win, obviously).

Nothing special. Nothing earth-shattering.

Except, everything about her was starting to feel like home.

—

Y/N was sitting cross-legged on the couch, sketching lazily on a cheap canvas balanced on her knees. Not serious, just doodles, jokes, lines that curled and stretched into something messy and alive.

Lando sprawled beside her, feet kicked up on the coffee table, tossing a gummy bear up in the air and trying (badly) to catch it in his mouth.

He missed.

Again.

She snorted, not even looking up. "World-class athlete, huh?"

"Don’t mock me," he muttered, launching another gummy with more dramatic flair.

It bounced off his nose.

She laughed so hard she had to put the canvas down.

He grinned, basking in it — the sound of her laughter, the way her eyes crinkled at the edges, the easy way she existed around him without expecting anything.

God, he thought, chest tight, how am I supposed to tell her?

Because he had to.

He couldn't keep her in the dark anymore. Not when she mattered this much.

Not when he was falling for her so fast it left him breathless.

—

His phone buzzed.

He ignored it at first, tossing another gummy bear and — miracle of miracles — actually catching it.

"Finally!" she cheered mockingly, raising her arms like a referee signaling a goal.

He bowed deeply from the couch, grinning like an idiot.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

She frowned, reaching over and tapping the screen.

He moved too late.

A string of notifications flashed across it — Zak Brown: "Need you to review media schedule for Monaco ASAP." Jon: "Sky Sports wants the updated PR package, don't forget..." McLaren PR: "Final approval needed for your feature story."

Her hand froze mid-tap.

Their eyes met.

For a long second, neither of them said anything.

The movie kept playing — a background hum — but the room had shifted.

The bubble they lived in cracked just a little.

Not broken. Not shattered.

Just… cracked.

Enough to let the truth start to bleed through.

"You..." she started, voice slow, careful. "You're... not just a karting guy, are you?"

Lando swallowed hard.

"No," he said softly.

He sat up, hands knotting in his lap.

"I should've told you sooner," he said, voice rough around the edges. "I didn't want to lie, I just... I liked being 'just me' with you for a while."

She set the canvas aside, facing him fully now.

Waiting.

Not judging. Not running.

Waiting.

He blew out a breath.

"I'm a Formula 1 driver," he said finally. "For McLaren."

Silence.

Only the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the movie’s muffled dialogue filling the space between them.

Y/N blinked once.

Twice.

Then, to his complete shock — she smiled.

Small. Soft. A little sad, but sure.

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "That... makes sense."

He stared at her, heart hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

"You’re not..." He couldn’t even finish the sentence. Not freaking out. Not treating him differently. Not shrinking away.

She shook her head slowly.

"You’re still you," she said simply. "Still the guy who sucks at drawing and cheats at trivia and eats more gummy bears than anyone should legally consume."

He let out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh and maybe something else. Something wrecked and grateful and so in love he didn’t know what to do with it.

"You’re not mad?" he asked, voice breaking slightly.

She smiled wider, bumping his knee with hers.

"I’m only mad you didn't trust me sooner."

The words hit him like a gut punch.

Because she was right. And because she still wasn’t walking away.

She was still here. Still choosing him.

Lando scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull himself together.

"I’m sorry," he said thickly. "I was scared."

Y/N’s voice softened.

"I get scared too, you know."

He looked up sharply.

She shrugged, eyes shining with something he couldn’t name yet.

"Scared that if I let someone close," she said quietly, "they'll leave when they see the mess."

He exhaled shakily.

"I’m not leaving," he said without thinking.

The words slipped out — raw, unvarnished, real.

And she looked at him like maybe — just maybe — she believed him.

—

They didn’t say much after that.

They didn’t need to.

They just sat there knees brushing, hearts pounding, the space between them growing smaller with every shared breath.

And somewhere in that cracked, messy, beautiful night, Lando realized something he couldn't take back:

He wasn’t just falling.

He had already fallen.

———

Chapter 12: Somewhere Only We Know

The days after Lando told her the truth felt... different.

Not bad. Not awkward.

Just more.

More glances held a little too long. More touches that lingered longer than necessary. More silences that said everything without saying a word.

—

One night, they ended up at the same diner where it all began — the Bluebird Diner — tucked into their old booth, pretending not to notice how their knees brushed under the table.

Y/N doodled absentmindedly on a napkin, humming along to the jukebox in the background.

Lando watched her — the way her hair fell across her face, the soft curve of her smile — and felt something so sharp and tender in his chest it almost hurt.

He wanted to bottle this moment. Save it for when the world inevitably tried to tear it apart.

Because it would. He knew it would.

Nothing this good ever stayed untouched.

—

Outside, the night buzzed with the low hum of neon signs and distant traffic. They lingered by his car, neither wanting to leave first.

"You know," she said, voice light but eyes serious, "you don’t have to keep pretending the world isn’t watching."

He stiffened.

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged, kicking a pebble across the parking lot. "I mean... I see it. The looks. The whispers. The people snapping pictures when they think you’re not paying attention."

He looked away, throat tight.

"I hate it," he muttered. "I hate that it touches you, too."

She stepped closer, bumping her shoulder against his.

"Hey," she said softly. "You don't have to protect me from your world. I'm not afraid of it."

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the surge of emotion that rose up.

"I'm afraid of losing this," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "This — us — whatever we are... it feels like the only real thing I have left sometimes."

She reached out, fingers brushing his hand.

"You’re not losing me," she said simply.

And he believed her. God help him, he believed her.

—

But reality had other plans.

The next morning, the headlines started.

Not full-blown scandal. Just... whispers.

Grainy photos snapped by some kid outside the diner. A blurry shot of Lando holding the door open for Y/N. Another one of them laughing by the car, heads tilted close together.

The captions were worse.

"New girl? Mystery companion? Has Lando Norris finally been tamed?"

Lando stared at his phone screen, a sick feeling curling low in his stomach.

It wasn't her fault. It was never her fault.

But he knew what came next. The curiosity. The questions. The pressure.

He couldn't — wouldn't — drag her into that world unless she chose it.

And he hated that choice was even necessary.

—

That night, he picked her up without saying where they were going.

Just,

"Pack a bag. Something comfortable. Trust me."

She didn’t question it.

