#i just... why both... it is... so loud...

[jaylaxies]

DARKNESS OF DEVOTION

PAIRING: sunghoon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, dubcon, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), blowjob, fingering, bondage, degradation, impact play, usage of nicknames, breeding, possessiveness, stalkerish behaviour, lmk if i missed anything.

SYNOPSIS: Never in a million years you could have imagined your polished and perfect boss to have handcuffs in his office, and well, stalker tendencies. You thought you were just an intern for him, but he simply saw you as possession.

WORD COUNT: 2.6k words

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

A/N: hihi, loves! i truly have never tried the concept of dubcon before, but this is for @hoondrop who loves possessive hoon and @evermorehoon who preaches head pusher hoon agenda ! i hope you guys will like it :3 all likes, comments, reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated! iloveyou all <33

You were just the new intern at the firm where Sunghoon worked, him being your boss. You directly answered to him as he checked your progress each day, only—you didn’t know how obsessed he’s been with you from the day one, monitoring your every move, to the point he installed a camera at your work desk to check if you’re not texting any other guy—you were, but, he needs you all to himself.

Then came the night where everyone left the office and he asked you to stay back and do the work he assigned you, ensuring that you’ll get a bonus if you actually end up doing a good job. Little did you know that he’d come out when the office lights would go dim, just him and you in the building, and the handcuffs he had gotten just for you. 

He comes around, leaning against the back of your chair to look into the monitor, so close you could feel the scent of his cologne, his hand resting on your shoulder as he leans in further when he feels you shake under his gaze.

“So, who’s the guy you were texting earlier?” He asked, and you stilled completely, “you do know that it’s not allowed during work hours, right?” He whispered, grabbing your chin, “right?” 

You nodded as if in a trance.

“Y—yeah, I’m sorry,” he only chuckled at your reply. 

“You don’t need anyone when you have me,” he muttered darkly, not giving you a second before picking you up effortlessly as you screamed, taking you to his office room, “shh, don’t make it hard for the both of us, kitten. Be a sweet fucking girl for me, yeah?”

“What��” You asked, suddenly breathless at looking at the man with a sharp jawline, fangs peeking through his plush lips and eyes dark, sweet moles scattered across his face, and specs perched on his ever so perfect nose.  

He kicked the door shut behind him with the heel of his shoe, the loud click of the lock sounding like a final verdict, just making sure that you knew what you had gotten yourself into. You squirmed in his arms, but he didn’t even flinch, holding you against his chest like you weighed nothing, that he needed you. 

Sunghoon set you down gently on the plush leather couch in his office, fingers brushing against your thighs a little longer than necessary. His eyes roamed your body like he was trying to memorize every detail, every inch of you. 

“Good girls don’t lie, y’know?” He said, removing his blazer agonizingly slow, to the point you couldn’t help but stare at his physique, “and they don’t flirt with others when they know someone’s watching, yeah?”  

“I wasn’t flirting,” you whispered, legs pressing together instinctively, rubbing against each other. “Oh, yeah?” He cocked his head, unbuttoning his cuffs, “then why did I see you giggling at your phone like a fucking whore in heat?”

Your breath caught, heat rising to your cheeks at the blatant degradation, “that’s not fair—”

“What’s not fair,” he interrupted, his figure looming over you, “is how much I’ve done to keep you here. You think I didn’t notice the way you smiled at that guy from finance? The way you smile as if he means something to you?”

You tried to look away, but he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes back on him, his voice dropped an octave lower, almost like velvet but with a hint of poison. 

“I’ve been patient, kitten. So fucking patient, but tonight—tonight you’re going to learn who you belong to, okay?”

A glint of silver shining caught your eye—he had pulled the handcuffs from his drawer, dangling them by one finger with a smirk.

Your heart thudded violently in your ribcage, so fast that you feared it would break, “what? No! You can’t just—”

“I can,” he cut you off, “and I will. You can say no, kitten, I won’t stop you. But I don’t think you will. You want this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t speak, you couldn’t say no, your voice failing you, and he had you right where he needed you to be. Your body betraying you, every shiver, every tremble catching his eyes, and lord he thrived on it.

“You’re so scared, aren’t you?” He murmured, crouching down between your knees, his big, slender fingers gripping your thighs, “but—god baby, you’re so excited too, I can feel it. You’re already wet, aren’t you?”  

You hated how right he was, hated that your pulse raced when he touched you, the wrongness of the whole situation just made it worse.

Sunghoon leaned in, lips brushing your ear, “tell me to stop. One word, and I walk away.” He challenged. 

Followed by your silence, just the sound of your deep breaths filling up the room. You didn’t say it, you couldn’t. 

“Yeah? Good fucking girl.” His voice was thick, as if he had won already (he did), and before you could say say anything else, his hand tangled into your hair, rough, no more teasing—and he yanked your head back until your breath hitched and your lips parted with a soft, involuntary gasp.

“On your knees, now.”

It was a request, but an order, and he chuckled at how your legs buckled, your makeup smudged already, blouse clinging onto your damp skin. He wasn’t pretending to be your boss anymore, the evil glint in his eyes no longer hidden by any means. He was something else now, an obsessive, unrelenting man. 

“Don’t,” you breathed out, “Sunghoon, please. I—didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean to be a fucking tease?” He snapped, catching your wrist with a hand and shoving you back against the nearest wall, the frames on the wall rattling with the impact, “didn’t mean to smile at him? I have been the one taking care of you, kitten.”

“You’re fucking hurting me,” you snapped, voice trembling with fear but also fury. 

But Sunghoon only grinned like a maniac, “good,” he said, eyes flicking down to your wrists, where he held you firmly, bringing them to the back so he could handcuff  you hard enough to dig into your skin, “pain means you’re still pretending.”

Your body jerked, trying to push him off with your shoulder, but his reflexes were too fast, he shoved you back again, harder this time, your hands useless behind you. 

“Let me go, you’re so fucking sick,” you glared at him now. 

He leaned in close, nose brushing against yours, his breath hot, “you think I’m the sick one baby?” His fingers brushed between your thighs and right up your skirt, caressing your panties, “then why the fuck are you this wet?”

You let out a gasp, trying to move again but he held your waist to keep you in spot, the other hand now gripping your jaw so tight it ached. 

“You think I can’t see what you’re doing? Acting like a fucking brat now that you have my attention, huh? Pushing me back like you don’t want me,” his lips brushed your ear, voice almost a growl now, “but your body, yeah fuck, your body loves this so much, you need to be out in your place.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re dripping for me.”

He spun you around, forcing you to bend over his desk, cheek pressed against the cold wood. He shoved up your skirt as you tried to kick backwards, but he only chuckled, catching your ankle mid kick to spread your legs wider. 

“Keep fighting,” he murmured, dragging his fingers up your soaked panties, “it makes me want to ruin you more.”

You cried under him, chest pressed to the desk and fists clenching, “you’ll regret this,” you said. 

“No,” he whispered. 

You barely had time to process anything before Sunghoon’s hand tangled in your hair again, taking your head back and bending your body, his breath against your neck. 

“There’s no room for regret here, we’re just getting started, baby.” He moved with control, dragging two fingers against the soiled cloth, “still wet? How fucking cute.”

Then his palm landed on your ass harshly, once, then again, until you were gasping and thrashing around.

“That’s for flirting with the finance asshole,” he groaned, “then this, for not wearing that white blouse I love so much,” he mumbled, as if you had any clue about his favourites. 

Your legs almost gave out as you tried to get out of his hold but it was hopeless, you were cuffed, bent over, and now his palm was making your ass—and he was just getting started. You choked on a sob, the humiliation seeping through as he pulled your panties down with a rough pull, the cold air caressing your skin, his groan vibrating against your back. 

“Fuck, so filthy, your body isn’t even denying it anymore.”

He stepped back for a moment, and you breathed hard when you heard the sound of a belt unbuckling, slow. 

“Sunghoon—” your voice cracked. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, and you felt something hard smacking against your thigh—his belt. “You lost the right to talk when you whimpered for me the second I touched you.”

You sobbed again, moaning alongside with how wrong it felt to actually like something as twisted as this, you couldn’t even admit it out loud, you simply couldn’t. 

You jolted again, a cry escaping before you could stop it, your legs gave out, wrists still bound behind you, cheeks hot with a mix of fear, shame, and something far worse—arousal that you couldn’t explain to anyone, not even yourself.

Sunghoon stepped in front of you, keeping his belt on the desk, unzipping his slacks like he had all the time in the world.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. 

You shook your head slowly, “n—no,” you cried. 

That was a wrong move. 

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked hard—forcing your head back until you cried out, your neck exposed, your lips parted just from the force of his grip.

“You’re really testing me tonight,” he growled, stepping closer until the head of his cock pressed against your lips, “you wanna make this harder for yourself? Fine. You’ll choke on it.”

He didn’t wait, he shoved himself into your mouth with one hard thrust, the taste of him flooding your tongue as your gag reflex immediately kicked in. You choked, whimpering around him, but he held your head steady with both hands now, thrusting into your throat like he didn’t give a damn, pushing your head deeper with a low groan.

“That’s it,” he hissed, hips snapping forward, “take it, take it like a good fucking whore.”

Your eyes watered, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth as he used you without pause, his grip in your hair was bruising, keeping you exactly where he wanted you—his personal fuckhole, gagging on his cock in the same office where you’d tried to act professional just hours ago.

“This mouth doesn’t deserve to speak unless it’s wrapped around me,” he said, thrusting deep again. You gagged loud this time, trying to pull back, but he shoved you right back down.

“You hear that?” he growled, staring down at you, your lips red and stretched, your eyes wide and teary, “that’s the sound of you learning your place.”

He held himself there, cock resting deep in your throat while your body jerked, struggling for breath, your cuffed hands useless behind you. Just when your vision blurred from lack of air, he pulled out with a wet pop, strings of spit and pre cum connecting your swollen lips to his length.

You collapsed forward, coughing, drooling, body trembling—completely wrecked, but still wet, still breathing hard, and now looking up at him in a different light, and you gulped harshly in fear now that you knew you liked it, ashamed of yourself for thinking so. 

“Aw,” Sunghoon mocked you, “already broken, kitten. You’re my doll, aren’t you?” He asked, petting you like a dog.  

You didn’t even flinch at the touch, only looking at him as you took in deep breaths. He tilted his head, watching you with that same hungry intensity you’d seen behind his glasses in the office all along—only now, the mask was gone. He didn’t have to pretend anymore.

“You liked that,” he said quietly, almost in awe, like he was marveling at the mess he made, “and you’re still fucking dripping.”

“Please—”

“Shh, open,” he parted your lips with his thumb, going down to collect your wetness, and he pushed his soaked fingers into your mouth. You gagged, humiliated, as the taste coated your tongue with embarrassment. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek in twisted praise as you struggled, “see? I knew you’d learn for me, just for me, hm?”

He stood again, towering over you, then pulled your handcuffs—forcing your upper body upright. You cried out, the strain on your arms sharp, your blouse now torn and half hanging off your shoulder.

You didn’t respond, you couldn’t. Your lips were parted, chest heaving, eyes wide and dazed as he spun you around to face him. Still cuffed, still naked from the waist down, legs trembling.

He gripped your chin and forced your eyes up to his. “Say it,” he whispered. “Say you liked it.”

You shook your head weakly, shame crawling up your spine. “I—I didn’t—”

He scoffed, eyes darkening, “I said,” he muttered, “say. You. Liked. It.”

You tried to speak, but you couldn’t. You tried to turn away, but his grip on you tightened.

“I—I liked—”

“Look at your cunt,” he dragged two fingers back between your thighs and shoved them in without warning, “still wet and clenching. Still desperate. You’re not even pretending anymore.”

You cried and he only smiled, finally kissing your lips, tasting himself on your tongue, tasting the tears that stained your face, and swallowing your moans. Sunghoon found this romantic, as if it was all he had ever wanted. 

“Don’t cry now, kitten. You’re not sorry, you’re ashamed because you liked it. Because you wanted it, because you want more.”

“I hate you,” you whimpered, breath hitching as your thighs trembled again.

“Yeah? But I fucking love you,” he mumbled, sick and twisted as your body gave into him, moaning his name like a desperate slut. 

That’s when he pushed you against the desk, giving you no warning before thrusting into your leaking little hole. You screamed and he laughed. 

“Say my name, go on.”

“Sunghoon—fuck please—Sunghoon,” you moaned. 

“That’s it,” he hissed, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding into your hair, “my good, dumb little slut, all fucking mine, you’re mine, mine.”

He fucked you rough, it was deep, fast, and filthy. The mirror shook on the table shook and you cried out, drool slipping past your lips, every thrust breaking you down further.

“This is all you’re good for,” he growled, pounding into you so hard the glass fogged with your breath, “getting ruined by the man who fucking owns you, yeah?”

You came fast, embarrassingly fast, cunt clenching around him with no resistance, no fight, just pure ecstasy and embarrassment. 

But he didn’t stop.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hips snapping, “you’re so fucking perfect like this. Look at you—my favorite toy, crying and creaming all over my cock like you’re meant to do this, to be my fucking doll.”

He took your moans in, kissing you again, and again, till he couldn’t breathe anymore. 

“You were made for this.”

And then he filled you again, his hand on your jaw, forcing your face to the mirror, “Look at yourself,” he panted, cock twitching inside you, “look how pretty you are when you break, when you submit to me, when you let me breed that pretty cunt of yours.”

“Sunghoon—” you mumbled against his lips. 

“Yeah? You’ll look so good all swollen for me, for me, yeah?”

You nodded weakly, making him smile, “you’re fucking mine, do what I say now, hm?”

And you did exactly what he asked for—for you to be his.

Only his.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[bananastarlo]

I see you

childhood friend yandere x shy reader

You two are in the same daycare. He is the complete opposite of you — a loud, confident boy who charms both the adults and the other kids with the big grin he always enters the room with.

You, on the other hand, didn’t stick out too much. Always a bit more hesitant and shy around new people.

One of the things on the agenda today was a field trip.

Having arrived at the destination, the caretakers gave you instructions:

“Okay, little stars. Today is a wonderful day to play a game, don’t you agree?“

The others cheered in agreement.

“We hid clues that you’ll be able to find in this area! So get in pairs, if possible with someone new!“

As the childcare worker claps in her hands, the children scatter around, most of them sticking with their usual friend groups.

However, you stayed back. Nobody came up to you, and you were too anxious to approach the others, fidgeting with the sleeves of your shirt while focusing on the ground with your head low.

The caretaker took notice of your little form and exchanged worried glances with the other adults, slowly drawing near and crouching down to your level.

“Hey, have you found a partner yet?“

You shook your head no.

Reaching out her hand, she kindly offered to find a partner for you.

Yet, before you could take her hand, he appears in front of you — scraped knees, a backwards cap and messy hair — flashing you a boyish grin.

“Come on, let’s go together!“ he chirped, eyes glistening with fondness while yours lit up with happiness.

He took your hand and led you to where his friends were. They couldn’t understand why he refused their offer to pair up, until you showed up, shielded by his body.

As you both were hunting for clues, you felt yourself growing more and more relaxed in his presence.

He always protected you from slimy bugs and held your hand so that you wouldn’t get lost without him.

“You’re now my best friend.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question, because he wouldn’t accept you saying no.

And you smiled.

“I like that.”

And the smile you gave him was so genuine, he felt his own heart beating a little more than usual.

You spent the rest of your childhood years sticking to him like glue. You admired him and his presence.

One day, when you were older, you spent time at his house. It was basically yours as well, with how much time you spent there.

Lying next to each other, you faced away from him while he stared at your back, too scared to move.

At times, he could be quiet. He could be soft. But only you were allowed to see this side of him. Only you deserved it.

As he listened to your slow, rhythmic breathing, you turned around.

You weren’t expecting him to be so close — your noses almost touched.

And your stomach flipped at the sight of his half-opened eyes that now widened as much as your own.

He saw it — your pupils, dilated.

His heart began hammering against his ribcage, and he pressed his face into the mattress.

“What?“ you murmured softly.

“N-nothing! You just threw me off guard.”

His response made you chuckle. It was cute to see him without his usual confident tone.

As older teenagers, you both started to see each other differently.

Behind his golden-boy personality and sheepishly handsome face, there was something deeper, a protectiveness directed at you.

He saw you as a woman now. And you, well—

You planned a movie night. Just the two of you.

You’d both been so busy lately, you started to miss his annoying voice and the way he always made you feel right.

As the movie played, you became bored and decided to mess with him a little, just enough to get a reaction.

“Heeey,” you utter, laying your leg on his.

He grinned, showing the dimples you adored so much on him.

But as you started to snuggle up even more and chose to playfully ruffle his messy hair, he became serious.

His hand gently gripped your wrist halfway, and your smile dropped.

“Do you not realize what you’re doing to me? That’s not fair,” his voice croaked — low, with a dangerous hint.

You became nervous and replied, laughing the awkwardness off.

“What do you mean? I’m just playing with you.”

He sighed, propping himself up on top of you, which knocked the breath out of your lungs.

“I’m not the little boy anymore who took these things as innocent gestures. Please acknowledge me as a man. And if you were to do that with every man while being so oblivious… I would rather keep you locked up. Do you understand?”

You couldn’t deny the way that made you feel — more than it should.

[honeyatsu]

I can't have what I want (but neither can you) | Bob Reynolds

Bob Reynolds x F!Reader

Summary: You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.

Stand-alone. One-shot.

"'Cause I know we be so complicated But we be so smitten, it's crazy I can't have what I want, but neither can you"

Warnings: 18+MINORS DNI. Minor spoilers for Thunderbolts! Smut (my first time writing smut deserves a warning itself tbh)

Not proof read/edited. Maybe later. Idk. I hate editing.

a/n: I am so obsessed with this man...I just couldn't not write a fic. He has been rotting my brain since I saw Thunderbolts and I don't see my obsession ending soon lmao....also my first time fully writing smut. I tried.

ao3 | masterlist

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The sound of laughter echoes around the living space as both you and Bob are scrolling through the endless selection of movies, making fun of each-others movie preferences. The light from the city is reflecting through the window glass, it’s a beautiful night and the two of you wanted to spend it indoors while everyone else in the Tower tended to their own business.  

It’s one of those rare quiet and peaceful nights at the Towel. You decided why not take advantage of it, hauling Bob out of his room and inviting him to a movie night (a movie night that doesn’t involve unnecessary commentary or spoilers).

