#not without pause but certainly not pause enough

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Coming from wealth doesn’t mean you come from love. When your father cuts you off, you're left to find a roommate to help keep your life in Monaco afloat. Kimi Antonelli’s place isn’t ready yet, so he moves in—and what starts as convenience slowly brings peace, family, and unexpected change. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note:��I was going to do this with Ollie, but I already have an Ollie story in mind, so, I figured I would give everyone some Kimi once again on this blog. S/n (sister's name), and your best friend's name in this is Amilla, entirely up to your imagination how she looks as well as your sister. ENJOY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Growing up surrounded by wealth wasn't the gilded fairytale people imagined. Sure, there was luxury—soft sheets, name-brand clothes, drivers who opened doors, and holidays in warm places. But luxury didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean attention. And it certainly didn’t mean fairness.

Your family had money. Old money. The kind of wealth that came with expectations and unspoken hierarchies, where lineage mattered more than individuality. Your father ran the family business—something passed from generation to generation like a sacred heirloom. One day, he’d hand it down again. But not to you. That had been clear since you were old enough to understand your own name. It would go to S/n. Always S/n.

Your mother was a neurosurgeon, brilliant and always composed, walking through the house with heels clicking and a schedule tighter than her high bun. She was the kind of woman people admired. But she was distant, her affections portioned carefully, like rations during wartime. And you learned early that most of those rations went to your sister.

Vacations as a kid had been something you used to look forward to. Back then, you didn’t notice how different things were. You just knew you got to be on a beach with a juice box, and your sister got the bigger floaty. You thought that was normal.

But as the years went by, the favoritism stopped being subtle.

At Christmas, you’d unwrap two gifts. Your sister had a mountain. A literal mountain. Once, when you asked if you could get a digital camera, your mother had looked at the price tag and said, “Maybe next year.” That same year, your sister got a custom-built pink go-kart because she said it looked "cute" in a movie.

You were twelve when you started noticing that conversations weren’t really conversations with your parents—they were lectures disguised as concern. You’d get a scolding for a B on a test. Your sister would be celebrated for an A she hadn’t even earned—she was charismatic enough to charm her way out of anything.

And your father—he spoke of her like she was a miracle. “One day, she’ll take over everything,” he used to say to guests at parties while you stood beside him, invisible. “She’s got the look, the mind, the instinct.”

No one ever asked what you had.

When you were sixteen, sitting across from your father at the dinner table, he asked casually, like it didn’t mean anything, “So what are you planning for the future?”

You’d been waiting for that moment. You straightened your spine and spoke clearly.

“I want to go into motorsports engineering.”

He paused, halfway through cutting his steak. “Hmm,” he muttered, then nodded. “That’s good, sweetie.”

That was it. No follow-up. No curiosity.

Across the table, S/n chimed in without being asked. “I’m thinking of modeling. I’ve already had a few agencies reach out. Plus, I want to travel. Maybe get a fashion line started.”

Your mother beamed. “Oh, darling, you’d be perfect. Your face was made for a billboard. And with your father’s connections…”

You sat there, pressing your fork into a piece of overcooked asparagus, chewing your silence.

That was how most conversations went.

At eighteen, after your graduation, you brought it up again—this time more serious. It was just you and your father at dinner in the study, eating off plates without the pretense of table manners.

“I want to move out,” you said, testing the words.

He didn’t even look surprised. He barely looked up.

“That’s good, sweetheart. Where are you thinking?”

“Monaco,” you said. “I’ve looked into a few universities there. I want to continue with engineering—eventually get my master’s. I know it’ll take time, but I’m ready.”

You tried to smile, like it would help him see your sincerity. You wanted him to care.

He nodded absently and took a sip of his scotch. “That’s good. Let me know where you land. I’ll help you get settled.”

Your heart squeezed. “You will?”

“Of course. I’ll cover the rent for your flat, but you’ll need to get a job. Can’t support everything.”

You hesitated. “S/n doesn’t work.”

He exhaled like you’d said something exhausting. “Y/N, your sister is preparing to take over the business. Her time is coming. You know that.”

Right. Her time. Like yours never would.

So you moved.

Monaco was beautiful in a way you hadn’t expected. The city glittered at night like it had its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, far away from the echo of your father’s praise and your mother’s quiet favoritism.

You found a small flat with plain walls and cheap furniture, but it was yours. Your father helped you move in, carried boxes with a detached politeness, then handed you a spare key and left.

“Be smart with your time,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”

You weren’t sure if it was advice or a warning.

You got two jobs. A café by day, a restaurant by night. You’d collapse into bed, then wake up to submit your assignments before rushing back to work. Your professors only knew you as a face on a screen. You hated online school, but it was all you could afford.

Your fridge was mostly empty. Your walls were bare. You had three pans and one cutting board. Dinner was usually takeout—cheap pasta or boxed rice—because after a ten-hour shift, the last thing you wanted was to stand in front of a stove.

And your sister?

She was everywhere.

You’d scroll through social media, half-awake, and there she’d be—posing on a yacht in Santorini, smiling on a balcony in Paris, lounging in a silk robe with captions like #blessed #bookedandbusy. Her followers adored her. Your father reposted every brand deal she landed. Your mother shared her photos like holiday cards.

One night, sitting on your bed with a carton of takeout balanced on your lap, you opened your calendar to find a red-circled reminder: Family visiting tomorrow.

You groaned, setting your food aside. The idea of them walking into your small space, judging the plainness of your life—it made your chest feel tight.

You hadn’t invited them. Your father had insisted.

“It’s important,” he’d said on the phone. “We want to see how you’re doing.”

But they didn’t want to see how you were doing.

They wanted to compare.

You leaned your head back against the wall, sighing into the quiet. Your laptop screen buzzed gently, the cursor blinking in an empty assignment document.

“I’m tired of this,” you muttered.

Of the imbalance. Of the cold love. Of being measured against someone you could never outshine.

S/n would walk through your door tomorrow in a designer coat and full makeup. She’d sit on your secondhand couch like it was diseased. Your mother would comment on the size of your kitchen. Your father would ask if you’d “thought about getting something more stable.”

And none of them would see it—the long hours, the aching feet, the grades you worked for, the resilience it took to just exist outside their shadow.

But you saw it.

You felt it.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe not.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You sat on the edge of your couch, back straight, arms folded tightly across your chest, the ticking of the wall clock louder than it should’ve been. The air in your apartment was heavy, stifling, despite the open window. Your parents sat opposite you in the two mismatched armchairs you’d found at a secondhand shop last month, looking as though the fabric might give them a rash. Your sister—S/n—occupied the arm of one chair like it was a throne, one long leg crossed over the other, perfectly manicured fingers brushing invisible lint from her designer slacks.

They hadn’t even been in your flat five minutes and already you could feel their judgment soaking into the walls. Your mother kept glancing at the chipped paint near the baseboards. Your father’s gaze swept across your bookshelf with unreadable criticism. S/n looked around like she was in a student dorm.

You broke the silence. “So… you said this visit was important?”

Your voice was low, careful, not wanting to sound defensive—but there was already tension coiled in your spine.

Your father nodded, finally giving you his full attention as he folded his hands across his knee. “Yes. It is.”

You watched him pause for effect, the same way he did at corporate meetings you’d sat through as a kid, the same way he always made sure the room was ready to listen before dropping his words like gospel.

“Well, S/n is engaged.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could control your reaction, your gaze snapping to your sister. “What?”

S/n’s grin widened as she held up her left hand, her long fingers shimmering under the weight of a diamond so big it could probably be seen from space. You stared at it. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a statement—loud, bold, impossibly expensive.

“She said yes last week,” your mother added softly, pride swelling in her voice like it was her engagement, not her daughter’s. “It was the most romantic proposal. Private jet to Lake Como. He had the staff arrange everything. Champagne, roses, the whole thing.”

“Wow,” you said, your voice flat. You didn’t know what else to say. You hadn’t even known she was dating anyone seriously.

“And the wedding is going to be expensive,” your father continued, his tone businesslike now. “Top-tier venue, elite catering, designer dress, security, stylists, floral design… everything a celebration of this scale demands. Her fiancé is contributing, of course, but most of the financial responsibility falls on us.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing the weight of what was coming.

“Which means,” your mother interjected, her tone cooler now, “we’re going to have to cut your funding. The rent for your flat, your utilities… we simply won’t be able to cover it all anymore. We need to give S/n our full attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… what?”

Your voice cracked slightly, the disbelief catching in your throat. Your eyes darted between their faces, looking for any sign that this was some kind of joke. But no one was laughing.

“I’m sorry, honey,” your mother said, not sounding sorry at all. “We just need to prioritize.”

“Prioritize?” you echoed.

“You can still live here,” your father offered, shrugging like that solved everything, “but… we know you won’t be able to afford it on your own. And with your school and… your work, that’s a lot to juggle. It might be best if you came home for a while. Regroup.”

“Right,” S/n chimed in, her voice bright, chipper, like she was offering you a lifeline. “You could come back home with Mom and Dad! It’s not a big deal. I mean, let’s be honest—this place is a bit of a dump. It’s not like it’ll be a huge step down.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You stared at her, wondering how someone could say something so casually cruel.

“I have two jobs here,” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I study all night, I sleep maybe four hours, I bust my ass trying to keep this apartment and pass my classes and stay afloat—and you’re just… cutting me off?”

“Y/N…” your father sighed, like your voice was giving him a headache. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re not being punished. This is just the reality. You’re not a child anymore. And we need to invest in the child who’s… in a critical life stage right now.”

“Right,” you scoffed bitterly, sinking back against the couch. “Because God forbid I ever be in a critical life stage.”

“It’s not like we’re abandoning you,” your mother added, sitting forward slightly. “You’ll always have a room at home. You can work at your pace and be comfortable.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Comfortable? You mean invisible. That’s what I’ll be back home. A ghost in the hallway while you all parade S/n down the aisle and throw her the wedding of the century.”

“That’s not fair,” S/n said with a shrug. “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean it’s about favoritism. I just have different goals. Glamorous ones.”

You stared at her. “Different goals,” you repeated, biting back every word you really wanted to scream. “Right. Like being loved. Celebrated. Chosen.”

Your father stood, brushing his slacks like he was done with the conversation. “We’re not here to argue. We just came to inform you. The rent will be covered through next month. After that, it’s up to you.”

You stayed seated, your whole body trembling with a quiet anger that went deeper than your skin. It wasn’t just about the apartment. It was about a lifetime of being passed over.

They started gathering their things, your mother smoothing out her coat, your sister checking her phone, already distracted.

“Congratulations,” you mumbled without looking up.

S/n glanced back at you with a smirk. “Thanks. I’ll send you the invite.”

They left without hugs. Just a closing door and the lingering scent of your mother's perfume.

And for a long time, you sat there, staring at the dent in the couch cushion where your father had sat, like his presence still weighed it down.

You didn’t cry.

You were too tired to cry.

But deep in your chest, something hardened. You didn’t know what yet. Maybe it was resolve.

Maybe it was the first breath of freedom.

After the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was loud—almost oppressive. The kind that settles in your bones and reminds you just how alone you are.

You stared at the chipped tile near the front door, hands limp in your lap. The echo of their voices still clung to the walls—your father’s cold practicality, your mother’s detached logic, your sister’s smug indifference. It all buzzed like static in your ears.

You blinked slowly, chest tight, and reached for your phone. Your fingers hovered for a second before you tapped the contact without thinking—Amilla.

The only person who really knew you.

The only person who had stayed.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft, but it cracked with concern.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just let out a hum, tired and hollow.

“Family meeting went bad?” she asked knowingly.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, dragging your palm down your face as you leaned back against the couch cushion. “You could say that.”

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by the rustling of what sounded like car keys. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t move. Don’t overthink. Just… breathe, okay? You can tell me everything when I get there.”

And with that, she hung up.

You stared at the screen a moment longer before placing the phone face-down on the coffee table.

Ten minutes.

That’s all you had to hold yourself together for.

You stood up slowly, your joints aching from tension and exhaustion, and moved around the flat in a daze. The room suddenly felt smaller. Dimmer. Like your family had sucked the color out of the space with their judgment and fake smiles.

You shuffled into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. A bottle of water. A leftover takeout box. Two eggs. Some mustard. You shut it again, heart sinking a little lower.

You moved instead to the window, pulling back the sheer curtain and looking out over the street. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden hue across the balconies of neighboring buildings. People were laughing somewhere down below. A couple walked hand in hand across the sidewalk, her head on his shoulder. You wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Or if luck even had anything to do with it.

You heard the buzz of the intercom almost exactly ten minutes later.

“Coming,” you murmured, pressing the button before you opened the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.

A few moments later, Amilla walked in without knocking. She didn’t have to. She never did.

She wore an oversized hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled into a loose bun, no makeup—just comfort. She took one look at your face and set her bag down immediately.

“Okay,” she said gently, stepping forward. “Hug first. Words later.”

You didn’t argue. You stepped into her arms, and for the first time all day, your body finally let go. Your face buried into her shoulder, your breath catching in your throat. The tears came—not loudly, not dramatically—just quiet and exhausted. Like a release.

She held you tightly, like she knew exactly how broken you felt. She rubbed your back in slow, steady circles. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

You pulled back after a moment, sniffling and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said firmly. “Now sit. Start from the top.”

You both settled on the couch, your knees tucked under you as she pulled a throw blanket over your lap and curled beside you.

You took a deep breath, letting it all out. “They came here just to tell me they’re cutting me off. Rent, utilities, everything. Because S/n is getting married.”

Amilla’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

You nodded, voice hollow. “She’s engaged. Huge ring. Huge wedding. Dad’s paying for the whole thing—the venue, honeymoon, probably a freaking fireworks show too. And since it’s going to be ‘expensive,’ they decided they can’t afford to help me anymore.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, because clearly their child working two jobs and doing college alone isn’t a priority, but throwing your sister a royal wedding is.”

“They told me I could move back home,” you said, voice thick with disbelief. “Like that’s some kind of gift. They said it’d be easier. More ‘comfortable.’”

Amilla narrowed her eyes. “Comfortable for who? So you can play second fiddle in your own house again? Watch your sister get crowned Queen of the Universe while you serve snacks at the engagement party?”

You laughed dryly. “Basically.”

She sat in silence for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “You’re not going back.”

“I can’t afford this place on my own.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said instantly. “Maybe we find you a roommate. Or a smaller place. Or you move in with me for a while—I’ve got space.”

“Millie…”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, but her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not letting you go back there. Not to that house. Not to them. They don’t see you. But I do.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening again. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time it felt warm—like safety, not judgment. The apartment, still small and dim, somehow didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

You looked over at her, brushing hair from your face. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she said, offering a small smile. “Now, do you want to keep venting or should we do something reckless like drink wine and look at Airbnbs we can’t afford?”

You grinned, a tired kind of grin. “Both. Definitely both.”

The day was bittersweet, soaked in a kind of ache that settled somewhere deep in your bones. It was the kind of ache that had no clear origin, no obvious wound—just the slow burn of disappointment, of being reminded once again that love, in your family, came with conditions. You had gone through all the stages—shock, anger, confusion—and now, sitting in the quiet after your parents and sister had left, it was just sorrow lingering like smoke in the room.

You didn’t understand her. S/n.

She had always kept you at arm's length. Like you were competition, not family. Like your existence threatened the affection and money she wanted all to herself. Even when you were little, she’d treated you more like a shadow than a sister—one she wanted to outshine, outrun, and forget. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most: you never wanted to compete. You only wanted to be seen.

After spending the afternoon with Amilla, the heaviness dulled just slightly. You’d curled up on the couch with her, shared cheap snacks and worse jokes. She made you laugh when your chest still ached from holding in tears. And though she never said it outright, she understood the weight of what you were going through. She always had.

Your flat didn’t feel quite so dull with her in it. Sure, it was a bit lifeless—bare walls, basic furniture, cold lighting—but it wasn’t awful. It was small, a little plain, but it was yours. It just needed… love. Color. A plant or two. Maybe some laughter.

You walked her to the door, leaning against the frame as she slid on her shoes.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you’re still breathing,” she teased, tugging her bag up on her shoulder.

You rolled your eyes with a soft smile. “I’ll try not to die in the next 24 hours.”

She paused, half out the door, then turned back to you. Her face softened. “Seriously. Stop thinking you’re burdening me. If you need anything—anything—just ask. You're not taking anything from my life. You're in it.”

Her voice carried more weight than it usually did, and for a moment, you felt it. The sincerity. The safety. She felt more like a sister than S/n ever had.

You blinked back the emotion rising behind your eyes and gave a small nod. “Thanks, Millie.”

“I mean it.” She pointed at you, backing down the hall. “I will drag you out of here if I have to. Preferably not by the hair, but I’ll do what I must.”

You laughed softly, and just like that, she was gone—leaving behind warmth in her wake.

A few blocks away, Kimi let out a sigh as he leaned against the balcony railing outside a quiet café, phone pressed to his ear. The Monaco sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long golden shadows over the sleek buildings and cobblestone streets.

“My place won’t be ready for a few more months,” he murmured into the phone, watching a group of teenagers skateboard across the square. “Still doing the kitchen, flooring, painting… all of it.”

His father’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm but filled with quiet concern. “You sure you don’t want to stay at the summer home? You don’t have to live in a hotel or whatever.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ve got options.” Kimi glanced around. “Just want to figure it out myself. Starting my life here, you know?”

There was a pause on the line before his dad spoke again. “Alright. But if you need us, if anything goes wrong, just say the word. You’re never alone out there, Kimi.”

He smiled faintly, nodding to himself. “I know. Thanks.”

After hanging up, he stepped onto the sidewalk, stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket and letting the breeze hit his face. Monaco had been a dream for a while—fresh start, new chapter, Formula 1 career in full swing. He had the money, the status, the success. But none of that helped with finding a place ready to live in right now. The luxury flat he’d purchased was stunning—top floor, sea view, sunlight flooding through tall windows—but far from move-in ready.

As he rounded a corner distractedly, his shoulder bumped into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” he said immediately, looking up.

Amilla laughed, steadying herself and crouching down to pick up her phone. “No worries there. I’ve dealt with worse than being body-checked by someone who smells like expensive cologne.”

He offered an apologetic half-smile. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She dusted off her phone and tucked it away. “I’ve been there. My brain’s a whirlwind right now. My friend—she’s kind of going through hell.”

Kimi raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Amilla nodded, ready to talk like she’d known him for years. “Yeah. Her dad’s cutting her off, like boom, done. Next month’s rent is the last bit of help she’s getting.”

“That sucks,” Kimi muttered with a frown.

“Right? And she’s here in Monaco—alone, juggling two jobs, going to school, barely keeping it together. And her parents just bailed on her because her sister’s getting married. The whole Cinderella step-family situation.”

He blinked. “That’s… harsh.”

“Tell me about it,” Amilla said, adjusting her bag. “She’s too proud to ask for help. I keep offering. Hell, I told her to move in with me. I said I’d kick out my boyfriend if I had to. He wouldn’t even fight me on it.”

Kimi chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got her back.”

“Always,” she said.

He paused, thoughtful. “Actually… is she looking for a roommate?”

Amilla’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you psychic?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I literally said earlier I’d help her find a roommate! I said I’d start asking around! And now, boom, here you are, asking me that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, my place isn’t ready, and I don’t want to do hotels for months. I’ve been thinking about finding something temporary. If she’s got space…”

Amilla squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” he deadpanned.

“Good. You’re about to change someone’s life,” she said, pulling her phone out again. “What’s your name?”

“Kimi.”

She grinned. “Alright, Kimi. I think I’ve got someone you really need to meet.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The rain had faded into a soft drizzle by late afternoon, painting the Monaco streets in muted silver and gold. You were still wrapped in your hoodie and blanket, curled up on the couch as your laptop sat open on the coffee table—an unfinished motorsports engineering module on engine telemetry blinking back at you, completely ignored.

Your mind was elsewhere. Namely: rent, your sister’s wedding, and the gnawing ache of being left behind by the very people meant to love you unconditionally.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You shuffled toward it slowly, blanket still draped over your shoulders like a makeshift shield.

When you opened the door, Amilla stood there in her rain-damp hoodie, cheeks pink from the breeze and wearing a grin that made your suspicion kick in immediately.

“You brought something, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Technically someone,” she corrected, stepping aside.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tousled dark hair damp from the rain. A sharp jawline, hoodie pulled low, and deep brown eyes—warm, steady, quietly observing.

You knew that face instantly.

Kimi Antonelli.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

Formula 1’s golden boy. Mercedes’ pride. The Kimi Antonelli, with a junior record longer than your coursework, and a fanbase that included a good half of your class. You’d watched his F2 performances like gospel before he ever made the jump to F1. His Monaco junior win? Practically mandatory viewing in your program.

And now he was standing on your doormat, like this was totally normal.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you said, voice slightly too high-pitched. “Um. Come in?”

He nodded and stepped inside, doing a polite scan of your modest flat while Amilla followed, already peeling off her coat like she owned the place.

“You didn’t say Kimi Antonelli,” you hissed at her, eyes wide as she flopped on the edge of your couch.

“Did I not?” she blinked. “I just said Kimi.”

“You said Kimi like he was some guy you bumped into, not like Kimi Antonelli, the Formula One driver who literally eats data for breakfast.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

You gave her a pointed look, and then—without hesitation—grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

“Are you out of your mind?” you whisper-yelled.

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused. “He’s chill!”

“He’s also famous! Like, motorsports world famous. Do you not realize I wrote a paper on his F4 championship run last year? I have a graph on my laptop right now that literally has his race telemetry in it!”

Amilla blinked. “Wait. That’s him?”

“YES, Amilla. That’s him.”

She paused. Then grinned slowly. “Damn. Well. He’s cuter in person.”

“Not the point!”

You began pacing. “I can’t just… live with Kimi Antonelli. What if I geek out? What if I say something dumb? What if he sees my notes and realizes I analyze his braking patterns for fun?!”

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Second, you’re acting like he’s a rock star or royalty. He’s just a dude who drives really fast and wears a fancy fireproof suit.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Amilla—”

“Hey. You need help. He needs a place. You both know how to change tires. It’s a match made in motorsports heaven.”

You blinked, exhaled hard, and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Fine. Cool. Calm.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Now put on your chill face. You’re the girl who knows how to recite FIA regulations from memory. You’ve got this.”

You nodded slowly, squaring your shoulders.

And then both of you walked back out to the living room like nothing had happened.

Kimi looked up from where he’d politely sat himself on the couch, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes flicked between the two of you with faint curiosity.

“Sorry,” Amilla said breezily. “Just a minor fashion emergency.”

You shot her a glare that she absolutely ignored.

You sat across from Kimi, trying to look neutral—cool, composed, totally not someone who once stayed up watching his entire rookie season highlight reel on YouTube.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re looking for a place, and I’m… well. Being kicked out by my parents. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”

Kimi gave a small nod, his expression relaxed. “Yeah. My place won’t be ready until December. Renovations are taking longer than expected.”

“You’re in Monaco full-time?” you asked.

“For now. It’s a good base. I’m barely here during race weeks, anyway, so you’d have the place mostly to yourself.”

You nodded, your mind already calculating logistics: space, schedule, rent split. It could work. If you didn’t combust from awkward fan energy first.

“I mean,” Amilla chimed in with a grin. “She’s a motorsports engineering student, so if anything breaks, she can probably fix it better than your mechanics.”

You flushed slightly, and Kimi smiled—just barely, but it was there.

“That’s good to know,” he said, looking at you, not amused… but intrigued.

You swallowed, nodded once. “Okay. Trial run. One week. If we don’t kill each other, we can talk about extending it.”

“Fair enough.”

Amilla stood and stretched. “And with that, I have officially solved your housing crisis. You’re welcome, Monaco.”

You and Kimi both said at the same time, “It’s not like that.”

You paused.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

A beat.

Then, a flicker of a smile on both your faces.

Not like that… but maybe something was about to begin anyway

When Amilla left, the sound of the door clicking shut behind her echoed just a little too loudly. And then came the silence. Heavy and awkward—not uncomfortable, just new.

You stood there for a second, not quite knowing where to start. Kimi stood across the room, still taking it all in, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as his brown eyes scanned your small, lived-in flat. No judgment, just quiet observation.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s not bad,” you said, gesturing around vaguely. “Small kitchen, yeah. And the lighting sucks at night—but it’s a decent two-bedroom. The second one’s kind of bland, just a guest room right now. But you’re free to do what you want with it. Move furniture. Put up posters. Burn sage. Whatever.”