Just grabbed a backpack, threw on a hoodie, and climbed into the passenger seat with a smile that cracked him open a little more.

—

They drove for hours — past city lights, past towns that flickered and faded, into the wild, open darkness of nowhere.

Finally, he pulled off a side road, tires crunching over gravel, and parked near a cluster of old cabins nestled against a quiet lake.

No paparazzi. No fans. No noise.

Just them.

The real world — the hungry, clawing, endless real world — left behind like a bad dream.

Y/N climbed out, stretching her arms over her head, staring up at the blanket of stars above them.

"This is..." she breathed, spinning slowly in the gravel. "This is magic."

He watched her, heart in his throat.

"It's ours," he said quietly. "Just ours."

She smiled at him — wide, unguarded, beautiful.

And in that moment, Lando swore he’d do anything to protect this. Her. Them.

No matter what came next.

Even if the whole world tried to tear it down — he was ready to fight for it.

For her.

———

Chapter 13: Everything All at Once

The swing creaked under them as they rocked lazily back and forth.

The mug of hot chocolate sat forgotten between them, the stars blinking overhead, the lake whispering against the shore.

Y/N tugged the blanket higher around her shoulders, nudging his side with her elbow.

"You’re quiet," she said softly.

Lando leaned back against the swing’s chains, staring up at the sky.

"Just thinking."

"That’s dangerous," she teased, a smile pulling at her mouth.

He snorted, bumping her back lightly. "Harsh."

She shrugged, grinning. "You set yourself up for it."

He smiled — real, wide, the kind that made her chest ache — and let the silence stretch for a beat before speaking again.

"You ever think about how small we are?" he asked quietly. "Like... look at all that," he gestured up at the sky, "and we’re just... here."

Y/N tilted her head, looking up. "Yeah. I think about it all the time."

"You scared of it?" he asked, glancing sideways at her.

She shook her head. "Nah. It's kinda beautiful, isn't it? Being small. Means you can still choose where you want to go."

Lando looked at her — really looked at her — and felt something shift low in his chest.

God, how did he get so lucky?

How did he find her when he didn’t even know what he was looking for?

—

He noticed her shiver, just barely, and before he even thought about it, he reached out and tugged the blanket tighter around her.

Their hands brushed. Paused.

Stayed.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, vulnerable.

He swallowed hard, his heart thudding so loud he was sure she could hear it.

"I don't want to lose this," he said suddenly, voice rough and broken around the edges.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring herself to him without even realizing it.

"You’re not going to," she whispered back. "You’re stuck with me now."

He let out a shaky laugh — part relief, part terror — and leaned in before he could talk himself out of it.

The kiss was soft at first.

Gentle.

Almost hesitant.

Like asking a question neither of them had the words for yet.

But she answered — God, she answered — pressing closer, threading her fingers through his hair, breathing him in like he was air and she had been drowning.

The swing creaked under them, the blanket slipped off their shoulders, but neither of them cared.

They were too busy trying to memorize the shape of each other.

—

When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, Lando closed his eyes and whispered against her skin.

"I think I was falling before I even knew it."

Y/N smiled — small and stunned and beautiful — and whispered back,

"Me too."

He kissed her again because there was no other way to survive it.

Because love had been blooming quietly between them for weeks — in stolen glances, stupid trivia games, late-night coffee, and messy drawings.

And now it was here.

Messy. Breathless. Unstoppable.

Everything. All at once.

———

PART 2

[tacobacoyeet]

OK OK SO Patrick x reader based off the song once last time by Ariana grande … walk with me …

reader and Patrick are on and off and kinda toxic but one night when her and her friends are in a convenience store all dressed up just stopping by on their way to the oarty and there’s some other people outside and PATRICK is one of them and reader is just looking through the window at him longingly… and then they get to the party and everyone is dancing and reader is jusg looking at him and he catches her staring and then she can tell that he wants her as much as she wants him and he walks upstairs motioning for her to follow and theu go into a random bedroom and POUND TOWN because their just so addicted to eachother…sorry for yapping I went on a rant

one last time | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: yeah baby i walked with you. we all know song-based fics are my weakness LOL

warnings: SMUT 18+, honestly this is short and was just a good excuse for me to write patrick smut, hastily written and proofread

It always started like this.

A quiet ache blooming beneath your ribs, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t loud. Not yet. Just the echo of a memory, the weight of a name you hadn’t said aloud in weeks but still tasted like home.

Patrick.

You hadn’t expected to see him. Not tonight. Not like this.

The convenience store buzzed with cheap fluorescent lights and too-loud laughter from your friends, who were picking out snacks before the party. You were in heels, sequins catching the glow, heart already thudding too fast—and then you saw him.

Outside. Leaning against the wall like the night owed him something, cigarette in one hand, eyes on the sky.

Patrick Fucking Zweig.

His hair was longer than you remembered. A little messier. He looked good. Too good. Like he always did when you swore you were over him.

And just like that, the ache got louder.

"Don't," your best friend said, voice low, cutting through the static in your brain.

You blinked. "What?"

She followed your gaze through the window. Her sigh was almost affectionate. Almost.

"He's a fucking disaster, Y/N. He always has been. Stop wasting your time."

You tore your eyes away, but it was too late. The heat had already pooled low in your stomach. That familiar pull had already begun. And when you looked back again, just for a second—he was looking too.

---

The party was already packed when you arrived. Music pulsed through the walls, thick with bass, the kind that made your chest vibrate and your drink fizz over. Your heels clicked against the hardwood as you moved through waves of bodies and perfume and laughter.

You tried to focus on the chaos—your friends, the flashing lights, the music—but your eyes were hunting. Searching.

And then...

There he was.

Leaning against the archway to the living room, drink in hand, head tilted like he’d been waiting for you. The second your eyes met, it was over. The crowd fell away. The noise dimmed. And suddenly, it was just the two of you again.

You looked away first. You had to.

But a minute later, you felt it: his gaze on you, heavy and molten. When you finally looked up again, he was already walking toward the stairs.

He didn’t say a word.

Just looked at you. Held it. Waited.

Then nodded toward the hallway, a silent invitation.

Your breath caught. Your chest ached.

But you followed him anyway.

The door slammed shut. Hard.

And then it was chaos.