“We’ve gone through an entire collection of romcom’s…do you not watch anything else?” Bob teasess as he nudges your shoulder, a small grin spreading across his face. You roll your eyes, tossing the remote to his lap. 

“Okay, drama queen. You pick.” 

Bob chuckles, causing his knee to press lightly against yours. He’s warm – you notice with every light tough to the shoulder, whenever your bodies lightly brush against eachothers, he’s always warm. Being close to him is no different from wrapping your body with a freshly dried blanket. Months since the New York incident, your downtime has been spent with Bob. You found comfort in him, his quiet smile and haunted eyes enticing you. He was both gentle and strong, it was impressive. Bob was the only person who made this new life you’ve all been pushed into feel like a home. 

After what seemed like endless scrolling, Bob lands on Warm Bodies. “Zombie movie. I think this one’s a winner.” 

“God help us,” you groan. “This is still romance.”

“Sure, but it’s with zombies.” 

You hum in response, sinking your body further into the large couch and glance back at him. You offer him a shrug – accepting the film of the evening. 

The sound of the movie beginning echoes through the surround sound, and it’s all you're able to hear as the two of you focus on the screen in front of you. That is until the moment was interrupted by the elevator door’s ding. 

Heavy footsteps make their way towards the couch, not shying away from being the only loud thing in the room besides the TV. You turn your head as they approach, it’s Yelena. 

“Movie night?” she asks, a grin spread across her cheek. She’s in a grey sweatshirt, her blond hair is pulled back by a headband. 

You turn your head back, nodding in response. 

“Nice,” she makes her way to the other side of Bob, dropping her body next to his. “What are we watching?” 

“Something with zombies, y/n says they fall in love.” he replies, turning to her with a wide smile – his soft eyes gazing over at her, his half-laugh expression you try to believe is just for you. 

It’s uneasy, the feeling at the bottom of your stomach. It’s doing more flips than you do during a mission, your arms crossing quicker than you realize how you’re reacting. It’s completely illogical, there’s no reason for you to feel this bothered.

But you watch them, you see the way she nudges his arm, how he doesn’t pull back. With you, Bob seems almost hyper-aware of his proximity to you, but with Yelena, it’s almost as if physical boundaries don't exist. He is completely comfortable with her. You begin to watch him watching her, how his eyes follow her subtle movements, how captivated he stares at her as she laughs – confident and magnetic. Why did he never look at you like that? The thought sneaks its way to your head, you can feel your heart rate slowly begin to increase. Something is pulling tight in your chest.

You don’t understand it, but you sure as hell don’t like it. 

“I’m actually kind of tired,” you say quickly, standing up before you are able to finish your sentence. 

Bob diverts his attention towards you, “Already?”

You lower your head, nodding sheepishly. The walk to the elevator feels as if it’s a few miles away as opposed to a few feet, each step feeling as if you’re walking in slow motion. 

Behind you, you hear bodies shifting. 

“You sure?” Bob mildly shouts, his voice dripping in confusion. 

When you finally make it inside the elevator, you pretend not to hear him. The sound of your finger pressing the button rapidly becomes the loudest noise – the desperation to be anywhere but the common room being obvious. When the door finally closes, it’s quiet but your thoughts seem to be so loud. There’s a mix of emotions and ideas going through your head, but you're unsure how to make sense of any of it. 

As you push open your bedroom door – it feels heavier than usual. The shallow light of your lamp shining too bright, and your bed looking like the ultimate safe space. 

You’re not used to this feeling – it’s beyond foreign and it startles you. Not even the most dangerous mission can make your stomach churn the way it does when you see Bob watching Yelena. It’s been like this for weeks at this point, your breath becomes shallow when they share an inside joke together. Your heart races more than you’re used to when you see Yelena place her hand on his shoulders. There's a nauseating feeling that takes over when every moment with them, you feel like a third wheel to their friendship. They share a specific bond, and a friendship like there’s can’t be replicated. They’ve been through too much, know each other too well. 

It’s way more intimate than any kind of friendship you and Bob have. 

But you’ve known this. This isn’t new. Their friendship wasn’t some kind of secret, it’s been this way since you joined the New Avengers and it’s been this way since before you were recruited in.

But recently, you haven’t been fine. You try to convince yourself that you’ve been sick, but the feeling of unease only happens when you’re around them. 

You just don’t know why. 

You're settled in bed, it’s dark, and you want to be asleep. You’d do anything to be asleep. The weight of the blanket over you should be comforting, but it just makes you feel too aware. It’s fabric grazing over your skin, the rustle of the sheets whenever you shift in place. While your room is dark, the light from under the door can’t seem to escape your focus. The realization that the movie night you planned is now happening without you. 

You try telling yourself that this is ridiculous. Why did you leave? Exactly what was the problem? Bob and Yelena are close friends, but they’re also your friends. They’re your team and co-workers, you all live under the same roof now – so why was your brain doing this to you? 

A soft tap on your door pauses your thoughts, your name being softly said against the other side. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat, for a few seconds, you actually forget to breathe.

It’s Bob. 

He stops tapping your door before he says, “Can I come in?” 

You don’t respond, keeping your body still. You hope the lack of any sound, any proof that you’re awake would cause him to walk away. To leave you and your thoughts alone. 

“I’m coming in.” 

You make a small noise as you hear the door slowly creak open, quickly pulling the cover over your head. Your body is still as you hear footsteps slowly approach you. 

For a moment, you think of getting up. Explaining yourself and wanting to offer an apology, ending the movie night before it even really started. But you lay there, still and motionless, pretending to be asleep. 

It feels like there’s someone hovering over you, you hear the sound of shifting on the ground. You imagine Bob standing over you, fidgeting as he contemplates whether to wake you or let you rest. Luckily for you, he takes a step back, you hear his footsteps slowly begin to sound further away before he lightly shuts the door. 

A loud gast escapes you, from the breath you forgot you were holding. You kick your sheets off you, releasing the sticky hold it had on you due to your sweat.

You’re unsure what you got yourself into, or how you got there in the first place. You just want things to be as they were, you want to feel normal again.

You have got to do something about this. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You don’t mean to avoid him – that wasn’t the plan. 

At least not at first.

You just needed some space, some perspective, some time to breathe and allow yourself to be level headed. 

It was just easier to be all of those things without Bob. And without thinking about how he looks at Yelena, and without wondering if he’s ever looked at you that way (and to you, that’s wishful thinking). But, who cares. They’re friends. You’re friends. You’re all friends, there’s nothing wrong with that. 

And yet, the ache lingers. The feeling you got before sneaks its way into your body whenever you share your space with them. 

It was subtle at first – you skipping out on team meals. You’re not in the common room often anymore, you prefer to spend your evening locked up in your room or training by yourself in the training room. 

And it’s peaceful. 

There’s no aching feeling in your chest, there’s no butterflies flying freeling in your stomach, there’s no feeling of uncertainty or disappointment. You tell yourself, maybe you’re off being alone. Perhaps, you’re not someone who functions well in teams, you’re probably just naturally a lone wolf. 

And no one questions it, you hardley figure anyone even notices the fact that you’ve lightly pulled away. 

Well, at least most of them.

You can’t help but see the quiet looks Bob sneaks at you during meetings. You try to ignore the way his smile lighty drops when you answer him too quickly, or when you look too eager to leave. He stopped trying to sit next to you or stopping by your room when he’s bored. 

It hurt more than you thought it would. 

While you realize that this was the plan, this was your intention, you wanted space and you got it. But it still hurts. 

These days, the only thing that helps is being in your room or the Tower’s gym.

You decide today is one of those days. The world outside was too loud, just like in your head. You needed something to focus on, something to ground your body and allow your mind to be still. 

The Tower gym offered it all – empty, nothing louder than the echo of a weight dropping to the ground. It was the kind of noise you needed, it was the release your body was begging for. This was the place where you could move your way through the internal noise. You could sweat it out. Punch those intense feelings away. 

The current victim of your frustration was the punching bag, each strike against it vibrates up your arms like lightning. You finally felt like yourself again, the feral rhythm of your fists, the feeling of your strength, how accurate all your hits were. It reminded you of how accurate and sure of yourself you always used to be. 

You feel your sweat drip down your chest. Your hoodie was tied around your waist, your sports bra sticking onto you like a second layer of skin. It was incredible – you didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to think. 

You didn’t want to think of how you managed to fumble your forming friendships. Or about how even being forced into a team, you manage to isolate yourself from everyone. Not about how Bob looked at Yelena like she hung the stars herself. Not about how easy it is for him to welcome her into his embrace, or how unguarded he is around her. You didn’t want to think about how your chest had pulled so tightly at the sight, you felt like you could barely breathe. 

“Woah,” a voice called out from the entrance of the gym, loud and sharp enough to separate you from your focus. “I never want to be on your bad side.” 

You pause mid-swing, averting your gaze to the doorway. You find John Walker leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up and his arms crossed. He lets out a light whistle, a half smirk spread across his face. 

You wipe off your forehead with the back of your wrist, becoming too aware of your apperance.

“If you annoy me enough, you might become the new bag.” You say, and gratifyingly, Walker lets out a rare laugh. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks while stepping inside. 

You reply with a shrug, turning back towards the mats. “It’s a free gym.” 

He drops his bag and follows you, silently joining your workout. 

In no time, it led to the two of you on the sparring floor, bodies intertwined and slamming into each other. The first few minutes of the spar was silent, just heavy breathing and grunting surrounding the two of you. It was the kind of silence neither of you mind. 

“Who pissed you off?” and then, Walker spoke. 

You don’t reply, trying to force yourself out of his hold. 

“C’mon, y/n.” he hisses, nudging your knee with his, holding onto you. “Your going at it like this is personal.”

Twisting your body, you manage to escape his hold. You stumble in front of him, landing on your knees. You shoot him a glare, “This is how you make friends?” 

He flashes you a toothy grin, “I mean, it’s working. Isn’t it?” 

You roll your eyes, but a chuckle manages to escape your lips. Walker offers you his hand, helping you up from the ground. 

You stretch your body for a second, rolling your shoulders before responding back to him. “Let’s spar. Talking optional.” 

Walker takes a step back, raising his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering. “Optional? That’s a shame. You have such a nice voice.” 

You scoff at his antics as you stepp into stance. He follows suit, preparing for the first most. You begin to stab at him once, then twice, and he braces it well. His arms are strong and hands steady, not holding back. It wasn’t long before you started picking up the pace, the sound of shuffling feet and strikes drowned out any of the previous spiraling thoughts you had. 

Walker ducks one of your strikes and smirkes as you lightly stumble. “You sure you not training for a match with anyone specifically?” 

“If you keep talking, I might be.” 

His laugh is loud and smile is wide, “Feisty. I like it.”

You can’t help form a grin across your face, and before you know it, you let out a full body laugh. Breathless. Genuine. 

You dodge another playful jab and attempt to shove Walker backward. He managed to catch your wrist mid-shove, and twisted it softly. It messes with your momentum, causing you to stumble into his chest, letting out a quiet yelp. His hand settles at your waist, pulling your bodies closer together. 

“Woah,” he teased. “If you wanted to dance, all you had to do was ask.” 

“I’ll make sure to lead.” you winked at him, pushing him back playfully. 

“So you’re one of those.” 

The two of you laughed, and for a moment, it was nice. This was the first time in weeks you weren’t spending your free time alone. It was simple. Flirty. Harmless.

 It was fun. 

Until the door opened.

The sight makes your stomach drop for reasons unknown to you. 

It was Bob. 

He stood at the doorway, his broad shoulder tense, arms to his sides and fingers lightly fidgeting against one another. Even under the low gym light, he was golden. 

He stood there silently, not saying a word. His eyes were too busy locked on the scene in front of him. 

Your body is pressed against Walkers, his hand still hovering near your hip. Your cheeks are flushed, your in your sports bra, your smiling like before and laughing like Walker was God's gift to Earth. 

Bob’s face was unreadable. He was too still, too quiet. 

“Hey,” you managed to choke out, still a little out of breath. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Bob didn’t look at you, his eyes still laying on Walker's hand on your body. “Didn’t realize I was interupting.”

Walker shifts, hands still on you. He doesn’t notice your body tensing up or your breath becoming staggered. “We’re just messing around. You want in?” 

Bob’s eyes flicked to you, and for a second, you think you see his brown eyes quickly shift to gold. You can’t put into words the emotion going on behind his eyes, but it isn’t just irritation. 

“No,” Bob says flatly. “I’m good.” 

With that, he turns his body and walks out. 

“Uh…” Walker finally releases you, helping you find your balance as your bodies seperate from each other. “Did I miss something?” 

You shook your head slowly, trying to prevent your body from freezing or your mind becoming a frenzy. The gym that was once your safe space is now added to one of the places you are going to have to avoid. There’s a weight in your chest that is settling like concrete the longer you stand there. 

“I’m gonna shower.” You say softly before leaving to your last sanctuary: your room. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The halls of the Tower always manage to feel too long when you don’t want to be found. 

You try to take the short way to your room, quickly leaving the bathroom as soon as you finish your post-workout shower. You try to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of your hair, or the chill spreading through your body under your over-sized nightwear. The only thing you want more than anything is to be alone in your room. You want to shake off the unnerving weight pressing down on your ribs. You feel guilty without having a reason to be. You feel like you did something wrong. You tell yourself that you might just be flustered, Bob just happened to catch you off-guard in a compromising position. It could have been anyone, and you’d probably feel the same way. It didn’t mean anything. 

But then you remember his eyes. How he looked at you (even though he was trying not to). He didn’t just look irritated or disappointed. But something else. 

You managed to finally turn to the last corner – but then you were stopped short. 

He was there, leaning against the wall outside of your room. Your sanctuary. The place that was supposed to be safe. 

His arms are crossed, head down like he’d been waiting on your arrival for some time. His hair caught the soft glow of the overhead lights, casting warm shadows across his cheekbones. You can see his chest rise and fall at a steady pace, like he’s focusing on it. He looks so calm on the outside, but you knew him too well. 

His jaw was tight. His posture was tense. If you didn’t look close enough, you’d miss the slight frown forming from the corner of his lips. 

“Bob..” 

He looked up slowly at the sound of your voice. 

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but not soft as it was once before. It wasn’t gentle or warm. It was just quiet. 

You shift awkwardly, looking down at the droplets falling to the ground from the ends of your hair. You’re determined to look anywhere but at him. “Did you need something?”

“I think we need to talk.”

You sigh, slowly nodding your head. You slowly go past him, still not looking up. You unlock the door, stepping inside as Bob follows behind you, then closes the door behind him.

The lamp was the only light on in your roon, an amber gold hue shining a dim light around the two of you. You stand near the bed, holding your damp towels awkwardly. Bob stayed close to the door, like he didn’t have permission to come closer. 

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, the two of you sneaking glances at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

Then, Bob lets out a deep exhale. “Are you mad at me?”

The question hurt. Hitting you like a punch to the gut. 

“No..why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, his voice slowly growing sharper in frustration. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t –”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupts. “You ditched me on movie night, which was your idea. You stopped hanging out in the lounge. You sprint out of a room when I walk in. And then today…” his voice trails off, his jaw twitching before he begins to speak again. “Today I saw you. I saw you all over Walker.” 

You swallowed, the feeling of guilt crawling over your body again. “We were just training.” 

Bob nodded slowly, finally looking you in the eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Right. Just training.” 

“Bob…”

“I’m not mad,” he said between breaths, trying to calm himself. His voice is quiet again. “I just..I don’t understand what I did. If I even did anything. Did I bother you or something?”

Your throat tightens. Your fingers fidget against the towel in your hands, finding comfort in squeezing something. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” His voice cracks with something raw, something new. “Was I around you too much? Talk to you too often? Did I..make you uncomfortable? Whatever I did…I…I think you need to tell me.” 

“You didn’t,” You said quickly, trying to ease his mind. You toss the towels in a bean bag not too far from you. You slowly begin to take a step forward. “Bob, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you pulling away from me?”

Your mouth opens lightly, but nothing comes out. How can you explain a feeling you don’t understand? How could you explain what you’re going through without shattering the friendship you’ve built? How can you tell him I hate seeing you smile at her like that without sounding crazy? 

While being so deep in thought, you don’t notice how Bob was currently looking at you. Really looking. Like he was searching for answers from your face.

Your silence and worrisome look on your face broke something in him. It’s as if he was finally able to connect the dots that have been in front of him all along. 

“You’re…jealous?” He asks, both you and himself. “That’s what this is?”

You flinch – the word you’ve been avoiding like the plague finally making it to the surface. “I’m not–”

“You are,” he takes a step forward. “You’re jealous of…Yelena?”

Your heart pounds against your rib cage, your ears become hot and you feel your body tense. This isn’t what you wanted, this wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. 

“Why?” He asked. “Why does it bother you?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to say anything, but it spills out against your will. “Because – because I see how you look at her. How you smile at her. How comfortable you are with her. And I know you care about her. And I know I shouldn’t care, it’s stupid and petty, but I do care. I hate that I care because it really doesn’t make sense and –” 

Your voice broke, eyes widening as you just realized what you’ve said. You press your hands to your face, hoping to disappear. This was all too overwhelming, the adrenaline rushing too fast to know what to do with it. 

“I didn’t..I dont want to feel this way,” you whisper through your fingers. 

Bob was quiet for a second. A part of you hopes he’s so repulsed, so turned off that he just walks away and avoids you the same way you’ve been avoiding him. 

“What way?” He asks softly. 

You dropped your hands, heart in your throat. Your voice is working before your brain is, your thoughts and feelings finally being exposed to both you and Bob. 

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

You said it, quickly and softly. They were barely there, if Bob wasn’t listening carefully, it could’ve been missed. But as quiet as you were, it rang like thunder against the windowstill. 

You see Bob staring at you, stunned and speechless. 

You begin to rush to fill the silence, coming to terms with what you just confessed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. I thought it would just go away. I wanted it to go away, or at least for it to stop hurting. But then today, I saw you and you saw me, and God – I'm just so sorry. I dont want to ruin anything –”

“Stop,” he said quietly. 

You froze, afraid and relieved. It was finally out there. You finally admit to yourself what you’ve been going through, and now he knows too. But you were afraid that you would lose him, and that him not knowing would have been better.

Bob takes two steps forward, slowly as if he is waiting for you to tell him to stop. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. His eyes were shining, warmed and in awe at the sight of you flushed in front of him. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.” He says.

Then he kissed you. 