He nodded once, offering a faint smile. “Well… thank you. Seriously.”

You tucked your arms around yourself, half-shrugging. “And, uh, I mostly live on takeout. I work two jobs and still help pay for stuff around here, even when my dad was covering the rent. I also cover my school tuition, some bills, extra things. So if you get hungry, there’s some tea and sad leftovers, but… you’ll probably wanna grab something from down the street.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

You studied his expression for a second—unreadable, but not distant. Then you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and gave a sheepish laugh.

“I feel like a loser. I’m sorry you have to stay in a place this… bland.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Your friend told me the basics of your situation. So it’s fine. Really.”

Some of the tension left your shoulders. Not all, but enough to speak with less of a guard.

“At least we can make this work,” you said, crossing to the window and tugging at the blinds. The city outside glowed faintly through the mist. “You said your place will be ready by December. Until then, you can help with some bills, keep things running. And then when you move out, I’ll… probably move back home.”

He nodded. “Just tell me my half. I’ll take care of it.”

You hesitated. That quiet promise—I’ll take care of it—wasn’t something you were used to hearing without fine print.

Your life had always been private. Not by choice, just… survival. You’d learned to keep the details quiet, tucked behind tired smiles and vague explanations. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like Kimi was trying to push past that. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t giving advice. He was just here—in it, without judgment.

Maybe that’s why it was easier to breathe.

You gestured down the hall. “Guest room’s yours. Go ahead and check it out, unpack, move things around, whatever you need to do.”

“Sure thing,” he said, walking toward the hallway, then pausing as he turned to you. “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Honestly… I’m kind of surprised you’re not freaking out.”

Your stomach flipped.

And deep down, you were. Your heart had been skipping beats since he first stepped inside.

You swallowed and gave a dry laugh. “It’s nothing.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite buy it.

You sighed, rubbing your palm against the back of your neck. “Okay. Fine. I know who you are.”

His expression barely changed—just a slight lift of one brow, waiting.

“I study F1 alongside my main coursework,” you admitted, voice softening. “Motorsports engineering. I want to work in it—trackside, data, power unit management, maybe race strategy. You were in one of my research papers last semester.”

Kimi blinked.

“I broke down your Spa performance frame by frame for a telemetry analysis project,” you added, managing a nervous smile. “So, yeah. You being here? It feels a little fake. Like… dream-sequence, simulation glitch kind of fake.”

He smiled—just slightly, but you caught it. Not smug. Not flattered. Just… quiet understanding.

“Well,” he said, voice even, “give it a few days. It’ll feel real eventually.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-laughing. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He chuckled, the sound low and real, and disappeared down the hall to explore the guest room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the place he’d been, and whispered under your breath—

“Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t—”

But part of you already knew… it might be too late.

The rest of the day had gone by more smoothly than you expected. The initial awkwardness had faded into something calmer—comfortable, even. There were quiet stretches, soft conversation, and occasional shared glances that said this isn’t so bad without needing the words.

You’d talked a bit—about your schoolwork, the café job, the restaurant shifts, how most of your nights ended with sore feet and cold takeout. Kimi had listened more than he spoke, not in a disinterested way, but with a kind of quiet attention that felt rare. He didn’t cut you off. He didn’t pretend to know better. He just… listened.

By evening, you were both in pajamas, legs folded on the couch with a container of warm takeout between you. Something with noodles. Something comforting. Rain tapped gently at the windows while the TV played something forgettable in the background.

You set your food aside, wiping your fingers on a napkin as you grabbed your worn notebook from the table and flipped it open, pen already in hand.

“I’ll pick up some more shifts this week,” you said casually, scribbling a quick note. “Just so we’re even on bills. I don’t want you covering more than me.”

Kimi glanced over, chopsticks paused midair. “You don’t have to do that. I can pull more weight, if you need.”

You shook your head, still writing. “No. This is fifty-fifty. I’ll also get a copy of the spare key made tomorrow, just in case you come back when I’m out.”

He set his container down. “You’re going to take on extra shifts… on top of everything else?”

“Yep.” You underlined a word on your list and gave a small nod of confirmation.

“You have studies,” he pointed out, frowning slightly. “Lectures, labs, assignments—motorsports isn’t exactly light work.”

You leaned back on the couch, exhaling slowly, pen still in hand. “Late turn-ins might happen. I’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to understand how someone could be so… determined. Or maybe just stubborn.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said, voice low.

“I’m not,” you replied softly, meeting his eyes. “I’m proving something to myself.”

He didn’t argue with that.

You gave a small shrug, voice growing quieter. “I want this to work. I don’t care if this is temporary. I don’t care if it’s just for a few months. I want it to feel fair while you’re here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The light from the TV danced across his face—soft golds and blues washing over his expression.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think it’s impressive. What you’re doing.”

You blinked.

“Most people would’ve gone home by now,” he continued. “Most people do go home. You stayed. You work. You study. You make it all fit.”

Your chest ached a little, but in a different way now. It wasn’t the sharp loneliness from earlier this week—it was something gentler. Softer.

“Thanks,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

He gave a small nod, reaching for his food again. “I’ll pick up groceries tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. You can’t live off takeout forever.”

“Says the guy currently eating takeout.”

He looked over at you, a teasing glint in his eye. “Touché.”

You smiled, finally relaxing against the couch. Maybe it was the pajamas. Maybe it was the way the night had settled into something that felt like friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the first time in a long time someone had sat beside you and simply… stayed.

The flat was quiet, well into the night. The soft hum of city lights outside barely filtered through the windows, and the leftover scent of dinner still lingered faintly in the air. You’d retreated to your room hours ago after a quick goodnight, worn out from juggling your shift and online coursework. The door clicked gently behind you, and that was that.

Kimi stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, listening to the quiet.

It wasn’t awkward—just still. Still enough to think.

He didn’t want to come off as distant or ungrateful. But truthfully, this wasn’t easy for him either. Living with someone new, especially someone he didn’t really know. Someone who clearly had their own world of weight on their shoulders. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. Enough to recognize grit when he saw it.

And you… you carried it like armor.

He had a quiet respect for you, though he hadn’t said it yet. Not many people would’ve stayed here, held their ground, fought to keep their life afloat when it would’ve been easier to pack up and go home. And not many would’ve offered a total stranger a place to stay in the middle of that chaos.

He turned off the lights and disappeared into the spare room, the sheets still starchy from being unused, the space blank and untouched. But it didn’t feel cold—not completely. There was a softness to this place. Maybe because someone like you lived here.

The morning came with soft footsteps and the smell of faintly burnt toast.

It became a routine, surprisingly fast. Something you two practiced as soon as possible.

Within the two days there.

You were always up first, even if it was still dark outside, dragging your sleepy self into the bathroom and giving a quiet knock on his door before you passed, just in case. He appreciated that. Small things mattered.

You showed him where the towels were, left them folded on the counter. Showed him the shampoo, the toothpaste drawer, the stash of backup toothbrushes tucked behind the mirror.

“If you ever forget something or need extra, it’s all here,” you had said, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

And then you were gone—off to your early job with barely time to sip the coffee you made, leaving behind a note and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

Try to eat today.

Y/N

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the place was already quiet again, your energy gone with you. But the sandwich was warm. And the note made him smile, just a little.

Third day became comfortable to work with.

On your days off, the rhythm shifted. You were more present, still moving fast, but now he had company for breakfast, sometimes lunch, and always dinner. You cooked when you could—nothing extravagant, but warm and homemade. When you were too tired, you ordered in and refused to apologize for it.

And Kimi? He adjusted.

He took out the trash. Washed the dishes without being asked. Made you tea once when he noticed your eyes glassy from staring at the screen too long. He didn’t say much, but he was paying attention.

Okay.

He could work with this.

He could fall into this groove, this quiet understanding between two people just trying to get by without falling apart. You had rules, a system, and he respected it. He wasn’t here to cause chaos. He was here to figure things out—and somehow, this… you… were a part of that now.

One week.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

But as he sipped your burnt coffee with toast crumbs on his hoodie and the smell of your vanilla shampoo still clinging to the hallway…

He wasn’t so sure one week would be enough.

You had slipped into a routine almost seamlessly, like life had made space for this temporary chapter without complaint.

On the kitchen wall, a paper calendar hung—simple, handwritten, with your weekly schedule mapped out in black ink. Your shifts at the café, your online lectures, your study hours, all plotted in little boxes that dictated your time like clockwork. Kimi’s eyes had skimmed over it once or twice, and even though his own schedule didn’t quite match yours—morning workouts, sim sessions, team meetings—there was never a moment of tension. Just quiet understanding.

You didn’t hover. You didn’t pry. And neither did he.

A week. That was the plan.

Seven days to see if this could work.

But by day four, he already knew.

This wasn’t just working—this was comfortable. A still kind of comfort, something that wasn’t loud or needy, something that slipped into your bones without warning. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he did. He enjoyed the silence, the absence of pressure. The way nothing here was performative.

He came in that evening after a long workout, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie damp at the collar. The sun had just started to dip behind the buildings, casting warm, tired light across the flat.

You were curled up on the couch, headphones in, completely unaware of him. Textbooks, printed PDFs, and sticky notes were spread out across the cushions and coffee table. Your laptop glowed in front of you, your eyes narrowed in concentration. Every now and then, you’d mumble a technical term or an answer under your breath, voice low and rhythmic like a chant.

Kimi paused at the entrance, hand on the back of his neck as he watched for a moment. You didn’t look up. You didn’t notice him.

And somehow, that made it better.

When you finally caught his presence in your peripheral vision, you pulled one earbud out, glancing up.

Your eyes met, and you gave a small, awkward wave.

He returned it—just a flick of his fingers—and nodded once before brushing past toward the hallway and into his room.

Day four.

So far, so good.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sounds of your quiet study session returned to fill the space again.

He dropped his bag by the door of his room, peeled off the hoodie, and let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. There was something about hearing you mutter suspension terms and fuel flow limits like gospel, seeing your notes taped to the table’s edge, your tired eyes lit by the glow of a laptop screen—that felt strangely grounding.

He didn’t know your whole story. Not yet. But he was starting to understand the edges of it.

You were built out of grit.

And maybe that’s what made the silence feel less empty.

He stepped back out for a moment, bare feet against the cold floor, heading into the kitchen for water. You didn’t say anything, didn’t pause your studying, but your gaze flicked up again—just briefly—as if to acknowledge him.

He filled his glass at the sink.

“I’m impressed,” he said finally, voice low.

You paused, blinking, earbud dangling from your hand. “By what?”

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

You looked at your notes, then back at him with a small shrug. “Comes with the territory. Midterms are brutal.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t expect you to be this… focused.”

A corner of your mouth lifted. “Motorsport engineering isn’t exactly a soft degree.”

“No,” he said, sipping from his glass. “No, it’s not.”

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t empty. It sat between you comfortably, like something mutual. Something earned.

And as Kimi padded back to his room, that faint smile still lingered on your lips.

Maybe it was a small thing.

But for both of you?

It was a start.

Day five.

By now, the rhythm was second nature.

The soft knock on his door—your signal—and the faint patter of your feet across the hallway meant your day had started. It was always the same: your early morning shower, the hum of water behind the bathroom door, while Kimi moved through his own slow start to the morning. He’d pack his bag quietly, folding his team gear, checking emails from his phone, lacing his sneakers while the city was still wrapped in that soft Monaco hush.

He had a full day ahead—meetings with Mercedes, sim work, a debrief—but he didn’t mind the calm that came before it all.

You never rushed. Even when time was tight, there was a certain steadiness to the way you handled mornings.

In the bathroom, the mirror fogged as you brushed your teeth and combed through your damp hair, your internal monologue playing out as always—reminders, encouragement, quiet little pep talks. They helped you keep your shoulders squared and your head up, even on days when the exhaustion clung heavier than usual.

Once dressed and presentable, you slipped out, hoodie zipped halfway up, bag slung over one shoulder. As you stepped into the hallway, Kimi passed you without a word, offering a subtle nod, and disappeared into the bathroom in your wake.

No words. No need for them.

In the kitchen, you worked quickly, the familiar scent of eggs and toasted bread warming the small flat. You knew what he liked by now—even if he never said it out loud. The breakfast sandwich you made wasn’t anything special on paper, but you caught on to the way he always ate it first, the way he lingered at the counter longer on the days you made it fresh.

You wrapped it up carefully, not because it was fancy, but because you cared. Placed his drink beside it—just the way he liked it, not too sweet. And then came the little note.

Don’t skip breakfast. —Y/N

Same handwriting. Same casual tone. Still made him pause every time.

You grabbed your apron off the chair, looped your house key onto your wrist, and placed his key beside the sandwich. Neatly. Like clockwork.

And then, just like that, you were out the door.

Kimi stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, freshly showered, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp at the ends. The scent of breakfast met him immediately, and the sight of that neat little package on the counter grounded him.

He reached for the note first, scanning the familiar handwriting. Then his eyes shifted to the calendar on the wall—your schedule for the day already penned in—knowing exactly when you’d be home and when you’d be gone.

He tucked the note into his pocket, grabbed the sandwich and drink, and then took the spare key. He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing over the countertop, like maybe he didn’t quite want to leave just yet.

The light above the stove was still on—your little habit of leaving a soft glow behind.

He turned it off before locking the door behind him.

Life was quiet.

Private.

Predictable, in a way neither of you had expected.

Something small, something stable.

But beneath all that simplicity… something else was beginning to take shape.

Something unspoken.

Something that mattered.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The soft hum of the heater and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall were the only sounds filling the flat. You’d just finished deep-cleaning—every surface wiped down, the floors swept and mopped until they glowed faintly under the warm light. The air smelled like lemon and something faintly floral. It was the kind of clean that let you breathe a little easier.

You sat on the couch, curled slightly toward Kimi, your legs tucked under you. He sat beside you, arms resting lazily on his thighs, his expression calm, even if his eyes looked a little sleepy from the long day. Comfortable. Familiar.

It had been a week.

Seven quiet days.

No lectures from your mother about how S/n’s career was thriving. No passive-aggressive remarks from your father about how much he had “invested” in you while praising your sister’s modeling contracts. No dinner table silences while your sister bragged about the next photoshoot or yacht trip. No constant comparison, no bitterness hanging in the air like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Just… this.

You. Him. Silence that wasn’t suffocating.

He didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened. And sometimes, his eyes spoke louder than any of your family’s noise ever had. Kimi had this stillness to him, a way of waiting for the right moment to speak—and when he did, it always came without judgment.

It felt right.

You reached for the paper you’d left on the coffee table—a page so carefully written it might as well have been a legal contract. You laid your pen across it and exhaled, letting the moment settle before you broke the quiet.

“Alright,” you said, drawing his gaze to yours, “Did you like the week here? Is it something you can actually see yourself doing until December?”

Kimi blinked slowly, thinking, then hummed in that low, thoughtful way he did. You gestured to the paper in front of you.

“If so, you can sign this.”

He leaned forward and picked it up, scanning the contents quietly. His brows furrowed slightly, reading more out of thoroughness than confusion. You explained softly, not wanting to break the gentle ease of the moment.

“It’s a rental agreement. Super basic—my version of it, at least,” you said with a dry chuckle. “I’m actually friends with the woman who owns this place. She’s old-school but sweet. She knows you’re here and told me to consider putting you on the lease. Said, ‘no freeloaders’”—you mimicked her voice and smiled faintly—“so this makes it official.”

Kimi’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Sounds fair.”

You nodded. “I can’t let you live here for free, no matter how temporary it is.”

But before you could say more, he looked up from the paper and said, “If I stay… we’ll have to make some adjustments.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve been here for one week.”

He hummed in amusement, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah. And I already know this place needs help.”

You laughed under your breath. “You mean it’s bland.”

“I mean it’s lacking life. No offense, but this couch is tragic. And your curtains are basically grey bed sheets with commitment issues.”

You rolled your eyes, half-grinning. “Okay, interior designer.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, setting the paper down gently, “If I’m staying, let’s make it a place that feels like both of ours. Doesn’t have to be extravagant. Just… something that doesn’t feel like you’ve been surviving.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly.

“I know I come from money,” you admitted, your voice quieter, “but my parents are currently acting like I don’t exist. So asking for help to redo the place? Not an option.”

Kimi nodded once, almost like he’d expected that answer. “Then let me pay for it.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t let you do that. I work two jobs, I’m managing—”

“You shouldn’t have to manage alone,” he cut in gently. “Let me.”

You opened your mouth, and he beat you to it.

“You work in the mornings, come home looking half-dead, then study like your future’s balanced on a wire. You barely sleep. You live off instant noodles and cold coffee. You’ve done all this on your own, and I get it, that’s who you are—but I’m not going to sit here for the next few months pretending I don’t see it.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, breath caught somewhere between protest and something softer.

Kimi leaned back a little, resting his elbow on the couch arm. “I’m not trying to buy you a gold chandelier. I’m just saying… we pick a day, go shopping, you tell me what you like, and I’ll cover it.”

You frowned. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me for letting you stay.”

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “I want to do this because I can.”

Your jaw clenched. You weren’t used to people offering without strings. Without guilt. Without expectation.

You looked down at the contract, the pen still sitting atop it.

Quiet filled the space again. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something unfinished. It felt like a turning point.

“You’re not going to vanish in three weeks, are you?” you asked softly, still not meeting his eyes.

“No,” Kimi replied, just as soft. “Not unless you kick me out.”

You finally looked at him, searching his face for anything false. But all you saw was that same steadiness he’d had since day one. Calm. Certain. A little sleepy, sure—but sincere.

You reached for the pen.

“Okay,” you said, pushing it toward him. “Let’s make this official."

The pen hit the paper with a soft click, sealing it—simple, final, and strangely relieving.

It was official now. You weren’t doing this alone anymore.

You took a quiet breath as Kimi signed his name, and the air in the flat felt different. Not heavier. Not tenser.

Lighter.

You picked up your phone from the coffee table and sent a quick text to Amilla.

“He signed. It’s official. Thank you—for everything.”

It didn’t take her long to reply.

“Of course. I told you—he’s not just a pretty face. Proud of you, roomie.” Followed by a row of glitter and key emojis.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Amilla always knew what to say without making it dramatic. She understood your silences, your hesitations, and your need for caution in a world that felt far too quick to invade your peace.

You glanced back at Kimi, who was watching you calmly, waiting.

"Okay," you said, folding the paper. "Just want to make one thing clear.”

He straightened slightly, giving you his full attention.

“I don’t do media. I don’t want to be posted, tagged, or casually snapped in a background photo. My sister? She lives for the spotlight. She’d swim in flashing cameras if she could. But me?” You shook your head. “I prefer privacy. I like my life to be mine. So, if we’re going to make this roommate thing work—please don’t bring attention to me.”

Kimi’s gaze didn’t waver. His brown eyes softened with something that felt close to understanding. “Of course. I post what I need to for the team, for the sport. But outside of that? I keep things quiet. You have my word, Y/n. I won’t expose anything.”

You held out your hand, pinky slightly raised like muscle memory. “Shake on it?”

He grinned a little, grasping your hand in a warm shake. “We’re friends,” you added, voice light.

“And roommates,” he added back with a small nod.

The week rolled forward, and so did the rhythm.

The routine didn’t shift much—early mornings, overlapping schedules, the quiet handoffs between your departures and his returns. But your shoulders were looser now. Work didn’t feel like a crushing weight. Studying didn’t feel like climbing uphill with a backpack full of bricks. Everything was still hard—but it was… quieter. Easier, in the smallest of ways.

Maybe it was the fact that, for once, someone was standing beside you rather than watching from the sidelines.

The café was slow for a Monday.

You’d just finished ringing out a customer and were stepping back behind the counter to grab your notepad when the soft chime above the door rang again. You glanced up instinctively.

Kimi.

You blinked in surprise and immediately leaned over the counter, lowering your voice like it was instinct. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged casually, hands tucked into his pockets. “I came to see you.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, but there was no real bite behind it. “Kimi…”

“I’d be a fool to let my friend work herself to the bone without checking in,” he added smoothly.

You let out a small sigh, trying not to smile. “And I’d be a fool if I let you get caught loitering and end up in a gossip column. You want the entire internet dissecting who I am?”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Fair enough.”

You turned toward the register, keying in a simple drink order. “I’ll put something in, that way you’re not technically just standing here. Plus, it gives me cover.”

“Appreciate the protection,” he teased lightly.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You handed him a receipt stub as you passed by the espresso machine.

“You’re really keeping a low profile, huh?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” you said, not turning to look at him. “I like it that way. My Instagram is private, barely used. I don't share my life unless I want to. It’s the only thing that still feels like mine.”

He hummed, and part of you wondered—had he looked? You wouldn’t be surprised. You were rooming with a professional driver; you Googled him on night one.

Still, he didn’t push.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked, voice casual again.

You blinked, grabbing a clean cup. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I thought… if you’re free, maybe we go look at some stuff for the apartment. Pick out a few things. You know, make this place feel more like a home.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. That offer again. He wasn’t letting it go.

“I’m free all morning,” you said, not looking up yet. “But I have a night shift. My other job needs extra waitresses, so I picked up the shift.”

He nodded, understanding. “Then we make it a morning thing. Quick. No pressure.”

You finally looked at him, and he was already watching you—steady, quiet, but warm.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Morning it is.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning was shared with soft conversation and quiet plans, the kind that filled the silence with something comforting instead of heavy. You sat at the small kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of paper with a pen that was nearly out of ink. Your handwriting trailed across the page in your usual organized chaos—eggs, bread, frozen dumplings, oat milk, shampoo… life stuff. It felt normal.

Kimi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes casually following the motion of your hand. The morning light filtered in, casting everything in a warm hue, making your little flat feel more like a home than it ever had before.

You paused mid-word and glanced up at him, brow quirking. “Can I ask why you’re wearing a cap and sunglasses inside the apartment?”

He didn’t move, just shrugged lightly. “Habit.”

You snorted. “You look like you’re trying to go incognito at a gas station.”

“Well, technically, I am.”

You gave him a look, your tone more amused than annoyed. “There’s no one out to get you here. Just me. And I already know your face.”

He pulled the sunglasses off slowly, a sigh slipping out as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know,” he muttered. “But I’m trying here, okay? You said you didn’t want attention, media… all that. So, I figured I could at least try to be forgettable in public.”

Your pen stilled in your hand, and for a moment you just looked at him—really looked at him.

He wasn’t doing this for himself.

He was doing it for you.

The realization bloomed in your chest like something soft and painful all at once. He wasn’t obligated to care. But he did. In his quiet, awkward way—this was his way of protecting you, of making sure you didn’t end up on someone’s Twitter thread just because he happened to walk beside you.

Your voice softened, a quiet thanks behind your words. “That’s… actually really sweet of you.”

He just hummed, like he didn’t know what to say to that. You knew him well enough by now to know that was his version of you’re welcome.

By the time you both made it to the car, you had your list folded neatly and tucked into your pocket, though you were beginning to suspect it would be completely ignored. The second you sat in the passenger seat and buckled up, you could tell—Kimi had other plans.

“So,” you began cautiously, glancing over at him as he started the engine, “we’re getting small stuff. Essentials. That’s the plan.”

He shook his head slowly, pulling into the road, eyes forward. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“We’re getting a new TV,” he said plainly. “Couch. Kitchen stuff. Bathroom. Towels that don’t feel like sandpaper. And for the love of everything—bedroom upgrades. Especially yours.”

You looked at him like he had just declared war on your minimal existence. “Kimi, we agreed—small stuff. Like groceries and maybe one decorative plant.”

He gave you a look, one brow raised as he turned down a quiet street.

“I’ve been living here for over a week,” he said. “Your mattress is basically an ancient fossil, your desk chair is about to lose a leg, and your closet door literally moans in pain every time you open it.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, then sighed dramatically. “Okay… fair. But still.”

“You’ve made this place work on survival mode,” he continued, more gently now. “You deserve something that feels good. Comfortable. I’m not saying go full luxury—just let it feel like a real home.”

You frowned, fiddling with the edge of your seatbelt. “But I can’t let you buy all of that. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not offering charity,” he said. “I’m offering a living space. One we both share. I can afford it. You already do everything—work, study, clean, cook. Let me cover the things I can.”