You barely had time to think before he was on you—grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head against the wall, mouth devouring yours with a kind of desperation that tasted like hunger and regret and something wicked. He kissed like he needed it to stay alive.

"You can't get enough of me, huh?" he rasped against your lips, a mean smirk on his face. "You're so desperate."

You gasped as he shoved your dress up around your waist and sank to his knees without ceremony, tongue already tracing heat over your inner thigh. His hands were everywhere—rough, impatient, worshipping and cruel all at once.

When he dragged your panties down with his teeth, your knees almost buckled.

"Fuck, I missed this," he groaned, licking a stripe up your center like he was trying to ruin you from the ground up.

You moaned, loud and shameless, tangling your fingers in his hair and yanking just to feel him growl.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t let you go.

He sucked like he was claiming you, fingers digging bruises into your thighs to keep you still while he feasted like a man starved. Your legs trembled, body jerking against the wall as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

When you finally came, it ripped through you in a way that felt criminal.

But he wasn’t done.

He stood and kissed you again—mouth soaked in you, breath ragged—as he fumbled with his belt, yanking his jeans down just enough.

“Turn around,” he ordered. Voice dark. Unforgiving.

You obeyed.

Hands flat on the wall, you arched back into him—and he didn’t hesitate.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust that knocked the air from your lungs. You cried out, forehead pressed to your arm, fingers curling against the paint.

He was rough. Mean. Each thrust a punishment, a confession, a rock-sold statement. He grabbed your hips hard enough to bruise, his other hand snaking around to grip your throat and pull you back against him.

"Say it," he growled in your ear. "Say you still want me."

"I want you," you choked, broken and breathless. "God, Patrick, I need you—"

That made him snap.

He fucked you like he wanted to break you apart and then keep every shattered piece.

When you came again, he followed—biting down on your shoulder, spilling into you with a guttural sound that echoed against the walls.

Silence followed. Heavy. Tangled.

Neither of you moved.

Not yet.

Eventually, he pulled out and stepped away like the distance might help him breathe. You stayed there—hands still braced on the wall, dress ruined, chest rising and falling like you'd just surfaced from deep water.

He didn’t say anything. Just dragged a hand through his hair, eyes flickering with everything he wouldn’t voice.

You turned slowly, your back hitting the wall again, arms wrapping around your stomach.

"So that's it?" you asked, voice low. Brittle.

His jaw clenched. "What do you want me to say?"

You swallowed. Hard. "That this means something. That it's not just another repeat of us fucking and pretending it didn't happen."

He laughed—sharp, hollow. "You really want to talk about pretending?"

Silence. Thick. Drowning.

Your lip trembled, but you refused to let the tears fall.

"You're the one who always leaves," you whispered.

Patrick’s face cracked. Just for a second.

"Maybe because staying with you feels like handing you the gun every time and daring you to pull the trigger."

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

You both just stood there, broken in the same patterns, addicted to the same wreckage.

He looked at you like he wanted to stay.

But when the door opened, he left.

-----

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

[sohnric]

THIS KITCHEN IS FOR DANCING – k. sunwoo

you never knew a kitchen was more than just a place to cook in.

pairing: kim sunwoo x gn! reader

genre: established relationship au (omg who is she..), hurt/comfort, domestic, fluff, tiniest bit of angst. slice of life !!

warnings: hinting at dysfunctional families, the reader has unspecified mental issues

wc: 1.7k

listen to: matilda by harry styles

a/n: thank u sm sweetie pie @csenke for beta reading in such a short time 💞 also this is very loosely inspired by the book happy all the time by laurie colwin!

this fic is dedicated to my best friend @from-izzy 🤍 I originally wanted to write you something else (as you may know), but I hope even this small thing translates just how much you mean to me. happiest birthday to you, i love you so much

The apartment grows silent after everyone leaves and the door is shut behind them, the only sound accompanying your thoughts being the water running in the kitchen sink, the song lowly playing through the radio and your boyfriend’s occasional, quiet humming as he helps you dry off the dishes and put them away into their respective cupboards. Not a single word was shared between the two of you since the guests departed your new place, your thoughts running a thousand miles per hour, eyes hypnotizing the tap as you focus on washing off all the food and grease remains off your cutlery. Your brain is buzzing with the memories of the past couple of hours, each moment replaying in the back of your head once, twice before it moves to another one, trapping you in an endless cycle of motion bouncing against the walls of your skull.

You relive the whole evening again. 

The sound of the doorbell ringing, a yelled-out “Surprise!” landing into your ears as the little crowd materializes at your doorstep. The kisses pressed to your cheeks, the potted plant forced into your hands, the kettle your boyfriend’s sister drags inside and places onto your kitchen counter without even asking you, plugging it in. The image of your boyfriend’s dad pressing Play on your old, beaten-up radio, the grin he sends you as he admires your empty apartment. 

The bottle of wine your boyfriend puts into your hold when you finally find a place to put the plant down, the soft, apologetic smile sent your way as he kisses the corner of your mouth. The sight of 3 pairs of shoes waiting next to the door, the sound of their socked feet shuffling across the floor. 

The side-hug his mother brings you into, her sweet words landing into your ears. “You made it look so pretty and homey,” she says.

You reply that the apartment is still half-empty and looks a little naked. She tells you it’s nothing a few picture frames won’t fix, and his sister suggests getting a colorful rug for your living room to brighten the space up a bit. You nod to her words, taking them all in.

You’re not used to all of this. 

People visiting you, people throwing you a housewarming party. People caring enough about your comfort to bring you kitchen appliances you lack and asking you if there’s anything more you need that their son forgot to mention when they asked. 

You’re not used to so much care. So much tenderness. To a family so loving their care feels kind of overbearing to your small, fragile heart.

“Are you mad at me?” Sunwoo asks through the endless stream of your thoughts, making you look up from the kitchen sink. You forgot he was here– but then again, where would the dishes be magically disappearing into if not his hands?

The question shocks you. Not because you don’t expect him to ask– just because you don’t really expect your own answer.

“No,” you shake your head, voice a little hoarse. Your eyes burn with emotion, turning into water pools begging to be tipped over if you don’t pay enough willpower to make the streams stop. You bite at your lower lip.

It doesn’t help.

“Then why are you crying?” he asks.