It was slow, as if he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s savoring this moment, wanting to remember how your mouth felt against his. 

You melt into him, hands clutching the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer. 

Your lips part with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” He whispers against you. “I didn’t think you felt the same.” 

You let out a shaky left, still gripping to his shirt. Slight tears cling to your lashes. “We’re both idiots.” 

“Maybe,” he whispered while pecking your forehead. “But we’re idiots together.” 

You kiss him again – this time deeper, more certain, more hungry. His arms wrap around you fully, pulling your body close to his. This time he was less hesitant, less shy. 

Your hands tangle in his hair as he gently backs you towards your bed. There is no rush in the way he touches you, only devotion. It’s as if he was memorizing every breath, every sound coming out of your mouth, every shiver. 

The back of your knee hit the mattress, and he pauses. Slowly parting his lips from yours.  

“You okay?” He murmured against your lips. 

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay.” 

He gives you his soft smile that beams across his face, it makes your chest ache. Oh, how’ve you missed him. 

His hands are careful as they slide under your shirt, fingers brushing up your sides, tracing your skin with feather-light touches. Goosebumps bloom across his skin, finally being able to feel you. He slowly peeled the shirt over your head, slow and unrushed, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“You’re perfect.” he said, his voice low and awed. 

You begin to tug at his shirt in response, “So are you.”

He chuckled at your playfulness, letting you pull his shirt off. 

You take a quick look at him, the way his hidden muscles flex at every movement, the definition across his chest. You can't help but have your hand trace along his chest, adoring evey inch of him. 

You look up to see him looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world he could see. 

You slowly lean back on the bed and he follows, settling over you gently. He braces himself on his forearms as he kisses you – slower, lazier, like he never wanted to let the moment end. 

Your legs tangle beneath him, his hands trace lines down your arms and outside of your thigh. You let out a soft gasp as his lips travel to the edge of your jaw, then the side of your throat, and the line of your collarbone. 

“Tell me when to stop..” he whispers between kisses.

“I won’t” you whisper. “I want this..I want you.”

His breath hitches at your response, his grip around you tightening. His hand trails down your body, before finding your most sensitive area. At first contact, your hips shift lightly, causing Bob to press down slightly firmer. He circles you – slow and soft, the pleasure causing your head to tip back. Bob begins to place kisses ontop of your exposed throat, wet and firm, like he was trying to leave a mark – like he wants to prove to everyone that you belong to him. 

His circles catch up to your moans. Every gasp and whisper results in him pressing harder, circling faster. 

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers into your ear. “You sound so perfect.” Your back arches at his soft praises, there’s a heat building up between your legs. He has you wrecked and he hasn’t even entered you yet, you’re a whimpering mess who is struggling to ask for more. 

Bob places a kiss back to your mouth, it’s sloppy and desperate. He’s moaning into you, your reaction to his touch is making him insane. It’s not enough – he wants you a wreck, he wants you to beg and plead, he wants you to want him the same way he’s been wanting you. 

His fingers dip lower, and he feels you. Soaked, warm, you're throbbing at his touch. It takes everything in him to not choke at the sensation, he focuses on your whimpering to keep him at ease. You arch deep into his fingers, thrusting into him for friction. 

“Oh my g-god…” you manage to breathe out. Bob hisses as your nails dig into his back, his fingers following the rhythm of your hips. Your moans slowly begin to get louder, your pace on his fingers increasing. 

“You can cum for me,” Bob whispers into your ear, as if he’s giving you permission to release. 

And you do, whimpering his name, your hips dropping to the mattress. He is still slowly pumping in and out of you, still pleasuring you as you come down from your high. 

You let out a disappointed sigh when his fingers leave you, but you’re quickly surprised when you see him put his fingers in his mouth – tasting you. He moans as he savours the taste of you, of what he’s done to you. 

He lowers his head, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close, slowly separating your thighs, thrusting up against him. You feel him, he’s hard and his tip is brushing up against you. 

“I want you…” you whisper against him.

“God…you drive me crazy.” he whimpers out.

After trailing soft kisses around you, he slowly begins to ease into you. The world around you shrunk – the only thing existing is breath, skin, and heat. 

It started off slow and tender, his movements careful as if this could end any moment. He begins to murmur your name like a prayer, rocking into you with patient rhythem. He was paying attention to every reaction you had, making sure to keep note of everything he did that felt good to you. 

“I’ve got you” he whispers into you, your moaning against him as his hands grip at your hips, pushing himself deeper inside you. He groans as he feels you gripping him, your slick causing the sound of your skins slapping to echo around the room. 

“You feel so good around me…you feel so good,” his cheeks are flushed. His thrusts begin to stutter, no longer feeling controlled like before. Bob is allowing himself to lose himself into you, gripping you harder and kisses sloppier. “I’m – oh, I-’m –”

You kiss his jaw, rocking your hips in return. The feeling of your clit rubbing against him and his fullness thrusting overwhelming you, causing your second orgasm to approach.  

“Me too…keep going…gonna cum for you,” you manage out, before you whine out multiple “fuck’s” as you cum around him. Feeling you finish while he was inside you was all it took for Bob to cum with a broken gasp, releasing all of him inside of you. He continues to pump into you slowly after you both cum, kissing you through the shuddering aftershocks. 

He gets off of you, plopping himself besides you. You curl into his arms, your bodies warm and hearts full. He presses a kiss at the top of your forehead, caressing your shoulder with the hand that's to your side. 

“I never want you to ignore me like that again, I won’t let you.” He confesses.

You hold onto him tighter, apologetically. “I won’t. I promise.”

And for the first time, the ache in your chest was gone. The endless months of doubts and feelings of uncertainty no longer existed. 

The only thing left was Bob, and finally feeling like you belong.

[rafesangelita]

♡ sheep!reader has a pregnancy scare

warnings: mentions of sickness and pregnancy, angst, brief flashback of rafe and reader having sex, breeding kink, arguing (?)

a/n: i couldn’t choose between breeding kink or pregnancy scare so i just incorporated both concepts.. and also! read more about ‘the other woman’ au here <3

you sat in deafening silence, your cheeks damp with tears as you waited for any sign of rafe to come to fruition. so desperately, you wanted the phone to ring, to hear his truck pull into your driveway, to see him walk through your door with that charming smile of his.. anything. you hadn’t spoken to rafe for going on a week already, your so called ‘lover’ leaving you to go through your new profound sickness all by yourself. it started with you feeling super fatigued, the exhaustion making you stay in bed til’ noon.

you had to force yourself to get out of bed and get ready in order to refrain from bed rotting, your daily ritual of doing your hair and makeup leaving you ready to take a nap despite just getting up mere hours ago. you couldn’t keep any food down, the fresh brownies you made for rafe going to waste as you couldn’t eat them and he just never showed up. other symptoms such as sensitivity to certain smells and dizzy spells also contributed to your woozy state. you sniffled, already having your suspicions as to what could be making you feel this way.. and to say you felt conflicted about it would be an understatement.

just three weeks ago, rafe had your legs on his shoulders, his teeth nipping marks into your skin as he fucked you into your floral bedsheets, his fingers intertwined with your own. round after round, you two got lost in each other while he whispered sweet nothings against your lips. “i can’t wait for you to carry my babies, ‘watch you get all round and pretty as you grow my seed..” rafe was purely saying his fantasy out loud. deep down he knew that everything he worked so hard for would be washed down the drain if you were to ever fall pregnant, and even though he knew this, he let you hear him say those ingenuine words knowing that being a mother one day meant the world to you.

he was sick and cruel for getting your hopes up, but when he was buried inside of you like this, the sight of your clueless, innocent eyes gazing up at him, he didn’t care. you were so easy to impress and manipulate because you didn’t truly know him. you didn’t know about his dark past or the skeletons he kept in his closet. his wife did, though, and that’s why he needed you. he filled you to the hilt and made you watch as he said you’d be the ‘best mommy ever’. in the moment, you were all for it, but now that you were practically barely able to take care of yourself— by yourself, you grew terrified at the prospect of having a child with someone who was as absent and inconsistent as rafe.

you were currently curled up in a ball on the couch, a knitted blanket covering you as you listened to the quiet hum of the air conditioner. you wondered if rafe ever thought about you while he was away, if he even missed you the way you missed him. just as your eyelids started to weigh heavy with sleep, you sat up against the soft cushions of the couch as rafe made his way inside. upon walking in, rafe knew something was up when he didn’t smell dinner looming in the air and he didn’t hear your record player going. you didn’t run up to him the way you usually did when he walked through the door either.

“sweetheart?” you blinked at the nickname, your shoulders falling in defeat as he emerged from the dark hallway. “what’s wrong?” immediately, he started rolling up the sleeves of his button down, his face etched with concern as he took a seat by your feet. rafe felt his heart drop when you didn’t even do so much as spare him a glance, your eyes instead fixed on the clock in the corner. “where have you been?” your voice came out small as you turned away from him, giving him your back. rafe always got ticked off when you asked him questions, especially when it involved his other life.

“you know i have to work..” he trailed off, his words making you blink at the lace trim curtains adorning your windows. “you always say that.” you shot back, shrugging off his hand once you felt the warmth of his touch on your shoulder. rafe didn’t know how to take this kind of rejection from you, considering you never denied his advances before. “what’s going on?” he leaned in close, “talk to me.” you felt yourself cracking already, your eyebrows pinching together as you started to cry. “i need to go to the pharmacy.” you sniffled, scooting away from him.

“what for?” he asked, confused. you stayed silent, debating on whether or not you should just drop the subject entirely. a few moments passed. “what for?” he repeated, his voice more firm than the first time he asked. swallowing thickly, you finally met his gaze. “i think i’m pregnant.” at your words, rafe stilled. it’s not like he could outright deny the possibility of that happening when neither of you took precautions. he especially knew that the chances of you being pregnant with someone else’s baby other than his own was nonexistent, considering he kept tabs on every single thing you did.

“why?” he sat back on the couch, his arms now at his side as you physically recoiled from the question. “i’ve been sick all week, rafe. if you would’ve been here, then you would know that.” you got up, already feeling the sharp prick of frustration as you made your way to your room. rafe groaned, his eyes screwing shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose. this was the last thing he needed right now. with heavy footsteps, rafe sighed when he saw you laying down with a wet patch adorning your pillow from crying. “you don’t care about me. you never did.” leaning against the doorframe, rafe scoffed.

“i don’t care about you?” he narrowed his gaze, “but yet i’m making sure you never have to work for anything? all the gifts i spoil you with, all the gestures i do for you? the way i fuck you, you really have the nerve to lay there comfortably and say that i don’t care—?” you snapped, your feet moving before you could think as you stood up. “you’re never here!” rafe was taken aback by the sound of you yelling, considering you had never even did so much as raise your voice at him before. “i don’t care about your gifts! i don’t care about your ‘gestures’! all i’ve ever asked you for was your time, and god forbid you barely do that.”

rounding the corner of your bed, you attempted to walk past him until he pulled you against his chest. “don’t you ever walk away from me like that,” he gripped your shoulders, “and let that little performance in the living room be the last time you turn your back on me.” his breath felt hot against your skin, his nostrils flaring slightly as you ultimately surrendered to him. “just get me a test.” you whispered, refusing to look at him until he was walking out of your house with clenched fists. you waited for him to come back with the pink box, your fingers nervously fiddling with your necklace as you paced back and forth in the doorway.

all you could think about was what was going to happen if you saw two lines staring back at you. you could tell by the way rafe reacted he wasn’t going to be be happy about it and that fact alone broke your heart in two. all you’ve ever wanted was a family, and rafe just had a way with making everything feel short lived and temporary— something a family wasn’t. rafe had forbidden you from going onto figure eight and for the life of you, you couldn’t understand why. little did you know he was like kook royalty on that side of the island.. his wife being the glue that made everything about his reputation stick together.

once rafe came back in, he looked uneasy, his exterior suddenly cold and distant as he handed you the plastic bag. without a word, you locked yourself in the bathroom, your chin already wobbling as you began breaking down. you hated that you loved him so much. quickly unboxing the test, your hands trembled through the process until you sat there waiting for your fated answer. feeling your stomach sink for what felt like the thousandth time this week, you felt a mix of relief, sadness, disappointment, and anger when the test only showed one line in the little margin.

leaving the test on the sink counter, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you washed your hands, making sure to get rid of any evidence that you were crying before opening the door. of course, rafe was standing there, his eyes looking slightly glassy as you two stood in front of each other silently. he looked like he was on the verge of breaking down himself. “don’t look so worried..” you spoke quietly, “you get to continue doing what you do best. you don’t have to worry about anyone but yourself.”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[jungwnies]

to lovers | kimi antonelli

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli ୨ৎ : synopsis : best friends to lovers, what else do i need to say.

୨ৎ : genre : fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 447

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

it started the way these things always do — with a look.

not a loud declaration. not a dramatic kiss in the rain. just… a look.

you’d known kimi since you were both teenagers, your lives forever intertwined through circuits, red-eye flights, and late-night karting sessions that turned into lifelong memories. he wasn’t one for big emotions or flowery words. but he looked at you like you were everything.

and you pretended not to notice.

the two of you were curled up in the quiet of his hotel room in barcelona, post-practice, post-pasta, post-everything. the air smelled like his cologne and the faint citrus of your body spray, mingling into something comfortably familiar.

you were scrolling through his phone, teasing him over his terrible camera roll.

“why do you have five pictures of a pigeon?”

“it looked funny,” he mumbled, face hidden under a pillow.

“and blurry,” you added, snorting. “god, you’re so bad at taking pictures—”

“yeah?” his voice was muffled but steady. “you’re in most of them.”

your heart stuttered.

he peeked out from under the pillow, eyes a little too open, a little too serious. “don’t look at me like that.”

you blinked. “like what?”

“like you don’t know what i’m talking about.”

the tension hung there — thin but heavy, buzzing in your ears like a radio tuned just off-station. you tried to laugh it off, but it came out nervous. “kimi…”

“i’m just saying,” he said softly, “you always ask why i don’t talk to girls or go on dates. it’s because no one else is you.”

silence.

“kimi,” you said again, this time quieter. “we’re best friends.”

his jaw clenched, just a little. “yeah. i know.”

you sat up slightly, trying to get your thoughts in order, but they were all crashing together in one stupid, messy wave of oh.

because now it made sense — the way he always stood a little too close when you were cold. the way he let you rant for hours even when he didn’t care about the topic. the way he always drove just a little slower when you were in the passenger seat.

you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing. “so what if i don’t want to be just your best friend?”

his eyes flicked to yours. “then i’d probably do this.”

and then he kissed you.

soft. steady. like he’d been holding it in for months and now that the door was open, there was no going back.

when he pulled away, his voice was low, almost shy. “don’t look at me like that either.”

you smiled, leaning in again. “like i’m in love with you?”

he exhaled. “exactly like that.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[papayadays]

ignore how this took me a few days to finish writing because of schoolwork and tennis 😭 also ignore how i have so many quotes but they're all so beautiful how was i supposed to choose

oh my god that was such a beautiful slowburn fic and i could taste the lines blurring. i read this while listening to merry go round of life and pas de deux andante maestoso from nutcracker and that made this so much raw and stunning

marriage of convenience + soft oscar is a lethal combination and everything told from his perspective?? magnificent

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

down bad oscar yes! he's already in love. also the second paragraph is beautifully written

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

yo oscar piastri can pull?? iconic line. oh to be fake dating oscar piastri and sharing ice cream. i would cheer if i ended up in an edit tbh

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good. 

i screamed. future wife hello?? if oscar said that to me, i'd melt. their chemistry is so cute to watch grow

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

i love their relationship so much. oscar is fighting for his life while grandma colette is grilling him. "the lighting is... judgmental" lmaoooo love the personification oscar is so uncomfortable

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

Σ>―(〃°ω°〃)♡→ be still my heart

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

chaos in a nutshell. for some reason, this just gives charles vibes from monaco 24. like, i can totally see them swan diving

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin. He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

the stages of falling are so well written here. like every detail is catalogued, it's sickeningly sweet

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

lmao very lando-coded, we might need a spin-off about this 👀

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

oh that's so beautifully sweet

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

protective oscar!! i cheered!

Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now.

screaming this line from the mountain tops btw. so so poetically stunning, i need this tattooed in my brain

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

just stab me in the back, why don't you? :((( the angst, the avoidance, the denial

He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

need a man to do this for me

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market. 

oh this is so oscar-coded. he def would learn all the small details about you and acts of service oscar my beloved

This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

my heart 🥺 the fact that he thought it while drunk yet the love is everlasting even as he's sober

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP RICHARD SIKEN??? that quote from war of the foxes always twists my heart and here?? it's devastatingly beautiful and it threw me off guard and words cannot convey how well this quote fits in and how much it made me feel

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

kae i'm sobbing at this how could you do this to be (affectionate) this was a gut punch and the tears just started flowing (i'm not crying you are)

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

poetry.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

I SCREAMED kicking my feet and cheering 🥹 no joke my heart fluttered the fact that it's at the harbor ASVJHSDF

He can wait.

ADFHGJHDS i was a mess by the end of this fic in the best way possible and just soft, lovestruck oscar hits me different because it's so gentle and beautiful and ethereal that ending literally was the best way to end this fic and i have infinitely positive things to say about this fic

anyways sorry for yapping for so long oops 😅 this is def one my all time faves now <33

most assuredly ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 15.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading). ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.

Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.

The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all. 

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring. 

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.” 

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision. 

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.” 

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly. 

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.” 

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.” 

“Do we?” 

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again. 

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically. 

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.” 

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out. 

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors. 

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad. 

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just—how about ‘my future wife.’”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them. 

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good. 

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement. 

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly. 

“Fair,” he says. 

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly. 

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully. 

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides. 

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I brought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle. 

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?” 

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?” 

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.” 

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.” 

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying,”  Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?” 

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience. 

“The very one,” he says. 

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing. 

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot. 

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.” 

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes. 

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call. 

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy. 

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs. 

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque. 

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait. 

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque. 

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.” 

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor. 

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.” 

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.” 

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips. 

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly. 

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.” 

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea. 

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it takes no effort to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging. 

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that. 

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you. 

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it. 

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway. 

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, “Yes, Madame.” He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?” 

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market. 

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?” 

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks. 

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold. 

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. Hits snooze like he’s defusing a bomb. 

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer. 

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor. 

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else. 

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes. 

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good. 