You looked over at him, the weight of those words anchoring you somewhere deep in your chest. He wasn’t pitying you. He was trying to meet you where you stood—without ego, without strings.

“…Fine,” you murmured. “But only if I get to pick the color scheme.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “As long as it’s not mustard yellow.”

You gasped. “That’s literally the color of one of the pillows we bought!”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re the worst.”

“Yet somehow, still your roommate.”

You leaned your head back against the headrest as the car rolled to a stoplight, the city opening up ahead of you.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t dreading what came next.

You were almost… excited.

And that?

That was new.

The engine hummed softly beneath you, the city passing in a blur of stone buildings and pastel balconies as Kimi drove with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and the air between you both was easy, like it had settled into something comfortable.

You glanced over at him, your cheek resting against your knuckles. “So… when you leave for race week, I’m gonna be that person screaming at the TV.”

Kimi glanced at you with a half-smile, not taking his eyes off the road. “You better be. I expect dramatic commentary.”

“Oh, you’ll get commentary,” you said, chuckling. “But you better FaceTime me. I’m expecting updates, track gossip, paddock drama—the works.”

“I will,” he said, a little more serious now. “I’ll call you when I can. Keep the routine alive.”

You hummed at that, watching the sun filter through the windshield. “And don’t blow your cover,” you added after a beat, voice softer. “No one knows we live together. No one even knows who I am. I’d kind of like to keep it that way.”

He nodded once, understanding instantly. “I got you. I’ll keep it quiet.”

There was a short pause before a grin slowly tugged at your lips. “But… if you can get me something signed by Fernando Alonso—a cap, a shirt, I’m not picky—I’ll cook you pasta every night. Real pasta. Handmade if I have time.”

That made him turn his head slightly, one brow lifting with amused surprise. “Pasta every night?”

You nodded solemnly. “Every night.”

He let out a short laugh, eyes flicking back to the road as he leaned into the turn. “That’s not just a gift, that’s blackmail.”

“No, no,” you grinned. “It’s an incentive.”

He smirked, voice lower now, warm and teasing. “An offer… I don’t think a man like me can resist.”

You let out a soft laugh, watching him for a moment, the way his brown eyes were focused ahead, but still so present. You liked that about him. He was quiet, but he always listened.

“Don’t say I never gave you motivation,” you teased.

He glanced at you again with a smile that lingered just a little longer this time. “Noted.”

You ended up picking the couch. A warm, earthy-toned sectional that felt like a soft exhale—something that said home without trying too hard. Next came the dining table, a sleek but simple wooden one with enough room for two, maybe three if Amilla ever dropped by for dinner. Then you spotted it—a recliner, tucked off to the side, and you didn’t even mean to sit down, but once you did, it hugged you in such a way that your body didn’t want to leave it. Kimi noticed. So, it went on the list too.

From there, it was like watching your little flat bloom into something real. Something full of intention.

Fairy lights for the walls.

A couple of canvas prints for that one blank space you always avoided looking at.

Even the tiniest shelf with enough room for a few potted plants—or maybe books you never had time to read but liked having around anyway.

You picked out soft, neutral bedding for your room and a handful of throw pillows that didn’t match perfectly, but felt right. Kimi made a few quiet selections too—storage boxes, an extra lamp, some new towels for the bathroom that didn’t feel like sandpaper. He never said much, but you could tell he was already picturing how it would all fit together.

When the cashier rang everything up and the number flashed on the screen, your stomach dropped.

“Kimi—” you started, already reaching to pull a few items off the cart, “this is too much. Let’s take some of it back. I don’t need half of this.”

But before you could even finish your sentence, Kimi had already stepped forward, card in hand, voice calm and unfazed. “It’s fine.”

And he meant it.

He paid, like it was nothing, and the delivery team promised your furniture would arrive within the next couple days. The receipt was long, the kind that curled when it printed. You just stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to wrap your head around the reality that someone had just… given you all of this without asking for anything in return.

When you walked out of the store, sunlight warming your face and shopping bags in hand, you were quiet. Too quiet. Until finally, you sighed.

“That cost a lot.”

Kimi gave a nonchalant hum. “It’s fine.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it is fine,” he repeated with a small smile, eyes forward as he unlocked the car. “This is your home. I’m just helping it feel like one.”

You slid into the passenger seat, placing the smaller bags down by your feet. “I still can’t believe you’re willing to switch everything around just for me.”

He laughed under his breath as he buckled in. “I’m living there too, remember? You’re not redecorating alone anymore.”

You leaned your head against the window as the car pulled out of the parking lot. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I wanted to.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No guilt trip. Just quiet, genuine assurance—something you weren’t used to, but were beginning to understand might just be a part of who Kimi was.

“And next,” he added casually, “we’ll pick up supplies to patch the chipped floorboards near the wall. Something small. Just enough to make everything feel put together.”

You let out a soft laugh, half in disbelief, half in appreciation. “You’re full-on nesting in a place that isn’t even yours yet.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “Maybe it’s starting to feel like it is.”

And somehow, without warning, you smiled—real, wide, warm. For the first time in a long while, things felt… settled.

Almost like home.

Kimi stuck to his word, no hesitation in sight. Every aisle you turned down, he was already ahead of you—reaching for things, checking labels, adding what was needed into the cart like it was second nature.

The cart rolled steadily through the store, now packed with the tools to build a real kitchen: a sleek new toaster, pots and pans that matched for once, an entire set of plates and matching cups, fresh utensils, and a modern coffee maker that caught your eye the second you saw it. Without needing to ask, he grabbed it.

“I figured you’d want that,” he said simply, like he could already picture you bleary-eyed at six in the morning with a mug in hand.

He got you everything—forks, spoons, knives, spatulas, even those oddly specific gadgets you didn’t think anyone ever bought: a garlic press, a lemon zester. Things you didn’t even know you’d use. You walked beside him in a slow stroll, taking it all in.

“Mugs,” you said with a little grin, glancing toward the display.

Kimi slowed down. “Pick one for you and one for me,” he said casually.

You stepped toward the shelf, trailing your fingers over the rows. Some were too cheesy, some too plain. Then your eyes landed on two—ceramic, slightly misshapen, one a warm rust color and the other a faded olive green. They had tiny, subtle ridges like they were handmade. Not flashy. Not perfect. But something about them felt like home.

“These,” you said quietly, turning and gently placing them into the cart like they were delicate treasures.

He looked at them, then at you, and smiled softly. “Good pick.”

The cart moved again. You strolled past more shelves, and he kept the pace. Easy. No pressure.

“Mixer,” you said aloud, stopping beside a bright red stand mixer. “Maybe… we could bake sometime. I’m not amazing at it, but it could be fun.”

Without missing a beat, Kimi reached over, lifting the box like it weighed nothing and placing it in the cart.

“Okay,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Your wish is my command.”

You shot him a look, amused. “Don’t spoil me, Antonelli.”

“Too late,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

The moment settled in the quiet between you—something soft and certain, like the edges of a new beginning forming gently under your feet.

And for once, as you both moved through the store with a shared cart, laughter in your voices and warmth in your chest, you didn’t feel like you were doing life alone.

When you finally made it back to the flat, both of you carrying bags and boxes in hand, laughter still lingered in the air—left over from small jokes shared during checkout and the minor chaos of trying to stack everything in the trunk.

The front door closed behind you with a soft thud, and the two of you stood there for a second, surrounded by the beginning of something new. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, bags full of spices and pasta, mugs and plates waiting to be unwrapped. The flat didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt like it was becoming lived in.

You let out a small breath and smiled to yourself, proud of how much you’d gotten done. Then you turned to Kimi, eyes sparkling with something that sat somewhere between gratitude and peace.

“We’ll start putting this all together once the furniture gets here,” you said, motioning toward the boxes. “One big transformation day.”

He nodded with a soft hum, watching you.

“But I’ve got work tonight,” you added with a small pout. “So the construction chaos will have to wait a little.”

You turned, heading to your room with that signature lightness in your step—almost a bounce, like you were holding onto a piece of joy and didn’t want to drop it. “I’ll see you later,” you called over your shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable without me!”

The door clicked behind you as you went to get ready, and Kimi stood still for a moment in the quiet. His gaze moved slowly over the space—the stacked bags, the half-full cart of potential, the two mismatched mugs resting near the sink.

And then, softly, his lips tugged into a smile.

You were from money, he knew that. A background like yours wasn’t exactly subtle, and yet… you didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t wear it like a badge. You were grounded, driven, and quietly carrying more weight than most people would ever realize. You worked long shifts, studied harder than you let on, and gave even when you had barely anything left for yourself.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch—the old one for now—and exhaled slowly.

There was something in him, quietly steady, that wanted to shield that goodness in you. Not because you were fragile. But because you shouldn’t have to keep doing it all alone.

And if he could be even a small part of what made this place feel like home for you?

Then yeah.

He was in.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Home.

That’s what it finally felt like.

It wasn’t just a flat anymore—it was yours and his, the quiet rhythm of two people who carved out peace together. The new furniture had arrived earlier that week, and now every corner of the flat whispered comfort. It had been a chaotic but rewarding few days of unpacking, assembling, arranging, laughing over misplaced screws and instruction manuals that made no sense.

The living room was the heart of it all—anchored by the plush, warm-toned couch you had chosen together. The fairy lights cast a soft glow above it, golden and gentle, curling along the wall like a constellation you could trace with your eyes. The throw blanket was folded neatly at one end, pillows fluffed and arranged with just enough care to make it inviting without looking staged. A soft rug sat under the coffee table, grounding the room in cozy textures. The TV was mounted on the wall, sleek and new, with shelves on either side now filled with a growing collection of plants, books, and tiny personal touches.

Even the smallest things made it feel like home—the simple wooden hanger near the door with your two keys hanging side by side, the hallway now holding canvas art that added charm without clutter. The recliner you’d fallen in love with was tucked into the perfect reading corner. The bathroom sparkled with fresh towels, little containers for soaps and lotions, and a faint citrus scent that felt crisp and clean. The dining table, small but elegant, was exactly right for the two of you—and with a third chair, a place always waiting for Amilla.

But it was the kitchen that made you smile the most. Fully stocked, full of life. Mugs on hooks. A new kettle, the mixer you insisted on getting, labeled jars for pasta and spices, the fridge humming quietly. It smelled like something warm had just been baked—or maybe it was just the scent of being settled for once. Safe.

The curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out whatever the world was doing outside. The world could wait. In here, everything felt still. Content.

You were curled up on the couch, your legs lazily draped across Kimi’s lap, a controller in your hand. He leaned back beside you, one hand on his own controller, the other resting just behind your knees like it belonged there. The screen in front of you glowed with colors, characters zipping past each other in the chaos of Mario Kart.

“Save your shell!” you warned, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Do not use it on me.”

Kimi laughed—an actual, full laugh that crinkled his eyes and softened his face. “No promises.”

You glanced at him with mock betrayal. “Kimi—”

But the moment you turned your attention back to the screen, the shell launched. Your kart spun in place. The controller dropped slightly in your lap as you looked at him, offended but smiling.

“I knew it.”

“Sorry,” he said through a grin, not sounding sorry at all.

When he won the race, you sighed dramatically, tossing your controller gently to the side as you turned to him. “Okay, you win. Champion of the living room. You pick dinner.”

He leaned his head back slightly, thinking. “How about pasta tonight? Something easy.”

You smirked. “Pasta? That’s your whole legacy, Antonelli. You better treat the dish with the honor it deserves.”

Kimi chuckled under his breath, nudging your leg with his knee. “I’ll be gentle.”

There was something so easy about this. The way he kept your world private, respected your boundaries, let you breathe. You knew who he was to the world—an F1 driver, a rising star, someone who had the spotlight whether he asked for it or not. But in this space, in these quiet domestic moments, he didn’t feel like a celebrity. He felt like a person. Like someone who was kind, grounded, funny in a quiet, sarcastic way.

Like a friend.

Maybe something more, but you weren’t ready to name it yet.

The two of you wandered into the kitchen, and you pulled your favorite apron off the hook. As you held it up, Kimi stepped in behind you without a word. You stilled for just a second as his fingers grazed your waist, tying the strings neatly behind your back. It was a small gesture, but it felt intimate—anchoring. His movements were careful, not rushed, not assuming. Just present.

“Alright, chef,” he said softly, his breath warm by your ear. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You turned to him, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Just remember… if I mess this up, it’s because you distracted me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

You nodded, poking his chest with a finger. “Entirely your fault.”

And with that, the two of you moved into a shared rhythm—boiling water, chopping garlic, stirring sauce. There was music playing quietly from your phone, your laughter bubbling up now and then between stories and sarcastic comments. He handed you the basil when you asked for parsley. You pretended to fire him. He offered to grate cheese and almost grated his knuckle.

By the time the pasta hit the plates, the kitchen was a mess and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

But the food was good. The company was better.

The two of you sat across from one another at the dining table, plates nearly cleared, the faint aroma of garlic and basil still clinging to the air. The candle between you flickered softly, casting a golden hue across the space that now truly felt like home.

Kimi's phone sat beside his plate, screen lighting up every few seconds with a vibration, then going dim again. It kept happening—buzz, light, pause. Over and over. But he didn’t look at it. Not once. Just kept twirling his fork idly, listening to the soft music in the background, occasionally meeting your eyes when you spoke.

But you looked at it. You noticed. And curiosity had a way of growing teeth if you didn’t feed it. So, before you could stop yourself, your mouth was already moving.

“What happened to…” you hesitated, pretending to focus on your plate for a moment. “Eliska Babickova?”

His head turned slightly, slowly—eyes meeting yours with a stillness that made your stomach flip. Not accusatory. Not angry. But surprised. As if you'd just unlocked a door you weren’t supposed to find.

“I know her,” you clarified quickly, your voice soft. “I study motorsport engineering, I follow F1 like it’s religion. I’ve seen her. At races. The photos. The beginning of the season—she was in that list of WAGs, right?”

Kimi stayed quiet for a second longer than was comfortable, and you regretted asking already. Then he hummed.

“We still talk,” he said, calmly, as he leaned back in his seat. His tone was neutral, but it didn’t soothe the way your heart twisted in your chest.

You nodded slowly, your hands folding into your lap. You hated how your voice wavered just a little next. “Are you two… still together?”

This time, his gaze met yours directly, and it wasn’t cold—it was just unreadable. He didn’t frown. Didn’t shift. Just… looked at you. Carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed out, waving your hand in dismissal. “That was too personal. I shouldn’t have asked. I mean—living with a girl would be kind of a thing if you were still in a relationship, so I guess I just wondered and—”

“Sometimes,” Kimi said, interrupting gently, “some things should stay personal.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not even sharp. Just firm. Like a closed door with a sign that read not right now.

Still, it stung.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was thick enough to notice. You laughed—too quickly, too forced. “Right. Yeah. Totally fair,” you said, clearing your throat and forcing a smile. “Totally agree. Mind my business.”

He didn’t say anything immediately. Just shifted his focus back to the last bite on his plate.

You pushed your own food around with your fork, lips pressing together as you tried not to let the disappointment show. You’d let yourself get too comfortable, too familiar. You thought you were close enough to ask. And maybe that was the worst part—feeling like you misread the closeness that had begun to build between you.

Still, you said nothing more, and he didn’t offer further explanation.

And somehow, the candle in the center of the table flickered just a little smaller.

The plates between you were mostly cleared, the soft clinking of silverware the only sound in the apartment for a few moments. The flicker of candlelight danced across the table, and Kimi’s phone buzzed again on the table beside his plate, lighting up the screen for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Still, he didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly and exhaled, voice low. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

You glanced up at him from where you were nudging the last bit of pasta on your plate. “Race week?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You nodded too, slowly, then your eyes flicked down toward your phone. “My sister’s engagement party is coming up.” Your tone was flat, almost rehearsed. “Figured I’d go back home for it.”

His brows drew together slightly in concern. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

That question hit something deeper than expected. Your fingers tightened around your fork, then relaxed. “They’re my family, Kimi. Not wild animals.”

“I know,” he said gently, his voice calm, not challenging. “But… you’ve said it yourself, things are complicated with them. I just thought—”

“Some things should stay personal,” you snapped softly, and as soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

There was a pause. Not sharp. Just heavy.

You sighed, rubbing your palm along the tablecloth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Your eyes lifted to meet his. “It just… caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Kimi gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “No offense taken.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, then set it down and leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you want me to come with you?”

You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

“To the party,” he clarified. “If you send me the date and it’s after my main race day, I’ll try to make it.”

You hesitated, taken aback by the offer. “Kimi, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I will if you want me there.”

You studied his face for a moment. Calm, sincere. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his tone—just quiet support. You weren’t used to that. Especially not from someone who knew how messy your family dynamic could be.

You looked down at your hands, then back up. “I’ll think about it.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that didn’t press for more.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The apartment felt different that morning—quieter, not just in sound, but in energy. You stood by the kitchen island, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, while Kimi double-checked his bag near the door.

His flight was in a couple of hours, but he was already in that focused headspace. That calm, steady rhythm he slid into whenever the track called.

“You have everything?” you asked softly, taking a small sip from your mug.

Kimi glanced over his shoulder at you, nodding. “Yeah. I packed last night. Triple-checked it this morning just to be sure.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

His brown eyes softened when he looked at you again. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… hoping I survive this engagement party.”

He chuckled gently, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Remember, if it gets bad, pretend you have to take an urgent call from a Formula 1 driver. Very important business.”

You snorted softly. “Right. I’ll just hold my phone upside down and dramatically whisper race terms until someone asks me to leave.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren’t ready to say goodbye, but the moment was here.

“You’ll text me?” you asked, voice quieter now.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll call when I can. FaceTime, even. I want updates. I don’t care if it’s about the party or what you had for lunch. Just… let me know how you’re doing.”

You looked up at him, something warm and strange blooming in your chest. “I will.”

Kimi reached out and squeezed your shoulder gently. “You’ve got this.”

And then he was gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps down the hall, silence trailing in his place.

You stood there for a while, hands still on your mug, eyes on the door. It was always harder than it should’ve been, watching him go.

The train ride home was long, but you stared out the window most of the way, earbuds in, playlist running. You barely noticed the other passengers. Your thoughts were too loud. Every bump of the train reminded you of how long it had been since you saw your family—how much longer it had been since you felt seen by them.

You checked your phone once as you pulled into your hometown’s station. A message from Kimi waited for you.

Kimi: Let me know how it goes. You’ve got this.

You smiled at the screen, then slipped it back into your pocket.

The car pulled up slowly to the gates of your childhood home—if you could even call it that. The towering black iron bars buzzed and creaked open as the driver entered the code, revealing the winding driveway and pristinely landscaped hedges that led up to the mansion.

It looked the same. It always did. White stone exterior, tall windows, a fountain in the center of the roundabout that sparkled like it was polished every other hour. The house was pristine, glossy… almost too perfect. Like it had nothing to do with love or comfort. Just… image.

You stepped out slowly, grabbing your bag from the back seat. The air was different here. Sharper. Clean, but in a suffocating way.

As you reached the large oak doors, they opened before you could knock.

“Y/n,” your father greeted, his tone clipped but polite. He wore that usual warm-but-distant smile he saved for company. “You’re early.”

“You said to come today,” you replied, stepping inside.

The foyer was massive. The floors shined so bright they reflected the chandelier overhead. Expensive artwork lined the hallway. You hated how you could still name each piece—your mother had made sure of it growing up.

“Yes, yes. I appreciate the punctuality. Leave your bag with Marta. She’ll have it taken to your room,” he said, gesturing to one of the housekeepers who approached silently.

You hesitated, keeping your grip on the handle for just a second longer before letting it go.

He clapped his hands once. “Right, we’ve got quite a schedule ahead. The engagement party is Friday evening, obviously. But until then—tomorrow is the spa day. Your mother and S/n planned it. Girls only.” He gave you a pointed look, as if daring you to protest. “Thursday, we have the formal dinner with the groom’s family. You’re expected to attend. Friday morning, there’ll be a brunch, then hair and makeup appointments in the afternoon before the party.”

You nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“Good,” he said, and just as he was about to turn away, another voice chimed in from the hallway.

“Well, well. Look who finally came crawling back.”

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The voice was unmistakably smug.

“Damon,” you said flatly, turning to face your sister’s fiancé.

Damon was exactly as you remembered—clean-shaven, smug grin, cologne heavy in the air around him. He stood there like he owned the place already, hands in the pockets of his slacks, blazer slightly too sharp for a casual day at home.

He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“Unfortunately, I did,” you said under your breath.

He chuckled, catching the words but pretending not to. “Well, it’ll be… interesting to have you around. Try not to ruin too many photo ops.”

You forced a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll try not to stand in your spotlight. Wouldn’t want to overshadow your hair gel.”

Your father cleared his throat, annoyed. “Let’s keep things civil, both of you.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Just get through it. Get through the week, get through the party, and go home.

Damon walked past you, shoulder brushing yours a little too hard to be accidental.

“Your room’s been made up the same as before,” your father said, walking ahead. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Your mother will want to see you before then.”

You followed him quietly, eyes scanning the walls as you walked down the hallway. The same family portraits hung—S/n front and center in every one. You were there too… off to the side. A ghost in the background.

Still, you said nothing.

Just one more week. Then you could go back to the place that felt like home. Back to Kimi, back to peace. Because this house, no matter how grand it looked, never gave you that.

You can stick it out, you believed it.

Tried to believe it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs filled the grand dining room, where the long oak table was perfectly set for four. The chandelier overhead sparkled against the early sunlight pouring through the tall glass windows, bouncing off crystal glasses and untouched butter knives. You sat near the end, nursing a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm, the edges of your toast untouched on the porcelain plate in front of you.

Your father sat at the head of the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, while your mother idly stirred her tea. Your sister, across from you, chewed thoughtfully on a piece of melon, legs crossed and posture flawless, like every part of her was curated for a camera that wasn’t even there.

“So,” your father began, voice calm but distant, “how is Monaco?”

You looked up, surprised he was even addressing you directly.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, setting the cup down. “Busy. But manageable.”

He nodded once. “And after next month? Any plans for where you’ll go?”

You blinked, heartbeat skipping as you tried to gather the words, but before you could even breathe them out, your sister’s voice cut through.

“Well, it’s not her fault, Daddy,” she began with a syrupy sweet tone, “that you had to cut her off. Weddings are expensive, and mine will be... well, unforgettable. So I get it.” She smiled across the table at you like she’d just offered you a compliment. “But hey—who says you need money, or a plan? You don’t even need a man. Not a good one, anyway.”

You tilted your head, lips pressed into a tight line.

She wasn’t finished.

“I mean... there’s always some guy out there who wants the quiet, weird ones,” she said, waving her hand airily. “The engineer types, motorsport whatever girls... you know the ones. Nerdy, socially average. Dorky. Harmless. Basically invisible.”

You flinched but kept your expression flat. You stabbed at your eggs with the fork, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Monaco’s been good,” you tried again. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Amilla. We’ve been hanging out more lately.”

She gave a laugh, sharp and polished. “One friend. In a whole country. That’s... tragic.”

You said nothing.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t want to model,” she continued with a mock frown. “You could’ve had everything. The travel, the outfits, the name. Instead, you picked... online college and being poor.” She smiled again, then sipped her juice.

Your mother glanced at her briefly but said nothing. Your father didn’t even look up from his plate.

“And let’s be honest,” she added. “You’ll never get the business anyway. That’s mine. Everyone knows that. You’re just...” She paused, searching for the word, eyes twinkling with cruel amusement. “Laying on the ground, like a dog. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever be to something real. To something... elevated.”

You stared at your plate, your jaw tightening.

Not one word from your parents.

Not even a disapproving look.

Your stomach twisted, not just from the insult, but from their silence. That had always been the loudest part.

She sat back, satisfied. Like it had been a game and she’d won.

You closed your eyes for half a second, imagining your flat in Monaco. The fairy lights. The new couch. The coffee mugs. The smell of fresh pasta.

Kimi.

His silence had more warmth than this whole table did. His quiet glances held more value than all your father’s hollow compliments to her.

You swallowed thickly and pushed your chair back just slightly.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

No one stopped you. Not that you expected them to.

Because they never did.