There’s no use stopping it now. There’s no use refusing the apartment that’s now warm from the body heat it received from all the people visiting it this evening. There’s no use rejecting something you never knew you wanted– something you never knew you needed. 

“Look, I’m sorry. I know you said you didn’t want anyone to visit for a bit before you get used to the new apartment and all, and you also wanted to have it fully done before anyone else saw it, but my parents insisted, and–”

“Thank you,” you utter out silently, like a prayer, making him stop in his tracks.

It’s only been a few months since you and Sunwoo started dating. Right from the start, the boy knew it would be different with you. He wouldn’t say it was difficult– no, loving you has always been easy for him– but he knew that he had to have much more patience with you.

His love is patient when he listens to your requests and boundaries. When he listens to you cry and picks up your calls even in the middle of the night, staying up with you until early morning just so you wouldn’t feel alone during your sleepless moments. Sunwoo’s love is patient when he gently holds you and kisses you slowly, setting the pace just right. His love is patient when he helps you pick out an apartment that’s just right for you– with the right size, location, on the right floor, not once thinking of his own convenience.

He always listens– just not this once. 

Somehow, you can’t find it in you to be mad at him.

You used to think you wanted the world to be quiet for a while. To stop– to leave you alone so you could breathe. You wanted your own place for yourself– your own space, uninvaded by anyone else, stranded from any contact. You used to think you don’t want guests over or family members helping with the move– not that the effort was made anyways.

You used to think you wanted a place for one– a quiet nook to bring you comfort, four silent walls to make you calm. A bedroom to make you sleep soundly, a living room with nothing but a TV and a sofa to keep you company. A kitchen to make food and a table to eat it at before you get off for work. That’s what you wanted.

But after the evening is over and your boyfriend’s family leaves the walls echoing with laughter, the radio playing lowly in the background, tea made from the new kettle waiting on your coffee table, steam warming up the place with gentle cinnamon, your heart squeezes on itself at the realization of just how wrong you were.

Sunwoo turns the water off as he walks closer to you, enveloping you in a tight hug. Your hands are dripping water up to your forearms, making wet puddles glisten onto the tiles of your kitchen floor, yet he doesn’t mind stepping his socks in and having your arms sneak around his waist, all your built-up emotion releasing as he gently rocks you to the beat of the music in the background– action something akin to reaching for your soft, tender heart into your ribcage and gently holding it in his palms, protecting it and keeping it safe.

You never knew you were made for love like this. 

You never knew you wanted two pairs of arms holding you to them, the smell of Sunwoo’s cologne clogging up your nose. You didn’t know all you needed was his presence to doze off on evenings that are difficult– a garden in his soul made for you to sleep safely. You never knew the sound of his voice was enough to fight off thunder and make sunlight cut through the clouds, like the sweet chirping of birds waking up in the morning.

You never knew you wanted a place that’s a walking distance from your boyfriend’s– just in case either of you wanted to quickly come over. You didn’t know you wanted a bedroom with soft sheets in it to cuddle in with someone, beams of sunlight dripping into the space through the blinds in the mornings caused by the location of the windows being towards the east. You didn’t know you wanted a living room decorated with gifted house plants and picture frames filled with people you care for the most. 

You didn’t know that a kitchen is more than just a place to cook in. You now realize, amongst all the other things, that your kitchen is now also a space for shared meals, chatter and a bottle of wine opened after a long day at work. 

Sunwoo’s low voice keeps humming the familiar song into your ear, rocking you from side to side. The dishes are long forgotten and your worries disappear like the last remains of rain puddles left outside after a storm on a sunny day. 

The gentle, patient love Sunwoo has for you slowly slips into your heart, mending all the damaged pieces back together and opening up your eyes to so many more things you wanted to stay blind to. You were patient for long enough, though– and you finally see it, right there in front of you, tangible and believable– after all of the love you put out into the world selflessly, tirelessly, it finally came back to you.

And it will stay.

Your new apartment– although you live alone– is a place for love and kindness. A new chapter for new memories, each one brighter than the other. This place is for you to come back to after a long day to rest your limbs and soul in the quiet comfort of it all. This place is made for two people that turn a simple house into a home.

This kitchen is not just for cooking food and heating up leftovers over a cup of coffee during lunchtime. Kim Sunwoo and his endless love show you that a housewarming party is nothing to be scared of if you don’t have an anxious, quiet voice in your ear constantly telling you that there will always be people waiting on the side to somehow ruin your special day for you.

This kitchen is for whispered conversations over sleepy mornings during the weekday. This kitchen is for making pancakes after making love, two arms sneaking around your waist from behind, naked chest pressed against your back. This kitchen is for washing the dishes together, a smiley boy helping you with even the simplest task. This kitchen is for laughter when you burn an omelet or overseason your food, trying out new meals. This kitchen is for matcha in the evenings, a worried pair of eyes rushing you to sleep instead. 

This kitchen is for love trapped between four walls, with no way for it to get out and disappear into the wind.

But tonight, most of all, you realize–

This kitchen is for dancing.

[bunnyreaper]

𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖈𝖆𝖌𝖊𝖘

𝔞 𝔰𝔬𝔞𝔭 𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔳𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔵 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰

𝖕𝖙 2 — 𝖕𝖙 1 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊, 𝖕𝖙 3 𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊

wc - 5.2k

warnings - 18+/nsfw, dom sub dynamic, smut, phone sex, wee bit of angst, brief mention of the word 'daddy'

notes - vibrating with both excitement and fear, but hoping y'all love this like you loved the last one!! also on ao3! ♥

Johnny was right to send you to bed when he did because you're already struggling to get through the day, and on any less sleep, you might have fallen asleep at your desk. Clearly, you're terrible at making decisions for yourself, if that wasn't already evidenced by the nearly empty fridge accompanied by the pile of empty takeout containers.

It's not even the end of the workday yet, and you're beat—except staying up with Johnny was so worth it, getting to hear his voice and everything he said was complete bliss. You only wish he was here now, whispering in your ear and making your day go by quicker. Unfortunately, the sad reality is that beyond your good morning text, you haven't heard from him since, and you hate that you already feel like you're suffering from withdrawals. 

Again, that could be the lack of sleep, or adequate nutrition, or the fact that lately you haven't exactly been the most social person, and you've definitely been missing social contact. All of that missing need you just want to be filled by Johnny, Johnny, Johnny—his name like a chanted prayer in your mind. 