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake. 

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary,” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade. 

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again. 

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures. 

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know. 

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?” 

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing. 

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him. 

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out. 

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can. 

He can wait. ⛐

[monstersflashlight]

Patreon commission for KnottyWitch

Request: Werewolf x chubby reader with portals, free use, knotting, rut????

Depraved approach

Werewolf x chubby fem!reader || sex toy, sex portal, free use (kinda), breeding, knotting, feral sex/rut, overstimulation, squirting, (very light) dirty talk

You can hear the howls of your werewolf neighbor as the moon starts to rise.

You don’t know much about werewolves, but you know enough to know he must be entering his rut. A part of you wants to be the one helping him, you want it more than anything, because you’ve been crushing on him since the day he knocked on your door with a fresh batch of cookies and a wolfish smile (pun intended) that made your panties wet.

Since then, your crush has only gotten increasingly intense, to the point where you might even say that you were already a bit in love with him. That’s why you left a bag with a little present on his door this evening... A fleshlight.

An enchanted fleshlight.

Having a witch for a best friend has its perks, like getting her to enchant a fleshlight to make a pussy-portal, or at least that’s what she called it. It was supposed to be a sex toy for him to use… and hopefully you’d feel it while he did. The sex toy is to be felt by the receiver only if both parties had a mutual attraction, and you’re hoping you do.

Is it a very weird way to approach your crush? Yes.

Is it depraved? Absolutely.

Did you feel bad about it? Not at all.

If things went as you expected, in about an hour, you’ll have a werewolf dick pounding into your pussy, and if you’re extra lucky, you’d get his knot. Your knees are already shaky thinking about it. You get yourself ready, sipping a nice wine as you munch on your dinner, putting on soft music, just chilling around in your house.

But you shouldn’t have.

Because the second you feel something at the entrance of your pussy, you’re completely lost. He drives in with one hard thrust, his dick hitting so deep, so fast that you’re already about to lose it. You make your way to your room on unsteady legs and trembling knees as he keeps fucking into you. You try to reduce your moaning to a minimum as you get to your room, more than sure that he can hear you from downstairs.

By the time you’re on your bed and pulling your clothes off, your pussy is so wet your panties are ruined. He’s fucking you relentlessly, and you can barely move enough to get the rest of your underwear off before you feel the first telltale sign of a knot expanding at the entrance of your pussy.

You don’t think. You don’t process it. You can only scream his name at the top of your lungs as the fat knot presses against your G-spot and your fingers find your clit, rubbing furiously as you come around him. You hear the second he realizes the portal goes both ways, howling to the moon as you feel the first shot of his come hitting your cervix. Fuck, fuck, fuck… You knew that was going to happen, but the feeling of his come filling you up only sends you higher, shaking on the mattress as your orgasm rocks your body and your eyes roll back into your head.

You hear a howl louder than the rest, and your pussy squeezes against the knot inside of you once again as more juices come gushing out of you. Just like last time, you hear a roar at the same time as you scream, another orgasm hitting you completely by surprise. Maybe you pass out for a second, or two, or maybe for a couple of minutes, because when you come back to your senses, someone is pounding on your door and you aren’t sure you can get your legs to work to go see who it is.

“I know you’re home! Open this door so I can stuff your pretty cunt next and stop playing with a toy!” His voice is way too loud, there’s no way the rest of your neighbors didn’t hear what he just said, but fuck if you care.

“It’s open!” You cry back, your pussy squeezing around his knot once again.

But this time, you open your eyes in time to see him in front of you, the pink fleshlight held tight against his dick, still buried deep inside. He twists it around a little, and you let out an undignified cry of pleasure when the top of his knot presses against your G-spot. G

“You do not leave your door open again,” he growls.

The sound only makes your pussy squeeze again, he grunts, approaching you on the bed, his eyes blown wide and his fangs exposed. You shiver, rolling your hips to get more friction. He stops your movements with his claws on your hips, a threat, but one you aren’t going to listen to. You do it again and he moans, his teeth bared and his dick sending a new shot of come into your pussy. It’s starting to drip down, and he realizes the second it does.

He looks at your pussy, completely focused on his come dripping down. “Why are you dripping with come?”

“The fleshlight… Fuck. It’s enchanted. Good goddess… The fleslight... It’s a portal,” you struggle to say.

“Are you saying my come is IN YOU right now?” His tone gets higher at the end, and you nod, feeling too hot and bothered to form more words.

He clearly doesn’t care about your struggles, because next thing you know he’s pushing two fingers inside of you. The combination of his knot and his fingers is enough to send your body into another orgasm from the stretch.

But it doesn’t end there- he’s a werewolf in rut and you’re nothing but his toy right now. He starts finger fucking you as you continue to feel shot after shot of his come hitting deep inside. The feeling of his knot still buried in the fleshlight is pressing against your G-spot when he decides to press right there with his fingers as well.

You’d never felt anything like it, your whole body shakes with the force of it, and something inside of you breaks.

You lose consciousness of your body, of your mouth, of everything that’s not that point in your pussy and the way you’re gushing around his fingers, the way you’re… peeing? Fuck. You’re squirting all over him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your orgasm feels infinite as he keeps rutting against the toy and his fingers keep playing with your G-spot as if he’s playing a shooter game on his computer and pressing the left mouse button over and over. He does this until you’re crying and the pleasure is blinding. Even through the blinding pleasure, you’re still coming.

The bliss causes you to pass out again, which should have been expected by then.

You come back to him licking the tears away, and you can’t feel his knot inside of you anymore, but his fingers are still buried deep inside of you, making you moan. The sound alerts him of you being back in the land of the living, and he’s soon kissing your forehead.

“I couldn’t let my seed drip down,” he explains as if it’s the most logical thing, and you have no energy to argue. Apparently your body still has enough energy to clench around his fingers, though. “You like that? You like being stuffed full of come?” You shiver and he takes that as the ‘yes’ you were intending for it to be. His body moves over you on the mattress, and before you can process it, his dick is pressing against your opening: “Are you ready to feel it for real?”

He doesn’t wait for your response before he’s pushing his cock inside in one long and drawn out thrust. The feeling of him sliding into you causes your eyes to roll back while you moan and greedily push your hips up to get more of him.

You have to admit, your depraved ideas certainly have their perks sometimes.

[victoryai]

THE ASCENDANT IN ASTEROID BODA (1487) PERSONA CHART: The obvious vibe of your wedding 💒.

ARIES ASC: Your wedding will have a bold look to it. You will see to it that the decorations and arrangements are outstanding. Your outfit will be on point and the attention of everyone will be on "you"

Your wedding will be loud 📢 and fun. It's the type of wedding where alot of things are happening: someone is dancing, the other crying 😭, mood swings here and there. The energy level is high and there's no dulling. Everyone is up and active. With this ascendant I don't see you having a quiet wedding at all 🚫

And at the end of the day you'll feel tired (a good tired🥱).

TAURUS ASC: Your wedding will be expensive 🏦. You or spouse will likely spend a fortune for everything to look plush on this special day

I see alot of varieties 😋 of dishes. The atmosphere will be chill and comfortable and so will everyone else be. You will comfortable in your outfit and will be composed throughout the day. Why do I feel everyone's attention is gonna be on your cake 🎂😭( maybe the Taurus- food connection).

I don't see tension and doubt with this placement except other placements indicate it.

GEMINI ASC: You/spouse might have to travel for the wedding (most likely short distance journey). Alot of communication and multitasking is happening here. Maybe you have to call up the wedding planner a thousand times, keep up with your hair appointment, send invitation cards to a lot of folks, pick up some guests lol etc. There's a lot of running around, either way. At your wedding, there's alot of chit chat going on, guests communicating or rather gossiping 🧐, you're likely to be nervous because gemini is a jittery sign 😭. It might also be a double wedding ( maybe you get married with another couple or you have two different types of wedding) Or also, you both might get married on the phone or FaceTime 😭😭

CANCER ASC: You are likely to have your wedding at your house or hometown. On this special day, family is going to be very important,maybe you've invited all your relatives and close ones you could think of. Your parents will have strong opinions about this wedding or will be very supportive. The wedding atmosphere might be very emotional and cozy 😭 maybe your friends and family are crying their eyes out. It might even feel like a family gathering more than it feels like a wedding. It's likely to be a very private and small wedding 💒 but with a lot of different moods 😂😭😩🥲🥱🥰😒. At the end of the day, you'll feel something only you can tell deep down in your heart.

LEO ASC: Your wedding will feel like a literal party 🥳🎉. It will be so much fun and might even be a popular wedding. I see a lot of kids at your wedding or you might already be pregnant. It's a very shiny wedding indeed. All eyes will be on you and you will be the center of attraction. Might be really really creative , maybe you do something that's not normally done at other weddings such as a bridal choreography or a short drama. Also there's possibility of something dramatic happening on your wedding day,(which could be positive or a bit negative) just something dramatic.

VIRGO ASC: Your wedding is going to be very put together, very organized too and pretty much minimalistic in nature.

I would say it's a simple wedding conducted in the formal way, everything is in proportion and there's also great attention to detail and cleanliness is top . However, this ASC could also indicate conflict at the wedding venue if other placements show so.

LIBRA ASC: Your wedding is a typical wedding. Both the bride and groom are looking very beautiful and handsome respectively, especially you! you will be pretty attractive on this special day and the attention will be on you and your spouse!. Everything is likely to go super smooth with the support of other placements. It's just as a wedding should be, not too loud, not too quiet, just in between, in proper balance. Might have a court wedding too.

SCORPIO ASC: Your wedding is going to have a heavy aura to it . Its like thickness can be felt in the atmosphere. This can be positive or negative but however way the atmosphere might be tensed up, maybe everyone has been anticipating this day and they can't just believe it's here!😨. This wedding might be conducted in secret or a secret gets spilled on your wedding day. Apart from all these, you might receive quite a fortune or inheritance from someone as a gift or something.

SAGITTARIUS ASC: You/spouse might have to travel long distance because of the wedding. You're likely to get married abroad. Your wedding will be exotic in nature and rich in culture. Most guests will be foreigners or coming from far away places. I would say very bright and lively . 2nd scenario is that your wedding will be religious e.g at a church, mosque, temple and would have you performing all the religious rites. A destination wedding.

CAPRICORN ASC: Planning your wedding up to the very last minute is going to be with a bit of stress and responsibility. Either of you might have a good social standing, so this might be a popular wedding that everyone is interested in, in the media, on the papers etc. Guests might be public figures and venue will be chic and dapper.

AQUARIUS ASC: Your wedding will be absolutely unique, with a somewhat weird taste. This is not the kind of wedding you see everday. This is actually special. Maybe instead of a wedding gown, you wear something very different. Your wedding is likely to receive attention on social media. Technology and innovative ideas might be of good use to you on this special day.

PISCES ASC: Your wedding will probably be near a beach/water body . It might be done very quietly too(did you runaway to have this wedding 😭). It could have an ethereal look and feel to it. You could decide to create a fairy tale theme for it.

There's also a chance it could be conducted in a very spiritual way too and it's aura can be greatly felt. It feels fated 😭. I bet you'll never forget this day!

[lvrhoon]

just in case..!

a sunghoon x reader fic where he tries hiding his feelings (and ultimately fails lmaoa)

word count: idk..

genre: fluff - no suggestive themes

──────────୨ৎ──────────

the first time park sunghoon held your hand, it wasn’t romantic.

it was because you were sprinting down the hall after school, backpacks bouncing, sneakers skidding against the too-waxed floors as you tried to outrun detention. you’d both been caught sneaking out of gym to avoid running laps — sunghoon faked a stomach ache, you pretended to console him, and coach lee was definitely not buying it.

“left, left—!” you gasped, tugging his arm.

he turned too hard and slammed into the wall.

“i said left!” you hissed.

“that was my left!” he argued, breathless, cheeks flushed from running and laughing and maybe something else in between.

you ended up in the art wing, crouching behind a stack of forgotten canvases, trying to catch your breath and not laugh too loud.

and that’s when he grabbed your hand.

“just in case,” he whispered, eyes sparkling. “in case we have to run again.”

it wasn’t romantic. not then.

but you remembered the warmth of it. how his fingers fit so easily between yours. how he didn’t let go even after you were sure the coast was clear.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

you and sunghoon had been best friends since your first year. the kind of friendship built on shared earbuds, last-minute cramming, late-night calls just to “check what the homework was” (even though neither of you actually did it).

somewhere along the way, people started assuming you were a thing.

“are you and sunghoon dating?” someone asked during study hall once.

you didn’t even look up. “no.”

sunghoon, two seats down, looked up just long enough to say, “she’s not my type.”

you laughed. shrugged it off. but later, alone in your room, you thought about those words longer than you meant to.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

the second time sunghoon held your hand, it was on purpose.

you were in his room, lying on your backs on his bed, shoulder to shoulder, sharing one pair of earbuds. his playlist — quiet guitar riffs and warm vocals — played between you, and his fingers tapped along to the rhythm against the comforter.

you were talking about nothing. and everything. college. the future. how weird it would be to not see each other every day.

he said, “i think i’ll miss this.”

you turned to look at him. “what’s ‘this’?”

he didn’t answer. just reached over, slowly, and laced his fingers through yours.

he held your hand like it meant something.

like you meant something.

you didn’t pull away.

you didn’t ask if he still thought you weren’t his type.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

after that, sunghoon started acting weird.

still walked you to class. still teased you about your iced americano addiction. still sent you cursed tiktoks at 2am.

but he’d freeze when you brushed his arm. turn red when you looked at him too long. stare at your lips when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

you noticed. of course you did.

so you confronted him.

behind the gym, your usual hideout. you kicked at the gravel and said, “are you mad at me or something?”

his eyes widened. “what? no.”

“then why are you being weird?”

“i’m not weird.”

“you’re literally blushing.”

he looked away. mumbled, “i’m not.”

you crossed your arms. waited.

and then he said it. soft. like it was fragile.

“i think i might like you.”

you blinked, brain short circuiting. “oh.”

“like... more than just friends,” he added, and held his breath waiting for you to say something, anything.

you stepped closer. reached for his hand. linked your fingers, not saying anything.

and strangely, that was enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

after that, things didn’t exactly change. but they did.

sunghoon still made fun of you for crying at movies. still showed up to your house unannounced, usually with snacks. still had bad handwriting and a tendency to fall asleep in class.

but he also kissed your forehead when you got nervous before a test. held your hand under the lunch table. walked you home with his pinky linked to yours, grinning like an idiot every time.

and you? you let him.

because the truth is, you’d probably liked him since the first time he tripped into that wall and took your hand like it was instinct.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[berniceinthehouse]

can you do baku x fem reader but sunshine x sunshine where they act the same and r down bad for each other? (inluvvvv w ur writing )

Sunshine X Sunshine

Pairing: Baku x F!Reader

Genre: Fluff 🎀

Warnings: Cringe-level PDA, delulu behavior, sickening affection

Summary: You and Baku are both loud, clingy, and utterly obsessed with each other. Everyone else hates it. You don’t care.

“Tell me I’m pretty,” you said, flopping onto Baku’s lap like gravity no longer applied to you.

He barely blinked. “You’re the hottest person alive.”

“Louder.”

“You’re the hottest person alive and I’d let you ruin my life,” he said, completely deadpan, arm already around your waist.

You beamed. “That’s my man.”

Gotak, across the room, sighed. “You guys exhaust me.”

“Don’t be mad we’re in love,” Baku replied, kissing the top of your head with no shame.

You tilted your head up dramatically. “Baku?”

“Yeah?”

“If we ever break up—”

“—I’ll just follow you around like a pathetic loser and beg for crumbs of attention.”

You gasped. “You’d be so hot doing that.”

“I know.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was like that every day.

If you weren’t holding hands, you were linking pinkies. If you weren’t sitting in his lap, you were laying across him like a weighted blanket. You had a playlist titled “songs that make me wanna kiss Baku until I die.” He had one called “if she left me I’d cry on a basketball court.”

You once tripped and scraped your knee and he deadass picked you up bridal style and said, “She’s dying. I need a medic. She’s too pretty to bleed.”

You laughed the whole way to the nurse’s office.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You were that couple. The ones that took couple selfies in ugly lighting. That shared one headphone on the bus and made dramatic eye contact. That sent “I miss you” texts while sitting next to each other.

And if anyone asked why?

You just shrugged and said “Because we’re in love. Duh.”

And Baku—resting his chin on your shoulder—just grinned and whispered.

“I love you, beautiful.”

A/N: thanks for liking my writing!! I really enjoyed writing this request lol

[eternalguk]

Pink Hearts & Black Clouds || jjk. — 02

Love me at my lowest, I’ll love you when you’re barely holding on

↠ Pairing : Jungkook x Reader

↠ Summary : Jeon Jungkook is the epitome of a brooding grunge. Moody, distant, and always a little too sarcastic. A grumpy, tattooed college student who barely tolerates anyone… except you. Somehow, the girl who’s a whirlwind of pink hearts and strawberry lipgloss is the one who keeps dear Jungkook on his toes.

But you must admit… behind that gruff exterior, there’s a side of him only you get to see—gentle, caring, and ready to spoil you in his own way. Everyone else may see him as the tough guy with a permanent scowl, but you know better. Jungkook’s heart? It’s all yours.

↠ Genre : established relationship au, college au, grunge!bf x bimbo!gf, angst, fluff & smut

↠ Word count : 7K

↠ Warnings : swearing, explicit sexual content, riding, oral (f receiving), breast play, intense makeout, multiple orgasms, pet names, dom!guk x sub!reader, praise kink, both of them have a very filthy mouth …

↠ A/n : Hi there ; here is chapter 2! It’s been so long so I both thank you for your patience and apologise for the delay. Chapter 2 takes more of a fun ride and gives you the perfect insight to how chaotic life is for our doll and Bakugo~ There is a scene that is inspired by the voting scene from Gossip Girl. I just felt that it really worked for the two of them :) Your feedback / comments are always appreciated. Thank you for giving my story a chance & happy reading 🦢.

↠ Song : ‘Closer’ by Jungkook / ‘Good for you’ by Selena G

❧ Chapter 02 : lace & chains

prev. || next  || masterlist

Three days before voting day

You burst into Jungkook’s apartment like a whirlwind, carrying an armful of colourful flyers that threaten to spill onto the floor. Your oversized tote bag clinks as you toss it onto his couch, the sound of perfume samples and random trinkets filling the silence.