Outside, the sun poured down like warm silk across your skin, the stone patio heated beneath your bare feet as you sat tucked beneath one of the garden umbrellas. The distant sound of sprinklers clicking to life blended with the chirping of birds, the scene almost peaceful—almost.

Your phone rested in your palm, thumb hesitating just above the call icon beneath Kimi’s name. The longer you stared at it, the more uncertain you felt. You wanted to hear his voice. Something steady. Familiar. Something that didn’t belong to this house or the people inside it.

But then, a buzz. A message. From Amilla.

Your chest tightened the moment you saw the preview.

“This the guy you live with, right?”

Brows furrowing, you tapped it open.

A photo.

It didn’t even need a caption. Your stomach dropped before you could stop the spiral from beginning.

There he was.

Kimi. Dressed casually. Sunglasses on. Hand in hand with her.

Eliška Babickova. Long legs, perfect smile, soft curls bouncing around her shoulders. She looked effortless, like she always did in magazines. Even her stride beside him looked... matched. Like they belonged there, walking down that sun-drenched street, hand in hand.

Your heart twisted in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So they were still together.

You stared at the photo for a long moment, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling suffocating, pressing down against your chest like gravity itself was conspiring to crush you.

A small voice inside you tried to rationalize it—They talk, he told you that. He never lied... you just never asked again. But another voice, the one you’d been quieting all week, whispered something harsher: You let yourself believe it meant something. That the dinners, the laughs, the way he looked at you—it was different. That maybe he stayed for more than just a couch.

Your finger hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding.

You wanted to call him. Ask. Demand clarity. Cry.

But instead, you just sighed. A deep, bitter sigh.

You typed a short reply to Amilla:

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Then you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket.

No call. No message.

You would sit this one out. Because getting attached was your mistake. And the price of that mistake… was swallowing this silence.

Alone.

The day dragged on, the sun high above the manicured estate as if mocking you from its place in the sky. You sat quietly between your mother and sister inside the serene spa lounge, draped in a robe, legs crossed, warm steam brushing against your skin. But even surrounded by luxury, lavender-scented towels, and softly humming music—you felt suffocated.

Their laughter floated through the air like perfume—light, shallow, rehearsed. Your mother talked about floral arrangements for the engagement party while your sister chimed in about designer gowns and imported champagne, their voices rising and falling like a song you could no longer sing along to.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t even try.

You were just... there. A body filling space.

No one noticed how your smile never reached your eyes, how your fingers dug into the plush arm of the spa chair whenever your sister said something smug. You could’ve said you weren’t feeling well and left—but even the idea of going back to that mansion, alone in that too-big guest room, felt worse.

You kept thinking of Monaco. Of the cozy flat. Of quiet mornings and shared coffee. Of Kimi.

And then the weight would drop into your stomach again.

Because that picture was proof.

You were never more than a placeholder.

The thought ate at you as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the steam doing nothing to ease the chill crawling into your chest. You had finally started to feel beautiful there, next to him. Valuable. And now you were back here—fitting like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.

Meanwhile, across the channel, in the dim hum of the Mercedes garage, Kimi stood silently, gaze fixed on the setup in front of him. Mechanics worked around him, voices buzzing in the background, but his mind had wandered. He barely flinched when a pair of lips brushed behind his ear.

“Can you not?” he muttered, stepping to the side with a quiet exhale.

Eliška laughed softly behind him, brushing a hand down his arm. “Relax. I’m just loving on you,” she said, her voice all sugar and shine.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair. “I get that we have PR appearances, but that doesn’t mean crossing every boundary.”

She pouted, arms folding. “Since when did you become so... distant?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His brown eyes scanned the monitors, but his mind wasn't registering the data.

He saw you. In pajamas, arguing over whose turn it was to pick dinner. Sitting across from him in soft lighting, eyes lit with ambition and stories. Mumbling formulas under your breath, tucked in a corner with a pencil between your fingers.

You never asked him for anything. Never expected anything more than honesty. And he missed that honesty now, the quiet safety of your presence.

“I just don’t want to overplay what this PR thing is,” he finally said, voice low.

Eli rolled her eyes. “You used to be more fun.”

Yeah, I used to be more lost, too.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because he still hadn’t figured out why that photo—why your silence since—had felt so damn heavy.

And maybe, across the ocean, you were feeling the same. Buried in wealth, surrounded by everything that glittered—but nothing that meant something.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You had told yourself you could survive this week. You could manage the rehearsed smiles, the endless small talk, the suffocating luxury. But when Friday night came, it hit you like a wave crashing against sharp rocks. The glittering chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfume, the hum of classical music swirling through the grand ballroom — all of it was a reminder of how far you felt from belonging.

You stood there, lost among the well-dressed crowd, eyes darting over polished faces that smiled politely but never truly saw you. Your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the ache of loneliness and a love you couldn’t reach. You had missed yesterday’s race, unable to tear yourself away from the crushing sorrow that wrapped around you like a shroud.

Suddenly, your sister’s voice cut through the murmurs, demanding attention.

“I would like to speak!” she declared, stepping forward with a confident smile that didn’t reach her eyes but captivated the room nonetheless.

“My fiancé and I are so grateful you all could join us tonight,” she began, glancing toward your parents, who beamed with pride. “Growing up, I always knew I was the special one—the important one. The daughter in love, soon to be married, destined to carry the family name forward. I have done everything to earn my place beside Mom and Dad.”

Her words were sharp, deliberate.

“And then there’s Y/n,” she continued, sweeping a glance in your direction, “who chose to leave us behind for Monaco. And here she is tonight... without a date, without a boyfriend, without anyone to console her.”

A hush fell over the room.

“You will have your moment to shine,” she promised sweetly, “just like me. When the time is right.”

You met her gaze, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

She didn’t stop.

“One day, you’ll come back home to us,” she said, voice dripping with false kindness. “You’ll realize just how cruel the world really is. That luxury and wealth are all you really have. Outside this family, your name means nothing—no one knows you unless you claim us.”

Her words were knives twisting in your chest.

“May love find you, Y/n,” she said softly, a cruel smile flickering across her lips. “And if it doesn’t, may money be enough. Maybe you can live in the fairytale of your motorsports dreams, but it will never amount to what I can do.”

That was the final straw.

Without thinking, without pause, something inside you snapped.

You lunged toward her, your vision blurred by tears and rage. Gasps and startled cries filled the room as chaos erupted.

Your mother’s hand was suddenly on your cheek, harsh and unforgiving.

“Y/n!” she hissed. “Enough! Can’t you see what you’re ruining tonight?”

Your father’s voice boomed next, filled with frustration and anger.

“I cut your funds for one reason! Just to focus on her! And you can’t even live without it?”

You were burning inside, every word stinging like acid.

“It’s not about your money!” you spat, brushing past the stunned faces, heart pounding wildly as you fled the mansion.

Outside, the cold night air bit into your skin, but you didn’t care.

Kimi’s fingers tapped nervously against his phone as he stared at the screen, the call to you still ringing unanswered. Each unanswered ring felt like a weight sinking deeper in his chest. He couldn’t shake the knot of worry growing inside him, an ache he hated but couldn’t ignore.

“Come on...” he whispered under his breath, voice thick with concern. “Say something to me, Amore...” His voice cracked slightly, barely audible in the quiet apartment. He began pacing the small living room, restless, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Finally, he gave up on trying you directly and dialed Amilla’s number, hoping she might have heard from you.

“Hey,” she answered, her tone cautious.

“Have you heard from Y/n?” Kimi asked quickly, trying to keep calm but failing to mask the tension in his voice.

Amilla sighed softly on the other end. “No, not really. She’s barely messaged me since she left—just once.”

Kimi exhaled slowly. “Do you know when she’s coming back?”

“I think her train’s tomorrow,” Amilla replied, uncertainty in her voice.

Kimi frowned, his brow knitting in worry. “Okay... I’ll wait for her.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Late into the night, the train finally pulled into the station, its screech echoing through the empty platform. You stepped off, heavy with exhaustion and a dull ache deep inside your chest that you couldn't shake, no matter how far the distance from your family. Your phone buzzed incessantly—calls and texts from your mother and father—but you ignored every one. Tonight, you needed silence more than anything else.

At the door of your flat, your keys jingled softly as you slid them onto the hook by the entrance. You paused, eyes catching the other set of keys hanging there—Kimi’s. He was home.

Before you could move forward, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close. His face buried gently in your hair, he whispered, voice thick with relief, “You’re okay... you’re really okay.” He breathed in your scent as if to confirm you were truly there.

“I was so worried,” he murmured, his voice shaking slightly. “You didn’t pick up my calls or texts. Please, don’t ever do that again, Cuore mio. Don’t leave me to worry like that.” His grip tightened just a little, like holding onto you anchored him.

You stood frozen, caught off guard by the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness that contradicted everything you’d been feeling from your family lately. You expected him to pull away, to give you space—but he didn’t.

“Just stay here... don’t move,” he said softly, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself you were safe now. He kissed the top of your head, lingering, then finally pulled back to look at your face.

His eyes darkened with concern at the sight of your glossy, tear-filled eyes, the smudged makeup tracing down your cheeks, and the faint imprint of your sister’s slap still visible on your skin.

“You should’ve called me,” he said gently, voice thick. “I would’ve been there for you. Always.”

You hummed quietly, biting back the truth simmering in your chest, the feelings that went beyond friendship. “You’re a good friend...” you whispered, fragile.

Kimi’s lips pressed together, his eyes softening. “The best,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I try... only for you.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That moment felt like a delicate pause in time — everything you’d built together in the apartment, every quiet laugh, every shared meal, every late night spent unwinding side by side, suddenly seemed to weigh heavy. Kimi moved around, folding the last bits of clothing into a taped-up box, the soft rustle of packing paper filling the silence. You held a small, taped box yourself and set it down gently.

“You’re leaving... and I’m leaving,” you said softly, forcing a light chuckle, trying to mask the sting beneath. He hummed thoughtfully, looking around the now bare room.

“Luxury homes…” he began with a half-smile, “and the beautiful life in Monaco.”

You shook your head with a bittersweet smile. “Back home I go… and your life in Monaco keeps going.” Your voice was quieter now, almost lost to the stillness around you.

He met your eyes and simply said, “Yeah…”

Silence settled like a thick blanket between you two. The comfort of your shared home was boxed up, every laugh, every gentle touch, every moment of peace—packed away and stacked in the corners. The raw ache of it felt dull and heavy, like losing something you didn’t realize you couldn’t live without.

Kimi broke the quiet, a playful glint in his eye as he pointed at you. “You better be my engineer in the future.”

You smiled, nodding with conviction. “I am. I’m going to be.”

He grinned wider. “And be a good friend to others. Especially Amilla.”

You nodded, thinking of your best friend. “Oh, she’ll get on a train just to come see me—and you better do the same.”

His nod was firm, sincere.

Home — this space you’d shared — was being folded away, soon to be just a memory. The comfort, the routine, the little world you built together, was slipping through your fingers as you both prepared to part ways.

Suddenly, a soft knock at the door broke the quiet. You opened it to see Amilla standing there, her eyes glossy, a small hopeful smile playing on her lips. Both you and Kimi looked at her, surprised by the emotion in her face.

“I’m really going to miss you two living together,” she said, pulling you both into a warm group hug.

“Amilla! You’re being dramatic,” you teased, though your smile faltered a bit.

She sniffled, not letting go. “I don’t care! I’m going to miss monopoly nights, video games, and overcooked pasta!”

Kimi huffed, a mock offense clear in his tone. “My pasta is not overcooked—”

“Shut up, dumbass!” Amilla laughed, and you couldn’t help but chuckle too.

In that moment, despite the impending goodbyes, the warmth between the three of you lingered, reminding you that some things—friendship, laughter, memories—would never truly be boxed away.

The air in the flat shifted the moment Kimi spoke.

"I have to get my stuff out. I’ll be the first to leave," he said, voice quiet but firm, trying to hold steady against the growing weight in his chest.

Amilla finally let go of you both, wiping her cheeks with a dramatic sniff. You hummed, eyes falling to the floor before flicking back up to Kimi. “Good luck! And you better handle everything with Eli.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head. “Huh?”

Amilla, ever the bold one, sighed. “You’re good friends, Kimi. Don’t play dumb.” She crossed her arms before confessing, “I sent her the photo. The one of you and Eliska—Eli—holding hands. It popped up online when she was with her parents. You probably should’ve told her you were still dating her. Must’ve felt weird, living with Y/n all this time.”

Kimi’s eyes widened in disbelief, the realization crashing down like a wave. “Oh…” he breathed, heart thudding.

You gave a tight, brittle smile, masking everything boiling under the surface. “But it’s okay, Kimi. We’re friends,” you said with a tone that tried to be casual. Tried. “I’ll find me a nice, handsome man back home.” Your lips trembled slightly. “You continue living the best of your life.”

Before either of them could stop you, you turned and walked down the hallway, voice faint as you added, “I have to get my closet packed.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Kimi stared after you for a beat too long, the words you said burning into his chest like embers. Then Amilla stepped into his line of sight, her expression unreadable.

“Eliska and I are exes,” he said quickly, like it was something he should’ve shouted a long time ago. “That photo? That was PR. Nothing real. I haven’t been with her in a long time.”

Amilla raised a brow. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you sent her the picture,” Kimi snapped, though his voice was still soft, weighed down with guilt. “And now she thinks—she thinks I don’t care.”

Amilla blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, as if something clicked. “Wait... are you correcting me because... you like her?”

Kimi exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I love her,” he admitted, finally, the truth slipping out in a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Are you kidding me? We’ve lived together for months. I’ve never felt this grounded before. I love her. And no wonder she’s been acting strange—keeping her distance, being quiet.”

Amilla watched him for a long second, her lips slowly curling into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Now she’s going back home to live in her sister’s shadow, in that big mansion that makes her feel like she’s nothing.”

Kimi’s gaze dropped to the floor. The ache in his chest spread further, like roots digging deep into regret. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a reminder. He had to get moving, had to clear out his things. He took one last look around the flat, the space that held all their memories—every breakfast, every laugh, every late night—and quietly gathered what remained of his belongings.

Without another word, he stepped out of the apartment, the door shutting softly behind him.

But even as he left, a part of him stayed behind—with you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Months of studying, of long nights and longer days under the weight of family expectations, had finally brought you here—to the Grand Prix weekend. The crowd buzzed around you, excited voices and camera flashes filling the air, but nothing could shake the weight that followed behind you like a shadow.

Your mother, father, and sister trailed just a few steps behind. They hadn’t wanted to come. They didn’t care about motorsports, about your dreams, but they showed up anyway—if only to say they did.

"This is what you’re working toward? Honestly, it’s pathetic," your sister scoffed behind you, flipping her perfectly styled hair. You didn’t even flinch at the jab, too used to the tone, the sharp edge of her voice. Your father and mother didn’t bother saying anything, their silence more cutting than words.

Still, you smiled faintly to yourself, eyes scanning the track layout, the pit boards, the energy alive in every turn. “The race was amazing,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Kimi got pole…”

Your mother sighed impatiently. “Who?”

You frowned. “A driver.”

Before you could brace for more disinterest or mockery, a sudden voice broke through the noise.

“OH NO YOU DON’T!”

You barely had time to register it before arms wrapped around you and lifted you into the air, spinning you in a blur of laughter and warmth.

“Kimi!” you gasped, laughing as your heart leapt with surprise and relief.

“If it isn’t Antonelli,” you teased as he set you down, his grin lighting up his entire face. “My best friend,” you added with a soft smile.

“I saw your text!” he said. “You said you were coming—figured I’d find you eventually.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught your parents staring, clearly stunned by the interaction. But Kimi didn’t give them another glance—he only had eyes for you.

“I want to show you something,” he said quickly, grabbing your hand before you could say anything else. He pulled you away from them, your fingers wrapped in his as he led you straight into the heartbeat of the circuit: the Mercedes garage.

You looked around in awe, the energy of the team, the mechanics, the machines—everything. “It’s… incredible,” you breathed, eyes wide. “You’ve been busy, huh? All these months. Ahead. Super busy.”

But he didn’t answer.

You turned around, only to find him already staring at you. His face softened, a faint blush coloring his cheeks beneath the harsh garage lights.

“I have something for you tonight,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you the location. Just… meet me?”

You nodded, lips parted slightly in surprise. “Yeah. I will.”

—

The night air was cool, carrying the salty breeze of the coast as you sat beside him in the passenger seat of his car. The streets of the city felt quieter than usual, or maybe it was just the way your heart was pounding.

Kimi hadn’t said much during the drive, but his hand sat close to yours on the center console, and you swore you could feel the weight of what he wanted to say.

He finally pulled into a quiet overlook, the lights of the city below flickering like stars scattered across the earth. He turned off the engine, but didn’t get out. Instead, he turned toward you, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then he sighed—deep, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“You know,” he started, voice low, “not a second went by that I didn’t think of you.”

You glanced at him, your breath caught in your throat. “I’m just the best friend in the whole world, right?”

He gave a sad, quiet chuckle. “God, no. That’s not what you are. You’re so much more than that.”

Your eyes locked. His were glassy, earnest.

“I’ve been in love with you, Y/n,” he said finally, like the words had been burning him alive from the inside. “I loved you the entire time we lived together. Every time you made breakfast, or tied your hair up before class. The way you left notes next to my coffee. The way you always had my towel ready in the mornings. I came back from the track looking forward to the silence we shared. To you just… being there.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he continued. “And then I saw what you went through with your family, how you kept pushing anyway. You were never just a friend. You were my peace.”

He looked down, rubbing his palm nervously against his thigh. “And that photo Amilla sent you—me and Eli? That was PR. Just PR. We broke up a long time ago. Mercedes needed something for the cameras, for the headlines. I let them run with it because I thought it was harmless. But it wasn’t. Not to you. And I hate myself for that.”

You stared at him, lips trembling slightly. His voice cracked with the next words.

“I wish we still lived together. I miss it. I miss you. And I understand if you don’t want to be with me, or if this makes things worse. But I had to tell you. Because the thought of letting you go back to that life—thinking you were just my roommate—kills me.”

He reached for your hand. “If you don’t feel the same, I’ll take it. I’ll keep being your friend, if that’s all you’ll let me be. But if there’s even a small part of you that feels the same… just tell me. Because I love you. Not just the memories of you. Not just the comfort of having you there. I love you—your dreams, your fire, the way you walk into a room and make it warmer. I love all of it.”

He paused, breath trembling.

“And I need you to know that.”

The car was silent but for the soft hum of the wind outside.

And in that stillness, you realized—this was the moment. The one you had been waiting for.

Your eyes softened as your fingers laced with his.

“I was always yours, Kimi. You just never asked.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

And so, on a beautiful day—some golden, breezy Monaco afternoon—you sat curled up on the soft couch, laughter in your chest, sun spilling in through the sheer curtains. The scent of sea salt drifted in with the breeze, light catching the waves outside the window. Next to you, Kimi lounged comfortably, his knee touching yours, both of you surrounded by pens, cards, and open envelopes scattered like confetti across the coffee table. Wedding invitations. Futures written in ink.

"Hey! Don’t scribble with crayon on those!" you exclaimed, nudging him with your elbow as he held up a childish doodle across the back of one invitation.

“Oh come on,” he grinned with faux innocence, holding the crayon like a trophy. “Adds personality!”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, the kind of smile only he could pull from you so effortlessly. "Who are we even sending these to?" you mumbled, glancing over the list, your tone softening. “My family and I… we don’t talk. I cut ties, remember? Like you said I should. You were right. No calls, no fake apologies, no walking on eggshells. Just peace.”

He looked over at you gently, his smile no longer teasing. “I know it wasn’t easy. But I’m proud of you,” he said. “You chose yourself. That matters.”

You nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before he tapped his pen on the table and gestured toward his side of the list. “So we’re sending mine out. My family, my team, the good ones. Oh, and don’t forget to add something personal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who customized these invites again?”

“You,” he said quickly, pointing at you. “But who paid for them?”

“Hmm, let me guess—Kimi Antonelli, my soon-to-be husband?” you teased.

He smirked. “Exactly. As your fiancé, it’s my duty.”

The flat you now shared—a stunning, sea-facing luxury apartment—held pieces of both of you. His racing memorabilia mingled with your books and plants. The cozy throw blankets, the mugs you picked out together, the gentle clutter of two people who had built something together. It wasn’t just his anymore. It was yours. Your home. Your safe place.

“You are so lucky I love you,” you said, narrowing your eyes as he leaned closer.

“Oh yes, I am the lucky one,” he said with a crooked grin. “Living with you, waking up to that face every day... What could be better?”

“Keep flirting and I’ll leave you with the rest of these invites,” you warned, picking up the box playfully. “Let’s see if you can figure out who gets which one.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare!”

But you were already on your feet, laughing, bolting toward the hallway. He chased after you, laughter filling the walls of the apartment, just like it used to in the old place—but now louder, warmer, brighter.

The flat was new, upgraded, sleek and modern—but it was filled with the same love that bloomed back in that small two-bedroom you once shared. Back when everything felt uncertain but full of possibility.

That little flat was where it started. The morning coffees, the midnight talks, the study nights, the pasta dinners, the Mario Kart battles, the long hugs, the slow-burn love. That flat gave you both your beginning.

Now here you were—living together, planning forever, engaged to a man who loved you without condition. The sea was yours to wake up to. The world, yours to build together.

No nagging father, no brooding mother, no spiteful sister, just you, Kimi, and your growing home from here.

He tackled you on the shared bed playfully, your laughter filling the large and luxurious space.

And tucked inside a sleek white envelope, scattered across your coffee table, was an invitation to a future signed:

Mr. & Mrs. Antonelli.

[honeyhenry]

Possessive!Bruce headcanons

I'm very nervous to post this as it's a little different from my usual work! I tried my very best to write this as it was my first ever request for Bruce and had been voted over 50 times by you lovely lot! I really hope I have done this justice, it's still very sweet because I just love sweet things!!

Bruce is the type of man to have his hands all over you, certainly in private but definitely in public. He wants every eye looking in your direction to immediately link the two of you together. To know that the two of you are connected physically, and in every other way.

Often at the galas you both attend, his hand will rest at the small of your back as you both effortlessly glide past your guests, pausing briefly to smile or offer a kind or complimentary word. (You were too sweet for a man like him, he thinks, but he will always aim to be a better man for you and follow suit.)

Speaking of!!!! The compliments this man gives you in front of others not only makes you blush, but is a double edged sword for anyone who had even a millisecond of thought about you or your relationship.