You at least have the sense of mind to focus when you need to, but at any idle moment, Johnny crawls back into your brain. Your mind drifts to wondering what he's up to, wondering where in the world they've shipped him off to this time—what timezone is he even in? What hemisphere? 

5 p.m. comes round sooner than you expect, and you find yourself logging off from your work laptop with a relieved sigh. You might be exhausted from lack of sleep, but Johnny's arrival in your life left you energised in a way you hadn't felt in so long. Every part of you hums with excitement, thinking about what the future might hold. 

You have to keep snapping yourself out of getting lost in the fantasy, even as you find yourself rereading through texts and committing Johnny's words to memory. The last time you did this still sticks in the back of your mind, still stings—someone who came into your life and was everything until they were nothing. Someone who said they could be trusted as they broke down your barriers. 

The aching loneliness was too much, so you'd run from it straight into something worse, not even realising how easily you fell into the trap. 

Your thoughts were spiraling, and you needed a distraction, so you put on the TV in the hopes of getting lost in the shitty reality dating show you've been watching lately. 

A few hours later, the buzz of your phone pulls you from the drama of the screen—your spirits soaring as you see the little icon you're rapidly growing attached to. 

Evening bonnie, hope you're not napping too close to bed time. 

hi!! no... for once, lol. how was your day? 

Long, but thoughts of you got me through ;) how was yours? 

The rapid responses mean your smile never has time to waver, as your eyes are glued to the screen watching as the messages are read, the app tells you he is typing and then another one of his messages appears. 

Your fingers fly across the keyboard as you eagerly respond.

somehow managed to not fall asleep at my desk, i would've napped but... 

But? 

didn't want to risk missing any messages from you. 

Johnny heart reacts to the message immediately. 

Call? 

please!!! 

Mere seconds later, his face fills the screen once more, and your sheer excitement overtakes your nerves by far.

"Hi." You say shyly, as soon as you accept the call.

"Hi bonnie, gotcha on loudspeaker by the way." He greets you, his voice immediately sending warmth through you. 

You were rapidly growing obsessed with his terms of endearment, too. 

"Oh." You pause, suddenly self-conscious and hesitant. "Are you not alone?" Does anyone in his life even know you exist? You know you haven't really mentioned to your friends that you're 'dating' again.

"Definitely am, don't worry. Jus' need ma hands free." 

At that, your brow furrows, your voice filling with both mischief and disbelief. "What are you doing, Johnny?" 

He chuckles, before rustling some papers around. "Paperwork, nothing fun." 

Even hearing the word paperwork right now drains you, and can hear that Johnny isn't exactly pleased with the idea either. 

"Wishing I was under the desk again?" You ask, hoping your playful tone will make him smile. 

"Dinnae start." He groans. "What are you doing? Have you eaten?" 

"Not yet, I need to check my milk is still in date." You throw yourself off the sofa and make your way through to the kitchen—it's a good job Johnny actually poked you to eat. 

"Milk?" His voice is filled with confusion.

"For cereal." 

"Ach." 

"I can feel your disapproval from here." You can practically sense him shaking his head disapprovingly too. 

"Good, I see how this gonae be." He sighs, the disappointment evident, along with that sense of control, guidance. 

It just makes you tingle.

"Yes, daddy?" You giggle audaciously like you know exactly what you're doing, and hope it has the effect you want it to.

Johnny chokes, and then growls... and then sighs. "Away n bile yer heid." He whispers, yet he sounds anything but angry, his voice thick with arousal as he undoubtedly fights all kinds of urges. 

You want to take that step with Johnny, to dirty talk with him now that you feel comfortable, but you suppose now isn't the time—after all, he is still working. 

"I'm being mean now, sorry." 

"A right brat." He growls playfully. "Do something for me, lass?" 

The shift in his tone and the previous conversation topic gives you a good guess at what's coming next. "Is it cooking a real meal?" You groan playing into the role.

Well, admittedly committing to self-care tasks like cooking isn't the easiest thing in the world, and having someone to guide you in that is... a turn-on. 

"Knew you were a smart girl." He purrs, and those words turn your brain and your body to mush. 

You have to stifle a whine from leaving you, as your face flushes furiously. Oh, how you wish you could hear that over and over again—in that voice, with that accent, whispered right in your ear as he—

"What you gonna cook?" He asks, interrupting your rapidly spiraling thoughts. 

Staring into the fridge is a depressing experience—the shelves are mostly bare and there's a faint smell of something off. "Ugh, I don't have a lot in, to be honest." 

"Logging onto the Tesco website now, or maybe meal delivery service..." He muses, and you can imagine the smirk on his lips.

"Johnny!" Your protest is weak, as the coddling and infantalisation make you feel something you probably shouldn't. 

He snickers at your tone, but he knows now that if things are to continue, he won't listen to your objections. "Jokin'... for now. Talk me through yer fridge, lass." 

"Do you cook?" You ask, wondering if he's going to magically talk you through a recipe with the condiments in your fridge and the dried pasta in the pantry. 

There's a beat of silence. "Not often." 

You're overcome with a fit of giggles and a wave of faux offense. "Then who are you to lecture me?" 

Johnny meets your exclamation with a series of tuts, which already quiet your discontent, but you find yourself ruined when his voice drops and he delivers his next few words. "What happened to 'Johnny knows best'?" 

Fuck him, using his powers for good—and you can already tell he's getting off on it too. Today, you won't indulge him by submissively repeating it back, since he's making you face the horror that is cooking.

"Fine." You sigh, looking for what items in the fridge that are actually still in date. You pull open a cupboard or two as well. "I have... hummus and celery and uh, supernoodles in the cupboard." 

"Better than cereal." He waits for your response that doesn't come, as you pout on the end of the phone, and then he plays his next move flawlessly.  "For me, bonnie girl?" 

The plea in his voice makes you melt, makes you want to do just about anything for him. 

"For you." You say with a smile, grabbing the packets of noodles and a saucepan. "Have you eaten?" 

"A have, chicken tikka masala." 

You sigh, knowing that if not for Johnny you could've ordered a nice Indian for yourself—you get to work on the noodles anyway. "Kinda jealous now, if I'm honest."

His laugh is short but earnest. "Same, haven't had beefy supernoodles in an age." 