Jungkook, seated cross-legged on the couch in his usual black hoodie and shorts, barely glances up from his phone. His dark hair falls messily over his eyes, and his lip ring catches the dim light as he scrolls through his FYP on TikTok.

“I’ve decided,” you announce dramatically, your voice ringing through his apartment. “I’m running for president.”

The statement hangs in the air like a firework that hasn’t yet exploded. Jungkook’s eyes rise slowly from his magazine, his brow arching in disbelief.

“President of what?” he deadpans, leaning back into the cushions.

“Student president!” you exclaim, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You drop your flyers onto the coffee table with a flourish, scattering glitter and pastel-colored paper everywhere.

“Ms. Choi mentioned it today? Were you not listening?” You roll your eyes, taking off your cream bowknot coat.

Jungkook picks up one of the flyers, his tattooed fingers smudging the edge as he squints at it. The text is scrawled in a glittery font so loud it’s practically yelling: Vote for Me, Because I’m Cute! Beneath it is a selfie of you holding a puppy, your face framed by glitter stickers and cartoon hearts.

Whose puppy is that?

“These look like ads for a bake sale,” he says flatly, turning the flyer sideways like it might reveal a hidden agenda.

“They’re campaign flyers,” you correct, hands on your hips.

He gives you a pointed look, holding the flyer up. “It says, ‘Vote for me because I’m cute and I’ll listen to your problems.’”

“Exactly!” you chirp, sitting beside him and crossing your legs. “Who wouldn’t want a cute president?”

Jungkook stares at you, his expression unreadable. “So, you’re running to lead the entire cohort because you’re… cute?”

“And I’m kind,” you add, smiling sweetly.

Jungkook exhales, setting the flyer down like it’s too much for him to process. “You do realise this isn’t just a popularity contest, right? There’s actual work involved.”

“I know that,” you reply with a wave of your hand. “That’s why I have a plan. And guess what? You’re gonna be my campaign manager!”

His laugh is instant and sharp, the kind that makes your pout deepen. “Yeah, no. There’s no way I’m getting involved in this mess.”

“Why not?” you whine, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Because,” he says, shaking his head, “this is doomed from the start. And when it crashes and burns, I don’t want my name attached to it.”

You gasp dramatically, playing with your pearl necklace like he’s insulted your very soul. “I can’t believe you! You’re supposed to support me, not tear me down!”

“I’m trying to save you from yourself,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

But your determination is unshakable. “You’ll see, Koo. I’m going to win, and when I do, you’ll regret not being by my side from the start.”

“You genuinely serious about this?”

“I am! I already told Taehyung and Jimin, and they’re helping me with posters tomorrow!”

That makes him pause. “Taehyung and Jimin?”

“Yes.”

“They’re helping you run for student president?”

“Of course!”

“I regret making you all meet.” Jungkook gulps, rubbing his hands over his face. “This is just going to be a complete train wreck.”

“No, it’s not!” you argue, stomping your foot for emphasis. “I’m going to win, and then you’ll see. Everyone will love me as their president!”

“They already love you,” he says, exasperated.

“Exactly!” You beam, missing the sarcasm in his tone. “So you’re on board?”

He groans, now running his hand through his hair. “Fine. But only so I can stop you from embarrassing yourself too much.”

“Yay!” You jump onto the couch and throw your arms around him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, though his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Now come here.”

Two days before voting day

The next day, Jungkook regrets everything.

You’re standing in the middle of campus with Taehyung and Jimin, holding up your new-and-improved campaign posters.

Well, “improved” is a stretch - Jungkook still thinks they look like ads for a daycare. Or was it a bake sale?

He stands stiffly in the middle of campus, hands stuffed into his black cargo pants as you, Taehyung, and Jimin flit around him like chaotic birds.

Taehyung is holding a stack of your revamped posters, and Jimin’s busy tying pink ribbons to the railings of the quad. And you? You’re smiling as though you’re the happiest person in the universe right now.

“Vote for Y/N: She’s cute, and she loves puppies!” Jimin reads aloud, snickering. “This is gold!”

“I do love puppies,” you say proudly, twirling a strand of hair.

Jungkook groans. “This is embarrassing.”

“Don’t be so grumpy, Koo,” Taehyung teases, snapping a picture of you holding up a sign. “You’re dating the future president. Show some pride.”

“Pride,” Jungkook repeats flatly, eyeing the glitter stuck to his hand. “Right.”

You tug on his arm, your lace-trimmed beige cardigan brushing against his tattooed sleeve. “Stop sulking and hand out some flyers!”

He doesn’t move. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me,” you say with a wink.

Jungkook groans but walks over anyway, taking a stack of flyers from your hands. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Believe it, Daddy,” Taehyung teases, earning a glare from Jungkook.

“Shut up.”

Taehyung just laughs, holding up his phone to take more pictures of you posing with your flyers.

“Make sure you get my good side!” you call out, striking a pose.

“They’re all your good side,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, though no one hears him.

“Okay, next we need to practice my speech,” you say, clapping your hands together.

“Speech?” Jungkook repeats, already dreading it.

“Yeah, for the debate,” you explain, but not without sending a glare Jungkook’s way.

Obviously there was going to be a speech!

Jimin’s eyes light up. “Oh, now this I’ve gotta see.”

That Same Evening

Later that evening, you’re sprawled out on Jungkook’s couch, surrounded by ribbons and glitter glue as you design yet another poster.

Your lace-trimmed socks dangle off the edge of the couch, while Jungkook sits on the floor, leaning against the coffee table with his laptop. His silver chain necklace gleams under the dim light, a sharp contrast to the pastel chaos surrounding him.

Jungkook is drained.

You, on the other hand, are still buzzing with excitement as you recap your “successful” campaign efforts on the walk home.

“Everyone was so nice!” you gush. “They all said they’d vote for me!”

“Mhm,” Jungkook says, not pointing out that most of those people were just being polite. And because they wanted a homemade brownie…

“And did you see how cute that dog was? I can’t believe I got to pet it!”

“That��s what you’re focusing on?”

“Obviously. Oh, and Jimin said he’d help me edit my speech later tonight!”

Jungkook groans. “Why do I feel like this is going to end in disaster?”

“It won’t,” you insist, grabbing his arm and flashing him a confident smile. “You’ll see, Koo. I’m going to be the best president ever!”

Jungkook sighs. He really doesn’t have the heart to tell you otherwise.

“Why do you want to do this, Doll?” he asks, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses.

“Because it’s fun, Bakugo” you reply, your voice muffled by the pen cap you’re holding in your mouth. “And because I’m going to win.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. Your confidence deserved to be applauded.

You lean over, poking his cheek with a glittery finger. “You love it.”

He catches your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, and pulls your hand away. “I do love you. This? Not so much.”

Your eyes soften at his words, the teasing grin fading into something quieter. “You really do, don’t you?”

Just a few months ago, you couldn’t have imagined Jungkook looking you in the eyes and saying “I love you” with such steady, unshakable certainty.

He sighs, setting his laptop aside to look at you properly. “Yeah, I do. Even when you’re driving me insane with this campaign nonsense.”

You grin, leaning closer until your nose almost brushes his. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re the best campaign manager ever.”

“I’m not your campaign manager,” he grumbles, but his lips twitch into a smile when you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“You are! We need a team name,” you chirp, gazing off as you try and think of something. “Doll and Bakugo!”

The lace of your cardigan brushes against Jungkook’s heavy chain as you pull back, and for a moment, everything feels like it fits - your softness, his edge, the chaos you bring into his carefully ordered life.

“Lace and chains,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head, not exactly catching what Jungkook had said.

“Nothing.”

But the way he looks at you, with a mixture of exasperation and affection, says everything he can’t.

Voting Day Eve

The campus is filled with students, curiously walking around the hall examining the posters of all the class president candidates. Your station is right at the end, hard to miss due to all the pink.

You’re holding the poster in both hands, eyes wide with determination as you stand in front of Jungkook. “I can’t believe I’m actually running for president!”

Days later, the statement still hangs in the air like an uninvited guest. Jungkook stares at you, unblinking, while Taehyung and Jimin - because, of course, they’re here - exchange looks before bursting into laughter.

No one could believe this was actually happening.

“President? Of what?” Jungkook sarcastically asks, deadpan, voice full of that grunge skepticism that could level buildings.

“Of the whole class, obviously!” you announce, puffing out your chest like you’ve already won. “I’ve even got a - what’s it called - a manifesto!”

Taehyung’s practically chokes on his laughter. “You don’t even know what a manifesto is.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes Tae, I do! It’s, like, when you tell everyone what snacks you’ll bring to meetings and stuff.”

Jimin’s doubled over now, wheezing. “Snacks?!”

Jungkook’s still standing there, arms crossed, watching you like you’re an alien that just crash-landed in his life. “I still don’t get why you’re-. You can barely-” He stops himself, probably realising that anything he says will sound meaner than it’s meant to be.

“I can barely what?” You narrow your eyes at him, ready for a fight.

Jungkook sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can barely decide what to eat for breakfast without flipping a coin.”

“That’s called strategy,” you argue, pointing at him with your infamous glittery pink gel pen. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t benefit from me being in charge. I’d be the people’s president. Free parking for everyone!”

Taehyung raises his hand like a student in class. “There’s no paid parking on campus.”

“Then I’ll invent it! And then make it free again!” you declare triumphantly.

Jungkook groans, running a hand through his messy hair. “You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.”

But your enthusiasm is unwavering. “Just you wait! I’m going to get elected and change this school forever.”

“What’s your slogan?” Jimin asks, still snickering.

You hold up your poster proudly. On it, in hot pink marker surrounded by glitter stickers, is your face in an unevenly drawn heart. Below it, the words: ‘She’s cute, so vote for her!’

Jungkook stares at the poster for a long moment, then looks back at you. “This is a joke, right?”

“It’s not a joke! Cute presidents are more approachable,” you explain, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And what happens if you don’t win?” Taehyung teases.

You gasp, horrified. “I have to win. I’ve already planned my victory speech.”

“Let me guess,” Jungkook says flatly. “It’s just you saying, ‘Thank you for voting for me because I’m cute.’”

You blink at him, offended. “You think I’d be that shallow?”

“Yes,” all three of them say in unison.

You ignore them, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “Whatever. When I win, you’ll all be begging me for favours.”

“I can’t wait to see how this turns out,” Taehyung mutters, already texting someone.

Jungkook grabs the glitter-covered poster from your hands, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably presidential,” you correct, snatching it back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a campaign to run.”

Jungkook watches as you march off, shoulders square, your sparkly pen tucked behind your ear like a weapon. He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I can’t believe I’m dating this lunatic.”

“Hey,” Jimin says, leaning closer. “Admit it. You’d vote for her.”

Jungkook scoffs. “I’ve never voted for anyone. A day like that is a day off for me.”

However, later that afternoon, when you’re texting him about poster designs and debate outfits, he replies:

‘You’re an idiot.’

But when he sees your reply - selfie of you holding a new poster that reads ‘Vote for me because my boyfriend’s hot!’ - he can’t help but laugh.

Okay, maybe voting wouldn’t hurt after all.

That Same Evening

You’re walking through the campus courtyard with Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin, your campaign flyers clutched in your hands. The sun has started to dip, and you’re all finally heading home after another long day of plastering your posters everywhere you could think of.

Nearby, a group of students sits in a semi-circle on the grass, casually chatting. At first, you’re too busy laughing at something Jimin said to pay attention, but their conversation drifts over, loud enough for all of you to hear.

“As cute and nice as Y/N is,” one of the students says, their tone hesitant, “I just feel like we need someone serious for student president. Someone who’ll actually get things done.”

Hearing your name, you slow your steps, glancing over curiously.

Another student chimes in, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, she’s sweet and all, but this isn’t just a popularity contest, right? We need someone with a real plan.”

Around them, a couple of others murmur their agreement.

Before you can fully process what’s being said, Jimin throws his arm around your shoulders, tugging you close with a grin. “Y/N! You know what we need to do? Get you a campaign mascot. Like a dog! Or a tiger. You’d look great standing next to a tiger. So fierce!”

You blink up at him, momentarily distracted. “A tiger? Where am I supposed to get a tiger, Jimin?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got connections,” he says, waving his hand dramatically. “Just trust me.”

While you’re occupied with Jimin’s theatrics, Taehyung leans closer to Jungkook, lowering his voice. “You heard that, right? I’ve been hearing stuff like that all day. A lot of people aren’t planning to vote for her. She’ll be crushed.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens as he glances back at the group of students. For a moment, his expression is unreadable. Then he lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Honestly, it might be for the best.”

Taehyung looks at him sharply. “What?”

“She doesn’t realise how much work this is going to be,” Jungkook says, his tone steady, almost detached. “She’s always in her own little world. I don’t think she understands what she’s getting into.”

Taehyung frowns but doesn’t argue. He knows Jungkook too well to push when he’s in one of his gruff moods. “Maybe,” he mutters, glancing back at you.

And there you are, smiling up at Jimin as he spins some absurd story about how he once met someone who owned a pet tiger. Your laughter rings out, light and carefree, completely oblivious to the conversation happening just feet away.

Jungkook’s gaze lingers on you for a moment too long. The corners of his mouth twitch, and something flickers in his eyes - an idea taking shape.

“Actually,” he begins, tone softening ever so slightly, “wait, never mind.”

Taehyung tilts his head, studying him. “You say somet, bro?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He’s already turning away, hands shoved into his pockets, a hint of determination in his stride.

Voting Day

The auditorium buzzes with anticipation as the student body crowds into the seats, the chatter growing louder with every passing second. You’re seated near the front, sandwiched between Jimin and Taehyung, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. Jungkook sits at the end of the row, his arms crossed as he leans back in his seat, his usual stoic expression betraying nothing.

The student council advisor steps up to the podium, clearing her throat as the microphone squeals. The noise quiets instantly, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation.

“Thank you all for joining us,” she begins, scanning the room. “After a record-breaking number of votes this year, it’s time to announce your new student president.”

You suck in a sharp breath, clutching Jimin’s arm in a death grip. “Oh my God, oh my God,” you whisper, your voice high-pitched and shaky.

“You’ve got this,” Jimin whispers back, patting your hand reassuringly. Taehyung gives you a thumbs-up, though his grin is teasing.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming against his armrest.

The advisor opens an envelope, the sound of ripping paper echoing through the silent room. “And the winner, with a significant margin, is…” She pauses, glancing at the paper before smiling broadly. “Y/L/N Y/N!”

For a moment, the words don’t register. The room erupts into applause, some laughter, and you sit frozen, your mouth slightly open as your brain scrambles to catch up.

“Wait… what?” you squeak, turning to Jimin.

“You won, dummy!” Jimin yells over the cheers, shaking your shoulders excitedly.

“I… I won?” you repeat, still stunned.

Taehyung laughs, shoving you out of your seat. “Go! Get up there before they think you passed out!”

Your legs feel like jelly as you make your way to the stage, your heart pounding in your chest. The applause grows louder, and you spot a few familiar faces cheering for you from the crowd.

The cheers from the crowd fill the air, and the stage is lit with bright light. You stand confidently beaming as you clap along with everyone else, your heart racing in disbelief. Flowers are handed to you by random students, and your smile could light up the entire quad.

This is it - the moment you’ve worked so hard for - even though you didn’t expect it to actually happen. But now, standing on the stage in front of all your classmates, your heart is a mix of excitement and pure shock. You don’t know how it happened, but here you are. You’ve won.

The advisor hands you the microphone, her smile encouraging. You glance out at the sea of faces, your eyes wide and slightly panicked.

“Erm… hi?” you say nervously, your voice echoing through the room.

The crowd laughs, and you relax slightly, your trademark grin breaking through. “I honestly don’t know what to say. I didn’t think I’d win - like, at all. But, um, thank you? Thank you so much for believing in me. I promise to make this the most fun year ever!”

More cheers erupt, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound bright and genuine. You feel like you’re on top of the world.

From his seat, Jungkook watches you, his expression softening as you beam at the crowd. Taehyung leans closer to him, nudging him with his elbow.

“You didn’t think she’d pull it off, huh?”

Jungkook smirks faintly, his gaze never leaving you. “Guess I underestimated her.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, but before he can respond, Jimin pipes up from Jungkook’s other side. “You’re proud of her, aren’t you?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but the hint of a smile remains. “Shut up.”

On stage, you clutch the microphone tightly, your confidence growing with every second. “And to everyone who didn’t think I could do this - haha! Joke’s on you!”

The crowd laughs and claps, your infectious energy impossible to resist. As you step back from the podium, your eyes scan the audience until they land on Jungkook.

He’s sitting back, his expression calm but his eyes warm, the faintest tilt of his head acknowledging you. And for a brief moment, everything else fades away.

You grin at him, your heart swelling with joy.

As you wave to the crowd and enjoy the praise, you feel like the luckiest person on earth. You’re so focused on taking it all in that you don’t even notice Jungkook leaving his seat to stand off to the side, leaning against a pillar and watching you from a distance, arms crossed.

Jimin and Taehyung join him, but are engaged in their own conversation as Jungkook busies himself with his phone.

Taehyung leans over to Jimin, grinning like the little troublemaker he is. “Dude, I don’t get it. How the hell did she win? I thought she was just being her usual bubbly self, handing out flyers and acting cute… But look at her now.”

Jimin laughs, nodding. “Yeah, man, what’s up with that? I mean, she’s sweet, and all, but… I didn’t think people would actually vote for her.”

The two of them glance over at Jungkook, who’s still standing quietly, his face unreadable. Taehyung smirks, nudging him lightly. “What do you think, Kook? How did she even win? Who’s voting for her, really?”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, not bothering to look at them, but there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stands there, arms crossed, silently watching you, who’s now trying to juggle the flowers while still looking out at the crowd with that infectious grin of yours.

Jimin tilts his head, eyeing him suspiciously. “Come on, Jungkook. You know you have some sort of opinion. Tell us, who voted for her?”

Taehyung adds, “We can’t be the only ones. Did she really have this big of a following?”

Jungkook finally speaks, his voice calm, as he looks at Taehyung and Jimin, not making any effort to hide the slight amusement in his eyes. “Me,” he says, his gaze still fixed on you, who’s now blowing kisses to the crowd.

Jimin blinks, confused. “Well duh, but what was that going to do?”

Taehyung on the other hand scoffs, failing to believe Jungkook actually voted. “Bro, did you seriously vote? That’s a first.”