"isn't my girl so beautiful" aka she's the most beautiful and she's mine

"I couldn't host any of this without her" aka we are never parting even for a moment

"we're just as surprised as you are that we managed to have the manor prepared for you all arriving....we are incredibly busy" aka you two fucked all day because it was duty to keep you happy while you were simply begging for him...

and believe me...the subtext is obvious to everyone close enough to hear him

whew

but yes at galas he has you right by his side, keeping close to you, and if he's not holding the small of your back then he will definitely be holding your hand

not in a clingy way but in a "she's mine and she's staying with me while I talk funds and management strategies." you don't mind leaning into his broad stature, squeezing your hand when you want his attention, which he readily gives

there are many times where you miss an event because he was just too wrapped up in you to care about actually leaving the manor

"baby, you look too good I don't want anyone else to see you...this can be just for me"

"bruce...I spent so long getting ready...I was looking forward to trying that place's oysters"

the Michelin star resort delivers the oysters to the manor door for Alfred to receive, right as bruce has you on your second orgasm that night

at high end restaurants, or the days you manage to convince your upper-class husband to visit your favourite local cafe, he always requests a booth so you can sit together.

he's not sitting across a table from you when he could be right there with a strong arm around your waist and a hand on your thigh as the waitstaff take your orders, hopefully being paid well enough for their efforts to ignore the intimacy of your embrace

Bruce just can't help the fact that he'd delivered quite an exquisite dress to you earlier that day, so his presence by your side ensured that anyone who dared to look, would have to deal with him first.

the dress - and you - were for his eyes only

once, Bruce had snapped both of your orders at a poor young boy who's gaze had merely blinked down to your cleavage, before growling a request for another waiter "with manners"

"Bruce, he's only young...besides...the dress doesn't leave much-"

a squeeze to your thigh lets you know, even without words, that he was deadly serious about his claim on you

"no one looks at what is mine" he had gritted out

the jewellery also marks his possessive nature!!! You hadn't had much of a collection before meeting Bruce, and now he could use his wealth to decorate you in pretty jewels and precious metals that people would instantly associate with his status and class

the first he gifts you is a bracelet with "mine" engraved on the inside. once he clips it onto you, you never take it off, matching it with every outfit for every occasion. for you it's far more sentimental, and you enjoy being his.

you don't mind his little possessive streak. you feel so safe knowing how invested he is in you, how serious he is about his commitment to you.

the second item of jewellery he buys for you is a pair of earrings, worn only to grand events, with sparkling diamonds that glint beautifully with each and every dress you own

he loves hearing you be complimented on your jewellery "oh thank you, Bruce got me them. doesn't he have wonderful taste?"

oh yes, he thinks, he does.

you adore the necklace he gifted you for Christmas one year, and make it a habit to wear every day. A small, dainty, shining letter 'B' hanging from a delicate chain. Initially, Bruce had suggested it stood for you being his baby, one of his favourite nicknames for you. but you knew better. B stood for Bruce, and it meant you belonged to him

one of your most precious - if not the most special - pieces he gifted you was your engagement ring

you dread to even think of a number that comes close to its value, but when he dropped on one knee, Bruce Wayne knew that a giant diamond was the best way for people to know you were his

in every picture since your engagement, he loves to find and look at your hand which unmistakably carries the precious stone. through photographic evidence, you were his.

when you married, and had been spotted at further events, it was unmistakable that you were a Wayne due to the pearls hanging gracefully around your neck

Martha's pearls

Bruce could only part them from the other family heirlooms once you'd signed on the dotted line to be his forever, and now a Wayne in name, he couldn't think of a better way to show the world that you were his

Bruce feels much more possessive of you when you are crowded. even by one person. he doesn't want you to ever feel uncomfortable.

when you visit his offices, he meets you right away so that no one else has the chance to steal you away or talk to you. you are his and you belong to him only. you never mind, you always laugh at his intensity

"honey, who else would I be here to see?"

one time Bruce did NOT make it to you first, as you'd decided to visit his office as a surprise

one of the men from sales or some other irrelevant department - in bruce's words - had seen you standing at the mid-floor elevator, dressed in your favourite sundress and a light shawl. despite your rings, which he either hadn't spotted or plainly ignored, he had started a line of conversation about how a "pretty thing like you" seemed lost in such a place as Wayne Tower.

"Maybe I could give you a tour, and afterwards we could grab a drink?"

You had tried, politely, to decline. For more than the obvious reasons, you knew the second Bruce caught wind, this man would be made jobless, homeless, or even headless depending on his mood.

"C'mon sweets, don't be shy. I'll even tell ya a couple secrets about the big boss here. That guy's a wack job"

enter Bruce, via elevator

he sees you first, as always, and then the man who is practically breathing the same pocket of air as you

his inital response is to punch he guy's lights out

but he's not Batman here. he's Bruce Wayne. Owner of Wayne enterprises, the Prince of Gotham, and first and foremost, your husband.

you smile, relieved, as you catch Bruce's eye as he strides over to you with an sly air of confidence and a stern expression

"who's your new friend, baby?"

he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you tightly into his side as you lean up to kiss the space between his cheek and jawline

Safe to say the stuttering, bumbling fool who had approached you, never set foot back in the tower

during sex, Bruce growls your name, claiming you as his, pumping into you while he reminds you; "all mine, you hear me? who do you belong to huh? who owns you? who gives you everything you deserve and more huh? that's right baby, say my name"

"bruce....fuck...i'm all yours"

that's gets him cumming every time

whenever you wear his clothes, his brain shuts down entirely, except that primal part that wants you right on his lap so he can admire you inside and out

the morning you put his shirt on for breakfast, you ended up not leaving the bedroom for 3 full days

not even Alfred deserved to see you wearing that

your pregnancy was not planned, but also not unplanned

you loved the idea of a family, a baby that looked like your husband who you could love and raise together

Bruce loved the idea that with a swollen belly, everyone would know you were his

However, Bruce was so possessive of you and your growing baby, that he'd convinced you that it would be better off to spend your pregnancy in peace

you were a goddess carrying his baby, and no one else deserved the privilege of seeing that

Bruce owns a film camera and snaps hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures to look at and admire. you take plenty of him, especially adoring the ones where his hand rests on your belly

which, let's face it, is 90% of the time

one afternoon you feel the baby kick, but bruce is in the garage setting up a car seat in each of the cars, so the only person to hear your squeals is Alfred

he rushes to the library in the north wing, where you feel most comfortable

"Mrs Wayne? Are you-"

"Alfred, it's the baby, they're kicking! feel!" you all but place his hand to the side of your belly

sure enough, Alfred feels it, before removing his hand and clearing his throat

"i shall fetch Mr Wayne at once, he will be so thrilled"

Bruce is in the library within the minute, heart racing from the excitement he feels at the opportunity to feel his baby move within you

"B, come here...feel!" you pull his large palm to your belly, and again, within a moment, a gentle kick presses against the spot of skin he has engulfed with his hand

he's about to comment when you softly whisper "they did it there for Alfred too"

Bruce blinked, moving his head away from your belly to now take a better look at you

"wh- Alfred? He felt...my child..." his brows furrow in annoyance

Safe to say, Bruce had to give himself a reality check when he feels possessive about his family over his own butler doing his job by being there for you.

"He helped me, honey. He's family too. Please don't be mad at him" you had pouted

Alfred just chuckles it off as he leaves you both in peace "Mr Bruce has always been one to keep what’s his just for him, Mrs Wayne. You and your child included."

Bruce insists on private healthcare, only the very best and most professional to keep his family safe

“Well they’ll be born in the manor, not...Gotham general” he would spit out

he watches the doctor and midwife like a hawk, frowning as you winced at the cold gel smoothed over your stomach

"Should she be shivering?" he'd asked, pointedly

"Brucie...hey, relax...they're just doing their job."

safe to say, he has a million (actually 76) questions for the doctor.

When they manage to get Bruce away from you for all of 4 minutes, they do a welfare check to ensure of your own health

"It's good to have a strong support network, especially due to the private nature of your pregnancy. Has your husband been involved? He's not worrying you, distancing himself at all?"

You could only laugh

“He’s been….clingy. A little….over-possessive…but in a sweet way. He’s so good to me, to us. We're all doing so well.”

Bruce Wayne would die for you, but in the meantime he would have you all to himself, and he would make sure that the world would comply

[hoiststowline]

_streetwise x reader

[a/n: this sorta turned into a character study, similar to a hot spot one I did here!]

having been somewhat accustomed to being let down, if only to save himself the moping period, he’s learned to not become attached to persons, places, or things. it was not an easy habit to break, it took discipline and the expectation of disappointment to alleviate the brunt of the hit. after some time, the vicious cycle of attachment and heartache left, leaving some unhappiness in it’s disappearance, but not enough to sidetrack him from the task at hand. 

it became an even more difficult tendency to ignore upon settling into routine. Streetwise would begrudgingly admit that he’s gotten comfortable, acclimatized to a lax schedule and an onboard of familiar faces on the daily. even if he butts heads with some of his teammates, he trusts them and finds a sense of normalcy in a somewhat chaotic situation. 

Streetwise hadn’t realized the extent of his newfound ease until just the other day. it happened mid-sentence, pausing in surprise as if to reinspect if he’d just spoken the words he thought he did. 

“What’s with the face?” Rook asks, appearing a bit concerned at Streetwises’ abrupt stop. “I can cover for you, I don’t mind.” 

“I-” he starts, but promptly shakes the shock from his shoulders. “Thank you. I’ll owe you one.” 

the casualness is lost to him, but it’s immensely appreciated nonetheless. he doesn’t like to make shift changes often, vying to hold firm in the idea that he should complete his tasks first before seeking your company. 

some days, though, he’s beginning to find it extremely arduous. especially when he’s away or you’ve become busy, unable to see each other for lengthy periods of time. phone calls are even few and far in between lately, dwindled that Streetwise has decided he’s had enough. 

“Streetwise?” 

pulled from his thoughts prematurely, on reflex his rearview mirror tilts downwards, towards the drivers seat. sure enough, you’re staring right at it, maintaining a focused but worried expression. 

realizing that he’s acknowledging you without uttering a word, you continue. “Are you okay? You seem a little…distracted.”

even if it perfectly defines how he’s felt as of late, it’s not a characteristic he would ever use to describe himself in conversation. Streetwise supposes he finally has experienced how Hot Spot constantly feels, tugged in six different directions and then some. such a burden he’s been shielded from, and to perceive such an overwhelming sense of intrusion into his priorities drives him a little crazy.

so pulling you from your much earned downtime because he’s missed you terribly is not a justifiable exchange, unable to be rationalized. it arrives with an awareness that he’s asked much of you lately, even if your smile upon meeting up with him subsides some of that self-reproach momentarily. 

Streetwise isn’t blind to the copious amount of favors he bargains, not an inordinate quantity, but certainly disproportionate to what he has to offer in return. there’s guilt there, even after you’ve insisted you’d complete his proposition without a second thought. hell, half the time you do it without seeking a reason, simply knowing that something was required to alleviate a stressful situation he’s found himself in. 

that isn’t fair, and he knows it. expresses his concerns about it all the time, ensuring that you never feel cornered. he’d never forgive himself, knowing that you’ve most definitely cashed in personal favors, switching schedules and moving things around so as to better accommodate them and their timetables. you appear to have no qualms in regards to it, an indifferent shrug of your shoulders and the same small smile. “I don’t mind,” 

even if you appear to be unbothered by it, he’s constantly interrogating you to ensure you sincerely aren’t. if there’s something he can’t afford to lose this time, it’s most definitely your trust and relationship, as him being infatuated with you is well beyond an understatement. 

Streetwise discerns himself as a difficult study, so for you to be able to observe his worries is something marvelous and frightening all the same. the latter only because he knows he’s rapidly approaching the point of no return, if not already there, and has come to terms that he is absolutely in love with you. so the give on your end makes him feel abusive of your kindness, as nothing he can do will make the circumstance feel good, per se, as he’s so terrified to lose you. 

eventually, he remembers to answer. 

“I’m fine.” he hums, struggling to sound sincere. “Sorry. I swear, I didn’t intend to ignore you when I asked if you were busy.”

you carefully assess his words, mouth opening to answer, but he beats you to it. “Okay, maybe I am a little distracted.” 

“Something on your mind?” you return, a familiar genuineness permeating. “I’m here to talk, if you’d like.” “Hey, that’s my line,” a jest, followed by a warm laugh. “I do feel a little bad about dragging you out tonight. Actually, a lot of bad. It’s late, and I’m sure you have things to do tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to feel bad,” you insist, fingers finding the leather of the seat, meant in a comforting gesture. “I wouldn’t have said yes if I didn’t want to.”

in turn, Streetwise studies your words carefully, before mumbling a single word. “Promise?”

“I promise,” you respond, that beautiful smile never wavering. “I did miss you.”  something hitches, likely his voice box. “Kinda the reason for my call. I missed you so much.”

[thatbitchwhowritesstuff]

I made a second one because my computer gave me another fun prompt and I just couldn't resist !!!

So here, avec another 800 words SwanMills family mess from me (married SQ my beloved)

The day Emma and Regina are going to be here for a while

It was a quiet day in the Swan Mills house, which didn’t happen that often. Regina took the opportunity of an afternoon without curses or town meetings to catch up on some laundry. She’d tried to get Emma to help, of course, but her wife was way too busy with her video games to worry about folding clothes. 

Regina arrived in the living room, balancing the laundry basket on her hip. Emma still hadn’t moved, feet propped up on the coffee table, eyes glued to the TV in front of her. It was her day off from the sheriff’s station after all. Henry was there too, sitting on the ground in front of an open notebook, cellphone held up to his ear. 

“Yeah, I’ll meet you there. See you later,” Regina heard him say before he hung up. 

“Who was that?” she immediately enquired, dropping the basket of freshly washed clothes on the couch next to her thoroughly unhelpful wife.

“God Regina, will you ever leave the poor kid alone?” Emma mocked. Their son was 15 by now– definitely old enough to not be grilled by his mothers over phone calls. 

“As long as he lives under our roof I certainly won’t,” the mayor denied the request, gently slapping her wife on the shoulder for the remark. 

“Relax Mom,” Henry laughed. “It was just Violet. We have a school project to do together. I’m meeting her at Granny’s later to work on it.” 

“Oh, that’s nice.” Regina liked Violet– she was a polite girl. She also liked that he did his homework on a Saturday. “What’s the project about?” 

“We have to pick a subject and debate on it in front of the class,” the boy explained, glancing at his notebook. “Right now, we’re still in ‘the choosing a question’ phase…”

They’d been at it for almost a week now, and it was starting to annoy him. He was usually pretty good in school, but this assignment was harder than he’d expected. Regina immediately picked up on his weariness, she knew that frustration in his voice. 

“What are your options?” she pushed, starting to fold her laundry, standing behind the sofa. “Maybe me and your mother can help.” 

“Well, we’ve narrowed it down to two: should homework be banned, or should cereal be considered a soup….” he read his notes again. 

“Obviously take the first one,” Regina scoffed, dropping another folded shirt on top of the pile. 

“Why ‘obviously’?” Emma finally looked up from her game to glance back at her wife. 

“Well, it’s the only serious one,” she pointed out. 

“I don’t think so,” Emma shot back. 

“Come on dear, don’t be ridiculous…” Regina chuckled. “Everyone knows cereal isn't a soup…” 

Emma paused her game and dropped the controller, turning around to look at Regina. And in that moment, Henry knew he was about to regret asking his moms for help. 

“Well, actually it kind of is…” Emma argued with a shrug. 

“Are you serious Emma?” Regina’s brows furrowed slightly. 

“Solid food hanging out in wet food!” she raised her voice a little, “That’s like, the definition of soup!” 

“No, it’s not!” her wife dropped the shirt she was holding, leaning forward against the couch, “Food has to be heated to qualify as soup!”

“What about gazpacho then?” Emma hooked her arm over the back of the couch to fully face her wife. “You can’t tell me gazpacho’s not a soup!” 

“No, it doesn’t count because it’s cooked first then it’s cooled,” Regina put one hand on her hip, resting the other on the sofa. 

“Well so is cereal!” Emma scoffed. 

“It’s not the same thing!” Regina’s voice raised a few more decibels. 

“It’s exactly the same!” her wife argued in the same tone. 

“Moms, maybe it’s not that deep—” Henry attempted to intervene, but the death glare they both shot him deterred him from any further comment. 

The machine was in motion, and it was too late to stop them now. Henry watched his mothers stare each other down, frowning in perfect sync. God, those women could be stubborn. They were definitely a match made in heaven—and neither of them would ever back down.

“Okay, that’s it.” Regina threw her hands up, giving up on the idea of finishing folding her laundry. She started heading for her office. “I’m getting the dictionary.” 

“And I’m getting the whiteboard,” Emma countered, immediately getting up. “I have some points to make!” 

Henry sighed, but didn’t dare say anything, just watching them march off in opposite directions. As soon as they disappeared down the hall, he picked his phone back up. 

“Hey, Violet?” he greeted after the ringtone, “Sorry, won’t be able to make it to Granny’s. Yep, moms are at it again. We’re gonna be here for a while…”

Crack Fanfic Idea:

Short chapters that are called after a specific pattern. For example:

The day Emma and Regina...

But instead of clever ideas you use autofil and see what's going to happen that day. You probably need help with different algorithms, but I think it could be so fun and silly.

[viviale]

𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝚰𝐄.

pairing. trilogy!logan howlett x reader

wordcount. 3.5k

synopsis. there’s two rules to friendship. firstly, friends know each other in and out. secondly, they don’t kiss - that would only complicate everything. so what happens when both of those principles cease to apply to the relationship you share with logan?

contains. purely fluff, friends to lovers, implications of the reader experiencing social anxiety

a/n. this was loosely inspired by isabel larosas song, it's where i got the title from. also, it's my first time writing a longer piece in years — i'm really excited, feel free to tell me what you think!

logan howlett keeps to himself.

it hasn’t always been a choice, but it most certainly is a crucial part of his character. even though he is a man of many names and faces, this is a steady constant. he’s lived enough lives to know that he’s better off alone.

only now, there’s you. but one face against century old habits? doesn’t suffice to change them… right?

you thought you knew what you were getting into when you sat next to logan that day shortly after his arrival at the x-mansion, clearly planning to befriend him. the stray mutant that the professor had taken in intrigued you. there was more to him than untamed violence — there had to be.

to you, logan was a riddle. on the in– and outside, his adamantium skeleton being just as much of a mystery as the memory loss and his apparent gruffness.

turns out, you had no idea which path you chose that day. if logan was a puzzle, it was one with multiple layers. pictures that were only made visible if you arranged all pieces in the right order, only for the composition to make no sense at all in the end. and before you could even start to ponder where everything went, you had to fulfill countless side quests.

in short, a game impossible to win.

and you thought you were okay with that. hell, he didn’t even remember his past. if he really were some kind of multidimensional puzzle, he probably wouldn’t know the image he was supposed to form himself.

and your heart tightens at the idea of having to play a game in order to get a grasp on your identity, without knowing so much as the rules.

poor logan…

understandably, you were overjoyed as the two of you began to grow closer. you wanted to make it easier for him. maybe you were naive, but you had set your mind on supporting him with your friendship. he seemed so unused to being cared for, and god, did he need someone to.

you were convinced that everyone did deserve a friend.

but friendship had certain rules.

firstly, there had to be a balance to it.

and secondly, friends didn’t kiss. never, nuh-uh, not under any circumstances.

hence your confusion when he broke both of them — eagerly, at that.

the first rule

push and pull. this is what being with you felt like. and fuck, he was getting tired of it. frankly, with his life experiences and the people he’s met so far, the friends he’s had, he’s more used to shove and hit.

in a way, relationships are like fist fights. they are to logan, anyway. someone punches you right in the face - and this can mean anything. maybe they throw some kind of information at you, tell you about themselves. it could also be a compliment. or an insult.

of course, it works in the literal sense, too.

sometimes it’s expected, sometimes it leaves you flabbergasted. then there’s a short moment of contemplation. a pause, time to breathe.

finally, you take a swing at them in return. and that’s how it’s supposed to be. sure, it leaves you bleeding more often than not, but at least there’s some kind of a rhythm to it.

that he could work with. he’s a good fighter!

but it’s completely different with you. no fistfights, no time to breathe. instead, a constant push and pull.

he has no idea how to deal with that.

you always thought you were good at friendship. great, even. people were drawn to your bright personality, and you never completely understood the concept of enemies. sure, you didn’t like everyone, but why show them that? it’s not only nicer but easier to treat even the people you aren’t fond of with kindness.

however, being logans friend came with complications. whenever you thought you had decoded one of his layers, he shed it, only for you to be met with another one. it didn’t help that he seemed to have no problem at all with making it extra hard for you.

sure, you were content with your interactions, with the occasional talk.

yet you couldn’t help but feel that the balance was off.

logan seemed to know everything about you while you only had a shred of information to account for. and you didn’t even realize that for the longest time!

it struck you unexpectedly, when the two of you were chosen to chaperone for some of the older kids and accompany them on a shopping spree in the nearest city.

you knew the mall wouldn’t be empty. but the calm life of serenity at the mansion had somehow softened your shell. consequently, the sheer mass of people strolling around during afternoon rush felt overwhelming. they were everywhere, looking through the windows of shops, talking, moving. all at once.

it made a wave of nausea wash over you.

of course, the kids had already split to discover the halls of the building on their own, forming small groups. the light in their eyes as they took in the very same chaos that caused your feeling of unease made the trip worth it. a taste of a normal teenage life - they surely deserved it.

still, you wished someone else could have gone with them. this was just too much. you weren’t cut out for this unending overstimulation!

fortunately, you weren’t alone.

“you okay?”

it was his voice that pulled you out of your thoughts, rough but with a certain calmness to it.

you blinked, focusing on him to blend out the overall motion and noise around you.

“uh, yeah. it’s just…”

you trailed off, not sure of what you even wanted to say. you didn’t want to appear lame, either. hell, you were a part of the x-men. you had fought too many battles to be worn out by one visit to the mall.

“…a lot of people?”

you looked up at that, mildly surprised, only to find him already looking at you. his brown eyes were calming and you couldn’t help but feel that there was something more swimming in his sympathetic gaze.

“yes,” you sighed in defeat. before you could add anything, his hand curled around your bicep and he pulled you to the side of the crowd, so you stood shielded by the wall on one side and his body on the other.

“c’mon, let’s grab something to drink.”

eyes darting down to meet yours, as if to make sure you were okay with his proposal, he pulled you along and into a coffee shop a few steps away.

he didn’t let go of your arm, and his mere presence made you feel grounded.

inside the café, he immediately spotted a table in the corner, walking you over there without speaking another word. it was a pretty spot he chose. if you were alone, you’d probably have chosen the same place to sit.

despite being integrated in the mall which didn’t quite offer an extinquished ambience, the room seemed cozy. clean, too, you thought as you slid into the stainless red leather booth to sit near the brick wall.

“thanks, logan. that was a great idea,” you breathed out in relief, already feeling more at ease than you did out there.

unbeknownst to you, he had noticed it too - your eyes seemed brighter now that you weren’t surrounded by as much noise as you were just moments prior.

you could have sworn that you saw a silent smile play around his lips, but before he could answer, the waiter arrived, ready to take your order.

you felt your heart rate spike — those interactions had a habit of making you nervous when you were already tense from the mall situation. your eyes darted over the menu, frantic, given that you’d barely had time to see what they offered.

“what can i bring you today?”, the young man asked.

he looked like he was in his early twenties, a little younger than you, maybe. a keen one, flashing you a charming smile. the small wink was meant for you, specifically, but being in a hurry, you didn’t recognize it.

logan did, though. and he wasn’t all too happy about it.

as if sensing your discomfort, logan cleared his throat and spoke up, ordering without ever taking his eyes off of you while the waiter jotted down his words.

“she’ll have a caramel latte with two shots of espresso.”

you eyes shot up, surprise written all over your features. how did he know your order?

you were just about to check if they served your preferred style of coffee, but he was quicker.

although, you thought, you’d probably have blurted out some other thing that you didn’t really want but could be completely sure they had. anxiety made you do that sometimes, acting in the most convenient way and so that you could escape longer interactions.

you couldn’t even remember an instance were you had told logan how you liked your coffee. it’s not really something worth talking about in the face of serious problems and catastrophies that have to be prevented. maybe a mention in passing, at most.

the waiter asking logan what he’d like to drink snapped you out of your haze.

“i’ll go with a cup of black coffee," he husked.

you missed the last disappointed look the blonde gave you, seemingly accepting you being with logan as he went back to the counter, leaving you alone with the mutant facing you.

he looked a little out of place, to say the least. of course, the two of you wore civilian clothes instead of the black uniforms, but still. the place was rather fancy — for some shitty mall, at least — and his leather jacket and roughed up appearance didn’t quite meet the atmosphere.

it suited him nonetheless. made him stick out a little.

now being able to focus on logan, you relaxed a little, shoulders visibly sinking as you threw a shy smile at him.

“how’d you know my order?”

he only shrugged at that, meeting your gaze nonchalantly.

“i know a lotta things about you.”

that day turned out to be a lot of fun. admittantly, given how isolated you were at the mansion and the preoccupance with fighting villains or helping ensure a calm political climate, outings in your free time were a rare occurance. it was nice to spend some time with logan away from the school.

certainly good for strenghtening your friendship, as well.

your heart beat faster when you thought back to how he immediately recognized your sensory overload without you saying anything. normally, you did your best to conceal it if you were anxious, so him spotting it felt really special to you.

and the mere extend to which he knew you… that was unexpected.

yet it also left you feeling a little thrown back.

how did he know all those facets of your personality, reaching from quirks like feeling out of place in crowds to your favorite hot beverage? and how could it be that you, in turn, knew so little about him?