"Yeah, I would hope they're feeding you actually decent, nutritious food over there." 

He huffs. "I would hope you're feeding yerself decent food, but here we are." That playful judgement is back, lacing his words and making you crave his approval. 

It's a startling thought, that here you are, only a few days in and needing his praise, his encouragement—you suppose it comes easy as it plays into both of your natural instincts—his to lead, yours to follow.

"Less sass, more... paperwork." You grumble playfully, trying to cover up the fact that, maybe, you like being teased by him. 

"Aye." He laughs, and you can briefly hear him scribbling in the silence.  

For a few moments, it's just the sound of him writing and you cooking, but the quiet feels comfortable rather than awkward—strangely routine and domestic after such a short space of time. 

Your mind wanders back to what the two of you had discussed last night, about his day later in the week. "Have you thought more about Friday?" 

There's a brief shuffle and the sound of the call changes as Johnny seems to take you off the loudspeaker and moves around. "Meetin' you?" 

"Yeah." There's a sense of nervousness within you, a fear he's going to suddenly decide that he doesn't want to see you after all, that he doesn't see this going anywhere. It's so soon, and yet the thought seems crushing. 

"Haven't thought of much else." His confession seems to settle your rapidly beating heart just a little, the sincerity in his voice making your stomach twist and turn. 

Maybe you shouldn't push it, but you want to meet him more than anything, so you can make the first step toward all of this becoming real. "Would you be up for coffee? I can come to you!" 

"About that..." His sigh is weary, and panic overtakes you as the silence stretches on. "Am leaving for a week or so." 

It's not a total rejection at least, but somehow it still stings, still settles heavy and unpleasant in your gut. "When?" 

"Tomorrow." He falls silent, waiting for you to say something, yet you don't know what words to even summon right now. "'m sorry, lass." 

You take a deep breath for a moment, collecting your thoughts as you stir your noodles and try to put everything you feel into some sort of coherent order. 

There's no logical reason to feel rejected, as it's not that he doesn't want the date, but that he can't. Perhaps it's that lingering thought that this kind of thing will be a frequent occurrence—it's just a small taste of what's to come. But wanting Johnny means handling this, like he deserves. 

You push through the discomfort and force yourself into a more positive mindset.

"But... after that? Or is this just because you hate coffee so much you're fleeing the country?" You laugh softly, hoping the joke will lighten the thick atmosphere. 

"Now, if you'd asked me out for tea..." He laughs in return, before turning serious. "But... when I'm back, I'd love to see you. Have ta, really. " 

"I'm glad." The beaming smile on your face is ridiculous, and you're so thankful he can't see you grinning like an idiot at his words. He has to meet you. 

With your cooking complete, you take the saucepan off the stove and pour the noodles into a bowl, grabbing it before returning to the comfort of the couch. "Okay, noodles done." 

"Wanna call me back once yer done, or?" 

Fuck, he's so considerate. 

You hum negatively as you start to blow on the noodles to cool them. "I'll eat on the phone if you don't mind the sound of me slurping." 

Johnny chuckles, before making a suggestive noise. 

"The noodles, Johnny." 

He coughs, covering more juvenile laughter. "Aye, the noodles, of course." 

"So... going anywhere fun?" You ask, referencing his upcoming deployment. 

"Classified, I'm afraid." He answers curtly, but you know it's nothing more than his duty. 

No questions about that, then, you suppose. It's going to be a strange thing to adjust to, but it's another thing that comes along with accepting Johnny into your life. You change your line of questioning, hopefully to something he can answer. "Are you... scared?" 

"No." He answers quickly and firmly, in a manner that suggests certainty rather than bravado. "Don't worry about me, hen." He rushes to add.

"Kinda hard not to, even if we only just met..." You sigh, but you suppose you have to trust Johnny's skills and training. "I imagine it only gets more intense from here." 

The admission feels like a swift kick to the stomach. 

"Yeah..." You hear a knock on the door from Johnny's end, and he swears colourfully under his breath. "Ach, can I call yer back?" 

It's almost cruel the way such timing drives the point home. 

"Sure, things to attend to?" You ask absentmindedly, not really expecting an answer. 

He sighs, before trying to turn his tone more positive. "Aye, but I'll catch you before bed, yeah?" 

"Yeah. Bye, Johnny." 

"Bye, lass." 

He ends the call, leaving you with your meal and your thoughts. 

Maybe you aren't strong enough to deal with this after all, you think, trying to settle the ugly, gnawing feeling inside you. It already hurts, but maybe that's because you're trying to hold so tight onto something intangible. Maybe if you and Johnny become something, mean something to each other, it'll all be easier to deal with. 

It's an hour or so later when you're tucked up in bed that Johnny's call lights up your phone. You pick it up instantly. 

"Hey, glad you haven't fallen asleep already." He chuckles, his voice softer than before. 

"Mmm, still hanging on." You mumble, cheek pressed into plushness and tiredness lingering at the back of your mind, as well as the mess of feelings that still simmers within you. 

"Cuddled up with the big B?" He asks, voice cheeky and charming. 

You can't help the soft giggle at the ridiculous nickname. "The big B?!"

"Barnaby!" He clarifies with a hearty laugh, not ashamed at all of his goofiness. 

"The big B! That's so silly" 

The laughs quiet, and another silence falls, but this time you feel the discomfort that comes with it. 

Johnny is the first to breach it, his tone tinged with worry. "How are yer?"

"I'm fine." You sigh, not wanting to elaborate and get yourself upset again. It's not far from the truth. Nothing has changed, but this is something you have to learn to sit with, have to make peace with for both of your sake. 

Johnny cuts right through the noise. "Yer seemed a little upset earlier. Wanna talk about it?" 

Communication—the key to any good relationship, an essential to any kinky one, and one thing you think you really kind of suck at. 

It's a simple sentence with a simple answer, and nothing about Johnny suggests that his reaction will be anything other than supportive—but it's not Johnny's voice that whispers cruel things in the back of your head. And for now, Johnny's influence is not enough to quiet the storm. 

The fear grips at your heart, stops your words right in your throat, but your mind wars between the ghosts of your past and the duty of your present and future. 

Johnny waits quietly, not pushing you for an answer or assuming how you feel, and that small act helps pull you out of the fog and helps you force yourself to speak. 