Jungkook glances at him, his lips curling into a small but knowing smile. “Yeah, about 120 times.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Jimin and Taehyung exchange wide-eyed looks.

“Wait,” Taehyung starts, his tone of disbelief almost comical. “You really voted for her that many times? Dude, you’re joking.”

“No,” Jungkook responds, his voice laced with casual indifference. “Why would I fucking joke?”

Jimin can’t help but chuckle, looking over at Taehyung, who’s still in shock. “Wow, we had no idea. You’re soft for her, aren’t you?”

Jungkook shrugs nonchalantly. “She deserves it.”

The two of them fall silent for a moment, digesting what he’s just said.

Jungkook, the grungy, distant guy who typically didn’t care much for things like this, voted for you - his ditsy, but incredibly endearing girl - 120 times.

“She won because of you?” Taehyung asks, his voice almost in awe.

Jungkook finally shifts his gaze away from you and looks at the two of them. There’s still a quiet smirk on his face, but his tone is serious when he speaks again. “She’s the best choice. They need her.”

Jimin looks back at you on stage, a soft smile forming on his face. “Damn. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Jungkook’s eyes flick back to you as well, a subtle warmth in them that he doesn’t bother to hide this time. “Come on hyung, get over it.”

The two of them stand there, silently processing Jungkook’s revelation, while you continue to beam up at the crowd, completely oblivious to the conversation happening just a short distance away.

Your joy is contagious, and for the first time in a long while, Jungkook feels like he’s part of something bigger than himself. You make him feel that way, without even trying.

“Should we go congratulate her?” Taehyung asks with a grin, nudging Jimin, who looks lost in thought. “I mean, she’s our president now, right?”

Jimin laughs, shaking his head, still processing the revelation about Jungkook. “Yeah. Let’s go before she starts thanking everyone except us.”

As the two of them start to walk toward you, Jungkook stays behind, watching them for a second before his gaze drifts back to you.

When you finally make your way off the stage and into the crowd of friends and classmates congratulating you, your eyes lock with Jungkook’s. You smile at him, that soft, bright smile that always catches him off guard, and you laugh, still holding the flowers in your hands.

You’re quick to thrust your bouquets into the arms of Taehyung and Jimin, who both lean in to try and hug you, but you’re off and throwing yourself into your Bakugo’s arms.

“Jungkook, I don’t even know how I won! I don’t know what happened!” you exclaim with a cute laugh, clearly overwhelmed by everything happening around you.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you, his eyes softening with something unreadable. Finally, he pulls you in, engulfing you in his bulky arms.

Home.

“It was your daily speeches doll,” he whispers quietly, almost to himself. “You’re special.”

You beam back at him, your joy too big to contain. “Thanks, Koo! I couldn’t have done it without you!”

Jungkook says nothing, but the way he looks down at you, with the faintest smile on his lips, says it all.

For once, it’s clear: he’s always believed in you, even when you didn’t know it.

Later that evening, after the excitement has settled and the crowd has dispersed, you find yourself in Jungkook’s apartment again, sprawled on the couch with your victory flowers placed haphazardly on the coffee table.

Jungkook sits beside you, shirtless and looking hot as fuck as he flips through his phone.

You nudge his side with your elbow, catching his attention. “So, Kookie…” you start, drawing out the syllables in a singsong tone.

He raises a brow but doesn’t look away from his phone. “What now?”

“I won student president,” you remind him, grinning as you scoot closer.

“Did you? I didn’t notice,” he says dryly, still scrolling.

Back to his usual self it seems…

You pout, tugging on his sleeve. “That’s a big deal, you know.”

“Sure is.”

You lean in even closer, practically draping yourself over him. “Big enough for a reward, don’t you think?”

At that, he finally looks at you, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “A reward?”

You nod enthusiastically, your smile turning mischievous. “Yep. I worked so hard, and I think I deserve something for all my efforts.”

Jungkook smirks, his tongue running over his bottom lip in that way that always makes your stomach flip. “Oh, you think so?”

“I know so,” you declare, sitting up straighter and crossing your arms. “I handed out flyers, made speeches, posed for pictures. It was exhausting!”

You pout, knowing it will help you win your case.

He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. “And what kind of reward are you looking for, Miss President?”

You pretend to think for a moment, tapping your chin with your finger. “Hmm… Something meaningful. Something memorable. Something…” You trail off, leaning closer until your face is just inches from his. “Fun.”

Jungkook’s smirk widens, and he sets his phone down, finally giving you his full attention. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Unbelievably deserving of a reward,” you correct, grinning shamelessly.

He shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans back against the couch. “Alright, Miss President. What do you want?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you slide onto his lap, straddling him, your hands resting on his shoulders. His hands instinctively settle on your hips, and his brows shoot up in surprise.

“This,” you say, your voice dropping to a softer, more playful tone. “This is my reward.”

You grind down on Jungkook, moving forward to rest your nose against his cheek.

Jungkook chuckles, low and warm, his grip tightening slightly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” you admit, leaning in until your lips are a breath away from his. “But you like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, Jungkook closes the distance, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss that sends shivers down your spine.

When you finally pull back, a satisfied smile on your face, you whisper, “Best reward ever.”

“But I’m not satisfied,” Jungkook says in a husky tone, playing with the hem of your short, silk nightgown. “I think I deserve a reward too.”

As Jungkook’s fingers continue to trace lazy patterns on your thigh, his voice drops further, laced with that teasing, husky tone that always makes your cheeks warm.

His lips brush slightly against your ear.

You pull back and blink up at your man, your glossy lips parting slightly in confusion. “Huh? But you’re not the class president, silly. I am!”

Jungkook pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes narrowing like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. And then he laughs - deep and low, the sound rumbling from his chest and vibrating against you.

A sound you’re not quite used to, but is your saving grace.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, shaking his head, the smirk tugging at his lips betraying his exasperation.

You pout, your perfectly glossed lips sticking out just enough to tempt him further. “I’m not wrong though,” you argue, tilting your head innocently.

“Mhm.” His grip on your waist tightens slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin as he leans closer, the warmth of his breath fanning against your cheek. “Still think I deserve something… presidential, don’t you think. You know, for being the best campaign manager?”

You stare at him for a second, trying to piece together what he meant before your face lights up. “Ohhh! You mean, like, a sticker or something? I think I have some in my bag! Wait here!”

Jungkook groans softly, the sound half-amused, half-defeated, as you attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. But he wasn’t going to let you go anywhere.

“Forget the sticker, doll,” he mutters, tugging you closer and pressing his lips firmly against yours once again.

Jungkook laughs softly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your waist. “You’re lucky you’re- never mind.”

“You’re lucky I’m your president,” you quip, earning an eye roll and another kiss that leaves you both grinning like fools.

Jungkook pulls your closer, groaning. A deep, throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why don’t you remind me how lucky I am?”

Your fingers trail down his buff chest, teasingly slow, until they reach the waistband of his jeans. You toy with the button, glancing up at him through your lashes. “I think you already know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “But if you need me to spell it out…”

Before you can finish, his hand shoots up, gripping your chin gently but firmly. “You’re such a tease,” he mutters, his gaze locked on yours. “Always pushing buttons, seeing how far you can go.”

A thrill runs through you at his words, your body responding instinctively as you nod, your lips parting slightly.

“Yes,” you breath, the single word laden with meaning.

That was all the encouragement he needed. In one swift motion, Jungkook flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him as his mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss is hungry, desperate, his tongue claiming yours as his hands roamed over your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You moan into his mouth, arching into his touch, your hands fisting in his hair to pull him closer.

When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathless, your chests rising and falling rapidly.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. “Class president. Always so perfect, aren’t you?”

Your head falls back against the couch cushions, a whimper escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

“Only for you,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Jungkook chuckles darkly, his hands sliding under your skirt to grip your thighs. “Is that so?” he asks, voice laced with amusement. “Then let’s see how much of a good girl you can be for me tonight.”

With that, he shifts lower, his lips following the path of his hands as he kisses along your inner thighs.

You squirm beneath him, the anticipation building as he teases you mercilessly, his breath hot against your skin. When his tongue finally finds its target, your back arches off the couch as a cry tears from your lips.

“J-Jungkook!” you moan, your hands clutching at the cushions as waves of pleasure wash over you.

“My love, I’ve missed this” Jungkook murmurs, voice thick with lust, his breath ghosting over your slick heat. “Missed my mouth all over this filthy cunt.”

Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp as you tighten your grip, hips arching in desperate search of contact. The need is maddening, your body trembling with want.

“Please… Koo,” you whine, your voice barely more than a whimper, every syllable laced with urgency. “Please, I need you.”

He hums against your thigh, the sound sending a jolt straight through your core. His gaze flickers up to you, hungry and impossibly tender. “I need you too,” he admits softly. “Need to taste you. Need to be inside you. Need to ruin you.”

Then, with infuriating patience, he drags the tip of his tongue along your folds - a featherlight stroke that leaves you shuddering. You writhe beneath him, chasing more, the teasing making your heart pound.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, clearly affected by the sight of you already in bliss.

“Baby, please… need more,” you whine, voice high and trembling, your body begging louder than words ever could.

And that is all it takes.

“Koo’s teased you long enough, hmm, doll?” he taunts, cupping your thighs and settling in deeper. “If it’s too much, you’ll tell me.”

Jungkook licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit, savouring every drop of you. His tongue lingers, his lips sealing around your cunt as he begins to truly devour you … hungry, reverent, insatiable.

He moans into you, the vibration making your toes curl. His mouth is everywhere - sucking, kissing, lapping - and when his tongue flicks over your swollen clit, you cry out his name like a prayer.

You rock your hips against his face, seeking more, always more, as he flattens his tongue against you and groans at the taste he’s been craving. His hands roam upward, brushing over your chest, thumbs circling your hardened nipples, sending sparks of sensation through your already trembling frame.

“Oh my god, Baby—please! I-I can’t—” You gasp, the first orgasm crashing into you hard and fast, your thighs clamping around his head.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop.

He already knows.

“Baby wants more?” he teases against your heat, voice muffled but devilish.

And despite the pressure, you find yourself nodding.

Jungkook is then licking you again… up and down, over and over… shameless, worshipful and like he’s starved for you.

You can barely breathe, pleasure building again far too soon, and all you can do is hold on as he pulls another climax from your trembling body, whispering your name between every lick like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.

You whine, tears spilling from your eyes as you reach for your Koo to hold you.

“Not yet,” he says, voice rough with lust and desire. “We’re not done.”

Before you could protest, Jungkook is kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body as he guides you to sit up.

“Ride me,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You obey without hesitation, positioning yourself over him as he unbuckles his jeans, freeing his hard length.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, moaning at the sensation of being filled so completely. All while the tears continue to spill.

You love… you adore… you could die for the way this man fucks you.

Jungkook’s hands grip your hips tightly, guiding your movements as you begin to ride him, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

“That’s it,” he growls, his eyes locked on yours. “Take what you want, baby. Show me how much you’ve earned this.”

You whimper, pace increasing as the heat between you builds to an unbearable level. Jungkook’s hands move to your breasts, kneading and teasing as you grind down on him, each movement sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

“Look at you,” he rasps, his voice guttural and raw. “Riding me like you own me.” His words send a thrill through you, spurring you on as you pick up the pace, grinding down onto him with increasing urgency.

“You’re- you’re mine,” you manage to utter, grip tightening on Jungkook’s shoulders as you reach down to kiss him.

Jungkook, however, seems occupied with your urgency. And being his usual determined self, he cannot let you win.

His hands grab hold of your hips again, guiding your movements as he thrust up into you harshly, meeting you stroke for stroke.

The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter in your core with each thrust. You feel it building, that sweet pressure threatening to break you apart, but you hold on, determined to make your handsome man come undone first.

“Koo, I—” you whine, your voice breaking as you feel yourself teetering on the edge.

You clench around him, drawing a strangled groan from his lips as his rhythm falters.

Leaning forward, you capture his mouth in a messy, passionate kiss, your tongues battling for dominance as you ride him harder, faster, chasing that peak together.

“Come for me,” he demands, tone firm but gentle. “Fall apart on my dick.”

It was all the permission you required.

With a cry, you come undone, your body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Jungkook groans, the feeling of your sticky cum decorating him consuming him.

And before he can continue his usual post-orgasm shenanigans, you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, driving him over the edge.

His release hits him like a tidal wave, his body tensing as he spills inside you. He holds you through it, his groans muffling against your skin.

The sight of him cumming inside you, the feel of him pulsing within you, is all it takes to send you spiraling once again.

Another orgasm crashes over you, waves of ecstasy washing through your body as you clench around him, milking every last drop of pleasure Jungkook has to offer.

Both of you breathe heavily as you try to regain your senses. Jungkook’s arms immediately wrap tighter around you, holding you close as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice filled with satisfaction and pride. “You did so well, my princess.”

You smile faintly, your body still tingling from the second orgasm. “Does this mean I get a reward every time I win something?”

Jungkook chuckles, his grip on you tightening slightly. “If this is how you plan to collect, then maybe we should make more bets.”

You laugh softly, leaning into your boyfriend as the TV continues to flicker in the background, forgotten by both of you.

For now, all that matters is being lost in the heat of the moment and Jungkook’s promise of more nights like this.

—

And done! Hope you enjoyed 🫶🏻 I would appreciate feedback :)

[svnflowerkae]

Cockwarming Dante Sparda

Charcaters: Dante x Gn!Reader

tw: Dante is 43, age gap (reader is in mid twenties), cockwarming obv, pet names (kitty/kitten in a soft way, darling), sorry if there are some mistakes I'm writing this at 3.20 a.m. bc I can't sleep, (if you squint) chubby reader, cumming inside, just soft and sweet cockwarming. I need to have Dante's cock rn tbh !!

｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ

What about cockwarming Dante? He who today had a free day from demons, chasings, and killings. He who was chilling on the sofa with his look lost in that hot magazines he has. Not that he's really interested in them, but it helps better to clear his mind, to not think about his hopeless life. Of course, he had you, but he didn't want to be a bother. Nor that you were interest that he read those things, you knew better than anyone why he used them, on the contrary, you always thought they helped him with his imagination, how certain dresses could hug your body in a way that would made him crazy and fuck you like there was no tomorrow.

What about cockwarming Dante as he sees you crawling in his lap as a cute kitty: rubbing your cheeks against his chin, his short beard scratching you in a way that felt so good, hands playing with the hems of his shirt - even if he rarely wore any at home -, his hands caressing your hair alternating between pats.

"Feeling needy, little kitty?" he said as he kept caressing your soft hair. You let out a purr like sound, your hands now playing with his belt. He let out a laugh. You are so cute. His hands still wandering in your hair as you finally unlocked his belt, lowering his pants and boxer just enough for his cock to come out.

"Dante..." you whined, his dick half hard, your mouth salivating at the sight. It still madr your heart beat faster, even though you saw it so many times already. I guess that's one of the charming points of Dante Sparda. "I wanna cockwarm you", your breath heavy as Dante's one hitched in his mouth, words were difficult to speak as you said that. Dante nodded eagerly. You smiled at him and whispered a soft "Thank you".

You took Dante's cock in your hands, your hole already aching in anticipation. Hands around his neck, Dante kept still your hips, admiring your beauty. He wondered how you fell in love with someone like him. "I know you can do this, baby" he incited you, your hips dropping slowly on him, taking inch per inch inside you. Every inch made you moan, he was so big that the stretch was inevitable. Your insides were shaped like him but the stretch only made it better, adding more pleasure as your body twitched.

"Are you already coming, darling?" Dante teased you. You scoffed, slapping playfully his broad chest. But as much as he teased you, Dante's body was trembling too for the pleasure, hands hitching to grab your soft hips and pound into you. He nipped his lips, your warm insides enveloping his cock. Gosh, you made him crazy. "Dante", another moan escaped your mouth, your hole now full of him. It took all the force in you to not ride him right here right now.

Dante didn't answer. He feared a whine could escape his lips, not that he cared if it wasn't "manly" enough. He loved being loud for you. His fingers pressed more into your skin. You caught Dante's lips in yours, kissing him. Your tongue caressing his bottom lips as he opened his mouth. Your tongues were now dancing messily, it was a chasing, mouths clashing against one and another, the kiss so messy that saliva fall from both you and Dante's lips. Both of you whining and whimpering as Dante's cock twitched inside you.

You interrupted the kiss, a string of saliva connecting you to him. You smiled, feeling completely lost in pleasure and lost, and for Dante was the same. His eyes droopy, almost as he was falling asleep - but that wasn't the case - his hair scruffy, your hands still around his neck as your cheek was against his face, rubbing against his beard. It gave you comfort doing this. Dante whined your name, his hips bucking from time to time. He wanted to fuck you so much that his cock will be your only thought.

"Aaa, Dante...." your head dropping into the crook of his neck, your hips moving slowly up and down. Dante matched your peace. "Just like that, baby" with one hand he took your chin, kissing you again. As you two kissed deeply once more, Dante's cock rummaged your insides; moaning between the kiss. Your hole fluttered, his dick twitching for the nth time. As Dante interrupted the kiss to snuzzle his face on yours, he cummed inside you, whimpering. Too lost in the pleasure your smirked, feeling his cum filling you up. Dante came so much that a ring of it was around his cock. You continued to ride him as after a few minutes your orgasm approached you.

Both of you were worn out, bodies covered in sweat. Your breath spent. You were still in Dante's lap, his face against yours, rubbing a few more times his beard to comfort both of you. You smiled and he did the same. Time was frozen like this. His cock inside you as sleep swept the two of you away.

｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ｡ ﾟ ꒰ঌ ✦໒꒱ ༘*.ﾟ

[lila-lou]

✨Folded✨

Summary: Your first time with Ben lands you in the ER and in the middle of his chaotic, possessive version of love.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, kinda fluffy, kinda funny

Word Count: 2721

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed above you, a headache forming right behind your eyes. You shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, wincing as the movement sent a sharp reminder through your body of exactly why you were there. Ben sat slouched next to you, arms crossed over his chest, radiating pure impatience like a human space heater.

"You’re fine", he muttered, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "You’re just… delicate or something".

You shot him a look so sharp it could've cut through the damn walls. "Oh, I’m delicate now? You just threw me halfway across the bed like a goddamn frisbee".

He smirked, and you wanted to both kiss him and punch him at the same time. "Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve braced yourself better", he said, shrugging like he hadn’t nearly snapped you in half an hour ago.