… had you failed to learn about him and thus made your friendship onesided in terms of intimacy? god, you certainly hoped not.

in friendships, you’d usually cling to some rules you thought met the concept. it should be balanced, you had told yourself. this didn’t feel really weighed out anymore… was it your fault?

it was just so hard to get details out of logan! that man was a mystery, closed off as can be. maybe time would change it.

you’d certainly make an effort to get something out of him, anything, so you could reciprocate - that was for sure.

the second rule

honestly, logan didn’t mind the grip you had on him all that much. he’d thought so, in the beginning, but now… things had changed somehow.

maybe it was the way you never let go of him, the way your mere presence managed to make him hold his breath. one of your sweet smiles thrown at him when no one else is bearing witness and he’s choking, unable to stop his face from heating up.

a little embarrassing, really. how you made him lose his cool like that.

he wasn’t even sure if you knew the power you had over him.

in the beginning, he himself missed how his nerves were alert at all times, how his thoughts spun around you and only you. so there might be the slightest chance you register it, either.

in a way, he’s come to cherish it. before you, it was rare for him to catch a break. that certainly remained the same. however, the pain and suffering that occupied his mind was replaced with fleeting images of you, and if that wasn’t something…

he didn’t want a break from you.

not when you laughed in that specific way that made time stand still and not when you were nearing a mental breakdown at the mall. he’d gladly be by your side anytime.

while he loved how you allowed him to see all those facets of your personality, how you never held back around him, what really shook him was how you knew more about him than anyone else. you actually made an effort, you always asked back. most people, when met with his hard edges, didn’t even bother to pry.

two centuries of living and no one had picked up on all of his little habits.

well, it wasn’t like he itched to tell people about his favorite color — moss green, like the broad canadian forests covering the rugged mountains where he grew up — but it was nice to have someone ask those innocent questions about his mundane life.

logan loved to be your friend — and at the same time, he hated it. as elated as he found himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it just wasn’t enough. no… regularly, he found himself yearning for more.

dusk had to be your favorite time of the day.

another day ending, cicadas chirping in the garden around the mansion… it was magical.

this short window of time, when the sun bathed the sky in an orange hue and bid the clouds goodbye, made you long for just a few more minutes of ethereal golden glow.

since most of the children where in their dorms already — those who slept, at least — it was one of the rare hours to rewind, a moment of calmness and rest.

it was also the time you usually spent with logan. maybe that added to the liking you took to the evening hours.

apart from busy missions and days spent teaching, logan was a different man. less stressed. his facial muscles relaxed and his usual frown smoothed out as he closed his eyes to listen to the wind rustling through the trees that stood nearby.

it was nice to see him this peaceful, you thought as you stepped out onto the porch where he sat and smoked a cigar, undisturbed.

“hey,” you mutter as you sit one the wooden step next to him, the old planks creaking under the light movement.

“i brought you some lemonade.” the bottle clinks against yours as you hand it out to him. it had become a ritual between you, sneaking out to join him for some quality time. you know he prefers beer. he’s told you that he doesn’t mind, really, that lemonade is just as good as alcohol. if he gets to share it with you, at least. although he kept that part to himself.

wordlessly, logan accepts the glass bottle, opening it to take a swig after putting out his cigar on the wood. for a few seconds you’re in a trance, eyes fixed on his adams apple bobbing as he downs the red liquid.

he sets the bottle down and the clearing of his throat makes you focus on his eyes again. you hope he didn’t notice how distracted the slightest action on his part made you feel.

precoccupied, you miss the way he forces himself to look away from the rosy tint of your cheeks, eyes darting across the meadow. time seems to stand still in the quiet moments, and you enjoy it, its eternal flow surrounding yet not once brushing against your little bubble. you watch the sky darkening in comfortable silence.

after a while, you begin to grow a little restless. the sun had taken away most of the warmth in its leaving, and you hadn’t bothered to grab a jacket as you left the mansion since it was early summer. it seemed that despite the heat of daytime, temperatures dropped quite low at night.

you do your best to hide it, not wanting the moment to end already.

logan notices, anyway.

“you cold?”

his eyes dart down to meet yours, a hint of worry swimming inside. he seems to genuinely care, as always with you.

“a little,” you admit bashfully, nimble fingers rubbing your bicep to keep the cold away.

“c’mere, then.”

his voice seems milder than usual as he pulls you in close. your head rests on his shoulder now, and his arm is slung around your neck, shielding you from the chilly air.

your feel a little giddy as he hugs you to his body. this is… nice. you can feel his breath fanning down your hair, and being surrounded by his body like that makes you feel secure. logans skin is warm despite him only wearing a white shirt.

you stay like this for a while, no words needed. gaze directed at the sky, it almost feels as though the stars are smiling down at you, adoring the intimate embrace that consumes your thoughts.

the steady beating of his heart calms you and you try to direct your senses inwards. you swear you can feel your soul leaving your body and floating into his. it is hesistant at first, cautious as it reaches out to touch his, leaving only inches to be crossed, whenever he’s ready.

“pretty.”

it’s mumbled into your hair, almost too quiet to hear, carried away by the breeze. but you do hear it. and it brings you back to earth.

you pull away, hastily creating room between him and you. breathing, to collect your mind.

logan looks confused. his brows furrowed, brown eyes on you, unyielding. the hint of insecurity that shimmers in his brown eyes for a second, masked immediately, makes you feel a little bad for acting so impulsively.

he seems to wait for you to say something, not taking back the compliment.

“i… sorry.” you look down at the wooden plank beneath your feet, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

“i just… i don’t think it can go on like this.”

peeking up shyly, you’re met with a frown. he’s turned towards you a little, his back leaning against the railing.

“what d’you mean?” his voice is gruff and he seems closed off again, as if shielding himself.

you sigh, eyes softening as you look up.

“this, us. i mean… with you, i never know what’s on your mind. you seem to read me like a book but i don’t even get yours to reveal its pages! sometimes…”

your voice grows quieter, almost a whisper, as if you’re scared to say it out aloud.

“sometimes i feel like you hate me because you don’t let me in. one moment you treat me like the others, then in the next second you casually mention things about myself that nobody else even knows. i… friends don’t get this close."

all throughout your rambling, logan listens attentively, his gaze never leaving you as he takes in the entirety of what you have to say. only when he’s sure that you’re finished does he speak up.

the words that follow are earnest, rumbling deep within his chest, as if coming straight out of his heart.

“you know you’re my weakness.”

“…what?”

your brows crease together in a frown as you turn towards him. this, you didn’t expect. you thought he might leave, push you away, but not… this. whatever it means. you don’t even know.

your adorable abashment makes his eyes soften. there’s a quiet smile on his lips, barely noticeable, but breaking his gruff exterior nonetheless. it’s a rare look on him.

“that friendship thing. maybe we should just quit it.”

a beat as you look at him, eyes wide. logan quips his brow, and then you know. in a fraction of a second, your expression changes from worry to understanding.

he clears his throat.

“c’mon, you know what i mean. stop playin’ dumb, sweetheart. you’re terrible at it.”

you raise your brow at that, leaning in closer so that your faces are only inches apart when you flash him a teasing smile.

“…you don’t wanna be my friend?”

“you know what i want,” he hums absentmindedly, mesmerized by your lips.

“uhuh?”

logan looks up at that, his expression almost cocky.

“eyes don’t lie, princess. i don’t think i could make it anymore obvious.”

you smile sweetly, finally crossing the last bit of distance between you.

“well, then you’re lucky i want the same thing.”

your words are swallowed by his lips, but you don’t care. he heard it.

he knows, and that’s all you need to let go and drown in him.

suddenly, breaking rules doesn’t feel so bad.

the end. thank you so much for reading! be sure to leave your opinion in the comments! ♥︎

[xerospaced]

Final thoughts

Yesterday, once again, gave confirmation that the man who is vocal, happy to profess his love and claim you, snaps you up without appreciating the value of waiting, is loud and proud, eager to talk you up and show you off

Is not necessarily the man you ought to depend on nor trust

And once again, the day taught me that the man who moves mindfully, who is cautious when he speaks, avoids inflating your ego, resists luring you into a false sense of comfortability, and moderates his expression of affection

Is often one who possesses the greatest consideration of your feelings

This time, I got a third-person perspective. Unfortunately, impacting someone I love who is deserving of far better

From the mouth of a man so sure in his conviction when he came to his conclusion about my situation despite knowing little to nothing about it as he proudly proclaimed how they manage their relationship

I'm not one for convincing, and, far from being convinced myself, I let him spout his rhetoric

To bear witness, not two months later, the realities of the vapid and changeable intention of man so quick to talk and act without pause

And immediately following that heinous transgression, be rewarded with the reassurance and satisfaction of a man quite his opposite, slow to move and resistant in falling into connection simply based on affection

I would rather the slow. The sure. The patient. The reason.

I would rather the one consistent in distance who is vocal more often when it comes to maintaining our heads and keeping clear vision. Than the man who possesses a tongue quicker than wisdom and opts into the format of loving and commitment before taking time to sit and just listen to what he truly wants, who he's really with, where the desire is rooted and what it is seeking.

I am done trusting men who talk quick and jump quicker.

Half of them don't even know they don't mean it.

This weekend has brought a lot of realities about relationships to the surface. And has reaffirmed my contentment of the space I'm in, giving confirmation to validity of the pace that has been taken.

Pause. Know yourself. Consider the nuance and depths of your feelings. And stop filling peoples heads with dreams and well wishes and fantasies of the wonderful lives y'all could be living. If you just took the time, you might avoid all this nonsense and notice the difference between fun for the moment and potential of significance.

[umamaki]

cw: lowk red flag caleb lol, virginity loss

Caleb is pissed when you get asked out for the first time. He had deliberately warned everyone in both of your social circles to stay away from you. Not without threats of violence or death, either. So yeah, he’s pissed as fuck when you tell him. Did he have to burn the whole world down merely to keep you all to himself? To protect you from perverts and creeps?

But, unfortunate and naive, you were so damn excited for this date. He couldn’t spoil your mood. Not when you asked him which dress to wear—both of them too short for his liking—and certainly not when you asked him to zip up the back for you.

There was just something about how you looked, all dolled up and cute to see someone who wasn’t him. He can already barely control himself around you; even the thought of another man having access to you like this makes him utterly sick. “It’s just not a good idea. All guys want the same thing.”

“You’re a guy aren’t you, Caleb? So what, are you telling me you’re like that too? Hmm?” He wants to wipe the playful smile off your face. You just think everything’s some fucking game.

“He’s gonna want to kiss you. Touch you. Fuck you. Have you ever been fucked? Huh, pipsqueak?”

He thinks he went too far then, notes the way your eyes widen and lips slightly part. You shake your head, but he already knows. He knows everything about you. So when you ask if he can help you, give you some advice, he knows exactly how he will.

“So naive, let me just show you.” He smashes his lips against yours. The force would’ve sent you falling backwards had he not steadied you with his hand on the small of your back.

“This is how to kiss…” he mutters it into your mouth, not caring that your teeth are hitting each other.

“And this…” he lifts your skirt just enough so that he can pull your panties to the side and slide his fingers along your puffy folds. “This is how it feels to be fingered.”

“Ah—Caleb!” You squeal when he fully plunges his finger in deeper than your own fingers ever could. He adds another, and soon the room is filled with your moans and the lewd squelch of his fingers thrusting in and out of your soaked pussy.

His lips are back on yours, and this time his tongue is shoved inside your mouth, claiming it. He goes faster when he feels your walls clench around him, and lets you grip his biceps while you come around his fingers and leave behind crescent shaped indents on his arms.

He nearly throws you on the bed, eager to yank off your underwear and free himself from his own boxers, wasting no time in aligning his tip to your still sensitive cunt.

“This is how to take it like a good fucking girl.” You try your best to relax, to be so good for him as he buries himself into you. He lets you get used to his size, going slow. Not moving until you practically beg him to, then there’s no going back. He’s brutally snapping his hips against yours and watching your tits bounce through your dress.

“Already gonna come on my cock? You really are inexperienced. Can’t even control yourself. Go on then. Fucking. Come.” With two last jerks of his hips, your climax washes over you and he tries so fucking hard to delay his own orgasm. He begins to pull out but your legs lock him in place. He cums on the spot—still inside you.

“Don’t care that I ruined your dress? How you gonna go on your date now, baby?”

“Hm. Guess I have to cancel,” you say, faux disappointment coating your words.

He pauses. “There was no date.”

“There was no date.” You confirm, wearing that same stupid grin from before. Luckily your schedule is free, because he has a hell of a punishment waiting for you after that.

[prxpxsxtxm]

Now that is unexpected. Consider his interest piqued. It's difficult to say, if for a moment, he feels the urge to smile, a familiar sensation crackling just beyond his reach, like the air singing before a lightning strike. This is something he understands: hatred. It eases his tension. If he can be of use, even to one person, than perhaps, that will be enough. In a world of peace, his kind is seen as a hinderance, a stain of remembrance to what it costs to achieve. But if that drive still exists, then there's purpose.

"Curious. You may have come to me without a conscious will, but certainly, a will brought you to me." Shui rises from his seat, taking slow strides back toward Xóchitl.

"I will accompany you in your pursuit."

Shui pauses, standing before the other; his form towering above Xóchitl. "Will you sustain me with your desire for vengeance? Do you think it to be enough to quell the hunger of a forsaken god?" And while he had been the one to shy away from touch before, he is now the one reaching out, extending a hand, palm up toward the man in front of him. "If so, then I will venture into this new world with you."

So no longer saying that name. Got it. "So.. what do I call you then if not your name?" He tilts his head slightly, pondering. Xóchitl takes no offense at the sudden distance. Things are slowly starting to come together on why the man acted this way. At the next question, he simply shrugs.

"It depends on religion. Some are strong believers, some not. But for me, I have no thoughts or place in any of it." Why would he when every god, goddess, angel, whatever is out there; did nothing to protect his own family. And then, a bit ironic, that Xóchitl is meant to pick up their messes if they fail to protect humans.

Green eyes watch the creature sit back down. The second question throws him off guard. It takes him a solid moment to deliver a response and even then, it is with hesitation.

"Well.." He sighs, tail twitching with anxiety. "Actually there is someone.. I don't know their name or what they currently look like but I do want to see them rot." And the smell of cigarettes. That is a scent that will never leave him to this day.

[nanamisdollie]

Touched starve rin finally gets his hands on reader, stay with me now

rin missing his girl a lil too much ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

oh trust me i’m with u anon.

smut, mdni, charecters aged up!! cw: dubcon, somno, rin being pathetic and needy<3

it was late when rin finally got home from post game festivities. he hated them in all honesty, anyone who knew him knew that, but he was also way too exhausted to fight the other grown men physically pulling him to an uber while yapping about shots.

zero drinks and three hours later he was unlocking the front door of his apartment.

he didn’t even bother to take his sneakers off, ghosting through the living room followed by the hallway that led to the bedroom. the door was ajar so a gentle push was all it needed.

rins heavy eyes scanned the dark room. when they landed on the bed the sight made something deep in his chest soften; you. you curled up half under the comforter, bare leg kicked out, hair a halo beneath your head. it was a site that never failed to make him weak in the knees.

he had been so busy lately; practice, games, press…not enough of you. it didn’t help that you had your own priorities, but sometimes he wished he could take you away, run away from all of it with you,

but that wasn’t realistic. he loved soccer, and rin may have loved you more but this was the life he built for himself since he was a kid.

so, instead of taking you and leaving everything without a word, he kicked his shoes off and fell face forward onto the soft mattress you shared. sinking in, his teal eyes scanned your figure once more and a hand came to rest on you hip. you stirred, but didn’t wake.

he admired you as you slept for a while. it may have been creepy, but he missed you so damn much. rin didn’t get love the way most kids did when he was growing up, he had sae of course but his parents weren’t…affectionate.

when the two of you began dating he was confused when you would touch him in small, soft way. a hand on his back when he muttered complaints about how he played in a game, holding his hands in yours when you were talking to him sincerely, caressing his cheek while admiring him; after that he was addicted to your touch.

the hand on your hip slid up to your waist, fingers brushing at the skin where your shirt rode up. itd been so long. god damnit, now he was getting hard, all from a few fingers on your skin! it was pathetic, rin knew it, you even knew it. you let him be pathetic, you let him be different from the rin itoshi the world knew.

he loved you.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

it was a choked whine that made you stir from sleep, one right in your ear so close that it made the hair on your neck stand up.

a huff fell past your dry lips as your eyes fluttered open. they fell on the digital clock on your cluttered bedside table; 1:27 am. was rin home?

“shit, m’ sorry…”

well, that was certainly an answer. more familiar whines filled the room while your other senses came to; the feeling of friction and wetness between your thighs, a hand underneath your shirt grasping and kneading at your breast, drool on your neck.

“rin?”

another choked sob following by a sloppy wet kiss to the side of your face

“so fuckin’ s-sorry- mmph-“ rins hips began to thrust faster hitting your ass while his cock slid up against your clothed cunt. he was lost in his own pleasure, he could feel your lips from just how much precum he’d leaked.

you tried to look back at him the best you could and when you met him with a mess of black locks, drool dribbling from the side of his mouth, he kissed you.

it wasn’t rough, it was needy. full of want. he kept mumbling out little ‘love you’s and ‘missed you’s whenever there was a pause to breath. his hips still worked against you at an adjusted angle that let his tip hit your clit just right.

when you finally pulled back and were able to rest your forehead to his in the awkward position you shakily spoke “y-you could’ve woken me- mm- up” it was a whisper, so sweet he whimpered in response.

“jus’ missed you so- fuck- fuckin’ bad! needed to t-touch you” rins face fell into the crook of your neck that was still messy with his own drool. he didn’t care. “i love you, y/n. say you love me. please!”

his begs were persistent, his cock was throbbing against you and his pace slowed. he was close. you turned your head once again to look at him properly, your hand coming to hold his face. another whimper escaped his flushed lips.

“i love you, rin”

that was enough for him. his hips press flush to your ass as he finishes, cum staining your thighs and the bed. he was crying at this point, both arms coming to wrap around you tightly.

“thank you-“ a hiccup followed by a shaky sigh “missed being able to touch you…” he already sounded like the exhaustion was catching up to him, post nut clarity filling his senses

that made you soften slightly. you shifted your body the best you could without making more of a mess with his load still sticky and cooling against you skin. you press a kiss to his cheek.

“s’ okay baby…just relax. we can clean up in the morning”

“you sure?” big eyes look up at you. its as if he’s looking at a goddess.

“i’m sure…you owe me head though”

“anything for you, maam~”

tysm for ur request ^.^ i <3 needy pathetic rin!!! I’m sorry if its diff from what you might’ve imagined :,)

[lovelake]

If words of reassurance alone can’t cure your boyfriend’s jealousy, maybe throwing in a makeout session can help.

solivan brugmansia x gn!reader | MDNI, 1.5k wc, kissing, jealousy, brief mention of him kissing reader while they're drugged so non-consensual touching, mentions of masturbation, he ends up cumming in his pants, let there be no typos

note: hi so i’m kind of obsessed with him </3 comments and reblogs are always appreciated! title is from the song ‘snakelike (the stars collide)’

masterlist read on ao3 requests open

“You’ve been quieter than usual.”

No response. You knew your boyfriend wasn’t rowdy, but the walk to your house after leaving campus was always filled with enjoyable chit chats at the very least. Tugging on his sleeve, your feet came to a pause as you turned to him.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, please?”

God knew he couldn’t deny his sweetheart’s plea, not in a million years.

“Ichabod.” Okay, so there was some venom in his voice. Just a little. He had to hold back from not seething the name out like it was a slur.

You knew they didn’t exactly get along. Crowe was friendly towards everyone, but Sol seemed reluctant to be polite to him. Every time they were in the same space, you kinda wanted to die to avoid the awkwardness of the tension. 

“Crowe? What about him?”

“He obviously likes you.” And he knew you liked him back at one point, he’d been watching you for a long time. And though you've been a couple for three weeks now, the uncertainty of it all still hadn’t left.

He trusted you. Your best friend on the other hand…well, not so much. If only you knew how extreme his jealousy could be—you were lucky Crowe wasn’t six feet under already. It would only take one mistake for you to be attending a funeral. It’s fine, he’d be there to console you. Nonono, bad Sol, don’t even think about it. 

“What?! No he doesn’t!” Maybe you shouldn’t be raising your voice, he seemed upset enough as is. You sighed, muttering an apology before continuing. “We’ve been friends for years, I seriously don’t think he sees me like that. And even if he did…you’re my boyfriend. So he’d just have to deal with it, I guess.”

Oh. He liked that answer. Ichabod suffering emotionally because his dream lover was out of reach? It was a wet dream come true.

Taking a peek at him, you noticed the upturn of his lips. “That certainly made you cheer up.”

“You always make me happy, pumpkin. I just don’t like him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t.”

“That’s not a good reason. He’s my friend and he’s important to me, so can you at least try to act civil around him? He always tries to talk to you and you just…glare at him.”

Now he was a little scared. Biting down on his lip, he mulled over your request. The last thing he wanted was for you to break up with him after he had finally won you over against all odds. “Fine, I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” you held onto his hand and gave it a squeeze, one that he returned as you both started walking again.

Three blocks and a flight of stairs later, the comfort of your apartment lured you both to the couch, backpacks discarded onto the floor without care. He sat right next to you, and you curled up against him, pulling your phone out your pocket.

“We always come to my house, I wanna see what yours looks like too.” 

“I like your house more but…sure, just let me know what day.” Yeah, so he had time to hide everything he’d stolen from you. 

Ding. 

His eyes flicked to the notification with a certain someone’s profile picture. His expression soured, and he looked away with a petulant huff. Clearly, he wasn’t over it. Not that he’d ever be, but you thought it was just a phase that would go away with some reassurance. How naive of you.

“Sol…”

He wasn’t budging, nose in the air as he waited for you to read the message. Or well, that’s what he was expecting anyway. 

“You’re so stubborn.” With a sigh, you toss your phone aside and instead move to straddle his lap to get his attention. 

His shoulders stiffened immediately, and a certain area under his pants sprung to life like clockwork. He gulped, the tips of his ears turning red. He loved being under you, but that usually only happened in his fantasies late at night when he stroked himself with your undergarments.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Cupping his face with one hand, you let your thumb glide over his bottom lip. “I can’t have you getting jealous every other minute.”

“I can’t help it.” He murmured, arms finally relaxing and wrapping around your waist to tug you closer. Having you close wasn’t anything new, he was clingy to the core. It always felt different when you initiated it, though. 

“I know…I just don’t want you feeling bad or insecure. I like you, I want to be with you.”

He grinned. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

Godyou’resosweetandbeautifulandfuckIwantyoutofuckme. From 0 to 100. His mind was already running rampant. You were sitting on him so prettily, how did he get this lucky? His eyes were drawn to your lips, his stomach felt warm now. 

“Tell me I’m yours and that you’re mine.”

You really shouldn’t encourage his possessive behavior, but it was kinda…hot? You’d play along.

You leaned down, lips nearly brushing against his. “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

His dick twitched. Before he had the chance to sigh dreamily, you kissed him. He whimpered pitifully and kissed back, already attempting to deepen it. 

He had thought about getting a tongue piercing, but he wouldn’t be able to go weeks without kissing you now that he’d gotten a taste of what it was like. Though, maybe that torture would be worth it if it meant being able to make you feel good in the future.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Then, a bombardment of kisses a day must keep the psychologist away, it felt like all your problems had been washed away the minute your tongue met his. 

His hands roamed your sides, squeezing whenever you tugged on his hair or bit down on his lip. In only five minutes, it went from slow and sensual to fast and needy. 

Your living room was only ever filled with TV noises and conversations. Now, it was nothing but heavy breathing, shaky whines, and the sound of clothes rubbing against each other.

And shit—no, no, no—he was close to making a mess in his pants. “Waitwaitwait, slow down,” he pleaded, voice a pitch higher as he held onto your hips. How embarrassing would it be if he came so quickly from simply kissing? Maybe you’d think he’d only last two fucking seconds in bed (he probably would the first time, and he knew that). 

“What’s wrong?” You ask breathlessly, eyes fluttering open to look at your boyfriend. 

“Nothing, just…” He sat up straighter so he could dip his head down and press his lips against your neck. It felt infinitely better than doing so when you were limp like a ragdoll. 

“Oh,” your eyes rolled back, your hand instinctively went to the back of his head to keep him in place. His cool piercings sent a shiver down your hot skin. Maybe if your mind wasn’t so busy spinning and seeing stars, you’d notice the ever so prominent bulge begging for attention against the side of your inner thigh. 