"Reality setting in, I guess." The words don't come easy at first, your throat tight—but once you start, the rest just seems to flow, taking the weight of your burdens with them. "Like, it's not too bad right now, it's just... knowing what's in store? Assuming we keep talking." 

The opportunity to really put your thoughts in order and get them out actually does help, surprisingly.

Johnny goes silent for a moment, considering your words before he speaks. "If you wanna stop—" 

"I don't." You feel bad for interrupting him, but you already know that's not what you want, even if he sees it as a kindness. "Like I said yesterday, I'm not faint-hearted... the intensity just took me by surprise. All of this has, really." 

"I'm with you there. Sat here thinking about how I'm gonna be thinking of anything else when I'm on the mission." He laughs softly, the sound laden with emotion. "Lt's gonna have my head." 

The gravity of his job sinks in now, with the realisation that he will be busy and focused, and rightfully so.

"Will you be able to get in touch while you're gone?" You ask, more for informational purposes, rather than being unable to last a week without hearing his voice. 

"Not a whole lot, no. Sometimes no' at all, but I'll let you know when I can." He states plainly, and the honesty is so refreshing. 

"I'll try not to bother you too much then." You giggle, though you don't really mean your words. He has his mission, and you have yours—stay strong while he's gone. 

He scoffs instantly. "You? A bother? Never." 

You hum, continuing with your playful statements. "You haven't seen me when I'm clingy." 

"A like clingy, am clingy too." 

Ugh, just when you think he can't be more perfect, he comes out with that. The sweet smile on your face is relentless, and you just know the same is true for him too. "Oh yeah? So you won't be complaining when we meet, and I just take a hold of your hand and don't let go." 

His barked laugh is so genuine that it makes your heart sing. "Bold of yer to assume I'd be letting you go, lass." 

The thought of even his hand in yours is enough to send you into a frenzy—a simple, delicate, and chaste act, yet you crave it like nothing else. When your date finally does come around, you'll be able to touch him and see him up close. You'll be able to hear that voice and those words up close and unrestrained by the slightly shitty quality of the phone call—and that is a little terrifying.  

"I guess waiting isn't a bad thing after all, maybe I'll be less nervous by then." Because right now you know you'd hesitate to reach out and touch him, would struggle looking him in the eye for too long. Maybe if you wait, the radiance that is Johnny's warmth will wear off, but somehow you doubt it. 

"Why ya nervous?" 

You almost snort at such an oblivious question from such a seemingly smart man. "Have you seen you?" Have you talked to you? Been on the end of your affections? Your mind pleads. 

"See this ugly mug every day." He grumbles, though you can still hear the smile. 

"You can't see, but I'm rolling my eyes." You giggle. "But what if I just... can't resist you? Jump you right then and there?" Your voice takes on a more teasing tone. 

"In public?" He tuts, slow and sexy, his voice dropping low. "Naughty girl." 

You straight up whimper. "Needy girl, for you." 

A growl leaves his throat, along with a whispered "Fuck." 

Arousal floods through you, overtakes you, as you feel your mind slipping to a space of deep-seated need, all for him. You feel on fire, your skin hypersensitive to the brush of the sheets, as your lower body hums and begs for attention. No longer can you hold yourself back from falling under his sexy spell. "Your groans, your voice, it all drives me crazy." 

The laugh that leaves him is weaker, choked with arousal. "All wet fer me, bonnie?" His voice, now a touched graveled, wraps so wonderfully around every word. 

"Soaked." You squirm in place, not even needing to feel to know just how dripping you are—every time he teases you, you practically gush. Your spare hand dives below the sheets, tracing ever so slightly over your stomach as it crawls lower. "Johnny?" 

"Yes, bonnie?" It sounds like his control is wavering too. 

"Please can I touch? I need it so bad." You whine and plead, surrendering yourself to Johnny's command. 

"You don't—" Another growl leaves his throat, you hear him shuffle and when his voice returns, he sounds even more aroused than before—sweet, gentle domination drips from his tone. "Touch yerself, go on." 

You comply immediately, your hand diving under your waistband and zeroing in on your swollen clit—relief floods you the second you make contact, your fingers rubbing delicate swirls on your soaked nub as gentle moans force themselves free. 

"Oh fuck." Johnny's breathing is ragged between his groans. "Gonna have tae join ya." 

"Fuckfuckfuck." Your eyes slip shut as you imagine him reaching down to free his aching cock, all for you. Your thoughts center on conjuring up an image of how long and thick you imagine him to be. "Is... is your cock as big as the rest of you?" 

You squeak out your words while you still have command over the English language.

"Guess you'll find out soon enough." He chuckles breathlessly, some of the words catching in his throat as he clearly works himself. "But I don't think you'll be disappointed. I know how tae take care of yer, know you're already desperate for me." 

Your circles quicken, his words sending pleasure coursing through you in a way that almost feels better than your touch. You fill the air with breathy moans. "Need you, Johnny." 

"Need you too, pet." He growls his words over the building slick sound.

"Oh fuck." Your reaction is instant, the word sending everything in your brain into overdrive. Pet. Pet. You almost cum right then and there, but his assault on your senses and sensibilities continues. 

"God, thinking about you on the end of a leash for me? So fuckin' hard thinking about it." His voice modulates between and whine and a growl, his need growing furiously. "I'd be so fuckin' lucky." 

You imagine the collar slipping around your neck, imagine Johnny clicking shut a lock and attaching a leash—pulling you to him just as he is now with every word. 

"I'd be the most loyal pet ever, I swear." You start to babble, unable to hold back any longer on the wave of submission that overtakes you. "I'll Wait for you to come home, naked and kneeling with my leash ready." 

"Jesus, fuck." Each grunt that leaves him makes you shiver. Each word like its own bolt of electricity straight from his body to yours. "Yeah, my good girl would be so lost without me." He says it with such certainty, speaking the truth to life. 

"I get separation anxiety like mad. I'll miss your touch, miss your smell, miss your taste—" You cut yourself off with a high-pitched whine, your fingers working you so fucking close to the edge.

"Don't worry, I'd fuck you so good before I go bonnie, fill yer up and leave you dripping with me." His groans are accompanied by more of those slick sounds. "Mark that pretty neck o' yours, too." 