"You’re unbelievable", you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe next time you should come with a warning label: Caution — may cause serious bodily harm during sex".

Ben leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a low laugh. "Please. You loved it".

You gave him a deadpan stare. "Loved the part where you folded me like a lawn chair? Sure. Best moment of my life".

Despite everything, the pain, the embarrassment, the fact that you were sitting in a hospital gown with an ice pack pressed against your ribs, you felt your mouth twitching into a smile. Ben caught it immediately, his own grin growing wider, the cocky bastard.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, injury and all. "You’re tough. You’ll survive. And when you do…", he paused, smirking again, "you’re gonna be begging for round two".

You scoffed, elbowing him lightly, careful this time not to hurt yourself further. "In your dreams, Soldier Boy".

"Every night, sweetheart", he said without missing a beat, reaching out to squeeze your hand with a surprising gentleness that made your heart stutter, even now.

The nurse finally called your name, and as you stood up, wincing again, Ben stood too, towering over you, close enough that you felt the warmth rolling off him. Despite all his bravado, he stayed glued to your side, steadying you without saying a word.

Maybe he wasn’t great at apologies, hell, maybe he barely knew the word existed, but right now, you figured actions spoke louder anyway.

The exam room was colder than the waiting area, and the thin paper on the exam table crinkled loudly as you tried to settle onto it without grimacing too obviously. Ben stood nearby, arms folded, looking like he owned the damn place despite the fact that he was clearly the problem.

The door swung open with a soft knock, and a tired-looking doctor, mid-forties, glasses, no patience left, stepped in, glancing between the two of you and your chart.

"Alright", he said, glancing down at the clipboard. "Looks like you’ve got some bruised ribs, maybe a minor strain. We’ll get a scan just in case. Can you tell me how this happened?".

You opened your mouth, you really did, but Ben beat you to it, his voice loud, confident, and absolutely unapologetic. "Yeah, so we were fucking", he said bluntly.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Ben kept going, completely ignoring the way you shot him a wide-eyed look of horror. "I mean, she was on top at first, right? But then she said she wanted me to take control, and I thought, ‘Hey, no problem, I’m great at that’, so I flipped her over. Maybe a little too hard… she kinda bounced—".

"Ben", you hissed, trying to stop him, mortified.

He waved you off, like you were interrupting the most important TED Talk ever. "—then, you know, I was giving it to her good", he continued, nodding proudly, "and I guess I got a little too into it. She sort of folded in half like one of those camping chairs. Heard a little pop. Not a sexy one, like an actual pop".

The doctor blinked at him, utterly deadpan.

You covered your face with your hands. "Please kill me", you muttered into your palms.

Ben, undeterred, barreled right through the awkward silence. "Anyway, she finished, I finished, it was great. Five stars. But then she couldn’t really move after, so here we are".

The doctor cleared his throat loudly, scribbling something on your chart, probably 'Patient dating an idiot, but in love with him'.

"Right", the doctor said, voice carefully neutral. "Well, thank you for the… thorough explanation. We’ll get those scans done. In the meantime, maybe consider… pacing yourselves".

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk.

As soon as the doctor left the room, Ben turned to you, still looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "What?", he said, smirking. "You want me to lie? I’m not ashamed of blowing your back out".

You glared at him, cheeks burning hotter than a furnace. "Next time you get me hospitalized", you snapped, "you’re paying for dinner and flowers".

Ben laughed, reaching out to gently brush your hair behind your ear. "Done. That pussy is worth it".

A few minutes later, after some paperwork shuffling and an excruciatingly awkward wait, a younger doctor stepped in, not the same one as before. This guy couldn’t have been more than thirty, clean-shaven, fresh out of med school, and way too friendly for Ben’s liking.

He glanced at the clipboard, then smiled at you.

“Alright, Y/N”, he said brightly. “We’re gonna need to do a quick physical check, make sure nothing else is damaged. I’m gonna have you slip out of the gown so I can take a look at your back and sides, okay?”.

You nodded, already reaching to undo the ties at the back of the thin hospital gown. Standard, right? No big deal. Until you heard a low growl behind you.

Ben straightened up from where he was leaning against the wall, his whole posture shifting, shoulders squared, chest puffed out. Every part of him suddenly screamed territorial caveman. “She’s not gettin’ fucking naked for you”.

The young doctor blinked, taken off guard. “Sir, it’s medical. I’m a professional”.

Ben stepped forward, looming way too close for hospital etiquette. “Don’t care if you’ve got ten degrees and a stethoscope made of fucking gold. Find another way”.

You sighed heavily, shooting Ben a glare over your shoulder. “Ben. It’s fine”.

He ignored you completely, never breaking eye contact with the poor doctor, who now looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment.

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly debating whether arguing with a super-powered, pissed-off Soldier Boy was worth his medical license. Wisely, he chose the path of least resistance. “Alright”, he said carefully, backing up a step. “Maybe you can help her adjust the gown so I can check without… full exposure”.

“Yeah”, Ben said, flashing a grin that was all teeth. “Thought so”.

Muttering under your breath, you let Ben come over, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he helped untie the gown just enough to expose the parts the doctor needed to see.

The examination was quick — a few pokes, some prodding, the doctor muttering notes — but Ben never moved from your side, hovering protectively, eyes sharp and watchful.

When it was finally over and the doctor left, Ben immediately retied the gown, his fingers brushing your skin with careful touches that made your heart race for an entirely different reason.

“You’re insane”, you said, half laughing, half exasperated as you turned to face him.

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Maybe. But no one gets to look at you but me”.

You shook your head, pretending to be more annoyed than you actually were. “Possessive much?”.

Ben leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “You love it”. And the worst part was, you did.

You didn’t even make it halfway off the exam table before the nurse came back with the final report, a sympathetic wince on her face.

“Looks like you’ve got four sprained ribs”, she said, handing you a packet of instructions you weren’t about to read. “You’re gonna be sore for a while. Bruising’s already setting in… lot of internal swelling. Ice it, rest, no heavy lifting, and definitely no… strenuous activities”.

Her eyes flicked awkwardly to Ben, who was standing there looking like a kicked puppy and a thunderstorm rolled into one. “Yeah, yeah, we get it”, Ben muttered as the nurse left the room.

You pulled the gown tighter around yourself, trying to breathe through the ache that flared in your chest every time you moved.

Ben scowled down at you, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Sprained ribs”, he grumbled under his breath. “Geez. I was aiming for you to feel me somewhere else, sweetheart. Not in your goddamn ribcage”.

You gave him a look, deadpan. “Trust me. I do”.

Ben’s mouth opened, probably to fire back something cocky, but he paused, really looked at you, taking in the way you winced even shifting your weight. Some of the swagger bled out of him then, replaced by something quieter, heavier. Guilt, sharp and obvious even under his usual bravado.

“You should’ve told me”, he muttered, softer now. “If it hurt”.

You snorted lightly, regretting it immediately when it made your ribs throb. “Ben. At the time, I couldn’t tell if I was dying or just having a spiritual experience”.

He cracked a reluctant, crooked grin at that, the edge of it tinged with worry. “Yeah?”, he said, stepping closer, his voice low and rough. “That good, huh?”.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway. “You broke four of my ribs, genius. Congratulations. New personal record”.

Ben chuckled under his breath and reached out, his massive hands careful as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were made of glass. “I’ll do better next time”, he murmured, something fiercely earnest in his tone. “Promise”.

You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing smirk despite the dull, throbbing pain in your chest. “No next time”, you said lightly, your voice a little raspy from the effort. “You’re officially on a sex ban until further notice”.

Ben’s eyebrows shot up like you’d slapped him. “A what now?”, he barked, genuinely offended, like you’d just told him Christmas was canceled.

You chuckled under your breath, hissing slightly as it pulled at your ribs, and tried to wave him off. “Doctor’s orders”, you said, smug. “I’m fragile, remember?”.

Ben muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Bullshit”, but he didn’t argue, not really. Instead, he shook his head, grumbling as he grabbed your clothes from the chair and crouched down in front of you.

You gave him a withering look, but he was already helping you, his hands surprisingly deft as he started easing you back into your clothes. Every touch was gentle, careful in a way that made your heart ache worse than your ribs.

He tugged your top down carefully over your shoulders, frowning in concentration like he was disarming a bomb, muttering under his breath the whole time.

“This is bullshit. You’re tougher than half the assholes I fought in World War II”, he grumbled. “Sprained ribs my ass”.

You couldn’t help yourself, you grinned through the ache. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I sprain a few of your ribs next time? See how you like it?”.

Ben snorted, brushing your hair out from under your collar with a tenderness that made your chest tight for an entirely different reason. “You couldn’t hurt me, even if you tried”, he said, flashing you that cocky smirk, the one that made you want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wanna bet?”.

He let out a low laugh, then leaned down, his forehead bumping gently against yours. For a second, he just stayed there, breathing you in, grounding both of you in the middle of the sterile hospital chaos. “Nah”, he murmured. “You’re dangerous enough already, doll”.

About an hour later, you were sprawled out carefully on Ben’s leather couch, one of his shirts hanging off your body, way too big, way too soft, and an ice pack balanced awkwardly against your bruised ribs.

You sighed, shifting slightly to get comfortable, wincing at the dull, deep ache that pulsed with every movement. The apartment smelled like whiskey, leather, and Ben, a scent so familiar and stupidly comforting that you almost forgot how much you hated being injured in the first place. Almost.

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen, heavy and sure, and then Ben appeared, a glass of whiskey clutched in one hand and a determined look on his face like he was about to win a war. “Here”, he said, handing the glass over with a kind of gentleness that would’ve shocked anyone who didn’t know him better.

You raised an eyebrow as you accepted it, feeling the cool glass against your fingers. “Pretty sure alcohol isn’t in the medical pamphlet, Nurse Ben”.

He snorted, dropping heavily into the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “Yeah, well, they also said no ‘strenuous activity’, and we both know that’s bullshit too”.

You gave him a look, taking a slow sip of the whiskey — it burned down your throat, warm and sharp, but it did take the edge off the pain a little.

Ben watched you the whole time, gaze sharp and calculating. Protective. Like he was mentally trying to will your ribs back together just by glaring hard enough.

You settled back against the couch with a soft groan, cradling the ice pack against your side. “You know you don’t have to babysit me”, you mumbled, closing your eyes for a second.

There was a beat of silence. Then the couch dipped under his weight as Ben got up and sat right beside you, his knee brushing yours, his presence so big and solid it made you feel safer instantly. “You’re outta your fucking mind if you think I’m leavin’ you alone like this”, he said gruffly, voice low. “You’re hurt ‘cause of me. I’m not goin’ anywhere”.

You peeked up at him through your lashes, warmth curling low in your chest, unrelated to the whiskey this time.

He caught you looking and smirked, reaching out to tug at the hem of his shirt hanging on you. “Looks good on you”, he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

You shook your head, smiling tiredly. “Sap”.

Ben let out a soft chuckle, one hand still idly tugging at the oversized shirt you were wearing like he couldn’t help himself. "Shut up", he teased, flashing you a boyish smirk that would've been disarming if he weren't such a giant menace most of the time. "You like it. Don’t pretend you don’t".

You snorted, trying not to jostle your ribs. "Yeah, I just love being broken and babied".

He shrugged unapologetically. "You should. Not everyone gets the honor of my excellent bedside manner, sweetheart".

Ben watched you for a second longer, then stood with a grunt, cracking his knuckles. "Stay there", he ordered unnecessarily. "Gonna make you somethin’ to eat".

You stared after him, amused and vaguely terrified. "Ben, you can’t cook".

"Can't be that hard", he shot over his shoulder as he stomped toward the kitchen like he was going to war.

You snickered, nestling deeper into the couch, ice pack balanced carefully, already mentally preparing yourself for whatever culinary disaster he was about to create in the name of taking care of you. Because, well… it was Ben. And even when he was a complete disaster, he was still yours.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

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[mononijikayu]

when twenty year old itadori yuuji told his new found college friends he liked tall women, a tall women with a big ass. well, to be exact he said it the way you would confess about dumb crushes: half-laughing, half-serious, waving it off with a grin.

it wasn’t like he thought the universe was actually listening to him. why would the universe actually be doing something like that? he didn't expect anything out of the universe, especially with his luck.

but the universe had heard him well enough. rather too loud and too clear. and it sent you. you, whom was the tall woman with the big ass. but you were mor than that, he was certain. you were more than the beauty that captured his eyes. and he wanted to know it all. he wanted to know all of you.

he spotted you on a random day across the university gym, standing tall and glorious under the harsh lights, surrounded by weights that would’ve made half the guys in the room cry.

you had on black leggings and a loose tank top that still somehow clung in all the right places. and your ass — good god, your ass — moved with each powerful lift, flexing and perfect.

yuuji froze mid-step, one foot still dangling stupidly in the air. his brain promptly emptied itself like someone had hit the reboot button. you weren’t just tall. you weren’t just strong. you were the blueprint.

and you didn’t even notice him at first. if anything, you were too focused on your form, your breathing, your next lift. it wasn’t until he started hovering nearby (and very badly pretending to stretch) that you finally looked over, pinning him with a curious glance.

caught red-handed all at once.

yuuji panicked. his mouth moved faster than his brain.

you blinked at him, watching the panic happen.

"uh—hi!" he blurted. "you're really strong! like, uh, scary strong! but in a super-hot way! not scary scary, like... cool scary? good scary? shit, i'm so sorry—"

you lowered the barbell with a heavy clang, straightening to your full height. you were tall enough that yuuji had to tip his head back a little to meet your gaze. he gulped, flustered. you were also taller than him. you smirked. a slow, devastating thing.

"are you always this smooth?" you teased, one eyebrow arching up, "or am i just lucky?"

yuuji went brick-red in an instant, maybe redder than the color red. he scratched the back of his neck like it might somehow save him from the crater of embarrassment he was digging.

"uh—depends....." he stammered. "you’re like... really distracting. in a good way! a great way. in an amazing way! fuck, i'm so sorry."

you laughed at his panic. you found it adorable, found him adorable. but all he could focus on was that your laugh sounded so beautiful. it was a warm, rich sound that settled low in his gut, turning nervousness into something electric.

taking a step closer, you leaned in just enough that he caught the scent of your sweat mixed with something sweet, like coconut shampoo. he didn’t know if it was your presence, your voice, or just your proximity, but yuuji could feel his heart slamming against his chest like it was trying to break free.

you tilted your head, mock-studying him. "you lift, too?" you asked, playful. "or are you just here to stare?"

"i—both?" yuuji admitted, laughing a little helplessly. "i mean, i can lift, but it’s...not gonna be as impressive as whatever you just did."

you looked him up and down, slow and obvious, like you were sizing him up from head to toe and whether it was mercy or mischief, you smiled wide enough that it crinkled the corners of your eyes.

"well that's a good thing." you said, mirth beaming from you. "i like a guy who knows when he’s outmatched."

yuuji's mouth suddenly went dry. all of his dignity was long gone, packed its bags and fled the building. all he could do was grin back, dumb and dazzled. all too down bad for you, you who was now the apple of his eye.

"guess i’m about to be your biggest fan, then." he said, flashing that golden retriever smile that made girls melt but this time, it was him who was hopelessly melting for you.

the universe wasn’t just listening. it was setting him up for the best kind of defeat. a defeat he knew that he would accept wholeheartedly. after all, he'll be losing to you and that would be more than worth it to him.

you tossed the towel over your shoulder and leaned your hip against the barbell, giving him a look that was equal parts mischievous and challenging.

"since you're such a big fan of mine, would you mind doing something for me?" you said, voice light, teasing. " how dould you like to spot me?"

yuuji blinked. once. twice. his brain clearly blue-screened for a second. "me? spot you?" he echoed, like you had just asked him to solve quantum physics with a crayon.

you shrugged, casual, but your smile said you knew exactly what you were doing. "well unless you’re scared to do it." you added, sweet and deadly.

that did it. itadori yuuji straightened up immediately, fists clenching at his sides like he was mentally psyching himself up for the battle of a lifetime.

"scared? me? pfft. no way!" he said, chest puffing up in a way that would’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so endearing. "i’m the bravest guy here. totally ready. born ready. yep."

"good to hear." you said, barely hiding your grin. "then come closer."

he scrambled to obey, practically tripping over a nearby dumbbell in his rush to get to you. when he finally positioned himself behind you, it hit him just how close he had to be. and worse, when you bent down to grip the bar again, your ass was right there.

right.

there.

yuuji went rigid. not because he wanted to. no, his body had officially gone into full emergency lockdown. he was sweating harder just standing there than he had during his entire workout.

he tried to focus on literally anything else: counting ceiling tiles, reciting multiplication tables in his head, wondering if he was having a heart attack at twenty years old.

you glanced back over your shoulder, catching the wide-eyed panic on his face. "you good back there, hero?" you teased, your voice dripping with mock innocence.

"y-yeah!" he squeaked, cracking his knuckles unnecessarily. "all good! super good! best spotter ever, that's me!"

you bit your lip to hold back your laughter and refocused, adjusting your grip. your muscles coiled, tense and beautiful, and then you lifted. it was heavy, controlled, powerful. the bar came up smooth and steady, and yuuji remembered just in time to hover his hands close to your sides, ready to assist if you needed it.

(you didn’t. obviously.)

still, when you finished the lift and set the bar down with a satisfying thud, you pushed yourself up slowly, straightening, and your back brushed lightly — deliberately — against yuuji’s chest.

he made a sound. a tiny, choked-off squeak that absolutely murdered whatever was left of his self-respect. you turned around fully, wiping a bead of sweat from your forehead, and looked him over with a wicked gleam in your eye.

"not bad, huh?" you said, tapping his chest lightly with one finger. "for your first time spotting me, you didn't pass out. i’m impressed."

"i almost did, i think." he confessed immediately, voice wrecked and breathless.

you laughed once again. perhaps even brighter than ever before. perhaps even brighter than the sun. he knew it was a real, bright laugh from you. and yuuji thought he could live in that sound forever. even if he'd just met you. he knew that laugh would be the path to his future. because the future looked beautiful, knowing, hoping, you would now be in it.

"good thing i’m tough!" you said, tossing your towel over your shoulder again. "otherwise you might've had to catch me."