“Does this feel good?” He asked before starting to gently suck on you. If he was lucky, he’d mark you up. For once, he was eager to see Crowe tomorrow. He’d be sure to wrap his arm around your shoulder and then lean down to press a kiss against the hickey you’d have after all this just to spite him.

“Uh huh…” Your sweet moans fanned against his ear.

He thought this would save him from cumming, but your reactions were just making it worse. There was no way out of it. His stomach was tensing, and his eyes were getting teary—this always happened. “Haa….haaa…”

For someone who usually had little to say, he was so loud. But you didn’t know what was happening in his body, not until it was too late.

“Oh fuck…” His forehead rested against your shoulder as his body shook, black nails digging into you like he needed you close to handle the waves of pleasure. Luckily for him, his words were unintelligible because of how fast he gritted it out. “Iloveyouiloveyoufuckiloveyou.”

You snapped out of your pleasure-induced dazed, hearing him pant heavily and slump against you. You stayed frozen, and moments later, he tipped his head back instead to get air.

“Did you just…” 

Pressing your hands against his chest, you leaned back to get a better look. He did. Fuck he was pretty. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen. Drool trickling down his chin. Brows furrowed. Eyelashes wet from tears.

You’d never been more turned on in your life. You hadn’t even touched him down there!

He opened his eyes, hiding his face with his shaky hand the second he saw you. “Fuck…I didn’t mean to. I was trying not to.”

You took his hand to pull it away, smiling at him. Geez, it was like you were proud of yourself, and he found it endearing rather than annoying.

“Um…I don’t think I have any spare pants for you. Or uh, you know.”

“…”

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“No, don’t leave yet.”

“I’m not leaving! The kitchen is literally right there.”

“Stay here.” He held you close, burying his head against your shoulder again and letting his temperature return to normal.

“Fine…”

[readwritealldayallnight]

(18+ MDNI)

As far as roommates go, Simon Riley isn’t a bad one to live with

Rarely in the flat, gone for weeks at a time, you sometimes forgot you even shared the rent with someone when you first moved in

And when he is around, he keeps out of your way, tidies up after himself, will offer to run to the shop when you’re running low on something for tonight’s dinner

All in all, you get along well

Especially after a few months go by, and he starts sinking his cock into you whenever he’s home

Every chance he gets, he’s got your ankles resting over his shoulders, or your legs locked around his waist, or your tits in his mouth, or your ass squeezed between his fingers or your hips against his as he bounces you or-

Once he’s had his first taste, Simon is insatiable, never not fucking you every opportunity he gets

He has you feeling like you’re on top of the world, while simultaneously about to tip over the edge of it at any moment

Your time spent together consists of bursts of pleasure and passion tangled together in a mess of limbs and lips, visions of scars and tattoos clouding your dreams at night

And while these rendezvous consist strictly of an outlet for stress, a means to an end that leaves you both more than satisfied, you can’t help the slowly blossoming feelings growing in your chest that whisper to you that you might mean something more to him, that you might just be something more to Simon

It’s on one such occasion, while Simon is balls deep inside you, about to put an end to his teasing and let you finally cum on his cock, when reality slaps you hard across the face

Your moans and whines, his grunts and gasps, combined with the sounds of skin slapping repeatedly, are nearly loud enough to drown out the ill-fated sound of his cell phone ringing from the pocket of his discarded jeans

“Simon, please! I- I’m so- Si, I’m close, I’m close! I’m gon-” You moan into his ear, ankles locked tight around his waist and fingernails scratching at the exposed skin of his back, pleading with him to deliver you the ecstasy you’ve been promised

Your begging comes to a stop however, when his own movements halt entirely, hips stilling against yours as pauses, looking back into your eyes though his mind is obviously suddenly elsewhere

“What are y-”

“Shh.” He shushes you all too quickly, just in time for the faint ring of his phone to reach both your ears

“Simon, wait. No! Can’t we-”

“That’s gonna be work.” He grunts out, sweaty palms slipping down your thighs towards your calves to try and disentangle himself from you

“So? It can’t wait 60 seconds? We were about to-”

“Doesn’ matter.”

“Are- are you serious right now?” You question, stunned by his reaction. In all the months you and Simon have been falling into bed together, he’s never told you what his work is, and you’ve learned not to ask him anymore

He pays his rent on time and contributes to the grocery runs, how he earns his money hasn’t been any of your business thus far, but it’s certainly never gotten in the way of your escapades before

Simon’s apparently decided he doesn’t need to entertain you with a response, because he’s pulling himself out or your embrace without a word, standing off the bed and pulling his cell out of his haphazardly thrown pants before the ringer ends

“Simon! What kind of job-”

“Alrigh’?” Is all he says into the phone, nodding along momentarily to whoever is on the other line, before he’s affirming something or another and hanging up, tugging his pants back on without so much as a glance back at your naked form sprawled out on the bed in shock

“Simon-”

“See ye when I’m back, birdie.”

And with that, Simon is out of your room, out of the flat, out of your life for who knows how long, a reoccurring event you should have grown used to by now, but never has he left you high and dry like this before

That was the day you learned, as special as you might feel when Simon is grinding against you, caressing your skin and grunting sweet nothings into your ear, you were not Simon’s priority

You would always come second

[invoncible]

How about Mark variants with a Cecil daughter reader? Thought it would be an interesting idea

VARIANTS!MARK GRAYSON & stedman! reader ✧˚. cw. canon typical violence/themes (ex. cannibalism)

you were your father's right hand. the perfect blend of danger and kindness, you were a rare bridge between the younger members of the guardians and the older guys at the GDA, your father included.

when the war started, it was unlike anything the earth encountered before and beyond what any country was prepared for. the GDA struggled to corral one invincible—a dozen was just overkill. if humanity did not have their indomitable spirit, surely governments would just lay down and die.

but not your dad and certainly not 🗣️🦅🤠 AMERICA 🗣️🦅🏈🗽!

so you were sent out into the field. unfortunately, you were getting the sense that they knew you... and weren't so kind to you in their dimensions...

"lookie here," mohawk mark grinned fearsomely as he floated above you. "little stedman. man, it's been so long since i've seen your face."

"why's that?" you cocked your gun, standing before him without a tense bone in your body. if cecil taught you anything, it was how to fake it til you make it.

"killed ya," he sang teasingly. "personally broke you in half for being a fucking pest. you were almost as annoying as your old man."

"mm." you hummed, ignoring the feeling of dread in your stomach. your father might have taught you to stand strong, but there was just something about staring death in the face that made a person anxious.

there was a high chance you could die here. they've all done it once before, apparently. great.

the other marks gathered over the original mark's residence. you were supposed to gather debbie and oliver, but intel was faulty and they had fled on their own. good for them, bad for you.

omnimark paused, studying you as he drew closer. his red cape wafted in the wind as he descended. it would have been majestic if he wasn't, you know... a murderer.

"i know you well enough to read you like a book. i can tell you're scared." onmimark observed you, swirling around you inquisitively.

this was bullshit. they were just playing with their food at this point, hovering around you like vultures too impatient to wait for your death.

"i call dibs," sinister shoved past omnimark, his lips curling into a salivating grin. "you were most delicious back home."

startled by the notion, you blinked and snapped, "what?"

"yeah. i ate you."

"what the fuck—"

"can it." prison mark bulldozed through his peers, aggravated by the chatter. "i'm the only one who hasn't got to kill them yet."

"so?" mohawk mark scoffed and rolled his eyes.

you shook your head, shrugging off your nerves and stepped back. aiming your gun directly between his skull, you tried to dismiss the condescending expression that you were faced with.

mohawk mark chuckled and walked forward, bending at the waist and pressing his forehead right up against the barrel.

"shoot me," he said lowly, a big smirk on his face. the more he looked at you, the more he saw the shake of your eyes, the more excited he got. it's been a while since he's gotten so much thrill from a kill, and you were the most thrilling of all. "you know you can't hurt me."

you glared at him, phasing out of sight in an instant. mark's eyes widened in faint surprise when you vanished.

you teleported directly to their sides, gun aiming down the canal of their ears. praying for all the strength and accuracy in the world, you let eight precise bullets fly, blasting their way down through their suits and into their ears.

they all stumbled through the air at the impact, shaking their head like maracas to locate the bullet.

"dumb bunny," mohawk mark snarled, brushing the blood from his nose as he grimaced in discomfort. "told you, you can't hurt us."

"i see their stupidity transcends dimensions," viltrumite mark commented plainly. he shook his head to one side in an attempt to dislodge the bullet like he was getting pool water out of his ear.

you swallowed a shaky breath and set your stance, whipping out the control for the implants. you hoped they were able to worm their way deep inside like you programmed them to.

"those aren't regular bullets, dickheads." you snapped, bringing your thumb down on the red button.

the piercing shrill of the underwater kaiju that disarmed the original mark rang through the air, pulsing into their skulls painfully. their flight stuttered before dropping completely, collapsing to the ground like flies. they clawed at their heads uselessly as the grating shriek made them go stupid.

you huffed a laugh when they all keeled over, in disbelief you managed to pull it off. then you just laughed for the hell of it. who's invincible now?

you could talk shit like your father; you just hoped his tendency to get his balls rocked right after he ran his mouth didn't pass on to you.

"big mistake leaving me breathing," you activated the dead man's switch and brought your foot down on the controller, smashing it to little pieces. "you had your chance to kill me. now it's my turn."

© invoncible

[bttrflybb]

ANTIFRAGILE ❤︎ madara u. 18+

summary: the newlywedded uchihas have yet to fulfill their... obligations, even though they're coming up on a year anniversary. some think it's not going over as smoothly as expected, as many arranged marriages do. 'what a gentleman,' the old ladies would gossip at the fact that you were yet to be with child. it's funny, how wrong they are.

contains: madara x f!reader, arranged marriage (but you couldn't be more perfect for him), breed¡ng, preggo mentions, creamp¡es, mating press, light choking, praise (good girl, princess, doll), cerv stim, madara is a FREAK, reader matches it, uchiha love (he is fucking crazy)

your head hums each time you pull a groan from madara’s mouth into yours, straddling his waist with your chest flush against his as you tongue him down. “god- you’re insatiable, woman,” he murmured between a sloppy break in the kiss. a husky chuckle comes from him when he sees you already a mess of yourself. spit sticks strands of hair to your cheeks, your lips dripping in it- so pretty and swollen already.

your desperation was evident when he arrived home and you immediately approached him in a loose-fitting navy blue robe- certainly not yours judging by how it all but hugged your figure. he peered down at you when you wordlessly outstretched your arms to him, and his expression shifted once you were close enough that he could make out the mounds beneath the fabric. a thick arm hooks around your waist, his other taking a firm hold of your jaw for a kiss. madara loved you hard, an aggressive lover through and through. you were his, and he would make that fact apparent to everyone including you.

no other woman could match the energy madara exuded. you, however, were different. so much smaller than him, he clicked his tongue at your pitiful bow. your face remained unchanged, and you rose to look him in the eyes. madara felt something stir within him- he felt challenged, in a way. every woman before and without a doubt every woman after could not meet the eyes of the man, and if they did it was shaky and uncertain. never in a million years would he take such a woman’s hand. much to his fathers dismay.

it was much deeper than eye contact to him. to him, it was stability. it was significant of the fact that you matched him in beliefs and wits. to him, you were equal. you were weaker by many miles, but you were wise- somebody he would be proud to have by his side and make a mother.

marital manners were something quickly thrown out of the window though, because you matched him in one other thing.

desire. lust, you could say. you and madara were unapologetically attracted to each other in a carnal, unceremonious way. fuck making you shuffle around and bow to him in your own household. many would assume the two of you to follow such outlines firmly, but oh were they wrong.

even after he broke the kiss, your eyes stayed fixed on his face, searching for something. “what do you need, lover?” he’d break you from your little trance and you’d look him in the eyes, your fingers gripping wrinkles into his robe sleeves. “i need you, madara.” you’d purr.

and now you’re on top of him, his robe untied around you and the entire front of your bare body on display for him. ‘like an escort,’ he had chuckled when you tugged it free over top of him. “you look a fucking mess already, doll.” “for you, madara.” nothing sounded better than his name on your tongue. the two of you flash a sly smile at the other, like two animals pausing a fight for dominance before attacking the other. this time, it’s him. gloved firm fingers and a thumb nestle on each side of your neck, and he singlehandedly tugs you down by the throat to be centimeters from his face. “better be for me.” he squeezes and a breathless, silent yip comes from you. not from the action, but the sudden arousal it causes. “only you.” you weakly strain out. the pressure isn't enough to make you struggle, but enough to make you fuzzy. he nips part of his other glove between his teeth, unsheathing it and tossing it to the side. “let’s see what you’ve got for me then, hmm?” he murmurs, tugging you down into another kiss with one hand and the other finding it’s way to you already soaked cunt. a hot moan breaks from you and into his mouth at the contact, two thick fingers lazily rubbing at your clit.

it’s not long before he’s stretching you on them both- you make it so fucking easy for him. you choke when the hand around your throat pushes against you, separating the kiss with a breathless “phuahh..” from you. “pretty girl.” he smiles, admiring your fucked out face. “needed me home, didn’t you?” he gives your head a small shake, like you’re a toy he’s trying to get to work. “huh, doll?” “mhmm..” is all you can hum, catching your breath and swallowing the spit pooling behind your lower teeth. “it’s… it’s been two weeks…” you breathe, watching for his face to realize what you’re saying. “since i bled.” you can see the cogs turns behind those inky eyes of his, and your cunt throbs at the way they soften upwards.

you and madara fucked like rabbits when he was with you, but that was the thing. he wasn’t with you often, and when he was, it was horribly mistimed with your cycle. poor you had been left to get through every ovulation cycle on your own, left only with his robes soaked with the smell of oak, jasmine, and his musk.

“hahhh? is that what this is?“ his laughs send tremors through your body, still sitting atop him. “i’m still to give you an heir, aren’t i?” he chuckles, like it just slipped his mind. like that wasn’t the only reason you were arranged to be wed so quickly. everything is so hot to you that even that fact has got you tightening around nothing. the fact that such a traditional man is so lost in you he’s forgotten your joint marital duty. “mhmmm,” you hum, your hands finding their way to his chest, taking two handfuls of his breasts into your palm and softly raking your nails over them. “i’m still to carry it, madara.” your voice drips like syrup, and all he can think about is you, ripe with his child and in this same crested robe.

your cunt burns as he goes to the hilt, even when all you and your body needs is him, he’s still so big. “there you go, princess. you’ve got it.” he rumbles, licking his lips like he’s soaking up your noises and whines like an incubus. “fuck- you feel fucking good.” he shudders, pelvis to cunt with you. your legs are bent and your knees are to your shoulders, arms still drowned in fabric weakly splayed out across the futon. “you feel good- stretch me so good, madara-” you whine “yeah? do i, pretty girl? feels like this pussy was made for me,” he chuckles as you tighten around him at the statement, a weak whine crawling it’s way out of your throat. “jus’ for you, sir,” you weakly smile, and that title is enough for him to start moving.

your hands find your chest and you weakly squeeze and pinch at yourself while his cock splits you with each thrust, you feel so much but you’re somehow desperate for more. it’s not enough, you need more of him. “m-mada-raaa,” he fucks his name out of you, head tilting down at your pathetic little pleas. “more- i need f-fuh-hahhh.. fucking moreee,” you groan, eyes locking with his. he almost looks offended. “more? more??” he cackles.

in one swift movement, his hands are on either side of you and he’s leaning forward, still sheathed and curling you in on yourself with him. “you’re too fucking much, you know that, brat?” he hisses, punctuating that poisonous nickname with a small thrust that sends blissful agony shooting through your nervous system. “you take and take,” he pulls out, situating himself to stand on the balls of his feet now. “all you do is fucking take,” he buries himself- fully inside- balls practically to your fucking asshole, and you feel like you’ve fallen flat on your back with the wind that’s been knocked out of you. he's suddenly flush against every erogenous spot inside of you and you're sobbing. “but.. hahahh.. you’re so fucking perfect i just want to give.” for a moment, you swear you see red flash in those eyes of his. he looks crazed above you, eyes wide and weakly smiling, and you swear you’ve never felt more attracted to him.

you’ve already milked one load from him, warm cum shooting into you for maybe 20 seconds straight, but it’s not enough. he’s ramming it back into you, a milky white ring forming around the base of his cock as cum mixed with cream keep the two of you attached by strings of each other each time he pulls out, just to drive it directly back into you. you look fucking stupid on him, and he loves it. loves that pretty little fucked out face. loves bringing a hand up to smush your cheeks together and give you little smacks like he’s trying to wake you up. “thought you wanted more, doll.” “nghh.. i do… i want all of you- i need you, madara. you’re- hohhh, you’re all i n-need…” you pathetically babble. “you’ve got me, princess. i’ll fucking kill for you.” uchiha’s and the way they profess their love. isn’t it so dreamy?

tears stream down your pretty face, you feel so exposed beneath him like this. you’re getting the air fucked out of you again and your hands ball up as you focus on the increasing heat in your belly. “you’ve got it, doll. hahh- need you to finish- hahh, gotta make sure it takes- hahahh,” his filthy words make the turbulence of feelings you’re riding through even rougher, and a sob escapes from you as you teeter on the edge. “cum for me, princess. i’m- hah, i’m gonna finish too- gonna shoot right into you,” his words are separated with the loud wet plaps of your cunt meeting his pelvis, and the harmony of those noises and his vile speech create have got you throwing your head back onto the cushioned tatami. you’re not sure what he’s saying, but the rumble of his voice is the only thing that's keeping you grounded amid your nerve-frying orgasm. his fat, precise tip abusing your low-set cervix has you going crazy, and then a particularly hard thrust has the two flush against one another and he’s emptying directly into your womb.

madara isn't always so vocal, his roster of noises consists of low groans and huffs (and... laughs for some reason..?), but god you've got him falling apart. every clench around his wide dick has got him singing above you. "hahh-- good girlll," he growls, sucking air between his teeth. "don't waste a drop, take it all for me," he pulls out of you, falling back on his knees and letting you lower body unfold and drop. you're still twitching from your climax, every part of you feels fuzzy. like you're in a cloud. a rough thumb rips you back to the mortal plane as it grazes your clit and plugs your entrance. he tuts, "now what'd i say?" you whine, limp legs weakly jerking in reaction. "nnh- madaraaa..." you breathe. you're funny, he thinks. "whaddya say, princess?" "mmm... thank youuuu..." you giggle weakly, hands coming up to rub at your teary eyes. his smile is gentle as he looks at you- not so hungry compared to the others. you're just too sweet in your glow. you make him soft. and that dumb little smile you reciprocate has him even softer.

[logaenhowlett]

WHEN YOU TOUCH ME - L.H.

Summary: Since when do neighbours fuck like this?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Fingering, Nipple play (ft. Logan 'Big Hands' Howlett), Unprotected sex (hint: floor-length mirror)

A/N: Yes, I’m aware the image is from The Wolverine, but let’s pretend it’s Worst!Logan (this man needs more domestic scenes fr). Another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was FURTHER. Title creds to Brandy.

MASTERLIST

Logan didn’t mean to kiss you.

Just as he didn't mean to unravel you, so mercilessly; two fingers deep, your desire a flame, licking at the edges of his own.

It so happened that, days ago, he'd eavesdropped on complaints of a broken AC amongst other casual chatter you and Wade shared in the hallway outside your apartments. And the thought of you, flushed and slightly dishevelled in the sweltering heat, was enough because the doorknob had somehow twisted itself, and just like that he was there with a playful "I can fix it".

God, he was such a liar.

Nerves coiled in his stomach every time. Still, he persisted, returning your sly comments, your teasing smiles, your barely-there touches. It was simply exhilarating - this game of cat and mouse.

So, when he showed up this morning, tools slung over a shoulder, mischief glazing his eyes, one thing was clear: trouble had certainly arrived. "Well, aren't you gonna let me in?" he'd drawled as you were suddenly, inexplicably, speechless.

Heat prickled his skin as he worked; the flannel stripped off without a second thought. Logan toyed with a bolt, biceps flexing with each turn until the wrench finally gave way. Even as your sharp gaze missed nothing - the slight tremor in his fingers, the slackening grip on the screwdriver - he remained stubbornly focused.

The lemonade you'd offered burned his throat with every swallow. He watched you tilt back, the ice in your glass clinking as you drank. A single droplet slid down your neck, his eyes fixed on its slow descent.

And then, snap.

It wasn't gentle, not at all. His tongue fought yours with a wild desperation, hands finding purchase on your hips until you were locked in place.

Logan had often imagined this. You, kissed by the warm glow of his bedside lamp, arching your back as he fucked you senseless. You, branded by his teeth marks, grinding against his abs till your cum smeared across his happy trail.

You. You. You.

But they were mere fantasies - well, until now.

Because somehow, in the stillness between one breath and the next, you're spun around. Logan's hand claims your chin, his thumb a shackle bruising your lower lip, forcing your gaze to the nearby mirror.

His fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the fabric bunches at your hips, and anticipation - tempting as the taste of forbidden fruit - stings between his legs.

Flush against your back, the jeans do little to conceal his arousal. Yet, he takes his sweet time, kneading the plump cushions of your thighs, savouring every whimper spilling from your lips.

It's almost lazy. The way his fingers pump in and out, a slow, mocking rhythm that just drips of cocky satisfaction - and the bastard has the audacity to pause.

"Eyes on me, darlin'," he rasps, leaving a fleeting kiss below your ear. It's enough, apparently. Dark lashes flutter in surrender as heavy lids part, finding him in the reflection. "Good girl."

His other forearm brushes your side, only briefly stealing your attention, before snaking beneath your shirt. The swell of your breast barely fills his palm, and he nearly loses it all right there.

Rough, calloused skin caresses your nipple. Logan rolls it between his index and thumb, toying the delicate bud until it hardens beneath his touch.

He could laugh, really.

And so, he does - something close to a growl that wakes goosebumps across your flesh. Even as you're writhing against him, hardly standing straight, he doesn't relent. Only deeper, only faster - his fingers thrust into your cunt.

"Fuck Lo– you're a lil’ shit, you know that?"

But he's heard the name you moan when you're playing with yourself. Late-night showers, hot water pounding down your back as you explore your body. Quiet afternoons on the couch, soft cushions muffling your gasps as you lose control. In bed, in the sun, in the shadows - whenever the mood strikes, it seems, he's on your mind.

"How 'bout you hm? Think I can't hear through these fuckin' walls?"

It's far from a threat, yet your laugh amuses him. Carefully, he brushes your hair aside, trailing his nose along your neck. And for a second - a single, pussy-drunk second - he's convinced you've doused yourself in every aphrodisiac known to man.

So he doesn't think twice.

His teeth close around your nape. Sharp and possessive, the bite makes you groan in pleasure. His tongue follows immediately, soothing the reddened bruise now begging to be kissed.

Mesmerised, Logan grins as your head slumps back on his shoulder, the world caught in a dizzying waltz as you lock eyes, your cum coating his hand while a sinful trail glistens down your thighs.

One lick.

That's all it takes; your sweetness lingers in his mouth as his fingers pop free, nice and clean. Logan twirls you between his arms until you're finally face to face. A visible bulge stretches the denim as you draw closer, your grip tightening around the contours of his biceps.

In the mirror, you're simply breathtaking.

His hands settle on your ass, playful squeezes shaping the soft curves beneath his touch. Giggles tumble from your lips, light and airy, as you melt against him.

"Since when do neighbours fuck like this?" you tease, kissing his jawline.

And suddenly, you're swept off your feet. Something like affection shines through his eyes as he nudges your bedroom door open.

"Think we're past that now, honey."

It's not long before your moans weave themselves into his name.

[deusfoundry]

in retrospect, there's really no other way this night could've possibly ended.

zayne likes to think that he tried. that he had exercised as much restraint as he could. that the only reason he's got his lips on your skin, planting wet kisses that trails along the path of your collarbone, is because truly, he's been pushed to the brink of his self control.

but is he really to blame when you looked absolutely divine in that dress?