"I'm... I'm not gonna last." You admit, holding back even now from cumming—you crave his permission. 

"Me either. Go on, moan for me, let me hear you." He urges you gently, even if his voice is filled with need. 

You let all your noises flow freely as you teeter toward the edge and desperately try to please him with the sounds you make. It's all too good, too much, too overwhelming. 

"Johnny, can I—" 

His demand is out of his mouth before you can even finish your sentence. "Cum fer me, bonnie. Go on." 

You cum with a strangled cry, flying over the edge right as Johnny demands it. The build-up of the past few days along with Johnny's noises has you shaking in ecstasy—ecstasy that's only prolonged when he cums too with a long, drawn-out groan.

After a moment, the only sound is both of your heavy breathing, as you come down from your high. 

"Oh my god." You sigh, a silly, blissed-out grin overtaking your features.

"You okay, sweet girl?" His voice returns to that sweetness you're coming to know and love.

You nod mindlessly, even though he can't see you. "Better than okay, are you?" 

He hums in affirmation, before his voice turns a touch serious. "You did so good. Just want tae make sure you're good, and a didn't go too far." 

"Hah, I mean, nowhere near too far." You admit shakily. 

"Am glad, it's only early days, though. That trust..." He hesitates. 

"... It takes a while, yeah." The post-orgasmic bliss coupled with the feeling of that trust taking root and growing. "I'm glad you understand." 

And he understands perfectly, as you never feel pushed or rushed, only pampered and adored. 

"Of course... it's special, for both of us." He admits, and you know you're on the same wavelength when it comes to the bond and relationship between dominant and submissive. 

"Mhmm." You hum dreamily, wholeheartedly agreeing and yet not able to summon up something profound. 

"Already sleepy?" His laughter is soft and sincere. 

"I'd get so much rest if every night was like this." 

"Even more so when I finally get to fuck ya, bonnie." He whispers so casually, yet even after your orgasm your clit still thrums with interest—God, he has such a hold on you.

"Yeah?" You sigh, dreaming of the day you'll get to experience it. 

"Yeah." 

The line falls silent, and you feel yourself fading. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so... sleepy." You whisper while you still have the chance. 

"It's okay, sweet girl, close yer eyes. Am right here." Johnny's sweet voice lulls you closer and closer, and your phone falls free from your hand to your pillow, resting there with Johnny just on the end of the line. 

"Goodnight Johnny." You mumble, before sleep finally takes you.

"Goodnight, Bonnie." His reply is soft, carrying you off to unconsciousness as he drifts off too.  

-//-

Johnny practically vibrates where he stands—wired beyond belief. Part of it is his usual pre-mission adrenaline, but the events of the past few days especially almost have him climbing the walls. His energy is frenetic as usual but with so much more—lust, yearning, withdrawal. 

It's only been a few hours since he ended the call after waking up before you, and yet he finds his thoughts unable to leave you, even as he finishes gearing up. You'd love to see him like this, and an idea strikes him.

He pulls out his phone, turns to the man beside him, and hopes he doesn't regret asking. Then again, some ribbing from the masked man would be nothing compared to the floored reaction he'd get from you.

"Ghost?" He asks, piercing the comfortable silence between the two of them. 

"What?" Ghost turns, eyeing Johnny and his hand holding his outstretched phone.

Johnny doesn't waver, sure in his request, and eager to see your response. "Take a picture of me, yeah?" 

"Girl back home?" Ghost asks, cutting straight to the point as he takes the phone. "Is this the first time she's seeing you? Cause you look fuckin' rough." 

"No." Johnny frowns, and worry washes over him. Surely Lt. is just messing him around—he knows she'll be happy to see him either way. 

Ghost pulls off a glove and navigates to the camera before stepping back and holding up the phone in Johnny's direction. He might be giving Johnny shit, but he at least takes the time to angle and position the frame in a way that compliments Johnny's stature. "She like the tac gear?" 

Johnny sighs, wishing this was over already. "Just take the picture, Ghost." 

"Say cheese." Ghost deadpans, and the softest of smiles graces Johnny's features—for her, not for him.

Johnny practically snatches the phone back from Ghost's hands, checking out the photo immediately. "Thanks." 

He pulls up their messages immediately, firing off the picture with a kissing face and a teasing message just for her. 

When he locks the phone and throws it in his bag, Ghost's eyes are fixed on him, his blackened eyes narrowed.

"Mind on the mission, yeah, Johnny?" 

Johnny nods, doing his best to push thoughts of her away for now, and letting his inner soldier take over. He'll be back to her before he knows it. "Aye, Lt." 

Days later, and after a successful first phase of the mission, Johnny stares down at his phone. The signal is nonexistent and won't return for a while, but he misses you, his mind is itching with his need for you. In this shitty safe house in the middle of nowhere, while someone else is on watch, there's very little to do, and truly nothing else he'd rather think about. 

He scrolls to the top of your messages, rereading each message and reliving each conversation, experiencing all over again how each message made him feel. 

Your sweet texts, your copious use of emojis, and your cute little selfies—it was all so intoxicating to him. For a man who was so used to maintaining focus, you were a fucking curveball. Something about you just sends his protective instincts into overdrive, makes unearned possessive tendrils curl up through him and around his heart—calls out to his guiding, dominant, caring side.

He has to constantly stamp down the thoughts inside that called out to him to find you, scoop you up, and take you home with him. Luckily for you both, Johnny is a patient man. He spends time out in the field waiting days for anything interesting to happen, he's spent years waiting for his pet, his girl to come along—and you're right there. He can wait a little longer. 

He holds down the record button, intent on recording a message for you, and begins whispering into the phone.

"Hi, been sat on my arse for far too long with nothing to do but think of you. Dinnae think I'll get signal anytime soon, but I 'spose it'll send at some point." He feels himself relax just a little as he falls into Johnny, the man—rather than Soap, the soldier.

"Been thinking about our first date, since you mentioned coffee. Kinda had a crazy idea actually, but I need your input. What about a cat café? Has to be one in that city o' yours, and I figure you must like kitties."

"Won't be long until you might be one for me... or a bunny... or a puppy." He interrupts himself with a sigh.

"Need tae stop those thoughts and quit while I'm ahead. Let me know, yeah? As soon as I get my leave, we'll set it up."

"Talk soon, bonnie."