"catch you, yeah....i will." yuuji repeated, dazed. "i'd catch you."

you looked him up and down again, slow and thoughtful. "yeah." you said, flashing a grin. "i think you would."

then you turned and walked away, hips swaying just a little extra, leaving yuuji standing there, absolutely annihilated, red-faced, and head over heels for you and fully, 100%, your newest and most devoted gym groupie.

the universe didn’t just listen.

it gifted him you in absolute permanence.

and he wasn’t letting go of that miracle anytime soon.

itadori yuuji stayed frozen for a solid thirty seconds after you walked away, staring at the spot you’d been standing like he was trying to memorize the very air you’d touched.

his brain was just a loop of she talked to me, she let me spot her, she didn’t laugh in my face, holy shit she smiled at me—he snapped out of it when he realized he was still standing there looking like a confused puppy.

pull yourself together, idiot! he thought, giving himself a little shake.

he started clumsily gathering up some weights, pretending to be busy, stealing glances at you while you loaded a few more plates onto your barbell. he wasn't slick. not even a little. you caught him instantly.

you set the bar down and walked back over to him, casual, like you hadn't just completely rearranged his universe ten minutes ago. "hey, stranger." you said, stopping right in front of him.

yuuji almost dropped the dumbbell he was holding. "y-yeah?" he squeaked.

you smiled at him beautifully. it was a slow, almost lazy smile that made something crash inside his chest. it was everything and more. he just stared at you enthralled for a while as you pulled out your phone, tapped a few things, then held it out to him.

"put your number in, will you?" you said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

yuuji blinked at it, dumbfounded. "you—me—you want my number?" he stammered.

you laughed, like he was the cutest thing you’d ever seen. "yeah, of course!" you said. "unless you'd rather just keep awkwardly hovering and tripping over dumbbells every time you see me."

he flushed scarlet. "no! i mean yes! i mean—i'll put it in!"

he fumbled his way through typing his number into your phone with trembling hands, somehow managing not to drop it on the floor like an idiot. he handed it back to you, standing so stiff it looked like he’d forgotten how arms worked.

you glanced down, smirking when you saw what he’d saved himself as: yuuji (your #1 fan 🐶)

god, he was hopeless.

you quickly shot him a text almost immediately. it was just a simple "hey 👋" because you couldn't think of anything else.

but the little hey was good enough. you watched his phone buzz in his pocket. he immediately yanked it out like it was on fire, staring at your name on the screen with wide, shining eyes.

he looked up at you like you’d just handed him the winning lottery ticket. "this is real, right?" he blurted. "like, you're actually texting me? you're not gonna... vanish or something?"

you laughed, tossing your towel back over your shoulder again. "i’m real." you said, winking. "and if you’re lucky, you’ll get to spot me again. maybe next time, i’ll even let you take me out for protein shakes."

yuuji made a noise that wasn’t even a word, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and you turned on your heel and sauntered away before he could embarrass himself any more.

he watched you go, still clutching his phone like it was a sacred artifact. he didn’t know what kind of cosmic miracle he had stumbled into, but one thing was for sure: he was never missing leg day again.

[twst-aceofhearts]

May I request a platonic fic between RIddle and reader where they're siblings? And the reader teaches an elective course at NRC? :>

Have a wonderful day, and wear your seatbelt!

🌸 anon

Professor by Day, Menace by Relation

𝖆/𝖓: I love this prompt, I'll do this with Azul too :> and this is strictly platonic, age gap is around 8 years

𝖙𝖜: none.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: riddle x older sibling!reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 1573

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx

You didn’t expect to see your little brother barging into your classroom after hours.

Yet there he was — Riddle Rosehearts, Housewarden of Heartslabyul, standing at the doorway with his arms crossed, his lips pressed into a familiar line of disapproval that mirrored your own when you were younger.

“You said you were going to be done at seven.”

You blinked at the clock on the wall. 8:24 p.m. Ah.

“I was going to be done,” you said sheepishly, setting down your chalk. “Then Grim knocked over the herb cabinet and I had to make sure none of the samples were poisonous.”

Riddle stepped inside and shut the door behind him with precision, as though sealing a vault. “Why are you even teaching here? You had a perfectly respectable job in the Queendom of Roses.”

You looked at him over your reading glasses. “I like it here. The students are interesting. The staff has personality. And believe it or not, teaching Elective: Magical Botany and Potion Alternatives is oddly fulfilling.”

He muttered something under his breath. You couldn’t quite catch it, but it sounded like “reckless” and “undignified.”

You let it go. He’d always had a hard time with change—especially when it came to you.

When you were kids, you were the only one allowed to sneak sweets into Riddle’s room. The only one he didn’t snap at during his study sessions. The only one who remembered to pack a blanket in case he fell asleep at his desk.

Now, he was a young man—brilliant, proud, meticulous. He carried himself like someone who couldn’t afford to be a child anymore.

You didn’t blame him. You just missed him sometimes.

“Have you eaten?” you asked, opening a drawer and pulling out a little bento box you had set aside.

He glanced away. “I was going to.”

“You were going to,” you repeated with a sigh. “So was I. But neither of us did, huh?”

He didn’t answer, but he came to sit at your desk anyway, watching as you unwrapped the bento and pushed it toward him.

It had apple slices. You always remembered.

He stared at them.

“…You still do this,” he said quietly. “Cutting them like roses.”

You smiled. “Habit. I figured if I ever forgot, you’d give me a lecture on presentation.”

He hesitated. Then, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, “Thank you.”

The room was quiet except for the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional clink of chopsticks.

“I heard from Professor Trein,” Riddle said between bites. “You got two students to submit their projects early. He sounded impressed.”

“That’s because I bribed them with extra credit and muffins.”

He choked.

You handed him a cup of water, deadpan. “Relax. They were chamomile muffins. Good for stress.”

“…You’re terrifying.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

A smile crept onto both your faces.

When he finished, he wiped his mouth, set the chopsticks down with care, and looked up at you.

“…I’m glad you’re here,” he admitted, voice small. “Even if your class is a little… unconventional.”

“Unconventional is my specialty.”

“I know,” he said. Then, quieter: “It was always easier when you were around.”

That surprised you. Not because you didn’t believe it, but because Riddle rarely said things like that out loud.

You set your papers aside, fully giving him your attention. “Do you want to talk about something?”

He hesitated.

Then:

“I lost my temper again. With Ace and Deuce.” He closed his eyes briefly, shame flickering across his face. “I didn’t overblot, of course. I’m not that foolish. But I—I could feel it. The pressure. The noise.”

You stood and gently ruffled his hair, like you did when he was a kid—back when he used to bury his face in your shoulder and cry over scraped knees or scoldings from Mother.

To your surprise, he let you.

“You’ve gotten better, Riddle. But even good people lose their temper. You’re not a failure for slipping.”

“…Then what am I?”

“Human,” you said softly. “Someone who’s trying. And someone I’m very proud of.”

He looked up at you, eyes a little red at the corners, but he didn’t cry. Not tonight. He simply gave a sharp nod, shoulders straighter, breathing easier.

“…If I come here sometimes,” he said at last, “just to talk… would that be alright?”

You smiled. “Always.”

That night, you walked him back to Heartslabyul. The stars were out, and for a brief moment, he looked like the boy you remembered—not the housewarden, not the prodigy, but just Riddle. Your little brother.

And when he turned to say goodnight, he paused, then added in a quiet voice,

“Next time… I’ll bring the tea.”

You chuckled. “Just don’t bring those sugarless biscuits. I still have trauma.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he shut the gate behind him.

You weren’t expecting to see Riddle in your classroom on a Thursday morning—especially not in the back row, arms folded, lips thin, and trying (failing) to blend in with a group of groggy second-years.

“Don’t mind him,” you told the class, adjusting your glasses. “He’s just observing.”

“That’s the Housewarden of Heartslabyul,” one student whispered loudly to another.

“I thought it was a porcelain doll,” someone else muttered.

You coughed. Loudly.

“Anyway!” you clapped your hands. “Today we’re covering ‘Magical Plants and Mood Stabilization.’ Open your books to page 63.”

Riddle didn’t move a muscle. You were ninety percent sure he had already read this book cover to cover and was now judging your every word.

The lesson flowed smoothly—for a while.

You were halfway through explaining how moonlotus leaves can be used to subtly stabilize a brewing stress-relief potion when someone in the back raised their hand.

“Yes, Caelum?”

The boy smirked. “So, Professor, what’s it like teaching your little brother? Does he get automatic extra credit or just personalized rose-cut apples?”

You paused, then shot Riddle a deadpan glance.

He looked personally offended. “I would never accept such inappropriate favoritism—!”

“Which is exactly what someone with nepotism privileges would say,” Caelum quipped, and a few students laughed.

Riddle bristled.

You held up your hands before it escalated. “Relax. I grade him much harder than the rest of you.”

Riddle sputtered. “You don’t even grade me!”

“Exactly.”

The students howled.

Riddle sank slightly in his seat, clearly regretting life decisions that brought him here.

Later, during the practical component, you had everyone brewing a basic calming tonic infused with powdered moonlotus. Riddle watched silently, arms crossed, as the students measured, stirred, and grumbled.

“You don’t usually hover like this,” you said as you passed him, checking in on a student’s simmering cauldron.

“I was curious,” Riddle muttered. “Your students seem… comfortable with you.”

“I let them make jokes. Within reason.”

He frowned. “That’s a dangerous precedent. You’re their instructor.”

“Yes, and I’ve managed to avoid being overthrown so far. Small victories.”

You smirked and handed him a clean mixing spoon. “Here. Make yourself useful.”

Riddle blinked. “You want me to help?”

“Only if you think you won’t ruin someone’s brew with that terrifying perfectionism.”

“…Fine.”

It didn’t take long before more teasing started.

“Riddle-senpai, can you stir this for me? I want that Heartslabyul precision~.”

“Don’t let him scowl at your potion too long, it might curdle!”

“Did your sibling make you come here? Blink twice if you're being held hostage.”

You snorted as Riddle turned an alarming shade of pink.

“I didn’t sign up to be your class mascot,” he grumbled, helping a flustered student correct their ratios with immaculate skill.

You leaned close enough that only he could hear. “They’re just teasing you because they’re jealous they can’t roast me without getting detention.”

He glanced at you. “You wouldn’t actually give detention for that, would you?”

“Oh, definitely. But I’d also bring cookies the next day to confuse them.”

“…You’re terrifying.”

You smiled sweetly. “And you love me.”

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

By the end of the class, the potions had been bottled, labeled, and safely stored. You dismissed the students with reminders to please not test the potion on their roommates without consent.

As they filed out, several shot parting remarks Riddle’s way.

“Come back soon, Rosehearts-senpai!”

“Bring snacks next time! Sibling discount!”

“Professor, can we have Riddle Week? Where he does all your lectures and wears a silly apron?”

You waved them out with amused exhaustion.

Riddle, meanwhile, looked like he’d aged five years.

“Do they always act like that?” he asked flatly.

“Only when they like someone,” you said, packing up your notes. “They were very quiet around Professor Crewel. You, on the other hand… you’re roastable.”

“I’m never coming back here,” he muttered, following you to the door.

You held it open for him. “You’ll be back next week. You still owe me tea.”

He grumbled something about poor life choices but didn’t argue.

As you walked through the hall, he fell into step beside you, his expression unreadable.

“…They’re not bad,” he said eventually. “Your students.”

You smiled. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

He nodded once, then — just as you reached the hallway fork toward Heartslabyul — he paused.

“…You really don’t give me extra credit?”

You gave him a long, slow look.

Then burst out laughing. “Oh, Riddle.”

He scowled but couldn’t quite hide the tiny smile at the corners of his mouth.

credit to @cafekitsune for divider

[adeptustemptations]

"I pledged to love you."

(wc. 1.4k) You feel as if you're worthless lately, struggling to complete daily tasks, unable to finish some, or perhaps just instantly lose motivation to do them. To other people's eyes, your family was picture perfect, and to you? you felt like you were failing everyone.

pairings: sylus, fem!reader genre: angst w comfort c:, reader is married w kids

a/n: short read! it's my first time writing for him (or lads in general), so i hope i was able to capture how he'd act with her :D

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, bathing the place you called home in gold in its glory. And yet, all you could feel was grey.

You stood in front of the sink, staring blankly at a half washed plate beneath your trembling hands. Your hands had started to prune from the water, the suds clinging to your skin now just a reminder of how long you’d been frozen in place. 

Somewhere behind you, the laughter of your children echoed faintly from the hallway. It should’ve brought a smile to your face. Once upon a time, it did. 

Now, it only made the weight in your chest heavier.

You blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears, but they slipped out anyway. The sting was quiet. Soft. You didn’t sob. Didn’t fall to your knees in dramatics. You just stood there, barely breathing, feeling like you were slowly breaking apart from the inside out.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” you whispered to no one.

You used to handle this. The cleaning, the cooking, the kids’ tantrums, the endless laundry. You used to manage all of it while still having energy left over to kiss Sylus when he walked through the door, to laugh with him on the couch at something cheesy that he says, to feel... like a person.

Now, everything felt like a fight.

Not with him. God. Never with him.

With yourself.

The kids were being too loud again. You knew they were just playing; your daughter chasing her brother around with a plush sword, but the sound grated on your nerves like nails on glass.

“Stop it! Both of you, just stop!” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

The silence that followed was deafening. Your son looked up at you with wide eyes, and your daughter’s bottom lip trembled as she slowly lowered the toy. Your chest constricted. You hadn't yelled like that in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, softer now, rushing over and gathering them in your arms. “I didn’t mean it, babies. Mommy’s just tired, okay? I’m sorry.”

They nodded, but the damage was done. They were cautious with you for the rest of the afternoon. And that made it worse.

You barely heard Sylus come in. It was only the sound of his leather shoes being kicked off and his soft humming–always a tune from a song he made up, that made you turn. He was already loosening his tie, already smiling. But the smile faded the moment his eyes met yours.

“Sweetheart?” he said gently, as if approaching a startled animal. “You okay?”

You tried to speak. Failed.

Instead, you turned back to the sink, scrubbing the plate a little too hard, knuckles white. “Yeah,” you managed, voice thin. “Just tired.”

Sylus didn’t press, not yet. He knew better than to push when your walls were up. He walked behind you, kissed the top of your head, and murmured, “I’ll take the kids outside for a bit. You rest.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. The door clicked shut minutes later.

Silence encompassed the house. Peaceful. Quiet. 

And then you collapsed to your knees.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there on the cold tile floor, arms wrapped around yourself, tears streaming down your face in silence. The self-hatred felt like acid in your throat. Why couldn’t you just be okay? Why couldn’t you pull it together? Your kids deserved more. Sylus deserved better.

It wasn’t just today.

You’d forgotten your son’s field trip last week. He'd come home disappointed, asking why you didn’t pack his favorite sandwich like you promised.

"I'm sorry, baby," You say, your hands shaking as you gently hold onto his shoulders, "Mommy forgot."

You said you’d take your daughter to the bookstore on Sunday. She waited by the door with her little purse and shoes on for nearly an hour before Sylus gently coaxed her away, murmuring that “Mommy must have fallen asleep.” You had.

And the worst part? You didn't even realize until the next day. Mommy did forget.

Dinner was another disaster. You tried. God, you tried. You followed the recipe exactly, but halfway through you got distracted when your daughter spilled juice across the floor, and then your son started crying because he thought he’d lost his toy, and the food..

The food burned.

The smoke detector didn’t even go off. The shame did.

You stared at the pan, blackened and useless, and your heart twisted violently. You felt like you were failing at everything. Even something as simple as a meal. Sylus got home right as you were throwing the pan into the sink. You turned away from him, ashamed.

But then it got worse.

As you turned, your elbow knocked into the mug, that mug. The one Luke and Kieran gave him on his birthday. It had the words 'WORLD'S BEST BOSSMAN' handpainted on it, something messily made, but Sylus treasured it like it was priceless.

You watched it fall.

Watched it hit the tile.

Watched it break.

“Oh God,” you whispered. “No no no-"

You dropped to your knees, frantic hands reaching for the pieces when- 

“Stop.” Sylus’s voice was soft but firm, and you felt his hand close around your wrist. 

“You’ll cut yourself.”

“I’m sorry–I didn’t mean–God, I didn’t mean to–"

“Y/N,” he said again, kneeling beside you. His thumb brushed along your wrist gently. “It’s just a mug. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” you choked out, the tears falling again. “I mess everything up. I-I burn the food, I forget things, I break things. I’m not the same person anymore, Sylus. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You didn’t marry this.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you. You tried to hide your face, ashamed, but he wouldn’t let you. His hand moved to your chin, tilting it up, his crimson eyes searching yours.

“You think I’m here for perfection?” he said, voice low. “You think I married you because you always got everything right?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but your breath hitched when his palm cupped your cheek.

“I married you,” he said slowly, like each word was sacred. “Because you have the kindest heart I’ve ever known. Because even when you’re hurting, you put everyone else first. Because you’re strong even when you feel weak. Because you’re you.”

You sobbed, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, letting everything spill out at last.

“I feel so lost,” you whispered. “I wake up and I already want to cry. I feel like I’m drowning in a life I used to be able to swim through just fine. I yelled at the kids the other day, I forgot so many things I promised them. What kind of mother–what kind of wife–"

“One who’s human,” he whispered, holding you tighter. “One who’s overwhelmed. One who’s been trying to carry everything on her shoulders without asking for help.”

“But I didn’t want to be a weight to you,” you cried. “You already handle so much, Onychinus, and now I’m–"

“Don’t finish that sentence,” he said, pulling back to look at you again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Don’t ever call yourself a burden. You’re the reason I get up every day. You and the kids? You’re my entire world. If something is hurting you, I want to carry it with you, not because I have to. Because I want to.”

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and you felt something crack inside you, not in a bad way. It was like the first breath after being underwater for too long.

“I pledged to love you,” Sylus murmured, brushing a tear from your cheek, “not just when things are easy, but when you’re breaking. When the light in your eyes fades. When the smile doesn’t come easy. That’s when you need me the most. And I’m here.”

You clung to him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I love you,” you whispered. “I don’t feel like I deserve you right now, but I love you.”

He smiled against your temple. “I know you do. And I’ll keep reminding you every day that you deserve love, rest, patience, everything.”

The broken mug remained in the trash, forgotten. Dinner was replaced with takeout and quiet laughter on the couch as your kids dozed off nearby.

But something inside you had shifted.

You weren’t better yet. Not completely.

But for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel alone in it.

Sylus had reached for you, even while asleep, even when your thoughts were loud and cruel and dark. Even then, he’d found you.

And that meant... maybe, just maybe, you could find yourself again too.