"z-zayne, we have to go ..."

your words fail to register in his mind, anything and everything but the tiny sounds you make enters one ear and slides right out the other. he almost feels bad now, the memory of how ecstatic you were when he'd invited you as his plus one to a banquet hosted by akso hospital three weeks ago flashes before him. how that excitement grew tenfold when you told him about the dress you'd bought to surprise him with.

and he certainly was surprised, pleasantly so, when the sight of your bare back greeted him as he entered his bedroom.

zayne stops in his tracks, feet feeling like they've been permanently rooted to the carpeted floor of his bedroom.

you're seated in front of the vanity table he'd put together for you. the size of it is nothing like the one you have at your apartment, but it shares a similar design, the same wooden accents. it's enough that you can get ready for anything without having to make a stop at your place. he'd bought it when you first began to spend the night at his apartment.

lately though, you've been spending the better part of each week in his place. zayne's been reminding himself to build up the courage to ask you to move in with him.

he's supposed to be used to this. to your back facing him. to your eyes lighting up when you catch sight of his figure through the reflection of your vanity mirror. to you pausing in the middle of your routine to turn around, greet him with that smile of yours that sends an ache in his heart.

but this damned dress.

he forces his feet off the floor to move towards you, his heavy footsteps catching your attention. you flash him a sheepish smile, your eyes flitting towards the jacket of his dress suit draped on his arm.

"have i been taking too long?" you ask, hurriedly dragging the tip of your eyeliner to your lids.

"no," zayne stalks close enough to place his hands on the back of your chair. he drinks you in, eyes casting downwards to the fabric pooling at your lower back. your hair is pulled up to a loose bun, fastened with a clip shaped into a snowflake, leaving your bare shoulders to view. he takes the thin strap of your dress betwixt thumb and forefinger, fighting the immense urge to pull the flimsy fabric off.

it's a losing battle, and zayne succumbs to his desires in a matter of seconds. he leans down, planting one tender kiss on the base of your neck.

he holds your gaze through the mirror as he releases his hold on the strap, letting it fall just above your elbow. he uses the same fingers to map out the scars littered on your back.

"no, you're alright."

"i'm-" your words get caught in a choke. "i'm almost done. why don't you wait for me here?"

"of course." zayne kisses your cheek before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. his eyes bore into you with an intensity that you can feel, enough to induce a tremble in your hands as you add the finishing touches to your make up.

"done!" you begin tidying up your table, placing the brushes back to their compartments. "just need to put my heels on."

"allow me." zayne very nearly bolts from the bed. he takes your heels by the straps from their place beside your vanity.

slowly, zayne kneels before you.

it's then that zayne notices another ... feature of your dress, discovering a slit that goes right up to your thigh. he freezes, hands ghosting your ankle, a field of smooth skin staring at him. possibly taunting him. definitely not helping his pants that seem to be growing tighter by the minute.

"love? are you okay?"

and you had the nerve to ask. surely, you must be aware of your effect on him by now?

"yes." he breathes out an apology, sucking the air through his nose as he slides your feet into the shoe. his fingers find the straps, wrapping them around and working up your leg the way he's watched you do so countless times before. he moves closer, reaching behind your leg to tie the straps together into what he hopes is a neat bow over your calf.

zayne repeats the process with your other shoe, but this time, he lets himself linger. lets his fingers run past your leg, over your knee, until they land on your thigh. lets them prod lightly at the flesh, encasing the muscle with his palm. lets himself lean down, low enough that from your point of view, it looks he's bowing to you.

he places a kiss, first over the strap of your heels that he's just worked on, the material an odd intrusion to his moisturized lips. then another, on your knee. and finally, his lips replace the palm on your thigh.

you shiver at the sudden loss of warmth, but you find soon enough that zayne never intended on keeping his hands away from you for long.

his hand glides further up, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress where it finds itself a home there.

zayne is too caught up in you, plush skin, enchanting perfume, this godforsaken dress, to hear your voice. he's only knocked out of his trance when he feels your hand cup his cheek.

"zayne?" he looks up, chin resting on your thigh. there's a flush to your cheeks, an obvious difficulty in the way you breathe. "we're going to be late."

he nods, pushing himself off the floor. he holds his hand out for you take and gladly, you slip your hand into his with a smile, using him as leverage to stand up.

zayne makes it about halfway through the living room before something in him snaps. he strides across his apartment, footsteps quick and erratic, almost tripping over his own feet.

you hear him from where you stood before his front door, turning around with the knob between your hand to ask him if he's okay. you get barely a word out of your mouth when zayne crashes his lips onto yours.

and that's how you find yourself now, pinned against the door of his apartment, clinging to his shoulders as your legs begin to go limp.

zayne kisses you everywhere, frenzied lips travelling from your neck, the exposed skin of your cleavage. he gives you not even a second to breathe before he's back on your lips. his hands behave similarly, squeezing at every inch of skin his fingers come across.

"i'm sorry." he sends a stream of warm air to your neck, nipping lightly at the skin. "it's just- you look so- god, it's this dress."

"the event-!" zayne cuts you off by sucking at your neck hard enough that it's bound to leave a mark.

"to hell with it."

you yelp when he cradles the back of your thighs to lift you up with ease. instinctively, you wrap your legs around his lower back, bringing him close enough that you can feel the bulge poking through his pants.

"the things you do to me..." zayne whispers over your lips. he eases your entire body into just one of hands, the other moving up to your face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "god, you have no idea."

except, you think you know exactly what you do to him, when he starts making his way back to the bedroom, lips eternally attached to yours.

[fushiguro-megloomy]

strawberry wine

[part 2] pairing: modern au!viktor x artist!reader prompt: “if somebody were to kiss me, i’d want that person to be you” tags: you're jayces childhood bff, no use of y/n, alcohol, heavy kissing, drunk kissing, basically just a bunch of buildup towards a smutty fwb part two???, viktor being a menace wc: 4k notes: AU where nobody is sick or dying yay! also i think i managed to keep this pretty gn!reader but any future parts will be afab/fem art is from pinterest, dividers from chachachannah & webc00re

You never meant for things to get this far. You told yourself it was just a little fun, harmless and fleeting—nothing more. You had a career to focus on, friendships in the balance. But now, here you are, pacing the living room carpet thin, your cuticles raw from nervous chewing, and your thoughts spiraling into places you swore they’d never go.

It feels juvenile, almost laughable, like some smitten teenager waiting by the phone and sneaking kisses in shadowed corners. You were supposed to be above this, weren’t you? I mean, as a grown adult you should know how to keep it casual, uncomplicated. 

But nothing about this is simple anymore. Not the friendship. Not the secrets. And certainly not the way your heart betrays you every time his name crosses your mind.

It definitely wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Moving back to the city hadn’t been on the bingo card for this year, but here you were. Your life had been tucked away in the quiet of rural landscapes, where your art had room to breathe—endless skies, rolling hills, and the kind of solitude that made inspiration flow without any distractions. But your career had expanded, and with that expansion came the relentless pressure of galleries, art buyers, and a future that demanded more from you than that peaceful escape ever could. 

So, the city had called you back. Concrete towers, crowded streets, the city offered more. Shows. Opportunities. Jayce. The only thing about this cold, steel jungle that still felt like home. Jayce—your childhood friend, your constant in a world that had never stopped changing. Thrown together since you were practically in diapers, he was the one piece of your old life that had somehow survived the years and distance between you two. And now, after what felt like an eternity, here he was, sprawled across your tiny couch, looking too comfortable for someone who was just supposed to be a guest. The apartment was a bit small, as city apartments tended to be—packed between towering neighbors—but Jayce’s presence was the only thing about it that felt remotely like home.

"You know," he said, half-lounging. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You didn’t look up from your canvas, your brush already dipping into the paints like second nature. “Who?”

“Viktor” 

You paused, only long enough for your brush to hover midair before you flicked your gaze in his direction. “Ah, yes. The famous business partner.”

Jayce’s grin didn’t falter, but there was something softer behind it now. “Yeah, something like that. But seriously, he’s a good guy. Brilliant, actually. You two would get along.”

You didn’t reply at first. Instead, you let the brush finish its arc, eyes back on your work, moving with the rhythm of a familiar task. “mhm” you murmured, distracted by the way the strokes of paint were bleeding together. “If he’s anything like you, how bad can it be?”

But Jayce, of course, wasn’t done. His voice took on that soft  tone he reserved for moments when he really wanted to get his point across. “I’m serious, okay? I want you two to meet. You both mean a lot to me, and I think you’ll really hit it off.”

You didn’t look up, but you felt a weight behind his words, pushing against you with silent pressure. “Yeah? I’m sure it’ll happen, then.”

Jayce’s eyes lit up, a flash of triumph in them, like he’d just won some small but important battle. “You’ll see. I’m telling you—when you meet him, you’ll click. I know it.”

You leaned back in your chair, releasing a slow exhale, the kind that said everything without saying anything at all. A nonchalant nod was all you offered, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of saying more. “Fine. Fine. I’ll meet him. But don’t make a whole thing out of it.”

Jayce chuckled, and there was an odd note of relief in the sound, like he’d just been granted some unspoken permission. “No big deal, I swear. But you’ll see. You two are more alike than you think.”

-

When you finally did meet Viktor, Jayce was practically vibrating, his energy as unsubtle as ever. It had been after one of your gallery openings, a night you’d half-dragged yourself through on fumes and politeness. Your heels had barely cleared the threshold of his apartment before the faintest twinge of suspicion began to creep in—something about the way he hovered, grinning like a man with a secret.

“You deserve a good meal after tonight,” Jayce had said, ushering you in with the kind of charm that usually preceded one of his schemes. “Thought you’d want to celebrate somewhere that doesn’t reek of overpriced wine and small talk.”

You rolled your eyes but let yourself be corralled, the promise of food outweighing the odd note in his voice. His large apartment, at least, was familiar territory: warm, cluttered with bits of tech and sentimental junk from years past, the faint scent of whatever candles he refused to admit he hoarded lingering in the air.

And then you heard it—the low murmur of another voice, sharp-edged and vaguely amused, drifting from the kitchen.

Jayce froze, his grin faltering for a split second before it reappeared, brighter than ever. “Oh, right,” he said, far too casually. “Viktor’s here.”

You blinked, narrowing your eyes at him. “You conveniently forgot to mention that part.”

“Come on,” he pushed, throwing an arm around your shoulders and steering you toward the source of the voice. “It’s no big deal. Just dinner. You’ll like him, I promise.”

And there he was, perched by the kitchen counter with a faintly perplexed look on his face. He was slimmer than you’d expected, pale and sharp-featured, with hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in days. His amber eyes flicked up to meet yours, narrowing slightly as if he were trying to solve a puzzle that had just been placed in front of him.

“Ah,” he said, his accent lilting and crisp, “so this is the infamous artist.”

You shot a glare at Jayce, who was already heading for the stove with the kind of forced cheer that made it painfully clear he’d orchestrated the whole thing. “You owe me for this,” you muttered under your breath, stepping further into the kitchen.

Viktor’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk appearing. “And here I thought I was being ambushed. Seems we’re both victims of his enthusiasm.”

Jayce turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, his expression utterly unrepentant. “You’ll thank me later.”

The dinner was simple but undeniably good—Jayce’s doing, of course. The man couldn’t let anyone step into his apartment without insisting they be properly fed, and tonight was no exception. Roast chicken, buttery vegetables with rice, warm bread that filled the space with its yeasty aroma—it was the kind of meal that made you feel at home even when you weren’t.

Conversation flowed easily around the table, mostly carried by Jayce, but Viktor wasn’t exactly quiet, either. He had a way of chiming in at just the right moment, his dry humor landing squarely between Jayce’s more exuberant anecdotes and your own occasional contributions.

“You mean to tell me,” Viktor said at one point, leaning back slightly in his chair, “that Jayce still hasn’t learned to cook rice without burning it? After all these years?”

Jayce, halfway through explaining some disastrous culinary attempt from his youth, turned to glare at him. “Excuse me, this rice was cooked perfectly.”

“It was fine,” you agreed, though the memory of a slightly crunchy bite or two made your lips twitch in amusement.

Viktor’s amber eyes sparkled as he gestured broadly. “Oh, fine! A glowing review, truly. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jayce groaned, but there was no real bite to it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Viktor said, raising his glass in a mock toast, “here I am. Invited to dinner. Again.”

Jayce just rolled his eyes and went back to his story, leaving you to glance at Viktor with a small smile. He caught it, of course, and gave a little shrug as if to say, what can you do? For all his sharp humor, he was easy to talk to, his wit balanced by an underlying warmth that kept him from coming off as too cutting.

Which was why you were only mildly surprised when the spoon incident happened.

Dinner was winding down, Jayce had disappeared into the kitchen to fuss over coffee, leaving you and Viktor to handle the cleanup.

He moved with a surprising ease, balancing a stack of plates in one hand, his cane steady in the other. It was a casual sort of competence, as though he’d long since adapted to whatever limitations life had handed him. You hadn’t thought much of it, impressed by how naturally he maneuvered, until the soft clatter of a spoon hitting the floor broke the quiet rhythm of tidying.

“Ah,” Viktor said, glancing down at the rogue utensil with a faint frown as he set down the plate stack. “Of course.”

You paused mid-step, glancing between him and the spoon. “Need a hand?”

He tilted his head, his expression a little too innocent. “If it’s not too much trouble. You know, the leg and all...”

“Oh, for—” Jayce’s voice floated from the kitchen, half-annoyed but not quite committed to intervening.

You sighed, setting down the napkins you’d been folding. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got it.”

But just as you crouched down, Viktor shifted. A casual tap of his cane sent the spoon skittering across the floor, its metallic clink faintly echoing as it landed farther away.

You froze, staring at the spoon in disbelief, then turned your gaze to him slowly. “You’re kidding.”

Viktor’s lips twitched, the faintest glimmer of amusement flickering across his face. “What?”

“You just—”

“What?” he repeated, wider-eyed this time, his free hand gesturing vaguely toward his cane. “I’m handicapped.”

Jayce reappeared in the doorway, a coffee pot in hand and a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Viktor.”

“What?” Viktor said again, his voice laced with mock indignation. “I am!”

Jayce muttered something unintelligible as he poured coffee, his focus shifting between you and Viktor like he couldn’t decide which one of you deserved his scolding more. Meanwhile, you straightened, crossing your arms as a grin tugged at the corners of your mouth despite your best efforts.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” you said, stepping across the room to retrieve the spoon—again.

“Very generous,” Viktor agreed, his tone breezy. “Honestly, it’s quite inspiring. Jayce, you should take notes.”

Jayce groaned, setting the coffee pot down with a little too much force. “You’re both ridiculous.”

But you were already laughing, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. As you returned the spoon to the table with a pointed look, Viktor gave you a small, almost triumphant smile. And maybe, you could see what Jayce meant when he’d said you’d get along.

-

The first time you realized you might feel more than just friendship for Viktor was when you noticed the way your sketches had started to change.

It had been weeks—maybe even a couple of months—since that dinner with Jayce, when you had awkwardly danced around each other, getting to know one another. The initial weirdness had faded into easy companionship, and you found yourself spending more time with Viktor than you expected. You hadn’t quite noticed it happening, but somewhere along the line, you’d become an unintentional trio. Jayce had been bursting with barely-contained glee at how easily the two of you seemed to get along, and it made your chest warm, knowing how much that mattered to him. It felt... right, this newfound ease between the three of you, a quiet sort of harmony that made you smile more than you expected.

But as the days passed, something shifted without you realizing it. You were at home one evening, flipping through your sketchbook, the soft pastel dust smudging the edges of the pages as your fingers moved. The forms you’d drawn were abstract models, capturing shapes and shadows in a fluid, organic way. It wasn’t anything new—nothing that stood out. But then, you stopped.

There, in the shadows of the page, you saw it.

The subtle arch of a jawline. The curve of lips that you knew too well. Even the moles, small and almost unremarkable, but there they were—on the page, right beneath your fingertips. You blinked and flipped to another sketch, only to see it again. A line here, a shadow there. It wasn’t him exactly, but it was.

To the untrained eye, maybe it wouldn’t have been obvious. Hell, maybe even to you on any other day, it might’ve gone unnoticed. But now, in the quiet of your studio, the shapes were almost unmistakable. The soft angle of his nose, the way his eyes looked when he was thinking too hard, the way his smile would pull up on one side when he was being particularly smug.

You frowned, setting the sketchbook down, your hands hovering above it as if it had betrayed you. Was this some kind of coincidence? Or was it something more, something you had been avoiding realizing? You’d never consciously set out to draw him, but there he was, tucked into the lines and curves of your art like an uninvited guest you hadn’t known you were entertaining.

It was ridiculous, you told yourself. Of course it was just... coincidence. But even as you tried to convince yourself, there was a small, unspoken truth sitting in your chest, heavy and undeniable, and the first time you realized Viktor might see you as more than just a friend was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it hit you all the same.

He mentioned a piece you’d shown him, his tone thoughtful. “You’ve been doing something different lately. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s a change. It’s...” His gaze flickered to yours, then dropped back to the floor, but the brief flash in his eyes sent an unexpected flutter through your chest. “...more. More than what you usually show.”

The words themselves were harmless, even complimentary, but it was the way they hung between you that made something inside you stir—something you couldn’t name, not yet. You didn’t think much of it at first, but the way his eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary made your breath catch. The way the corners of his mouth lifted into a half-smile, not teasing, but... fond.

It was a simple thing. A fleeting moment. And yet, it lingered in your mind as you retreated to your apartment, your thoughts whirling with the possibility that Viktor—your friend, the one you had so casually laughed and bantered with for months—might be seeing you differently, too.

The shift was subtle, but it was there. And it unsettled you more than you cared to admit.

-

Everything came to a boiling point one night at your apartment. You’d ventured into town earlier that day, mostly for a change of scenery, and happened upon a small farmers market. You couldn’t resist grabbing a few bottles of strawberry wine, its sweetness and fruity undertones practically calling your name. Jayce had scoffed at it when you got back, claiming it was too sugary to have any real punch. “There’s no way I’ll even get drunk off this,” he’d muttered with a dismissive wave.

An hour later, he was sprawled out on your pullout, snoring softly with a stupid grin plastered across his face. You and Viktor stood nearby, both trying—and failing—to suppress your amusement at how quickly Jayce had succumbed to the wine’s effects. For all his size, Jayce was a surprising lightweight.

“I swear, every time,” you said, laughing quietly.

Viktor, leaning against the doorway, gave a soft chuckle. “Some people just don’t know when to stop.”

You rolled your eyes, glancing over at the slumbering man. “Guess we let him sleep it off.”

“Let him have his beauty rest,” Viktor teased, his voice light as he nodded toward the bottles. “We can always finish it ourselves.”

So you did, winding up on the roof with the cold night air around you. The worn-out couch up there had seen better days, but it was still enough to settle into and talk, a simple quiet comfort settling over you both. The soft glow of string lights and the silvered moonlight made the world feel like it was wrapped in a quiet hush despite the never ending sounds of the city. You both settled into the couch, the cushions sinking in the middle, which pushed you just a little closer to Viktor than you'd anticipated.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence was easy, like you had spent years in it. You noticed how close you were sitting now—your thighs pressed together, and when you passed the bottle of wine, your fingers brushed his. A small spark of awareness ran through you each time, and you tried to ignore it, feeling your face warm despite the cool air.

The wine was sweet, fruity, and a little stronger than you expected, especially when you found yourself reaching for another sip and another, the soft buzz in your head gradually growing stronger.

By the time the bottle was halfway gone, you were both leaning more heavily into the couch, and you couldn’t help but giggle at how little wine was apparently needed to bring Jayce to the brink of passing out. You felt... lighter. Almost giddy, as if the laughter that came so easily was spilling out along with the alcohol. And Viktor, sitting just beside you, didn’t seem to be immune to it either. His face was flushed in the soft light, his lips curling into an easy smile.

“You know,” you said, leaning back and feeling the warmth of the couch soak into your bones, “I don’t do this enough. I’m so... wrapped up in work and life and... I just forget to relax.”

Viktor tilted his head, eyes slightly narrowed as he watched you. “Relaxing can be overrated,” he said with a smirk, the words a little slower than they’d been earlier. He took another drink from the bottle, his thumb brushing against the glass in an unconscious rhythm. When he passed it to you, your fingers brushed once again, and you lingered just a bit longer than necessary.

“Well, maybe for you,” you chuckled. “But, for me, it’s like... it's like a luxury, I guess. You know? I don’t remember the last time I just sat with someone and... and didn’t feel like I had to be somewhere or do something.”

“You eh–... don’t have to worry about that here,” Viktor said quietly, his voice light, with that usual teasing edge. But something was different in his tone, something that made the words feel heavier than they should have been. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but the air seemed to shift, the quiet between you stretching into something almost… charged.

You took another sip, your hand a little unsteady now. The whole situation felt absurd—awkward, even, yet strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Your gaze drifted toward his lips without thinking. It was brief, but enough to send a flutter through your stomach, and suddenly, your mind couldn’t focus on anything but that soft, confident curve of his mouth. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was something else entirely, but you couldn’t seem to think straight anymore.

Viktor shifted closer again, and the couch beneath you groaned as it sank with the weight of it. The space between you closed, and you could feel the warmth of his body pressing against yours shoulder to shoulder, like the alcohol spreading through you, making your pulse quicken.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His presence was a solid thing beside you. His eyes were locked on yours, studying, but still so calm. You could feel the punch of his gaze on you, like it was seeping through your skin, sending heat rushing to your cheeks. It wasn’t just the wine now—you could feel it all over, heat blooming beneath your skin, making you fidget slightly.

“Sometimes… you get caught up in what you’re doing, and you forget about everything else,” you mumbled, trying to ignore the way your nerves were tightening your chest. “I’ve been focused on my career and—god, I’ve probably been a little… I don’t know, closed off.” You laughed lightly, but it was nervous, unsure of where this was even coming from. But suddenly all your senses were barraged by him, his smell, his eyes.

“I just—I haven’t thought about it. Relationships, I mean. Not in a long time. I don’t know if I’m even ready for anything like that. Not now, not with everything I’m doing.��� You trailed off, self-conscious, suddenly feeling like you were saying too much, rambling without stopping. The words seemed to just slip out of you, tumbling over each other.

You took another shaky breath, your heart thudding in your chest as you tried to make yourself stop, but you couldn’t. It was like you were helpless.

“And, I mean, if anybody were to kiss me…” You faltered, realizing too late just how much you were giving away. Your pulse quickened, your thoughts jumbled as your mouth just kept moving. “I would want that person to be you.”

The air between you thickened, the silence stretching long and heavy. Your heart pounded in your chest, a nervous rhythm that drowned out everything else. You waited for him to say something, to break the tension that was suffocating you. But there was nothing. Just the weight of his gaze on you, steady and searching.

When you finally dared to glance at him Viktor's expression was unreadable. One thick eyebrow was cocked slightly, and his mouth hung open just enough to suggest he was about to say something, but didn't. He was so close but somehow the distance between you felt infinite.

You opened your mouth to say something, to fill the silence, but before you could speak, his hand moved, his fingers brushing against your jaw in the gentlest touch. The sudden warmth of his palm made your breath catch, and before you could even fully process it, he was pulling you in. His lips met yours, soft at first, as though testing the waters, as if the moment itself was delicate. But that softness didn't last, between the buzz of alcohol, the closeness, the heat between you—it all blurred together. The kiss deepened, quickly turning urgent, hungry. His hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the bottle slipped from your grasp, its clang against the concrete floor echoing in the quiet of the rooftop

You didn't care. You were too lost in the feeling of him against you, his lips moving against yours with a desperate kind of need. The kiss grew messier– clumsy, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. You could taste the faint sweetness of wine on him, the mix of flavors making everything feel dizzying overwhelming.

You found yourself gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, as if trying to merge your bodies together, desperate for the contact, for whatever it was that had been building between you two for so long. 

-

The next day was a harsh slap of hangover reality. Your head pounded, your mouth was dry, and every time you glanced at Viktor across the room, your stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with the booze.

Jayce, of course, was none the wiser. He chatted away over breakfast like nothing had changed, blissfully unaware of the shift that had unraveled everything you thought you’d had under control. And you? You were wholly committed to keeping it that way. It was a one-time thing, you told yourself. Just a fleeting, drunken thing—something you could both quietly bury and move on from.

At least, that was the plan.

Until it happened again. And then again.

Now it feels like a thread being pulled tighter and tighter, until you’re not sure if you’re going to unravel completely or snap under the weight.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. But here you are. And you don’t know how to stop.

©lilsworks 2024